The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2)

by Valerie Laws

  She suggested getting out for walks outside when possible, even in cold or wet weather, and told how when she was feeling down, or had thinking to do, she made for the sea, and how she would often run south along the seafront and along the north pier to the end under the huge empty sky and watch the waves smashing against the stones. She had been going there daily recently. She went on to recommend exercise, as even when exhausting, it is paradoxically energising.

  So, it would now be natural to follow up with a series of features on sports and outdoor hobbies which would look into the health benefits but also into the social benefits of, say, golf. Her research would enable her to penetrate the Golf Club and ask questions. Although Chambers was in a different club, and Gupta - did he play? He hadn’t been at the dinner dance. Nobody of any skin tone darker than ‘Antibes Tan’ or ‘Coronary Crimson’ had been there... still, somehow the Wydsand Golf Club kept cropping up.

  What about Mel, and Howard’s description of him being in close conversation with Kingston. Mel’s bland unhypnotiseable gaze came into her mind, his air of concealing some private joke. Did Mel have a motive to kill Kingston, maybe something to do with being outed, or some business deal perhaps? The other two murders could have been copycat killings, or done to hide the real motive - although again, to think someone she knew could have inflicted those mutilations was horrible.

  ‘Selwyn Blackett here,’ said a jovial voice when she rang Wydsand Golf Club.

  She explained her mission. He was suddenly less jovial.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, Miss Bruce. We don’t, that is to say, the members come here expecting, I mean to say, it is a private club you know. There are rules about non-members and ladies coming into the bar... and a journalist, well...’

  Hm, lady journalist, two strikes against her.

  ‘I’m doing a health article, Mr Blackett, not an exposé - not that you’ve anything to expose, I’m sure. Just one visit and a chat will do, and a few facts I can get from your website. It will help to give golf a boost in the area, encourage people to join.’

  He laughed. ‘We’ve a long waiting list for this club, Miss Bruce, we’ve no need to sell ourselves. We make a point of being extremely particular about what sort of people we allow to join. The members like to think they’ll meet here their own sort of people, people they feel at ease with. People who know how to behave.’

  Ah PLU, like Kingston? He knew how to behave all right. She bit back enquiring exactly what he meant by ‘own sort’. The first job was to get in there, any questions about ethnic minorities and women could wait.

  ‘Oh, dear. I was hoping you or someone there could spare me a few minutes. You were all so friendly at your Christmas dinner dance - such an enjoyable evening.’ She hoped some personal connection with a member would help.

  ‘You came to the dance? Yes, it was a good do. With whom did you come?’

  ‘With Mel.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The joviality was back in place. ‘I think I remember you. Red and black outfit, rather striking? Yes, Mel is a sound chap. I should have thought you could just talk to him.’

  ‘You know how it is, Mr Blackett, it’s better to get information from an official source, it looks better in the paper. What exactly is your role at the club?’

  ‘I’m Membership Secretary. Well, I’m standing in for our Membership Secretary, whom you may know was injured by a golf ball. Damned disgrace! Bloody people get onto the course you know, whacking away like maniacs. He’s recovering, I’m glad to say, but we’ll be having our first committee meeting of the new year soon and a new Mem. Sec. might well be elected. Why don’t you come along at lunchtime and I’ll show you round, and you can take a look at the course.’

  The Golf Club bar looked rather dissipated in daylight, as bars do. A pale sun shone through the big picture windows, glinting on the bottles and trophies. Outside, the green landscape flowed in gentle undulations, decorated with fawn sand bunkers and clusters of trees and bushes. Colourful figures strolled in pairs, towing trolleys bristling with clubs. Erica managed a glance into the distinctly inferior ‘ladies’ clubroom’, but was allowed to perch on a stool in the main bar where a few men looked at her with alarm. Maybe they were afraid she’d menstruate on their furniture.

  She met Selwyn Blackett, a powerfully built man with a small paunch. He had bushy eyebrows that met in the middle and thinning hair on top. He was smartly dressed in golf gear. She’d noticed that golf clothes were in bright, even ice cream, colours. Baby blue, primrose yellow, fancy patterns, even pink... all the colours and designs the sort of solid businessmen who joined Golf Clubs could never wear in any other part of their lives. Maybe that was one of the main appeals of the game, the chance to let loose with colour and feel it was conventional, even de rigeur. A kind of respectable version of cross-dressing? She mentioned the colours, not her speculations.

  ‘Safety. Make you stand out on the greens. Helps to avoid accidents. Golf balls are very hard, you know, and they travel at a hell of a speed. Still get the odd whack, when a ball goes astray, or some idiot doesn’t look out where he’s going.’

  ‘Yes, I know how dangerous they are. Someone hit me on the arm with a golf ball while I was running down the track along the side of the course.’

  He bristled and opened his mouth to defend the honour of his members.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t any of your lot. It happened at night.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Those damned yobs find golf balls and break windows with them, the little vandals. Envy I suppose. Can’t be arsed to work for money themselves, but resent others having it. A pity the police can’t seem to do anything. They could do with some healthy exercise.’

  ‘Like golf?’ Erica said with faux innocence.

  Blackett chose to ignore her comment. ‘D’you know, a full eighteen holes of golf is a good four miles’ walk. Most of our members drive everywhere and have desk jobs so it does them the world of good. Shall we go outside?’

  She gladly abandoned her drink and followed him out. They’d probably fumigate the bar when she’d gone.

  Even though it was winter, the course was green and soothing to look at. They strolled along, Blackett hailing various players who looked at her suspiciously. She should have brought a leper’s bell to ring.

  ‘That’s Robert Kingston’s house over there isn’t it?’ She could see only the upper storey windows of the houses from here. It seemed a good chance to bring the conversation round to the murder.

  ‘Yes. A bad business, that. Respected member and a good golfer too. Very keen, when work allowed. They still haven’t caught anyone, you know. It’s a disgrace. Those neck-end lads were hanging around....haven’t heard the police have arrested any of them. Though there’ve been those other murders. The Operator. Some lunatic.’

  ‘Of course Mel knew Mr Kingston.’

  ‘Possibly. A little. I don’t think they knew each other well. Old Mel’s away so often. I did hear Robert once mention that Mel’d put him onto some shares. But they weren’t what you’d call friends.’

  This didn’t sound like a row or anything, unless the shares had plummeted. But who would be able to tell her that?

  ‘I wonder if Kingston’s widow will sell the house,’ she fished.

  ‘It’ll be snapped up, you can bet on it. Plenty of members would give their eye teeth for that. Well, not much point in giving their right arms, hey?’ He laughed.

  ‘Yes, so Mr Archer was telling me. Mr Kingston’s neighbour. He’s thrilled to bits to be living so near the club. ‘

  ‘I’m sure. Actually his mother used to be a cleaner at the clubhouse, and his old dad was a groundsman here. Grew up with golf... Ah, times change, eh?’

  He sounded a bit regretful, as if them as cleaned the club should stay on the right side of the j-cloth. As they strolled back towards the clubhouse, Erica glanced back at the houses and caught a glimpse of movement at Archer’s window. He was gazing out over the course. Blackett raised a hand in a kind of iro
nic salute to him, and he returned the gesture.

  ‘I’m surprised he isn’t out playing this morning.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll drive up later.’

  Drive? So much for all the healthy walking and open air. She said as much.

  ‘Oh, he’s not a member of this club yet, goodness me no. He belongs to the city club. He’s on our waiting list. Very keen. Always wanted to be a member here, and live right there in those houses. Lifetime ambition. Bit of an upstart, you know. But getting that house was a long-term investment for him, and well worth it. ‘

  Erica was surprised. Surely Archer’d given the impression he was a member already. Was that the awkward lie that tugged at her memory? Then she remembered the Christmas dinner dance. Someone said, ‘Nobody’s brought old Archer’. That should have told her; if he was a member, he wouldn’t need to be brought as somebody’s guest. She looked up at his window, but he was gone.

  ‘He loves that view,’ Blackett said. ‘There’s none better, in my book. He often sits by the upstairs window, even in winter, watching the players.’

  Erica cycled back home, wrote up the piece on golf and emailed it in. Ian Dunne should be pleased she was featuring his own favourite sport. Not that he was any advertisement for healthy activity, with his perennial fags.

  Researching among old and new books of homeopathic remedies for various patients, she was amused to find one for ‘exhaustion due to partner’s excessive sexual demands’; she must tell Jamie about it, especially as it was ‘China’. Though China was not an oriental remedy, but made of Cinchona bark, like quinine. Jamie was often worn out from the demands of his job, the problems of bureaucracy and politics that plague any hierarchy, funding problems, and so on, but being young, he was always up for pleasure. Hers, in particular. And his demands were every bit as excessive as her own.

  Her erotic musings were interrupted by news headlines on the radio, tuned to the local house music station. A man had been found with severe injuries and loss of blood. A man who worked in the medical sphere, the newsreader yelped breathlessly and ambiguously. Police were not able to comment on whether there was any connection to the Operator killings. The man was alive, but his condition was critical.

  Another one, and so soon? It seemed incredible. She tried contacting Gary Thomas but he wasn’t answering. Out covering the story no doubt. It had just broken, after all.

  Between late afternoon and early evening appointments at Ivy Lodge, Erica managed to keep googling and following Twitter until she could glean a little more. The injured man was said to be ‘an alternative therapist’. He was still critical, having lost a lot of blood. The man’s name was being withheld until next of kin had been informed; they must be still trying to contact them.

  Did this mean the Operator was branching out? Should Erica, Miles and their colleagues start looking over their shoulders? There was as yet no clue as to whether the Operator had been involved. The news media made the connection cunningly, mentioning that ‘three murders involving members of the medical profession have been committed lately by a killer dubbed ‘the Operator’, but police are so far refusing to link them to this attack.’

  The tone implied that the police were a bunch of party poopers and of course any fool would see there was a connection.

  Erica thought about the injuries inflicted on the other victims. Nails in the head, castration, the heart exposed. And now the Operator – or whoever - had botched the killing, maybe left the victim with injuries as horrible as those, but still alive. Was that better, or worse?

  Her next patient came in to talk about his piles. Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey never had this trouble.

  By the time she was at home, making a mushroom stroganoff with fat-free bio yogurt, the news was more detailed. Surgeons were trying to re-attach the man’s right hand which was almost severed, but there had been major blood loss. There was also an injury to the back of the head.

  The man had been identified as Craig Anderson.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Erica mechanically stirred some French mustard into the sauce, but it was hard to eat any of it. She picked at her green salad, the news going round in her head. She couldn’t believe the Operator had attacked Anderson. With his pumped-up muscular body, tense awareness, he’d be a hard man to take on. Even a blow to the back of the head would be risky. Craig was a loner, isolated by his hatred and bitterness, so who could get close enough to him to hit him without him noticing?

  Also, why would the Operator attack someone so totally opposed to the medical establishment? Someone who hated doctors, who practised alternative medicine almost as an act of war. It didn’t make sense.

  The doorbell rang, making her jump. It was Jamie. As soon as she opened the door, he put his arms around her and they kissed for a few blessed and absorbed moments before she pulled back to look at him. He looked shattered, his face almost grey, his eyes narrowed with fatigue.

  ‘This is unexpected. Aren’t you on duty?’

  ‘Have been, for more hours than I can make sense of. But I wanted to see you. I heard the news about Craig Anderson. I remembered you talking about him. I know he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a friend, but what with finding Kingston’s body, and now this man you know being injured, I was concerned about you. If that’s alright.’

  ‘It’s alright. I’ve been trying to eat, without much success. ‘

  ‘We can eat together. We’ve got to keep our strength up, as our mothers would no doubt say. Though sometimes I wonder what for.’

  ‘Jamie, how did you know it was Anderson? The news just gave his name when I was cooking, and a few minutes later you arrived.’ A frisson of doubt.

  ‘I heard it over the medics’ grapevine. He’s up in the city hospital, but the word reached our dump pretty fast. We’ve all been jumpy with these Operator killings. Any news gets passed around like gonorrhoea.’

  ‘I thought he was the Operator when he came to Ivy Lodge all hyped up, and I thought he was going to kill me. Well, the thought crossed my mind. But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He was so bitter and screwed up. And now this has happened. His right hand. How is he, have you any details?’

  ‘Sure you want to hear about it?’

  She poured wine for them both. ‘Hell yes.’

  Jamie sank back on the couch, his eyes almost closed. His voice was soft and slow, he’d only had one glass of wine so far but he was all in.

  ‘They think he’ll live. The head injury wasn’t drastic, though there was a skull fracture. He was unconscious when he was brought in. The hand might be saved, it’s not quite as bad as the media makes out, but it may not function the same way as before. Nerve damage. Recovery will be long and slow. He could be effectively disabled. ‘

  ‘As if the poor guy hadn’t suffered enough.’ She was thinking of his dead son, his dead wife, and now this. He wouldn’t be pumping iron for a long time, if ever, with that hand.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Now what? Will Bennett stood on the doorstep like bad news personified.

  ‘It’s about Anderson – I know you visited him recently, I thought that, you know, finding Kingston and now this… I thought I’d check you were, you know, all right.’ He looked rough, his eyes two dark hollows. Ah, the pressure to get a result was starting to tell.

  ‘Yeah, right. You mean, check up on someone who keeps meeting Operator victims, suspiciously often? Anyway, Inspector, it’s very kind of you but I have a guest…’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Who is it Erica?’ Jamie’s clearly non-female voice drifted down the hall.

  ‘Ah – well, a good thing you’re not alone. I hope… well, good night,’ Will almost barked, as he strode off and she returned to Jamie.

  ‘I think the Inspector is losing it. Thought he could scent weakness and homed in, huh! Suspecting me because I met Anderson probably, or trying to. Anyway, what were you saying about Anderson before?’

  ‘He has two black eyes.’
/>
  ‘I can’t see anyone taking him on in a frontal assault.’

  ‘The word is,’ Jamie said in a voice that was almost a sigh, ‘it’s a contre coup injury. The black eyes... contre coup... what was I saying?’ He pulled himself up and forced his eyes open. ‘I’d better not finish that wine.’

  ‘Oh, yes... I’ve heard of that. Bouncing brain in its little pond of fluid.’

  ‘Yeah. Certain types of head injury cause the brain to bounce up and hit the facial bones from behind, causing black eyes; usually it means that the moving head hit something, rather than that something moving hit the head.’

  She put her glass down. ‘You mean, he fell over backwards and hit his head on something? Instead of being hit? Maybe someone found him unconscious and carried out the hand injury; a copy-cat Operator type assault, do you think? Or could someone have knocked him down with a punch to the face, hence a black eye which wouldn’t show after the contre coup.’

  ‘No, now look Erica, this is very much inside information, the police haven’t released details yet obviously.... but it looks very much as if he might have done it himself. Cut off, or tried to cut off, his hand, passed out, fell over backwards, and hit his head on something hard - a tiled hearth, I think it was. There was some kind of banner or poster lying across him.’

  ‘Oh, my god.’ She grabbed her glass again, and swigged back the wine. ‘I knew he was in a state, but this..... I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Well, it’s not official yet, and there may be more to come out, if the police decide to make it public.’ He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘You really are exhausted aren’t you? They work you too hard at that place - I hope it’ll all be worth it when you’re on the golf course as a highly paid consultant.’

  ‘Been a shit day. Accident; child hit by car, driver didn’t stop, horrible injuries, distraught parents, and I can’t do enough. Pain relief isn’t powerful enough, our skills, my skills, aren’t good enough to do more than a patch-up job. Even nature won’t be able to put everything right, with all the healing power children have. Keen footballer, this kid. Was.’ He sat up and took her hand.