The Feathery (14 page)

 
TURNBERRY, SCOTLAND

S
cott and Matt left London at nine in the morning and landed in Prestwick, Scotland, a little over an hour later. Inspired by his inheritance of the golf antiques, Scott read a book on the flight over about the history and tradition of golf in nineteenth century Scotland. When they touched down for his first visit to Scotland his thoughts went to the early legends who played and made a business out of the game of golf. Scotland was the home of Old Tom and Young Tom Morris, Willie Park, the Dunn twins, Robert Forgan, Allan Robertson, John Gourlay, and a man he’d become familiar with of late by the name of Hugh McNair.

Eager to play a round of golf, they quickly left the airport and drove the rented Land Rover into the Prestwick Golf Course car park. They’d continue on toward Turnberry later. The book he read on the plane noted that the course had been host to the first British Open in 1860 and more Open championships that followed on these venerable links. Willie Park had won the first, and both Tom Morrises had prevailed there after.

They walked Prestwick, a course not much changed since the 1800s. The play there brought Scott’s thoughts away from the aftermath of the murder and robbery. Studying each lie, selecting the right club and determining the line for a putt brought back some logic and order that’d been knocked aside by those horrible events.

After leaving Prestwick they drove south along a narrow shore road to Turnberry. The British Open would start in nine days. They were there earlier than the other players, who would begin arriving in a week. Scott talked over his plan for practice with Matt. He’d dedicate three hours a day on the range and putting green, and play the course at least eight times before the tournament began. The available time to play and practice would be extended by the daylight of Scottish summertime, lasting until ten in the evening.

They drove up to the Turnberry Hotel overlooking both the Arran and Ailsa championship courses. It was a rambling Victorian-era building, white with a red tile roof, a railroad hotel constructed in the early twentieth century when trains brought golfers to enjoy the course and the luxury of the grand hotel.

When they reached the hotel entrance, Matt said, "I won’t be staying here."
Scott was puzzled. "Why not?"
"We Sherpas have our own place."
"Where do the caddies stay, Matt?"
"It’s called the Kilt and Jeans Inn and Pub. Good food and beer, with lovely ladies hanging out there."
"Okay, I understand. I’ll drop you off there after you show me the course."

Scott checked into the hotel, and afterwards they visited the pro shop where he met the head professional, Derrick Small. Derrick was a blond, heavyset man at six-foot-three. They shook hands. Derrick’s hand covered all of his, and it occurred to Scott that Derrick’s golf clubs must require a few extra layers of tape under the grips to accommodate those large mitts. Derrick welcomed Scott’s early arrival. He gave him permission to play the course and to use its practice facilities.
Matt drove the golf cart to the first tee of Ailsa course and stopped there for Scott to get his first look at it. It was easy to observe the whole panorama from there since the course was void of any trees to block the view.
"I’ve caddied here twice and know this course pretty well." Matt said. "It plays at a total yardage of 6998…par 71. It’s nothing like the
target
type golf courses you’re used to in the States, Scott. The rough is knee high and the bunkers are deep. The strategy here is to keep the ball on the fairway, and those deep pot-bunkers out of play. You should let the driver stay in your bag on most holes and use irons off the tee. It’s a position golf game here with a lot of bump-and-run shots to the green instead of high-flying approach shots."
Scott was taking it all in. "Hey Matt, the fairways look burned out. What are those tall flowers in the rough? Whoa, stop here. That bunker’s so deep, it has a ladder for a player to climb in and out."
"It’s rare to play here on green grass fairways," Matt said. "Those posies are called heather with wire-like stems that grab at the shaft of your club on the down swing. Most players who get into that bunker with the ladder must come out of it hitting a sideways shot instead of going directly for the green."
"This is going to take some getting used to. Glad we’re here early."
"Welcome to links golf at the British Open, dude." Matt drove on.
Scott looked over at some adjacent fairways. "Is that the other course over there?"
"Yeah, it’s called the Arran, and it’ll be a parking lot during the Open."
The cart moved slowly up the first fairway as Matt continued to narrate the tour. "The first hole runs toward the Firth of Clyde. That’s the Irish Sea…" Matt’s wave followed the curved shore line of Turnberry Bay.
As they turned to the second tee, Scott looked out on the water. In the distance he saw a large black hill of an island that rose above the Firth of Clyde, and it dominated the horizon for miles around. He remembered it was one of the many geographical features near golf courses Sandy told him about. Sandy said it looked like the rock of an island at Morro Bay in California, only it was much larger.
Matt noticed him staring out at the mammoth lump of granite rising from the sea. "That’s Ailsa Craig. The locals tell me the island is most always covered in clouds."
"Well, we can see it today. Hope it stays that way."
"It won’t. The Scots that live along these shores say,
‘if ye can’t see the Ailsa Craig it’s raining. If you can see it, it’s aboot to rain
.’ The Ailsa Craig is home to thousands of gannets. The white sea birds come from there to dive into the water here after fish." Matt pointed toward Turnberry Bay. "The gannets are not bothered by bad weather…they love it. Golfers who play well in the wind and rain here are called
gannets
by the locals."
"If the weather here gets bad I’d want to be called a
gannet."
Scott was checking the course score card as they drove along. "What do these weird names for each hole mean
?"
"All the holes here at Turnberry have names telling a special feature, view, or hazard. Like
Mak Siccar
in Scottish is ‘Make Sure’, as well as
Lang Whang
for the longest hole. The ninth tee hangs over a rocky ledge and drops off fifty feet to the water." Matt pointed out the Turnberry Lighthouse in the distance and a stone pillar, or cairn, that’d been placed two hundred yards out in the center of the fairway, serving as a target for the driven golf ball to fly over. "This course was made into an airfield during World War Two, and was restored afterwards. A monument is here to honor those fliers who didn’t make it back to Turnberry after their mission."
As they drove along, Matt showed Scott the best positions on the golf course to land a ball for his next shot and told him about the tricks of certain greens, pointing out the best approach to them. The weather was calm now, but he warned Scott of the potential for gale and driven rain that could suddenly come off the sea to alter such tranquility and change Turnberry’s character from serene to ugly.
After inspecting the course, they were on the putting green and driving range for three hours. Scott drove Matt to the Kilt and Jeans Inn and Pub. After Matt checked in, they had a beer at the bar, a traditional watering hole for caddies working the Open at Turnberry.

When Scott returned to his room at the hotel, he placed a call to Beth Sweeney in New York. He brought Beth up to date on what he’d been up to since they’d last talked and told her about the robbery and murder.

"No way, Scott," she said. "That feathery ball is dangerous to one’s health."
Beth mentioned she’d passed the New York bar exam and had been hired by a Manhattan firm dealing with international issues.

Ever since his London meeting with Sarah Covington, Scott was concerned about not having representation during the auction of the antique items, minus the feathery and bronze. Also, Sarah’s threat to penalize him $200,000 was still hanging over his head.
"Hey, Beth, could you represent me at an auction in London next week?" Scott filled her in on the details of the auction and the penalty imposed on him if the feathery was recovered.
"I’m new in the firm, but I’m sure they’ll let me go. That penalty by Covington should be negotiable. What about insurance?"
"That’s the kicker. If the feathery and bronze are not recovered, the insurance policy bought by Covington should cover the loss, and I’d be compensated for the value of those items. Then Covington would still try to take the two hundred thousand penalty from the insurance settlement amount because I removed the feathery from the auction. If the feathery
is
recovered, and I don’t submit it to an auction by Covington, I’m still liable for the penalty according to Covington. It’s a catch-22."
"How about the value of the bronze and the penalty relative to it?" Beth asked.
"I didn’t remove the bronze statuette from the auction, just the feathery, so there’s no penalty on the bronze. However, now I want to keep it, too."
"Okay, Scott, I think I understand."
"It’s too complicated for this golfer but it should be a piece of cake for you legal beagles, right?"
"I’ll give it my best, Scott."
"Thanks. I feel better about it now."
"I hope you feel the same when you get our bill." She laughed.
Scott paused a moment, then asked, "Could you come over to Turnberry, Scotland, after the auction in London? It’d be at my expense."
"You mean for the British Open?" She asked.
"Right."
"Wow, I’ll try it on the partners and let you know about both London and that."
"I’ll look forward to having you here, Beth"
They said their good-byes. Scott cradled the phone and then picked it up quickly on impulse to call his mother in San Diego and invite her to the Open. Before he thought more about her sour attitude about golf, he made the call. Her secretary put his call through immediately.
"Is that you Scott? Oh, how I’ve waited for you to call. Had no idea where you were."
"I’m in Scotland, mom. I’ll be playing in the British Open next week. Do you want to come over for it?"
Diane Beckman paused before she answered. "I can’t, Scott."
"Have you got another big real estate deal in the way, mom?"
"No, not at all. I have two appointments with the psychiatrist next week, and we’re making so much progress, I don’t want to interrupt it."
"Progress?" Scott asked.

"Yes, I’m coming to grips with my problems relating to losing your dad, my relationship with you, and if you can believe it, even my resentments about the game of golf."

"Wow, that is progress. You’re feeling better about golf?

"Yes. It started before Zachary was killed, but that escalated it. I selfishly resented the amount of time he spent with you on the golf course. I was bitter about you, and he not taking part in my love of tennis. I took a lot of that out on your dad and you after he was killed."

"Okay, mom. It’s important that you continue those sessions. Sounds like you’re almost through sorting it all out. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks."

"I’ll be watching on television. Good luck, Scott, and make a lot of birdies. Bye. I love you and I’m proud of you."
Scott put down the phone and tears filled his eyes.Her last word swere ones he’d never heard her say…
birdies, I love you, and I’m proud of you.
The situation with his mother had been hanging over Scott for years, and it was a huge relief for him to feel it could finally be improving. It took five minutes before he could clear the emotions connected to her last words.The stolen feathery and unsolved murder and robbery was nagging at him. He thought he’d better put it out of his mind and concentrate on preparing for the Open and leave it up to Chief Inspector Bradshaw and Scotland Yard to solve the crime. He spoke to the empty room. "I’m a professional golfer, not a detective."

LONDON

T
wo days after their visit with Ian Barkley, the betting shop mogul, Bradshaw was waiting for Riley to arrive at his Scotland Yard office. The detective was returning to New York that evening, and the purpose of their meeting was to review progress on the case. While waiting for Riley to arrive he munched on a ham sandwich while reading some of the other articles compiled by McNair in his journal. He was informed by his secretary of Riley’s arrival. He quickly placed the half eaten ham sandwich in a desk drawer, took off the gloves and returned the journal to his safe before Riley entered the office.

After greeting Riley, Bradshaw referred to a page in one of his yellow notepads taken from the same desk drawer where half of his ham sandwich hid from scrutiny by Riley.Circles were drawn on the pad with the names of his persons of interest inside them. Lines with arrows connected the circles to his comments at the bottom of the page: COLLECTOR; ROBBER; MURDERER or FENCE. Bradshaw passed the pad across the desk to Detective Riley, who sat in a chair across from him.

"Your investigation of Carrabba and his ensuing alibi has all but eliminated him from the list. Still, it would be well for you to keep an eye on Mr. Carrabba when you return to New York, Detective Riley."

Riley studied Bradshaw’s matrix. The names Ian Barkley, Mary Harding, Mario Carrabba and Jaspar Johncke were there. "Barkley’s man, Malachy Gallagher, checked out okay. Brooks said he bears no resemblance to the guys who snatched the feathery at Heathrow. Your ballistics experts told me Gallagher’s gun isn’t the one that shot Brooks. But your people tell me they’re interested in the Irishman, Gallagher, for some past crimes connected to the IRA."