Hole in One (11 page)

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Authors: Catherine Aird

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BOOK: Hole in One
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‘Hit on the head,' concluded Sloan succinctly.
‘But he's tall,' interrupted Crosby from the other side of the mortuary.
‘Which suggests,' said the pathologist, quite unperturbed, ‘that the deceased had his head down at the time.'
‘I think I get the picture,' said Sloan, thinking golf balls on tees.
‘I expect he never knew what hit him,' said Crosby.
‘But we want to know what did,' said Sloan. He immediately corrected this. ‘We need to know.'
‘All in good time,' said the pathologist, reaching for a bone saw.
Detective Constable Crosby took a sudden interest in the view through the frosted glass of the mortuary window whilst the expression “Head first” began to take on a whole new meaning.
Wrong Ball
‘Don't just stand there, Sloan,' said Superintendent Leeyes testily. He was still ensconced in the Secretary's office. ‘Come in and give me your report.'
‘Yes, sir.' Detective Inspector Sloan stood in front of the secretary's desk and began formally ‘The body of an unidentified male, age unknown, was removed from a location at the back of …'
‘I know where it was,' interrupted Leeyes. ‘I saw it, remember?'
‘Yes, sir. Of course. Sorry, sir.'
‘Well, go on …'
‘The victim was almost certainly killed elsewhere and then buried in the bunker at the back of … sorry, sir. You know that.' He hurried on. ‘I've got a team doing a fingertip search of the immediate surroundings …
‘Ah, Sloan, I was going to talk to you about that …'
‘And some other officers are taking a good look at the course generally, especially the wooded bits, to see if we can establish where the deceased met his death. And all the local dentists are being visited with the deceased's dental chart.'
‘Good, good.' The Superintendent pushed some of the Secretary's papers out of the way, clearing a space for himself on the man's desk. ‘That's what I wanted to know.'
‘I would also like to get on with having the locker rooms examined,' persisted Sloan. ‘As you yourself said,' he added sedulously, ‘the injury could well have been inflicted with a golf club. The doctor says so, too.'
‘You do realise, don't you, Sloan, that you're talking about a lot of clubs in there?'
Sloan nodded.
‘Valuable, some of them,' said Leeyes. ‘And you must
understand some men get very attached to their putters.'
‘I'm sure, sir,' said Detective Inspector Sloan untruthfully. It was beyond him to understand how any man could feel affectionate towards a crooked piece of iron at the end of a long handle. One day, perhaps he would. He was sure, though, his wife would like it if he got attached to anything at the Golf Club – but especially the game.
‘A man's relationship with his putter is very important,' stated Leeyes profoundly.
‘Yes, sir, I'm sure.' All Sloan wanted to know at this moment was whether that relationship had extended to using it to kill the body in the bunker.
‘Putting, you know,' Leeyes said, leaning back expansively in the chair, ‘is more than just hitting the ball into the hole.' He gave a little smile. ‘You might say, Sloan, that is at one and the same time a neurological and a psychological and a mechanical action.'
‘I'm sure, sir …'
‘Mind you, Sloan, it is also subject to paralysis by analysis.'
‘Sir?'
The Superintendent gave a lordly wave. ‘You could liken it to writer's block. A four-foot putt can undo a man.'
‘That's the most difficult shot, is it, sir?'
Leeyes sat up with a jerk. ‘Certainly not, Sloan. They're all difficult.'
‘Yes, sir. Coming back to putters …'
‘I still play with my father's old hickory-shafted one,' said Leeyes unexpectedly.
‘Really, sir?' Suggestions at the Police Station about the Superintendent's parentage had never included anything so mundane as a father with hickory-shafted golf clubs.
‘Lovely little head.'
‘I'm glad to hear it, sir.' Now that Sloan came to think about it there was a particular pair of secateurs he wouldn't
want to be without himself: the parrot-headed ones, honed to the sharpness needed for a clean cut on an old rose. To be fair, he always kept them locked safely in his potting shed.
‘Can't be doing with all these fancy things they play about with these days and call putters,' said Leeyes.
Sloan hadn't imagined for one moment that the Superintendent would like anything new – let alone fancy.
‘Belly putters, some of 'em are called,' muttered Leeyes. ‘Did you ever hear the like of it?'
‘Would a putter,' ventured Sloan, ‘make a likely weapon?'
‘Good Lord, no,' said Leeyes. ‘Don't you know anything about the game at all, Sloan?'
‘No, sir,' said Sloan truthfully.
‘My choice of weapon would be a seven iron,' Leeyes came back immediately.
‘I'll remember that, sir.' Not any old iron then, noted Sloan to himself.
‘That is,' said the Superintendent unwillingly, ‘if the killer is a golfer.'
‘He's someone who knows the course,' said Sloan, ‘for sure.
‘Not the same thing at all,' said Leeyes robustly. ‘Bobby Curd and his pals know the course quite as well as the members and they never play the game.'
Detective Inspector Sloan put another name in his notebook.
‘Ball stealer-in-chief,' said Leeyes.
‘I don't know that name, sir.' Sloan thought he knew all the petty thieves in Berebury. Only too well, most of them.
The Superintendent leant forward in the secretary's chair and, elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘Tricky point in law, lost golf balls.'
‘Ah.' Sloan did his best to avoid tricky points of law
pour cause
.
‘Tricky because the player has already had to abandon the ball in order to get on with the game,' explained Leeyes. ‘So technically it's not stolen.'
Sloan nodded. In his book, that just left “strayed”. ‘Findings, keepings?' he said.
‘Courts aren't with you,' said Leeyes mournfully.
That was a feeling that Sloan could go along with any day.
‘So Bobby Curd comes in,' said Leeyes, ‘and helps himself.'
‘After dark?' The distinction between a crime committed in daylight or in the hours of darkness went back to medieval times. Even gas lighting hadn't altered that, let alone electricty.
‘Whenever the greenkeeper can't catch him, anyway,' sniffed Leeyes.
‘Where does he come in?' The greenkeeper hadn't been there for a week to catch anyone. He mustn't forget that. He made a quick note to arrange for the greenkeeper to be interviewed.
‘The water hazard short of the fifth green, usually.'
Sloan reached for his notebook again. This time to make an alteration. Bobby Curd must be interviewed urgently. ‘What would that be called, sir?'
‘That depends,' said Leeyes.
‘Sir?'
‘It's a dear little stream if you clear it with your second shot,' said the Superintendent succinctly, ‘and it's that bloody drain if you don't.'
‘There's something else, sir,' said Sloan.
The Superintendent's head came up like that of a terrier offered a good scent. ‘Yes?'
‘A member called Moffat bought a new club from the pro's shop yesterday,' Sloan informed him. ‘Told Jock Selkirk that he'd lost one.'
‘What sort of club?' asked Leeyes.
‘A number-nine iron,' said Sloan. The only number nine he
knew had Army medical overtones.
‘That's not a rescue club,' said Leeyes thoughtfully.
The only rescue remedies that Sloan knew of were of quite a different order, although he knew there had been a fearsome medieval weapon that had done for all and sundry in battle and that had been called a “Good morning”. ‘Would a rescue club have done the trick?' he asked.
‘Just the job,' said Leeyes briskly. ‘Now, Sloan, I've had a word with the Captain and we both think that as soon as your people have finished examining the hole we can go out there and take a look round.' He waved an arm. ‘You can use this room as your headquarters now.'
‘Thank you, sir.' The words “your people” had not been lost on Sloan. And it was “his headquarters” now, too. With it came the unwritten implication that it would be his blame, too, if anything went wrong in the investigation.
‘I just want to show the Captain the lie of the land from the police point of view,' said Superintendent Leeyes. ‘Got to keep him in the picture and all that.'
‘Sir …' Detective Constable Crosby burst unceremoniously in upon Sloan who was talking to Alan Pursglove in the Secretary's room. ‘Sir, they've gone and opened the course again.'
‘What!' Sloan got to his feet. ‘I don't believe it.'
Crosby pointed out of the window. ‘Look. They're all over there. Queuing on the first tee.'
Alan Pursglove coughed. ‘Open except for the sixth hole, I may say, Inspector. That's still closed, naturally.'
‘I should hope so,' growled Sloan. ‘How come?'
Pursglove waved a hand in personal exculpation. ‘The Captain asked your Superintendent Leeyes if we might resume play and he said yes.'
Detective Inspector Sloan suppressed his immediate response to this in favour of securing his pension, long term.
‘There's no stopping them, is there?' said Crosby admiringly.
The Secretary said ‘We consulted the Rules of Golf, of course.
Sloan was unsurprised. The Superintendent was always ready to throw the Rule Book at anyone when it suited him. ‘I take it that that covers every eventuality?' he said with heavy irony.
‘In theory,' said the Secretary. He stroked his chain. ‘I'm afraid there's a good deal of theory to the game these days, Inspector.'
That was something else for Sloan to tell his wife: that there was much written work to be learnt. It sounded nearly as bad to him as the examination for sergeant and that, he wouldn't need to remind her, had been bad enough. For them both. A young married couple then, counting every penny.
‘So what did they decide?' enquired Sloan with genuine interest. Murder case this might be but where the Superintendent was concerned there were always moments to savour for recounting afterwards among friends in the canteen, too.
‘Leeyes proposed we used Rule 13-4: “Accidentally moving loose impediment”,' replied the Secretary.
‘He did, did he?' said Sloan, straight-faced. The Superintendent had an infinite capacity to complicate any situation.
By the window, Detective Constable Crosby opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed it again.
‘But the Captain didn't think it applied,' said Pursglove.
‘That's golfing for you,' said Sloan.
English law wasn't codified. Theoretically you could do what you liked unless there was a specific law against it. Obviously not so, golf. He must remember to stress the
downside of the game to his wife. This included learning the rules.
‘We decided instead to deem the entire sixth hole out of bounds,' said the Secretary. ‘There is provision for that in the Rules.'
Sloan nodded. The sixth hole had the makings of a hazard for a detective inspector, too, but in a different way: a stumbling block in a career path, unless the case was solved speedily.
‘And we have a Local Rule that the practice hole can be substituted when another hole is deemed temporarily unplayable for any reason,' explained Alan Pursglove. ‘Only in competitions, mind you. Not in Medal play, you understand.'
Detective Inspector Sloan, rosarian par excellence, did not understand. All he really understood was that the Rule Book was the Code Napoleon of the game.
‘So that means that we can get players back out on the course without delay,' said Pursglove.
‘Which of the Ten Commandments is that?' enquired Detective Constable Crosby subversively.
‘A Golf Club Secretary shall not be a fool,' came back Pursglove briskly. ‘Now, gentlemen, unless there's anything else …'
‘You've got to hand it to these golfers,' said Crosby as the Secretary went out. ‘Kick one of them and they all limp.'
 
‘A word, miss, if we may.'
Detective Inspector Sloan and Woman Sergeant Perkins had caught up with Hilary Trumper just after Sloan had dispatched Crosby to interview the greenkeeper. The girl was heading back towards the caddies' hut but seemed in no hurry to get there.
‘What about?' she said truculently, coming to a halt on the grass.
‘Matthew Steele,' said Sloan. Close-up, he realised the girl was younger than he'd first thought.
‘What about him?' she asked, catching her breath suddenly.
‘Can you tell us where he is?'
‘Oh, safely on his way to Lasserta,' she said, quickly recovering her composure. ‘In a train, actually. He was going overland for the experience. It's a long way,' she added unnecessarily.

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