Authors: Catherine Aird

Tags: #Mystery

Hole in One (5 page)

BOOK: Hole in One

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âShut it down to everyone except Bobby Curd, you mean,' growled Fred Shipley morosely. âI bet he'll get in as usual.'

Edmund Pemberton, still new to the game, piped up âWho's Bobby Curd, then, that he gets to go out and we don't?'

âBobby Curd,' Fred Shipley informed him, âis the man who deprives you and me of our rightful perks on the course.'

âI wasn't told anything about perks,' murmured Edmund Pemberton. âI thought I just got the money for caddying.'

âBalls,' said Shipley pithily.

Edmund Pemberton was still of an age to flush and did so as only the young and freckled can. âBalls?' he echoed uncertainly.

âGolf balls, lost, stolen and strayed,' explained Shipley. âMostly strayed, and mostly into the Gulf Stream â¦'

âBut that's in â¦' began Edmund.

âThe Gulf Stream, boy,' said another caddie, taking pity on him, âis the name of the wee tributary of the River Aim that runs across the fairway at the fifth.'

âWhich is not what golfers call it when their balls go in it, I can tell you,' said Shipley. âYou just wait until you hear some of 'em carrying on about it.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of an older man sitting at a distance. âThe only one who doesn't mind what they say is old Belloes over there.'

âBroad-minded?' suggested Pemberton innocently.

âStone-deaf.' He grinned. âHis real name is Beddoes.'

âSo where does this Bobby Curd come in, then?' asked Edmund Pemberton hastily. His capacity for sticking to the point had always stood him in good stead when writing his essays at College.

âWhere he comes in is through the bridleway beyond the
sixth,' said Shipley literally.

âAnd when he comes in,' said another man, âis during the night.'

âTo steal the balls, you mean?' asked Edmund.

âQuick, isn't he?' marvelled Shipley, who considered formal education a waste of time and money.

âFor a student,' said the other caddie, straight-faced.

Pemberton searched wildly for a new subject. âIf Major Bligh beats Mr Hopland in this round â¦'

âIf â¦'

âAnd then his match against Mr Gilchrist â¦'

âA bigger “if”, that,' said Dickie Castle, pursing his lips. âGilchrist's a good player.'

âGot a lot on his mind, though, with things in the trade being what they are,' said Bert Hedges. âI heard he was laying folk off at his plant.'

âWill the Major then go on to win this Plate thing?' persisted a terrier-like Pemberton.

âShould do, young Edmund,' said one of the men, âalways supposing that Fred's advice to him is better than yours would have been.'

âAnd always bearing in mind,' said someone else slyly, âthat Fred here plays off four himself.'

âMine?' squawked Pemberton in alarm. âI couldn't advise anybody. I thought all I had to do was to carry a man's clubs round. That's what Matt told me.'

âYou thought caddying was a doddle, didn't you?' Fred Shipley pointed a bony finger towards Edmund Pemberton's chest. âWell, let me tell you, young Ginger, that it isn't. Especially when it's a needle match like the Pletchford Plate or the Clarembald Cup.'

Edmund flushed to the roots of his hair again. âBut Matt said there was nothing to it â¦'

âAh, but Matt's not here, is he?' said Shipley. âMatt's off
enjoying his precious gap year in some God-forsaken spot â¦'

âLasserta, actually â¦' said Pemberton, adding pedantically, âand as it happens they've got gods there, lots of them, actually. And,' he hurried on, catching sight of Shipley's expression, âit isn't exactly a gap year either â it's part of his degree course at Uni. He's reading business studies and economics and he needs to get more language experience.'

â â¦That he said he wanted all his caddying money for,' finished Shipley, showing an equal capacity for sticking to the point.

âGap year!' exclaimed somebody else richly. âNever had one of them when I left school. It was straight to work for me the next morning, like it or not.'

Edmund Pemberton decided against saying that things were different these days. He'd found that sentiment better left unsaid in his home circle, too. He sought clarification on another front instead. âWhat you're saying then is that if someone I'm caddying for loses his match it'll be my fault?'

âIt won't be your fault,' said Fred Shipley kindly, âbut you'll get the blame.'

âAnd,' another man said solemnly, âif nobody else sees to that Fred here will.'

Edmund looked from one weather-beaten face to another and decided to keep his mouth shut.

âAlthough,' went Fred Shipley conversationally, âyou might get let off a little on account of your not knowing the game.'

âOr the course,' threw in someone else.

âSo how did Matt manage then?' asked Pemberton. âHe isn't a golfer.'

âQuick learner was what he was,' said Shipley. âVery quick.'

âTalk himself out of any trouble, that lad,' said a caddie at the back of the shed. âHe might not have known anything about the game when he started but he still got to be a good man on the bag pretty smartly.'

Fred Shipley finished tying his shoelaces and straightened up. âBit of a clever-clogs, though, all the same.'

âI can't see where that comes into caddying,' said Edmund Pemberton unwisely.

Shipley gave a short laugh. âYou will.'

âMatt bet the farm on that old codger Garwood beating Gilchrist for the Matheson Trophy even though he wasn't carrying for him,' another caddie informed him.

âAnd did he?' asked Pemberton. âBeat him, I mean?'

âHow else did you think your friend was able to get off on that world trip of his so soon?' asked Shipley.

âBut Matt wouldn't bet on a certainty, surely?' said Pemberton seriously.

Several men who would have been very happy to do just that stared at him in silence.

âBetting on a punter's chance is a risky business,' remarked Shipley after a moment.

âAnyway,' said Edmund, who wasn't sure that he understood this, âI thought you said that Mr Gilchrist was a good player.'

âOh, he's got the length and the discipline,' said Shipley. âI grant you that. What he didn't have the day he played the Matheson Trophy was his ball.'

âLost?' said Edmund.

âTwice,' said Shipley succinctly. âSo Garwood won hands down, didn't he?'

âFunny, that,' said someone else.

âIt serves Gilchrist right,' growled Shipley âfor going out without a caddie in a big match. Cheapskate. Taught him a lesson, though, that did. He had one all right in his round of the Kemberland Cup against Luke Trumper.' He poked his finger at Pemberton's chest. âYour friend Matt caddied for Trumper in that game and there was no funny business about losing two balls then.'

Before Edmund Pemberton could ask what was so funny about losing two balls in a match, the door of the caddies' hut swung open and a female voice shouted âAre you all decent? Can I come in?'

The question was greeted with total silence as an attractive young woman walked in without waiting for an answer. She was dressed in a short frayed denim skirt with a strappy halterneck blouse. In between these two garments a toned swathe of her navel and surrounding midriff was clearly visible.

The physical temperature of the hut might have been far from warm before she arrived but as she came into the building the emotional temperature rose almost palpably.

âWhat are you all staring at?' she demanded. âYou know what a woman looks like. You might as well get used to my face, anyway. You're going to see a lot of it from now on.' She stared round at the silent array of unresponsive male faces. âThere's no law about caddies not being female, you know. If you didn't know, it's called Equal Opportunities.'

âHello, Hilary,' said Edmund Pemberton weakly.

Chapter Five

One-up

âNot exactly a lot to go on, is it, Inspector? Half-a-face.' The Consultant Pathologist to the Berebury District General Hospital, Dr Hector Smithson Dabbe, had arrived on the scene with a flourish on the greenkeeper's truck. âAlthough I must say I've had less in my time. Much less.'

Detective Inspector Sloan decided this was no moment to say that small was beautiful and waited instead while the pathologist's assistant, a perennially silent man called Burns, unloaded the pathologist's bags.

âWish we'd found that truck,' said Crosby. âRiding beats walking any day.'

âAt least,' said the pathologist, taking his first look over the edge of the bunker, âwhoever it is in there isn't going to be troubled by the clangour of the butterflies on the green any more.'

âNo, doctor.' Sloan was non-committal. Butterflies â noisy or not â were not a problem on his roses.

âAnd the face isn't frozen, nor even chilled,' observed the pathologist, still looking down into the bunker, âbut ambient.'

âYes, doctor.'

The golfers who had been standing sentinel were still keeping their distance on the fairway side of the green, as silent and attentive as mourners.

âAnd I daresay, Sloan,' said the pathologist with mock solemnity, âyou don't want me putting my great big feet anywhere near the deceased until you've examined the surroundings.'

âNo,' agreed Sloan smoothly, âbut I do want to know how long that head's been buried in the bunker.'

âAnd if there's a body attached to it,' put in Crosby from the sidelines.

âThat, too, and a good deal more, if I know the constabulary,' murmured the pathologist. âBurns, my voice-recorder, please â¦'

âThe approximate date of death would be a good start, doctor,' said Sloan. So, too, he thought to himself, would be a name but the subject's identity was not the pathologist's province. This medical man dealt only with dead bodies; a surgical practice that constituted an altogether different ball game from treating live patients. Names were a police matter and someone back at the Police Station would even now, he hoped, be checking their list of persons reported missing. None immediately came to his mind.

âAll in good time, Sloan, all in good time.' The pathologist was staring down into the bunker. âWhat we could do with here are some archaeologists.'

âIt's not an old body,' protested Sloan. He winced. âYou can see that from here.' It wasn't a pretty sight either but that was not for him, a supposedly case-hardened police officer, to say.

âThey're the ones who know how to get bodies out of sand intact, though,' said Dr Dabbe. âOtherwise it's going to be something of a problem.'

âSo must have been getting it in,' said Crosby. âUnless there's just the head there under the sand.'

âOh, I wouldn't say that,' said the pathologist casually. âSand is easy enough to dig out. Beats soil any day for laboursaving. Remember that, Sloan.'

âAnd in due course,' said Sloan, nodding, âwe're also going to want to know the cause of death.' In his experience, that was one of the quicker ways to narrow a field of suspects: each murderer to his own method, so to speak.

âWe won't forget that, Burns, will we?' responded the pathologist jovially.

âNo, doctor,' said his assistant dutifully.

âWe need to know why a body has been put here, too,' said
Sloan, thinking aloud. He looked round at the deserted golf course. âHere of all places.'

âIf there is a body,' said Crosby.

âHe's as bad as Mr Dick, isn't he?' said the pathologist pointing at the Constable.

âMr Dick?' asked Sloan, his mind on the job. Why the body had been put there was his problem, of course, not the pathologist's. Dr Dabbe, of all people, took bodies as and where he found them.

â“King Charles' head” was always very much on the mind of David Copperfield's friend, Mr Dick,' said Dabbe.

âReally?' said Sloan politely. At least there was nothing mysterious about the way in which King Charles had lost his head, which as far as he was concerned gave it the edge â so far - on the one in the bunker.

The pathologist wasn't listening any more. He was peering as far over the edge of the green as he could without toppling over. âI can advise you from here, gentlemen, that the injury said to have been inflicted by your lady golfer â what might be called a traumatic enucleation â was performed post mortem, although I daresay you didn't need me to tell you that.'

âNo,' agreed Sloan, who really wanted to be told something he didn't know or hadn't guessed. âSo we've got to wait, have we, doctor, for any more definite information about the deceased?'

âDon't rush me, man,' the pathologist, thus challenged, wriggled forward and peered down. âI think I can see â¦yes â¦I can. The supra-orbital ridges, or rather, what's left of 'em, are just visible.'

Detective Inspector Sloan reached for his notebook and waited.

âThey're more pronounced in the male than in the female,' said the pathologist.

âSo?' said Detective Constable Crosby, in whom his
superiors had so far failed to instil the correct police protocol for interaction with their professional colleagues.

âI should say that your body is male,' said Dr Dabbe, in no way put out by this informality.

Sloan was obscurely relieved to hear this. He'd seen altogether too many bodies of young girls for his liking who had come to grief in remote spots in the countryside. They'd often had shallow graves, too.

âMale?' muttered Detective Constable Crosby under his breath. âThat's a great help, that is. Might as well talk about fifty-fifty.'

Detective Inspector Sloan decided he hadn't heard that.

âMale,' repeated the pathologist. âIt has to be either
rouge or noir
on the roulette table, of course, but I agree matters are not always as clear-cut as once they were, transsexuals being what they are.'

Detective Inspector Sloan decided that he hadn't heard that either.

âOr had been,' said Dr Dabbe.

Or that.

It was easier.

BOOK: Hole in One

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