There was a pause of a few seconds while the Sergeant finished writing. ‘That was going to be my next question,’ he said. ‘Which members knew him well?’
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ I said. ‘He was on rather scratchy terms with all of them. He was one of those men who think that a joke is an insult. You can’t always tell whether it’s meant affectionately or not. You know what I mean?’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ the Sergeant said.
‘You could try Harry Noble. Mr Tullos seemed to be more patient with him than with anybody else. Harry tries very hard, but he’s only got one arm. I mean,’ I corrected myself, ‘he’s got both arms, but—’
‘They’re both on the same side?’
‘—but he can’t lift his left arm because of some old injury. You ass!’ I added. But I snorted with laughter and nearly spilled my coffee. In fact, I was secretly delighted to discover that, like myself, the Sergeant had a sense of the ridiculous constantly trying to escape. ‘So Mr Tullos spent hours helping Harry learn to shoot one-handed, which is difficult because it’s usually the left hand which does most of the aiming.’
The Sergeant was looking slightly ashamed and trying to pretend that he had never let the mask slip. ‘We’ll try your Mr Noble,’ he said.
He flipped a page in his notebook and looked at the blank paper thoughtfully. I looked at him, seeing him now as a male person rather than as a policeman. He was, I noticed, cast in the square and sandy-haired southern Scottish style which is in contrast to the lean and dark Celtic Highlanders. It is a style which I have always thought pleasant rather than handsome, but I liked it. Handsome men, like beautiful women, get brainwashed by undeserved attention and stop being proper people. He had a short nose, firm jaw and eyes which I knew were ready to smile. But at the moment those eyes were looking past me.
‘Next question. . . . Who’s this?’
‘Easy one,’ I said. ‘That’s the club chairman.’ Sir Peter Hay was getting out of one of his battered Land-rovers. His mop of grey hair was even more tangled than usual and he was wearing the least presentable of his many kilts. When I was young, I thought that he must be nearly a hundred years old; but now I realised that he was a sprightly seventy, so perhaps he had mastered the trick of growing younger. He was my godfather, a close friend of my parents and the best-intentioned person I ever met. I would have died for him.
Chapter Three
Sir Peter ambled across the carpark and stopped in front of us. ‘Deborah, my dear child,’ he said, ‘how did you get dragged into this?’ He is one of the many people who still speak to me as though I were ten years old, but from him, perhaps because of his age, it seems acceptable. All the same, it was a good moment to remind him that I am now adult.
‘They wanted my advice,’ I said. ‘This is Sergeant Fellowes. Sir Peter Hay.’
Sir Peter nodded politely. ‘I identified the – er – the body. It was Herbert Tullos. He was our steward for the past four or five years.’
The Sergeant, no less polite, had risen to his feet at Sir Peter’s approach. ‘Do you know where he was before that, sir?’
‘I still have his application on file. I’ll dig it out for you. He’d just retired from a desk job with one of the oil companies. He was with the police before that and I seem to remember that he’d worked abroad in between.’
The Sergeant finished jotting in his book. ‘The Super will want to know that,’ he said, ‘and anything else you can remember. He’ll probably want to see you, Sir Peter. Will you wait?’
‘Of course, my boy, of course.’ Sir Peter sat down beside me and waited, fussing with Sam who, like most dogs, adored him, until the Sergeant had vanished into the building. ‘I trust that they’re treating you with respect,’ he said to me in his rather fluting voice.
‘The Sergeant’s been very considerate,’ I said. Sir Peter always seemed to know absolutely everybody, certainly up to and including the Secretary of State, probably the Prime Minister and quite possibly God; and when he was on the warpath he sometimes pulled the most astonishing strings. He would have been quite capable of using all those resources if I had mentioned that one of the policemen had been curt with me. I decided not to ask for the Superintendent’s head on a plate just yet. Later would do.
‘That’s all right, then. Can’t think what they wanted you for, though.’
‘General information on clay-busting,’ I said. ‘They couldn’t find anybody else in a hurry.’
He smiled with his eyes. ‘In other words, they wanted your father?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I can’t think of much that he could tell them that you couldn’t,’ he said kindly.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But I have a nasty feeling that I’ve already missed something that he’d have spotted.’
‘I doubt it.’ He smiled again for a moment and then looked serious. ‘All I know for the moment is that Herbert Tullos has been killed. I could see for myself that he’d had a whack across the nut. Didn’t look accidental to me. Do they suspect what they call foul play?’
‘It looks very like it. Somebody made a rather poor job of trying to pass it off as an accident.’
The return of Sergeant Fellowes cut short his questions. The Sergeant was alone and carrying a tray with more coffee and a stack of sandwiches. ‘The men’s “refreshments” arrived,’ he said. ‘Why should we go hungry? The Superintendent can’t get away. He apologises and asks me to get both of your statements.’
He sat down on my other side. As ‘pig in the middle’ I seemed to be elected to hold the tray.
‘You were right, my dear, he is considerate. I want to know what’s going on,’ Sir Peter said plaintively. He was clearly upset, but not too upset to help himself to one of the egg, meat and tomato sandwiches.
‘Of course, Sir Peter,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Herbert Tullos was found dead this morning, by the postman. As far as I know, no significant information has turned up yet, but Miss Calder was able to . . . to help our understanding of the case. I was about to take her statement. Perhaps if we heard her out together . . .?’
‘Of course.’
As lucidly as I could, I dictated a statement covering what I had seen and the reasons why Mr Tullos could not have died an accidental death. I held a sandwich as I spoke, more to reserve it for myself than in the hope of taking a bite out of it. The other sandwiches vanished.
The Sergeant seemed to have the knack of eating while writing clearly and rapidly in his notebook. When my statement was finished, he swallowed the last of the last sandwich. ‘That seems clear,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it transcribed for your signature.’
‘Just a moment,’ Sir Peter broke in. ‘Those may be the facts. But I’ve seen this young lady and her father at work. Deborah, can you draw any inferences out of all this?’
I waited until I had managed to swallow the remains of my only sandwich. ‘Just this,’ I said. ‘If I’m right and there was a criminal—’
‘A murderer,’ Sir Peter said, sadly. ‘I’m afraid that we have to face up to that.’
‘Or somebody trying to cover up an accident or a suicide,’ I pointed out. They looked at me in puzzlement but made no comment. ‘In the event,’ I said, ‘he wasn’t one of the hot-shots. Nobody who was really into shotguns would make a mistake about chokes. Any fool knows that you can tell the difference between tight and open chokes by pushing in a fingertip. And if he was a regular shooter here, he’d know that there were better trap-houses for faking a convincing accident. All the trap-houses have at least two openings.’ I explained to the Sergeant. ‘You don’t want anybody trying to load the magazine through the front where the throwing-arm comes round, or reaching in to pick up an ejected cartridge which has found its way inside. So you only have a little opening at the front and there’s a bigger door in the back or side. The direction of throw at Skeet is fixed, so the opening can be comparatively small. But some of the trap-houses have larger openings at the front or top, where a
head could be put inside if its owner was rash enough or tired of life. Anybody who knew anything would have gone to one of those.’
‘He might not have the strength or the stomach to carry a dead body around,’ the Sergeant said. ‘And it isn’t easy to arrange a body and its clothing to look as though it lies where it fell. He couldn’t count on the postman who found the body to move it around and then to admit having done so.’
‘Unless the postman did it,’ I said.
My remark was made in all seriousness and seemed perfectly logical to me. There was, after all, one person who could be sure that the postman would move the body and own up to it. But Sir Peter gave me the reproving glance which he usually reserves for occasions when I have been frivolous. ‘You make me sorry that I asked the question,’ he said.
‘It was a reasonable suggestion,’ the Sergeant said. ‘We had to consider it. In fact, we haven’t written it off entirely. But if the postie had anything to do with it, he should be on the stage – with his ability to portray shock and distress.’
Sir Peter shrugged. ‘As to the murderer being unfamiliar with clay pigeon shooting,’ he said to me, ‘you may be right, or you may not. On this occasion, I think that you’ve jumped to a premature conclusion and overlooked another explanation of at least equal likelihood.’ He looked at the Sergeant. ‘I need hardly ask whether you’ll be enquiring whether any of the dwellers in that overpriced extravaganza further along the waterside saw anything.’
‘Men are making door-to-door enquiries already.’
‘Time enough to theorise when you have the answers. For the moment, I suggest that you discount our young friend’s last assumptions.’ He looked at the view before us, limited though it was, and half smiled. ‘And now,’ he said, switching to what I always think of as his chairman’s manner, ‘suppose you tell me when we’re likely to regain the use of the club’s facilities.’
‘Knowing how the Super usually works,’ Sergeant Fellowes said, ‘my best guess would be that he’ll use the clubhouse as a temporary Incident Room until a complete search has been finished, perhaps late tomorrow. After that, he’ll prefer to be near a computer facility. He’ll move everything to a more permanent base at Headquarters. That’s assuming that we don’t make a quick arrest.’
‘Then for tonight and tomorrow night,’ Sir Peter said firmly, ‘I’m holding you responsible for the security of premises and equipment. We’ll take the keys back from you on Thursday.’
‘You’ve had trouble here?’ the Sergeant asked quickly.
‘Not often, while Herbert Tullos was in residence. He was more than able to deal with the occasional young vandals. But he only had to take a holiday, or go away with a team, and the youngsters from next door would invade the place. That’s why we have steel doors on all the trap-houses. The kids wouldn’t bother in the normal course of events, but some parents are anti-gun and the manager at the Leisure Complex eggs them on. Not directly, but you know how youngsters can take a hint from their seniors.’
‘The Leisure Complex resents the Gun Club?’
‘Not to the extent of knocking off our officials,’ Sir Peter said, ‘but, yes. It’s the noise that they complain about, mostly, although you can hardly hear the shooting from there unless the wind’s from a direction which only happens about twice a year. But they try to make propaganda about almost anything else. About danger, which is a nonsense – spent shot pattering down from a height never hurt anybody. About ethics, which is frankly preposterous. And about disturbance to wildfowl and a risk of lead poisoning, both of which are quite untrue.
‘They appealed to both local authorities in the hope of getting our planning permission revoked, but we were here first and they knew it before they adopted their site. The area was zoned for recreation, you see. In point of fact, we objected before they were granted planning permission, on the grounds that there would be conflict, but the Region sent a delegation to observe and it was decided that the noise nuisance was small and that there was no danger. They gave them a grant towards creating an embankment between the two sites, for noise attenuation, and left us to learn to live with each other – which, in fact, we do quite well. Some of the timeshare residents shoot here and some of our members also golf at the Country Club. It’s only their management that stirs it up. There have been offers to buy us out, but so far the committee has resisted.’
‘Was Mr Tullos involved in those discussions?’ the Sergeant asked.
‘He was on the committee. He was adamantly opposed to any sell-out. And so was I.’
‘Well . . .’ The Sergeant seemed uncertain whether to follow that line further. ‘Well, that’s one possible area of friction,’ he said at last. ‘Can you think of any others?’
Sir Peter shook his head. ‘You’d better ask Deborah – Miss Calder – about that. I didn’t shoot here as often as I might have done, just once a month or so to keep my eye in. Could have done with more practice, really, but time’s too precious to fritter away. I used to ring Mr Tullos up at weekends to find out what was on, and if there was a competition in Sporting, I’d try to get along. Never won anything – I’m a rotten shot. Don’t know why they made me chairman.’
Sir Peter, as an energetic worker and a generous sponsor when help was needed, was on almost every committee and board for miles around, but he could never understand why the willing horse was so overworked.
The Sergeant was looking at me in enquiry. ‘I can’t help much,’ I said. ‘He was a rather scratchy and abrasive character—’
‘I never found him so,’ Sir Peter said.
‘Well, you wouldn’t. You’re you. And you’re the chairman. I don’t remember that he was worse with any one person than any other. For a bunch which included some tough characters, they were usually careful not to quarrel openly with ladies present. I think that that’s why they sometimes resented my presence. Having to moderate their language when they missed,’ I explained.
‘They resented your presence,’ Sir Peter said, ‘because you’re turning into a damned good shot. Diehard chauvinists don’t like being beaten by a chit of a girl, especially in what they regard as a male preserve. Didn’t you ever notice that your father was very selective about which competitions he’d enter you for? He wanted you to be accepted. So he left you among the spectators if he thought there was a risk that you’d beat somebody who’d take it amiss.’
It had never occurred to me that there was any logic behind Dad’s autocratic selection of competitions for me to enter. I knew that I could shoot and that girls well-taught while young could be very good, but the idea that I was becoming a threat to male egos was new. I found that I had lost my voice.
Luckily, the Sergeant was speaking. He had taken a computer print-out from his pocket and was unfolding it. ‘We found a list of members in the office. Between you, perhaps you could fill in some detail.’
‘It won’t help you very much,’ Sir Peter said. ‘For historical reasons, entry to full membership is restricted and expensive. Longstanding members remain members even when they’ve moved away or even gone abroad. But we let others shoot here for the price of a day-membership. They think of themselves as members, but they’re not. And, of course, they don’t appear on any list. You may be able to identify some of them from the receipts book.’
The Sergeant insisted and we did our best, but it seemed that only about a dozen of the members on the list were still active. On the other hand, we were able to remember and describe about twenty regular visiting non-members and to put at least one name to most of them.
‘Thank you,’ the Sergeant said at last. ‘If we find any more names among the receipts, we’ll ask you again.’
‘Whenever you like.’ Sir Peter was frowning in thought. ‘When your Superintendent removes the epicentre of this investigation to your Headquarters, will there still be somebody up here?’
‘Yes. At least by day. Why?’
‘The club can’t operate without somebody on site, to take entries
, sell cartridges, give coaching and generally look after the place. I was about to ask Miss Calder whether she’d take it on.’
‘Me?’
‘Just until we can find somebody permanent. Sam Pollinder might do it. He’s on your list, Sergeant. He’s a widower who’s in the process of retiring from school-teaching and it’s not an unattractive retirement position for a keen shot. But I don’t think that he’d be available this week or next.’
‘Well . . .’ I said weakly. The sudden onrush of responsibility, just when I had thought myself to be a lady of leisure, took my breath away. And I had never really thought of myself as employable outside of the family business.
‘Will you do it, my dear? Or are you too busy? The club’s only open afternoons and evenings and it closes on Sunday evening and all day on Monday unless the steward decides otherwise. I’m sure that Hugh Glencorse, the Club Secretary, would come and lend a hand over the weekend and I’d look in whenever I could.’
‘Well . . .’ I said yet again.
Sir Peter sighed. He tried to run his fingers through his tangle of hair but only got so far. ‘The alternative would be to notify all members and regular visitors that the club’s closed until further notice. And then I’d have to mobilise as many as I could get hold of, to come and move the traps into the store and make the whole shebang as vandal-proof as possible. And by the time we resumed, the casuals would have started going somewhere else and then the whole operation would lose its head of steam.’
I never could resist Sir Peter when he looked sad, any more than he could resist me when I conjured up a tear. With each other, we were a pair of cajoling fakers. Perhaps that is why we got along so well. ‘I’m not too busy,’ I said slowly. ‘But what about nights? I wouldn’t want to sleep here on my own.’
A Brace of Skeet Page 4
