Dead on Course

by Glenis Wilson

  Now she had gone to join them.

  Gone was her life and her happiness, her marriage; her pristine gown defaced, ruined.

  And I was the only person to have seen her killer.

  I knelt beside her limp body and longed to gather the girl into my arms to cradle her, comfort her – and I couldn’t. This was murder. A foul wickedness perpetrated against an innocent girl.

  I rose slowly to my feet and made a silent pledge to Lucinda, as she lay on the cold ground, that I would track down the bastard who had snatched away her life, her future. My feelings were running so high with anger against him, all I wanted to do was jump into the buggy and drive off at full speed around the golf course and hunt him down.

  But I didn’t. Lucinda couldn’t be left – she needed me to stay with her, stand guard. I reached for my mobile.

  ‘Mike, it’s me. Bad news, the worst. I’ve found Lucinda …’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Looks like she was stabbed.’

  ‘The bastard.’ Mike ground out the words.

  ‘Bottom of the pond.’

  ‘Want me to phone the police?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m staying here with her. Actual location is Devil’s Hope near the fourteenth green – you know, at the base of the bank?’

  ‘Got it.’

  I stood in the cold, lonely blackness and wondered where the killer was right now. Could he have already got off the golf course? Be on his way, leaving Skegness behind? Had there been time to get away? Or was he still very close? My nerves prickled at the thought. He wouldn’t think twice about killing again to save himself.

  If I’d seen him through the hotel window, it was feasible he could have seen me standing there. More than feasible. I’d been looking out into the dark, moonlit landscape, whereas he’d have had a clear view of me at an illuminated window. And I was the only person to witness the attack. OK, I couldn’t identify him – but he didn’t know that. The east turret room was an outstanding distinctive feature. If he managed to suss out who was staying in it, I’d be in the frame. But so would Mike. The realization of that brought me up sharp. An extremely enjoyable weekend had now turned into a ghastly nightmare. And I couldn’t begin to guess what repercussions might follow.

  A bush rustled behind me and I spun round, pulse jumping. But it was only the wind gusting in from the sea. I felt vulnerable down in this hollow of dark shadows, so aptly named Devil’s Hope, and would have preferred to climb up the steep bank, get on to the flat, smooth top of the fourteenth green. From that vantage point, I’d be able to see anybody coming at me.

  But this was a murder scene, not to be contaminated by careless wandering. I’d already blundered about searching for Lucinda. If there had been clues to be found, it would be a miracle if they’d survived my big feet. Best if I didn’t obliterate any possible further clues. I would be doing Lucinda no service if I hindered the police in their search for her killer.

  So I stayed where I was, wary and apprehensive.

  In the distance, a low hum slowly grew louder. I took a deep, steadying breath – the posse was on the way. It didn’t matter to Lucinda, but it mattered a great deal to me. I could hand over the responsibility to the police, let them take over, use their new technical knowledge of DNA. It was bringing criminals to justice who would, years ago, have got away with crimes.

  But even if they caught him, secured a conviction, it still wouldn’t matter to Lucinda. Because it wouldn’t give her back her life.

  A rush of sound filled my ears, bringing me back to the moment. It sounded like the entire fleet of buggies had just drawn up by the side of Granny’s Opening.

  ‘Harry, you here?’ Mike’s voice bellowed through the blackness.

  ‘Yes.’

  Several strong torch beams swung in my direction.

  ‘Turn right, walk a few yards up and turn right again at the base of the slope. Be careful. It’s a crime scene.’

  A minute or two later, stepping extremely carefully, a man joined me.

  ‘I’m Dr Paulson. One of the wedding guests. Just need to establish she is dead.’

  ‘Right.’

  It only took seconds. He breathed out gustily as he stood up. ‘I’m afraid so. But, then, you knew Lucinda was dead, of course.’

  ‘Yes. I felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one.’

  ‘A tragedy.’ His voice had a catch to it. ‘I was the doctor who attended at Lucinda’s birth, known the family for years.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘A police matter now. They’ve been informed; shouldn’t think they’ll be long.’

  ‘You want me to stay with her until they arrive?’

  ‘If you would. I’m going back to the buggies, break the bad news to Brandon. I’ll try to restrain him from barging in. As you say, this is a crime scene.’

  ‘The killer’s on the loose on the golf course somewhere, unless he’s managed to get away by now.’

  ‘Do you know who he is? Did you see him?’

  ‘I saw him from my hotel window. Couldn’t identity him, but I saw him knock Lucinda down and drag her away over the rocks on to the golf course.’

  He sighed heavily, shook his head and went back to join the others.

  It seemed an eternity, waiting for the police to arrive, but it was only a few minutes. I heard the wail of sirens as the cars hurtled along Roman Bank and came up North Shore Road. I learned later that the greenkeeper had taken his buggy back to the hotel and was waiting to transport them across the golf course.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the inspector, appearing at my elbow. ‘We’ll take over from here. You’ll be required to make a statement later.’

  And I was dismissed.

  The air of outrage and shock still permeated the atmosphere on Sunday morning. Guests stood around in groups, talking in lowered voices. It was doubtful if any of them, Mike and me included, had slept much at all. Sombre-faced staff had served breakfast to those guests who could actually stomach food. Mostly, it seemed, coffee and toast sufficed.

  The police were present and preparing to take statements. I found myself called first. The interviews were to be conducted in what Mike and I called the leather room because it was furnished with sumptuous, dimpled leather, chesterfield settees, but was actually the North Shore lounge. I was waved to take a seat in one of the chesterfields.

  ‘Your name, sir?’

  I knew he was already aware of my personal details. They’d been verified the night before. I humoured him.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe.’

  ‘And your home address, email address and telephone numbers?’

  I filled in all the gaps for their official records.

  ‘I understand you were the person who found the body.’

  I winced. The words ‘the body’ put the whole nightmare into perspective. Lucinda was no longer a person, but simply a dead body. I nodded. ‘Yes. I found her.’

  They asked for the whole scenario, from when I first saw her as she entered the hotel for the ceremony, to seeing her fleeing figure going away down the beach, and finally stumbling, literally, across her lifeless body at Devil’s Hope. They asked endless questions about my hearing the muffled cry and the time I subsequently spent in my room watching from the north window. I began to wonder if they were seriously considering me as number-one suspect. Their next question did nothing to allay my apprehension.

  ‘Think very carefully, sir. At the point you discovered the body, did you climb up the bank at all?’

  ‘The fourteenth green, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I thought back to my perambulations in the dark, first aboard the buggy and then on foot. At no time had I been on the top of the green.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘What shoes were you wearing at the time you were searching the golf course?’


  ‘Shoes?’ I repeated stupidly, frowning at him.

  ‘Just answer the question if you will, please, sir.’ The inspector’s face was impassive.

  ‘The shoes I’m wearing right now. I only brought the one pair.’

  ‘And what size would they be?’

  ‘Size nine.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be so good as to remove the left one, sir.’

  I did so. Another officer stepped up and handed the shoe to the inspector. He turned it over and scrutinized the sole.

  They were perfectly normal shoes, black slip-ons with a leather sole and heel. I’d had them repaired fairly recently and at the outer edge of the heel I’d instructed the cobbler to put a metal tip to prevent them wearing down too quickly.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You may put your shoe on again now.’

  I ventured a question. ‘I take it you’ve discovered a footprint. My shoe doesn’t fit, does it?’

  ‘Yes … and no.’ He permitted a tight, little smile to cross his face. ‘On the top of the bank by the side of the fourteenth green is a sand-filled bunker. A footprint was discovered there. We needed to eliminate your own shoe, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, very much.’

  He inclined his head a tiny fraction.

  It was likely he’d noticed my anxiety about being a strong suspect and could have been trying to alleviate it. I appreciated the snippet of information that he hadn’t been obliged to reveal. I took it as a positive sign that I wasn’t seriously being considered as a cold-blooded killer.

  Or it could also have been he’d done a good check-up before calling me in. If he had, he would also know I’d discovered a dead body before – at Leicester races. And he would also know I’d helped the police considerably and had actually apprehended the killer.

  The questions went on, but eventually the inspector concluded.

  ‘We shall need you to sign your statement down at the station, sir. After that, you will be free to go, but we may need to speak to you again, so—’

  ‘I won’t be going far from home, Inspector.’

  He nodded. ‘Very good.’

  I was shown out and the next person shown in.

  I walked down the hall to the restaurant and bar area. A strong coffee was definitely needed. Tom, the wine waiter from the previous evening, scurried past, more whey-faced than ever. I wondered if his wife had had her baby yet.

  The hotel was very good. At one o’clock, a light lunch of cold salmon and salad was provided for any guests who felt up to eating. I sat with Mike, Samuel and Chloe. None of us had been able to face eating breakfast, but we at least attempted some lunch.

  Chloe’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from crying. Her pink satin bridesmaid’s dress had been exchanged for a pair of black slacks and a silk shirt.

  ‘Have some salmon, Chloe,’ Samuel encouraged. ‘You’ll feel a little stronger with some food inside you.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she kept repeating. ‘Can’t believe it. I’m waiting for someone to tell me it’s not true, that it was just a nightmare.’

  ‘Her death is unbelievable,’ Mike said gently. ‘You need time to take it in.’

  I reached for her hand across the table and gave it a comforting squeeze. ‘You’re still in shock, Chloe. Your nervous system’s shot because it was so unexpected.’

  Desultorily, she chased a piece of salmon around her plate. Then suddenly jabbed at it with her fork.

  ‘They have to catch him, put him away for ever.’

  ‘And they will, darling,’ Samuel said. ‘He won’t get away.’

  Mike and I exchanged quick glances. Despite an ongoing search of the golf course, no one had been found. The killer had melted away into the night and left no trace. Except perhaps for that one footprint in the sand. By now I expect they must have checked out everybody’s shoes. But it was possible that the footprint had been made prior to Lucinda’s wedding and wasn’t relevant at all. Whatever else the police may have discovered during their search, they were keeping to themselves.

  Brandon wasn’t present in the dining room. I’d seen him briefly during the morning coming out of the leather room, looking like a sleepwalker. Face the colour of a sheet of A4, and legs about to give way. Apparently, he’d told Dr Paulson that the reason for Lucinda’s rushing off, most likely down the fire escape and out on to the beach, was a text message she’d received. The message telling her Louis had been murdered had also said the murderer was actually in the hotel and coming for her. The mobile phone had been taken away as evidence. This had been confirmed by the police.

  He’d also told Dr Paulson that, after making love, he had returned to the guests whilst Lucinda took a shower before joining him. The message was assumed to have been sent after Brandon had gone down into the St Andrew’s Suite, which seemed to point to the murderer being one of the guests. The object of the message had been to panic Lucinda into running away from the hotel.

  Which explained why the police had been so interested in asking me if I had seen anybody lurking on the landings. Regretfully, I’d had to say that, as far as I was aware, there hadn’t been anyone hanging about. However, with more than one staircase and a network of interconnecting landings, it would have been only too easy for someone to conceal themselves.

  Brandon wasn’t the only one missing out on lunch. Edward and Juliette were also absent. I had no doubt Lucinda’s death would have been devastating for them. First losing Louis and now Lucinda. It was the end of the family line.

  Another thought entered my mind. If Jo-Jo had lived, the line would have continued. She had been pregnant. But she, too, was dead, and the baby as well. Whether the pregnancy had prompted the ‘accident’ with the horsebox could only be guessed at, but the body count was now four.

  I pushed my plate away. There seemed little I could do right now. To go around questioning the other guests was not on. The police were in charge and would not take a generous view of my interference.

  My best bet now was to start at the other end of the trail, question the people on Jake Smith’s list. And I couldn’t do that here.

  Later that afternoon, given police permission to leave, we said goodbye to Samuel and Chloe and, with Mike driving, headed back to the stables in Leicestershire. The atmosphere in the car going back was a total reversal of our light-hearted banter travelling to the wedding. Conversation was minimal. We were both at saturation point with mulling over the tragedy.

  Arriving at Mike’s, I didn’t linger; just picked up my car and took myself home. With great relief, I drove in through the open gate and parked up.

  I’d got as far as putting my key into the lock of the kitchen door when, without warning, a heavy boot smacked savagely into the back of my kneecaps, knocking me flying and landing me face down, hard, on to the unyielding gravel.

  Falls from horses were expected: you instinctively rolled into a ball to minimize damage. This came out of nowhere and, with the full force of all my weight behind it, my face took a good smashing.

  Blood spurted everywhere.

  SEVENTEEN

  I couldn’t see a thing. Blood had flooded my eye-sockets and everything was a red blur. I was sure there was only one man, but it felt like half a dozen. His boots repeatedly thudded into my ribs, bruising and battering.

  I curled up, bringing my knees to my chest, judged the moment his boot was about to connect with my ribs again, then kicked out with both feet. An explosive howl of pain brought me a moment’s satisfaction as the man staggered back, gagging.

  Slewing around in the gravel on my back, I dashed the blood from my face. He was doubled up, clutching his guts. I repeated my double-barrel kick, trying to use it as a springboard to regain my feet. But the man recovered quickly, side-stepped and deflected the blow. Grabbing my legs, he bent them backwards, sending pain screaming through my kneecaps. I gasped for breath, but the damage already done to my ribcage negated the effort. I felt like a landed fish, out of its natural element, fighting for life. Next se
cond, he was on me, kneeling on my chest, hammering his fists into my face.

  As I began to lose consciousness, he abandoned the punches. He was weakening, the effort making his breath hiss in his lungs. Instead, grabbing both my ears, he worked my head up and down, bashing it against the gravel. If the driveway had been concrete, it would certainly have been goodbye, but now the gravel worked in my favour. It was already churned up into dips and hollows and with each impact it shifted and rolled, reducing the deadly force.

  Suddenly, he released me, lurched upright, pressing his bloodied fists to his chest, breath sawing loudly. I lay motionless, drifting on the very edge of consciousness. Through slits, I watched him stagger drunkenly away. I seemed to hear a vehicle start up, but I couldn’t swear to it.

  The next time I swore was through pulped and swollen lips when I resurfaced on an overwhelming tide of pain to find myself still lying on the ground near the back door. I opened my eyes. It was pouring with rain. In fact, it was stair-rodding. Sharp needles drummed down on to my face, exacerbating the pain from my injuries. A shallow puddle of water was cradling my head. The water was a disturbing shade of pink.

  I rolled over on to my side, pushed up on to my knees and nearly passed out again. Picking up a large piece of pea gravel, I put it in my mouth, bit on it then forced myself upright. It was fractionally less painful to stand than to kneel.

  The key was, mercifully, still sticking out of the keyhole in the back door. I’d never have found it otherwise. Shuffling like an old man, I made it into the kitchen, clung to the edge of the sink and removed the pea gravel. Looking into the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself, but if I looked as bad as this now, what the hell had I looked like before the rain had washed off the blood?

  Without warning, I vomited, urgently, into the sink. It told me a lot. One of the things I’d got was concussion – one of the many. I drank a couple of glasses of cold water and did a body check.

  My ribcage felt as if it had been trampled by an entire race card of horses. I tried a tell-tale cough; wished I hadn’t. However, it was reassuring. No blood, scarlet and bubbling, came up. No perforated lungs. My ribs were agonizing, but if they were simply bruised, not cracked, I’d got away lightly.