Death on the Driving Range. Brian Ball
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the passing of a life. The Secretary had paled noticeably. He indicated that the big man beside him would speak for both.
“Had enough? Up you get then, Phil,” Major Wynne-Fitzpatrick ordered. “Shocking sight. Don’t blame yourself. Never get used to it.”
He cursed his gout and continued.
“Not much for you, Inspector. Can’t help with an identification. Could be anyone. It’s over to you, really. As for this hill we’re having levelled, we’ve only got rumours, ancient tales, just a fog, like any old battle story, none of it substantiated. Can’t really say any more that will help, so we’ll get ourselves off,” the Captain grunted as he heaved himself onto the golf-buggy. “As Phil here says, there’s a mystery of sorts about the Kop. We’ll have a natter in the bar when he’s come round a bit. How about the JCB driver? Take him back with us? Looks all in.”
“He’s needed here, sir. Now, I’ll be here for quite a while, but please remain in the clubhouse. Anything you can tell me later will be of use in our investigation, so perhaps you’ll review what you’ve seen? This officer will go with you. She’ll answer any questions you might have in the meanwhile. Oh, leave me an umbrella, will you, Mr. Summers?”
The golf-buggy slid away. Root wondered if he himself would ever find himself in need of one. He glanced at Gary. The lad was holding up well. Soon, the back-up vehicles would arrive. And very soon he would have to make his initial report; just as soon as Izzy Strapp was done with.
“Constable?”
“I’ve started the log, sir. All down in my notebook.”
There was no hint of approval. Police training was comprehensive. Good, ordinary coppering. “Don’t give it to me verbatim. Just the basics, for now.”
So he got them, such as they were.
Arthur Root gave a time and a place, sixteen forty-three hours, those present, himself alerted by a form of distress signal, three whoops on the JCB’s air-horn. Unemotionally, he detailed what he saw, what action he had taken. There was a skull, entirely visible above recently-turned soil, together with what were obviously the remains of a human arm. And so on. Three minutes, no more, he judged. “And, after ensuring that the said vehicle was in a safe state, and ascertaining that no medical attention was needed immediately,” he finished, “I completed my notes, sir.”
“Clear enough,” said Tomlinson. “Sergeant? Anything to add?”
“Just normal procedure, Inspector. The constable had it all in hand. Not much for me to do, really. Wait, that’s all.”
Tomlinson turned, splashing Root with the cold rain on the bright umbrella. “Now, Mr. Burroughs. Just tell me what you did, why you’re here and what you saw. Please?”
It took no more than a few minutes to have the facts confirmed by the driver. Less, for Gary. Both would make more than adequate witnesses at the inquest. Tomlinson referred again to the two officers, then declared that both Gary and Burroughs might go to the clubhouse, there to record a statement.
“If I have to,” said Owen Burroughs. “Then I want out of here. I’m not touching that JCB either. It can stay where it is for me.”
It would, whatever his preferences. Or those of his employer.
“Well, get along, man. Meanwhile,” he said to Arthur Root, “You’re the one with the local knowledge. No one gets under a heap of soil by choice. So, who is he, how did he get there? And did he fall into a hole, or did someone help him into it. Any ideas?”
Identification was the first issue, as Wynne-Fitzpatrick had pointed out. All stemmed from that. Who, indeed, was he?
“I can’t say anything about who he was, sir. It’s got to be something to do with the metal-detector, of course. They’re only used by amateurs for one thing, and that’s for finding old artefacts, preferably valuable. So the Kop’s got to be in it, but like Mr. Church told you, it will be just guesswork. Mr. Joshua Jowett’s the expert.”
“And I’m told he’s made himself scarce, Root. We’ll leave that for now. Let’s get back to your own area of expertise. Golf, say. Coincidence doesn’t exist, so it has to. Where’s the link, do you suppose?”
The rain spattered musically on the taut bright yellow nylon.
“I’d be whistling in the dark, sir. Comes back to the basics, I’d say.”
Tomlinson stooped over the skull, careful to keep clear of the adjacent ground. “Male, old, a big frame,” he said, and, echoing Root’s thoughts, “but who, that’s the thing. Never come across anything quite like this.”
Vehicles arrived, several of them. All but one made for the car park, and then were lost to sight from the Kop. A flashy little MG, that would be the Home Office pathologist, Dr. Jane Anderson, come to tell them that the punter in the rain was most definitely dead, Tomlinson noted. A Crime Scene van followed, then a blue Transit with a contingent of detectives, likely briefed already to start the interviews; and, in a big SUV came the man himself.
“Well,” said Inspector Tomlinson. “Company.”
He got up, to find Strapp indicating the progress of a dark blue Landcruiser as it made its noisy way towards them. Permission must have been given for the intrusion, thought Root. It was full, mostly with large male bodies, two in blue. It was not a decorous easy-paced trundle by an almost silent buggy: the blue patrol four-track thumped over rough ground alongside the eighteenth with panache.
Arthur Root felt a sense of déjá vu. The back-up Tomlinson had sent for. Uniformed constabulary would take over his duties. And he was back with Mabbatt.
“Can’t be,” said Strapp, squinting through the rain. “In the front, sir. Not the Super is it?”
Root knew that he would not have a great deal of contact now with the investigatory proceedings: the CID inspector had got all he needed. Maybe the evening meal would not be too far gone in Ursula’s new Bosch oven. Waiting around was over. The wheels had turned. A bit late, a bit slowly, but things would move fast now. He knew who, and what, was coming.
“Well, now,” said Tomlinson. “Surprise, surprise.”
* * * *
“Saw your bike out in the rain,” Josie told Gary Brand. “Nice bike. You got the Lycra gear? Bet you look good when you’re racing. I put it in Fred’s shed, the wooden one. Want to see it’s all right?”
From the kitchen window, Bliss watched her vanish with the tall young man. “Oh, you bitch,” he said.
“So why haven’t I met you before?” asked Gary.
“What I was asking myself,” Josie told him, drawing the creaking old door close. “I can’t stay long. Charlie’s always on the lookout. You’re not engaged or going regular, or owt?”
Gary knew that whatever answer he formulated, it wouldn’t much matter, not right now. The girl was firm and pliable at once; well-rounded but with taut muscle beneath. He put his arms round her and looked down into dark blue eyes that picked out a reflection of the bar of grey light where the door was slightly ajar. Tensions and flickers of violent flashbacks vanished. “Over here,” he whispered, drawing her to a darker corner.
“Oh, Gary,” she said, “we can’t be doing this, not right away, can we? Not so soon, love?”
In the same moment, they weren’t. A loud incoherent shout broke the quiet of the interior, with its heavy smells of cut grass and oil and its aura of secrecy and remoteness from the solid conservative Wolvers milieu:
“You mad bastard! You can keep your sodding job!”
The door was flung back, and a figure staggered halfway through the doorway. Gary’s fírm arms tightened. “Keep quiet, Josie,” she heard him whisper. “The JCB driver’s getting slagged off. We leave it alone. Not our problem. I’ve had my say to the police. I’m out of it.”