Death on the Eleventh Hole (6 page)

Seven

Julie Wharton had taken the whole day off from the firm in Cheltenham where she worked.

The men who controlled the small firm of insurance brokers were naturally sympathetic to a woman who had lost her daughter in such awful circumstances. She had always taken care that they knew little of her home circumstances. She ran the office and organized the three girls who worked under her with calm efficiency; the men were glad of that, and didn’t want to know about how she lived outside the place, as women might have done.

She wondered if there were many other women like her, who found that the ties of blood were very slight. Kate had been all right as a small child, when she had done charming, unconscious things and worn pretty dresses, which allowed Julie to show her off to her friends. And there had been a mild pleasure in her achievements at school, until the trials of adolescence had begun to outweigh them.

But Julie had always been bored by children talk, by those mothers who built their lives around their progeny. You had your own life to lead, and that was difficult enough. If your children couldn’t stay at heel, best be rid of them. Certainly once you had a serious row, you might as well split up for good. She had never subscribed to that foolish saying which people quoted so unthinkingly that blood was thicker than water. Once things had been said that couldn’t be forgiven, you were much better living apart for good.

She had rather enjoyed the way she had handled herself this morning, with the identification of Kate’s body. She had not thought she could be quite so calm about the whole business. She had enjoyed the feeling that that stolid, conventional sergeant was watching her, waiting for the first signs of a maternal collapse, and failing to find them.

She felt a little empty, a little incomplete, with Kate gone. The world seemed starker and bleaker, and she realized now that she had always assumed that mother and daughter would get together again, eventually. But though she wasn’t good at analysing her own feelings, she told herself that she was not so very upset. The bonds of parent and child were, to her mind, largely a creation of a sentimental society.

Not at all like those of sex. Sex was a very different, more animal kind of feeling. She knew how strong its ties could be, but she hadn’t fully worked them out yet. Perhaps—

The phone shrilled suddenly, startling her in the quiet house, making her spill the tea she was sipping into her saucer. She knew who it would be, what he would want to know.

‘No, there’s nothing much to report, really. That Sergeant Hook, the one I told you about, came and took me, and dropped me back here afterwards… No, of course I didn’t… You needn’t worry, I don’t think the poor man found out anything at all. I was perfectly calm. Unnaturally calm, I’m sure, in the eyes of Sergeant Plod… Yes, I’m sure the police will come and see me again, but they’ll ring first. They handle bereaved mothers with kid gloves, it wouldn’t be good public relations if they didn’t… No. I don’t think so. So far, they don’t even know you exist… Of course they will, in due course, it’s their job to find out things. But I don’t see why you’ve any reason to fear them… Yes, I’m sure you could come here… All right, but I think you’re being a bit paranoid… Can’t wait to see you! It seems a long time… I know, but it seems longer. I’ll look forward to that… And that too, you randy sod! Bye, then.’

She mouthed a kiss into the mouthpiece, then sat looking at it for a moment after he had rung off.

Sex was definitely different.

***

Chris Rushton was back in the murder room beside the Ross golf course by four thirty. There was a note to tell him that Superintendent Lambert had gone home, but should be contacted there if anything urgent came up. It wasn’t like John Lambert, that, not with a murder investigation gathering pace.

DI Rushton, full of the importance of the breakthrough he had made at St Anne’s House, felt cheated by this absence. He had been looking forward to demonstrating that he wasn’t desk-bound, that he could use his judgement and initiative when the occasion offered. He decided not to ring the chief at home. It would sound like boasting, and he had too much experience of Lambert’s gentle irony to risk offering him an opportunity.

He had found the squat at Sebastopol Terrace in Gloucester, but neither Joe Ashton nor anyone else had been there in mid-afternoon, though there were signs of occupation about the place. He logged the information he had acquired on a new file in the computer. Then he looked at what had come in during his absence. There were a few sightings of vehicles on the quiet road by the golf course where the body had been found, but no one yet knew the time when the body had been dumped. There was a note to say that the full PM report would be delivered by hand the next morning.

Chris felt a rather guilty satisfaction in the knowledge that there had been no discovery throughout this busy Wednesday which rivalled the importance of his own contribution.

It was quiet in the Terrapin hut that the police had brought here to provide an incident room. Most of the hastily assembled team were out on the leg-work of routine which always occupied the first days of a murder case. Rushton liked it like this. He set about organizing the material which was accruing into the most logical order, trying to ensure by his cross-referencing that any connections which might emerge as significant would not be missed.

He was thoroughly immersed in the work when a voice almost in his ear said, ‘Still keeping your nose clean, Inspector?’

Rushton looked up into an unshaven chin, which had a crooked smile and twinkling blue eyes above it and a shapeless sweater below it. For a moment, he did not recognize the face which had appeared unbidden in hideous close-up, not six inches from his own carefully shaved visage. But the twisted, slightly mocking smile gave the identity away.

‘Danny Malone!’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘If I didn’t know you better, me old mate, I’d think that didn’t sound very welcoming.’ The Irish accent, which had been strong twelve years ago, was only just discernible now. He pulled up a chair, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘And anyway, it’s not just Danny boy any longer. It’s Sergeant Malone, of the Drugs Squad.’ He thrust out his chest beneath the sweater in mock pride.

Rushton nodded and grinned. ‘I heard.’ They had trained together, chalk and cheese in temperament, but thrown together by a common suffering as cadets. Rushton had been the model trainee, serious in intent and heedful of all advice, Malone had been the gifted but wayward recruit, full of potential but with a tendency to use his own initiative where the system did not allow for it. He had sailed pretty near the wind at times, but the strain of the chancer in him was allied to a shrewd intelligence, and it was to the credit of the police service that someone had seen his potential. Malone had got into CID very quickly, three years before Rushton made the transition from uniform. But he had subsequently volunteered himself for the dangerous role of an undercover drugs investigator. The combination of high excitement and high risk, which would have undone Rushton in a week, was much to Danny Malone’s taste.

This thought passed through both of their minds as they sat looking at each other. So did the thought that it was Rushton, careful and career-conscious, who had made Detective Inspector, while the maverick Malone, who lived his life in danger and took physical risks his contemporary would never have countenanced, had stuck at Sergeant.

They exchanged a few thoughts about the modern police service, savouring the language of old sweats now, throwing in a little professional cynicism to show how far they had left the trainee days behind them. But the common bond of being cadets, at the mercy of the same training officers, was far behind them, and there was little in their personalities to make them soulmates. Danny Malone, who had always found it easy to win the attention, even the devotion, of girls, was still unmarried, despite a string of relationships. Chris gave the briefest of details of his own marriage and divorce, smiled sourly at the suggestion that he was a newly released Lothario among the women of the district.

After an awkward silence Chris said, ‘Do you fancy a quick drink? We can go into the golf clubhouse; they said we’re welcome to use the facilities.’

Danny glanced down at his soiled jeans and grinned.

‘Not dressed for it, am I? This is working dress for me, but I don’t think the Establishment of the golf club would welcome me in.’ He looked round to make sure that even police ears could not overhear him; secrecy was a habit with him by now, one of the tools of survival. ‘Anyway, I didn’t come just for a chat, though it’s nice to see an old mate getting on so well.’

Chris looked at him closely, but as usual he could not be sure whether there was a touch of irony in the soft Irish voice. ‘This is business?’ He reached automatically for his notepad, then checked the movement.

Danny Malone caught the action and grinned. ‘Record it if you like, me careful old friend. But you’ll have to sit on it until you get permission to move.’

Rushton knew what he meant: you couldn’t jeopardize the safety of an undercover drugs officer by following up information he had given you. If you charged in with heavy police feet, it might cost him his cover, even his life. ‘Is it connected with the death of this girl Kate Wharton?’

Malone nodded. He was suddenly deadly serious. ‘It might mean nothing or it might mean everything. Do you know yet that she was dealing drugs?’

‘No. I know that she had a boyfriend who was an addict. Or had been: we haven’t managed to contact him yet.’ Chris yearned to tell him that this was his discovery, that he wasn’t just a dutiful, desk-bound automaton. But he was too professional for that. He was being offered new, possibly vital, information and he must get every detail he could.

‘I don’t know about the boyfriend. But I did know Kate Wharton and I know she was dealing. The usual story, I think: she got the habit and they used that to persuade her to deal. She was fuelling her own use with free supplies in return for dealing. We could have picked her up several times in the last few months, but it wasn’t worth it. She might have led us to bigger fish.’

There was no room for sentiment, for normal human emotions such as pity, in the world in which Danny Malone dwelt. He mourned not the pointless loss of a young life but the loss of a contact who might have led him to significant villains. Rushton said, ‘You think she might have been killed by one of her drug contacts?’

Malone shrugged. ‘You know the score. If she offended the wrong people, she might have been taken out by a contract killer. I’ll tell you what little I know, but you mustn’t make contact without consulting my super.’

Rushton nodded. ‘Understood. I’ll pass that decision on to John Lambert.’ He realized that he was proud to name as his immediate superior someone everyone in the area knew.

‘That’s the way, Chris. Let the super take the decision!’ said Malone with a grin.

‘It’s what they’re paid for,’ said Rushton tartly. He told himself it was childish, but he knew he still wanted the boyfriend he had discovered to be their killer. ‘What makes you think this death may have a drugs connection?’

Malone again gave that habitual check over his shoulder to make sure that he was not overheard. ‘I was in a pub by the docks last week. Nine days ago now: Monday the 30th of April.’ He watched Rushton note the details, then found he had to force himself to go on with the story: secrecy was a part of his being now. ‘Kate Wharton was in there. So was a supplier called Malcolm Flynn. He’s further up the chain than the girl was; he provided her with her supplies of coke, E and horse. Anyway, they had a row. I wasn’t near enough to hear the details, but it looked serious. Two of your blokes came into the pub; Kate Wharton took advantage of their arrival to get away. Flynn made a grab at her but missed, and he couldn’t follow her without exciting the interest of the plods, who’d seen the end of their argument.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s all there is. I didn’t see Kate Wharton again. I haven’t seen Flynn either, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t around.’

‘We’ll have a better idea of exactly when the girl died by tomorrow morning. But we already know it wasn’t on that Monday night. She was killed much later than that — around the end of the week.’

Malone stood up. ‘If the drugs men chose to eliminate her, they’d take their time. In all probability, it wouldn’t be Flynn, unless he acted off his own bat. They’d use a contract killer.’

That awful ‘they’: the barons behind the worst and most lucrative industry in the world; the men who had transformed a cheerful young Irish copper into this hunted, shabby creature who did battle with them. And into the kind of hero Chris Rushton knew he could never emulate. ‘Good to see you again, Danny,’ he said. And meant it.

Danny Malone nodded and turned for the door of the temporary building, suddenly anxious, now that his news was delivered, for the anonymity of the dark underworld he inhabited.

He did not shake hands with his old companion, nor look back at him from the door.

***

‘You were planning to go at sixty anyway. This is not really so different, is it, John?’

John Lambert started with surprise at her words. Christine had been watching him through the kitchen window before she came out into the garden. He had stood for two long minutes with the secateurs in his hand, staring unseeingly over the top of the rose bed towards the sunset.