The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  ‘What are you calling this investigation, Ma’am?’ Jack Benson asked.

  ‘Good question,’ she said. ‘Duggie, I need a name for a new operation.’

  ‘Right away, Boss,’ Duggie Walters replied, turning back to his computer.

  The door burst open and DS Carter came barrelling in, closely followed by DC Whittle.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Jo. ‘Has the pathologist been?’

  Nick Carter looked at the sea of faces staring at them.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she told him. ‘I was just briefing the team. You can tell us all.’

  ‘Been and left,’ Nick replied. ‘It was Professor Flatman. He asked for the patient’s notes, took a quick look at the body, and then turned to me. “You can tell DCI Holmes,” he said, “that I concur with the findings of the hospital. This man is definitely deceased.” ’ He waited for the laughter to subside. ‘ “I also agree that the cause of his death, which we will not know with any certainty until I’ve performed the post-mortem, would appear to be decidedly fishy. A non-technical term, Detective Sergeant, which you should not write down and may not quote. And now I am leaving. I have a particularly interesting cadaver to attend to.” ’

  ‘Did you explain the urgency of the situation?’ she said. ‘That we need the PM as quickly as possible?’

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ Nick replied. ‘He said we were lucky. He had a particular interest in this one, and he’ll do a late-evening PM just for us. To be honest, I got the impression someone had already been on to him.’

  Jo nodded.

  ‘Probably the Coroner,’ she said. ‘I’m not the only one who’s being leaned on.’

  She turned to Carly Whittle.

  ‘What about you, Detective Constable? I hope you’ve got some good news?’

  ‘Good and bad, Boss,’ she replied.

  ‘Give me the bad first.’

  ‘Jason O’Neill and Jack Reilly were happy to give loads of detail on the night out at the Italian in town, but when it came to suggesting names for people who might have been prepared to murder O’Neill, they couldn’t think of a single name.’

  ‘With him being such a saint,’ said Nick.

  ‘And the good news?’

  ‘DCI Fox has tracked down Steven Yates, and he’s agreed to meet up with you, Jason, Reilly, and a Nathan Burke – the fourth member of their Friday morning foursome – at the golf club this afternoon.’ Carly hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ said Jo.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Ma’am,’ Carly continued, ‘but I took the liberty of contacting the golf professional at the club to ask him if he’d arrange some buggies to ferry you all out to the seventh tee, and if he’d accompany you.’

  ‘Well done,’ Jo told her. ‘Feel free to keep taking liberties like that.’

  ‘Until you get it wrong,’ quipped Nick.

  Duggie Walters rose from his desk. ‘Boss,’ he said, ‘that operational name you wanted? It’s just come through.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Alecto.’

  DC Hulme shook his head. ‘That computer down at New Scotland Yard has a sick sense of humour,’ he said.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with Alecto?’ Duggie asked.

  ‘In Greek mythology she was one of the Furies. Her job was chastising humans guilty of crimes such as anger. Like her sister Nemesis did with the Gods.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ said Jo.

  ‘Not really. She caused one of the Trojan Wars in Book 7 of the Aeneid. I thought we were trying to stop one breaking out.’

  ‘How does he know these things?’ asked Carly.

  ‘Because he’s a nerd,’ said Nick. ‘He sees himself as a twenty-first-century Inspector Morse.’

  Several of the DCs laughed.

  ‘I don’t own a Jag,’ Hulme replied. ‘I’m not into Wagner or opera, I don’t have time to do crosswords, and I don’t have a limp.’

  ‘The absence of a limp we can fix,’ said Gordon ominously.

  Cue more laughter.

  Nothing’s changed, Jo reflected. It’s just like the old days. Especially those seven years with the Major Incident Team before my secondment. Except this time, I’m the Boss. And now the buck stops with me.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Looks like you’re off to a flying start,’ said Gordon.

  The room was a hive of activity. Everyone appeared to know exactly what to do.

  He led Jo to a minimally furnished glass-partitioned interior office at the far corner of the room, closed the door behind them, and perched on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Seems a bit depleted out there,’ she said.

  ‘Like Gates said, it’s partly cuts, and partly fallout from the Manchester Arena bombing. But what she didn’t tell you is that recruitment to CID has dropped off. All of a sudden everyone wants the regular hours, even if it does mean doing shifts.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s a wonder there’s any of us left.’

  Jo had heard as much. She hadn’t realised it was that bad.

  ‘I give it twelve months,’ Gordon continued. ‘Then there’ll be a handful of guys sitting in front of computers going through dashcam footage sent in by members of the public. The only cases going to court will be traffic-related. The burglars, drug barons, rapists, and murderers are going to have a field day.’

  She smiled. ‘This is the Gordon I’ve come to know and love – one of life’s true optimists.’

  He checked his watch and slid off the desk. ‘There is a silver lining,’ he said. ‘Detective Constable Carly Whittle. She’s intelligent and very enthusiastic, just like you were when you started.’

  ‘Enthusiastic?’

  ‘Put it this way. Some of the team have started calling her Percy.’

  ‘Percy?’

  ‘As in persistent. She’s like a dog with a bone. Twenty minutes in an interview room with Carly Whittle is a lifetime for the toughest criminal mind. She wears them down till they’ll admit to robbing their kids’ money boxes.’

  ‘Surely the Crown Prosecution Service would have something to say about that?’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he told her. ‘She’s one of our most successful interviewers. Knows where the boundaries are and stays just this side of the red line. Only it’s as exhausting for whoever’s in there with her as it is for the suspect!’

  He opened the door. ‘I’m off. Good luck, Jo. You’re going to need it.’

  Jo followed him out. The energy in the incident room was charged, as though full of static. There was something about a large team of people energised by a sense of common purpose. Not that she didn’t enjoy working with the rest of the Behavioural Sciences Unit back at The Quays, but there were only five of them. This was exhilarating. And for the first time she was truly in charge.

  Nick Carter was leaning over Carly Whittle’s desk, talking to her. Jo was disappointed in him. She could be mistaken, but he seemed to have become more flippant, less respectful, and less supportive of junior members of the team. Tom Caton would never have stood for it. She decided to nip it in the bud. She went over and joined them.

  ‘How did you get back here, DS Carter?’ she asked.

  Carter seemed momentarily surprised by her formality, but then he grinned. ‘I blagged a lift, like DCI Holmes suggested.’

  ‘And you, DC Whittle?’ she asked.

  ‘There weren’t any patrol cars outside the Children’s Hospital,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Given the urgency, I grabbed a taxi.’

  ‘That’ll have to come out of your own pocket,’ said Nick. ‘Don’t expect to claim for it.’

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t think to share your ride with Carly then, isn’t it?’ said Jo.

  Nick appeared to have a ready answer to that, but when he saw the look on her face, he thought better of it.

  ‘I’d like a word, DS Carter,’ she said. ‘In my office.’

  Chapter 10

  The convoy of electric buggies wound its way between the fairways and stopped below the tees
for the seventh hole. Jo was in the first buggy with Dermot Wheaton, the club professional; DC Whittle and Jack Benson were in the second; Jack Reilly and Nathan Burke in the third; Jason O’Neill and a firearms expert followed behind them; and four of Benson’s crime scene investigators brought up the rear. Steven Yates had not turned up, was not answering his phone, and his whereabouts were unknown.

  ‘This is it,’ said Wheaton.

  Yellow-and-black crime scene tape flapped and billowed in a blustery wind. The surface of the pond rippled from right to left, reminiscent of an oncoming tide. Two hundred yards away, a semicircular canopy of trees swayed in perfect harmony with the flag on the green in front of them. The leaves, shimmering russet, gold, and brown in the late autumnal sunshine, completed a scene of beauty and tranquillity. It was an unlikely setting for a murder, although in Jo’s experience there was no such thing.

  She waited at the foot of the steps for the others to congregate around her. ‘We need to get this right,’ she told them. ‘There are two purposes to what we’re about. The first is to establish what happened here on Friday morning. The second is to gather forensic evidence.’

  ‘The forensics will be problematic, Ma’am,’ said Benson. ‘As I understand it, this hole was only taken out of use three hours ago.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Wheaton. ‘As soon as we were contacted, I sent two groundsmen to close this hole and divert people playing the course around it. Your colleagues arrived with the tapes just an hour and a half ago.’

  ‘How many people do you reckon have played this hole since Friday?’ Benson asked.

  ‘I thought you might want to know that, so I did a rough calculation. Weekends are always busy, but I’m afraid we also had block bookings for company golf days yesterday and today.’ Wheaton shrugged apologetically. ‘There must have been close to five hundred people played this green since Friday lunchtime.’

  ‘That need not be such a problem,’ said Jo. ‘Assuming that Mr O’Neill was struck by some kind of missile while on one of these tees, the only evidence we’d expect to find will be a pellet, or a dart of some kind. Recovering that would be really helpful. But just as important is establishing where the perpetrator fired it from. If we can find out where he laid up, took the shot, and which escape route he followed, that could yield a great deal more useful information. Agreed?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Benson acknowledged.

  ‘Good. In which case I propose that we begin with the reconstruction and leave Mr Benson and his CSI team to carry out a detailed search.’

  She waved forward Jack Reilly, Nathan Burke, and Jason O’Neill.

  ‘I realise this is going to be hard,’ she said. ‘And especially for you, Jason. But I can’t stress enough how important it will be in helping us to catch the man who killed your father. You do understand?’

  O’Neill, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, nodded while avoiding eye contact. ‘Yeah.’ He was strangely subdued compared with his outburst in the bereavement centre. He seemed almost as nervous as Jack Reilly, who was anxiously scanning the trees off to their right.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘The officers who set up the crime scene tape are out there guarding the path behind those trees. They’ve made sure there’s no one there if that’s what’s bothering you.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ muttered Reilly, sounding anything but.

  ‘In which case, perhaps we can start. Which of these tees were you on?’

  ‘The back one,’ said Burke. ‘What d’you take us for? Jessies?’

  Jo nodded to the cameraman. He skirted the tee on the left-hand side and waited to see how the players would line up.

  ‘I’m going to ask Mr Wheaton to take the role of your father,’ she said. ‘You two play yourselves. Jason, please stand where Mr Yates was at that moment. I’m relying on the two of you who were here to make sure everybody is in the right place at the right time, from the moment you start up these steps. Is that clear?’

  Burke and Reilly looked at each other and then at her.

  ‘Okay, we get that,’ said Burke.

  ‘In which case, let’s start. In what order did you climb these steps?’

  It took almost two minutes for the two of them to agree this, and then a further five to agree who had been standing where when Ronnie O’Neill had played his shot.

  When the tableau was finally in position, the club professional turned to Jo. ‘Do you want me to actually play a shot, with a real ball?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ she replied. ‘I want everything exactly as it was.’

  ‘D’you want me to tell you where the ball ended up?’ joked Reilly.

  ‘Shut it!’ Jason O’Neill snarled, betraying just how tense he was.

  The firearms expert stepped forward. ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Ma’am. It may give us a better idea of the likely trajectory of the pellet, assuming that this gentleman can replicate Mr O’Neill’s swing?’

  ‘Is that feasible, Mr Wheaton?’ said Jo.

  ‘It won’t be perfect,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s different. But I can give it a go.’

  ‘In that case, yes please,’ said Jo. ‘So where did the ball land?’

  ‘About three feet from the pin and about a foot to the left of centre,’ said Reilly.

  ‘I agree,’ said Burke.

  ‘Hallelujah!’ said O’Neill. ‘Finally, something we can agree on.’

  ‘Do you remember what club he used?’ Wheaton asked.

  ‘A seven,’ said Burke.

  ‘A six,’ said Reilly.

  ‘Here we go again!’ said O’Neill.

  ‘It was definitely a six,’ said Burke. ‘I remember because I used a seven and Ron said I should’ve used a six. And that’s what he used.’

  They all stared at Reilly. He conceded with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Wheaton went back to his buggy, selected a club, put several plastic tees in one pocket and a handful of balls in the other, and returned. ‘Where exactly was your friend standing?’ he asked.

  That sparked another lengthy squabble.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ said O’Neill. ‘It’ll be dark soon. He won’t be able to see the green, let alone the flag.’

  The spot was agreed on. Burke and Reilly took up their positions, behind and to the left of Wheaton, with Jason O’Neill alongside them.

  ‘I need to take this from several different angles,’ said the cameraman.

  ‘And I’ll probably need more than one attempt,’ said Wheaton.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be a pro,’ growled Jason O’Neill.

  ‘That’s enough, Jason!’ said Jo. ‘If you don’t stop this I’ll have to ask you to go back to the buggy.’

  If the look he gave her was meant to intimidate, it failed. She was used to dealing with men who resented taking orders from women.

  The mood became sombre as Wheaton began his practice swing. Finally the realisation dawned that a father and friend had been murdered in this very spot. As the professional’s swing reached its highest point, his shoulders turned and his neck was exposed. Nobody followed the ball. All eyes were on the woodland off to the right.

  The ball had landed six feet from the pin, and three feet or so to the left.

  ‘How was that?’ Wheaton asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Burke grudgingly.

  The cameraman gave the thumbs up and began to walk towards the front of the tee box.

  ‘You’re taking a hell of a risk,’ said the professional. ‘If I slice the ball this close up it could kill you.’

  ‘You’re not going to though, are you?’ the cameraman asked.

  ‘It’s unlikely but I can’t guarantee that I won’t.’

  ‘We can’t do it then,’ said Jo, remembering the risk assessment she’d signed off back at Nexus House.

  ‘Is it okay on the other side of the tee?’ asked the cameraman.

  ‘So long as I don’t let go of the iron,’ said Wheaton. ‘And that hasn�
��t happened in donkey’s years.’

  ‘It did to poor old Ron,’ said Reilly.

  Chapter 11

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Jo.

  Reilly, Burke, and O’Neill had left with Dermot Wheaton. Jo, Jack Benson, and Carly Whittle were huddled around Manish Jindal, the forensic firearms expert, who was studying the video footage from the camera, propped up on the seat in one of the buggies.

  ‘Comparing the post-mortem photos of your victim with the position of the golf professional’s neck today, that shot can only have come from somewhere in those trees to the right of the tees,’ said Jindal. ‘I’ll be able to give you a more accurate estimate when I’ve analysed them back at the lab. But for the purposes of your initial search today, I can fairly confidently say that the shooter must have been within a twenty-degree sector.’ He used his arms to create a segment. ‘From there to there.’

  They turned to look at the dense wood of beech, oak, and sycamore that curved around the edge of the rough grass.

  ‘That’s what?’ said Jo. ‘A hundred yards or so?’

  Jindal took what looked like a pair of blue and black binoculars from his case.

  ‘What are those?’ asked Carly Whittle.

  ‘Laser rangefinder. Golfers, archers, rifle and pistol target shooters, and hunters all use them. This pair is perfect for golfers and hunters. Up to fifteen hundred yards the accuracy is within fifty yards. Back at Claybrook we’ve got a military version that’s accurate to over fifteen miles – that’s about twenty-five kilometres.’ He raised the rangefinder, trained it on the trees, and moved it slowly from right to left across the sector he had identified.

  ‘Between a hundred and twenty to a hundred and twenty-nine yards,’ he said as he lowered them. ‘That’s a hundred and ten and a hundred and eighteen metres, give or take. And it depends on how far back in the woods he was when he took the shot.’

  ‘That seems a hell of a long way for an air rifle,’ said Benson.

  Jindal shook his head. ‘You’d be surprised. The longest recorded shot with an air rifle stands at one thousand and sixty-five yards. You go on YouTube, you’ll find a guy in the States who hit a golf ball on top of a tin can with his second shot at one hundred and fifty yards. He used a .22, eighteen grain ASP pellet.’