Murder on the Second Tee (13 page)

‘Officer, my husband is very tired and he has told you all he can. Please leave us now.’ Mrs Eglinton got up and stood between her husband and Baggo.

‘I am just going, ma’am, and I am very grateful for your time. I have just a couple of questions. After you finished your lunch upstairs in the Fourth Floor where did you go?’

She spoke, ‘We came straight back here and didn’t move till we heard the noise in the corridor when that boy’s body was found.’

‘Have either of you any idea who might have killed Mr Thornton or Mr Parsley?’

‘No,’ she said. He shook his head.

‘Did you hear any bangs, thumps or voices at or around three o’ clock?’

‘No,’ they said in unison.

‘When did you learn that the CCTV in the corridor does not cover the rooms on this side?’

Mrs Eglinton snorted. ‘That’s four questions, but Belinda Parsley told us today at lunch. Goodbye, officer.’ She put an arm out and shepherded Baggo towards the door.

‘Thank you, ma’am, sir. You have been most helpful,’ he said as the door slammed.

As she drove through the cold, damp blackness towards the lights of St Andrews Flick felt depressed and helpless. Bruce’s untimely death had robbed him and his parents of the opportunity to mend their estrangement. They had parted for ever on bad terms and his parents would never get over that. Bigotry had a lot to answer for, she thought, then asked herself how she and Fergus would cope should they find themselves in a similar situation. Her hand went to her stomach and she wondered what the future might bring.

‘It’s a damn shame, ma’am,’ McKellar said as they neared the Old Course Hotel.

‘It is, and we’re going to find out who did it and make them pay,’ Flick said, warming to the man.

‘Keep driving, ma’am,’ McKellar said sharply as she pulled into the car park. ‘Press,’ he added.

A dozen or more individuals, well muffled against the cold, milled round the front entrance. Out of the corner of her eye Flick glimpsed long-lensed cameras, tripods and clipboards. A figure in a padded anorak carried one of the long, furry microphones used by TV crews. If the unnamed corpse on the second tee had failed to attract much interest, the fact that it was a London banker who had been bludgeoned to death made it very newsworthy, particularly with another violent killing in the nearby five-star hotel.

‘I don’t know what to say to them,’ Flick blurted, driving out of the car park without slowing down.

‘Go back in the far entrance and park beside the Jigger Inn. We can get in that way,’ McKellar ordered.

‘Thanks,’ she replied meekly and did as she was told. She fumbled as she turned off her lights, got out and remembered to click the car lock as McKellar ushered her towards the side door.

‘Quick, in here,’ he said, pushing her into the well-stocked Pro’s Shop where an athletic-looking young man in golfing clothes smiled expectantly at her. She half smiled at him as McKellar left through another door and came back quickly. ‘The
Courier
man is waiting for us,’ he said then turned to the bemused-looking golf steward. ‘Laurie, the inspector needs to see the club store. Show her there in one minute’s time and wait. I’ll come for you when the coast is clear, ma’am,’ he added to Flick then left again. She heard him speaking firmly to someone.

Catching on, Laurie showed her into a room next to the shop. It was packed with golf bags, neatly arranged in rows. ‘Was there anything you wanted to see?’ he asked.

Flick looked round the room. The golf clubs were like ranks of soldiers, the ridged faces of the irons all similar yet subtly different. One bag contained clubs which faced the other way, showing their backs.

‘Why are these clubs not pointing the same way as the rest?’ she asked.

‘They’re Mr Thompson’s clubs,’ the young man said. ‘He’s left-handed.’

‘Of course,’ she said, feeling vaguely foolish and remembering what Dr MacGregor had said about Parsley’s injuries. Thinking about the likely murder weapon in the second killing she asked, ‘Could you show me something called a lob wedge, please?’

The young man picked a club out of a bag and showed it to her. ‘This is one. It’s the most lofted club in the bag, sixty degrees. You use it to cut the legs from under the ball and lob it over a bunker so it lands and stops.’ He executed some practice swings, deftly clipping the floor with the sole of the short-shafted club. He handed it to Flick, who examined the big face and the leading edge of the sole. ‘Was that what …?’ he asked.

‘I can’t say,’ she said, aware of sounding abrupt, then added, ‘I mean we have to wait for the pathologist to tell us. Thank you for your help.’ She handed the club back to him and he replaced it in its bag.

‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

‘I don’t suppose you were working late on Thursday night when Mr Parsley and Mr Eglinton collected some things from here?’

‘Yes I was, actually. I gave a statement yesterday.’ From his tone, Flick guessed that he expected her to have read it.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to hear how you would describe their mood.’

He looked at her for a moment, weighing up how to say it.

She smiled encouragingly. ‘You don’t need to be polite.’

‘They were pissed. Totally pissed. Mr Parsley told me: “Eggers is the luckiest fucking golfer on the fucking planet.” Mr Eglinton said: “And I’m going to teach him another lesson.” Then they had a pretend sword fight with their putters. I wondered if I should have tried to stop them, but if I had they’d have made more noise. So I just let them get on with it. Now I wish I’d done something.’ His face creased with worry.

‘You weren’t to know what would happen,’ she said. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. And you’ve been most helpful.’

The door opened and McKellar signaled Flick to come with him. ‘Quick and we’ll miss him,’ he said, then added, ‘Thanks, Laurie.’

Half-running along a corridor displaying the names and images of generations of Open Champions, Flick and McKellar reached the sanctuary of the conference room used by the police. Baggo and Wallace stood waiting for them and Dr MacGregor sat at the table, drumming his fingers.

‘We should give them something soon, ma’am, or they’ll never stop pestering us,’ Wallace said.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Oh and thank you very much, McKellar.’

‘Cannae have the boss looking daft in public,’ he replied, a crooked smile on his face. ‘Shall I stay or go?’

The realisation that all the time he had been helping her he had been laughing at her made her want to slap him. Pretending her skin was thicker than it was, she smiled and said, ‘Stay, please. I’d value your input.’

Eyebrows raised but not looking displeased, McKellar leaned against a wall.

‘My part in this is thankfully brief, Inspector,’ MacGregor said, ‘and you should know how Mr Thornton died. The murder weapon was almost certainly the lob wedge found in the room. I believe that this killing was not dissimilar to Mr Parsley’s demise. The attacker approached Mr Thornton from the rear and struck him first on the back of the head with a right-handed, downwards, chopping blow, the wedge being swung above the attacker’s head. This blow probably rendered him unconscious and he went face down on the floor. The killer stood to the left of his head and hit him repeatedly, four or five times, on the back of the neck, swinging the lob wedge right-handed as if trying to hack a ball out of thick rough. For non-golfers that means violent downward blows. All blows were struck through the Santa outfit. They caused gross damage to the brain and death took place rapidly. I believe you already know the time. There is nothing more I can tell you at the present. I’ll do the PM tomorrow morning, but this evening I was hoping to spend time in the company of people who are still alive.’

‘Of course, thank you, Doctor,’ Flick said, her mind on the press. As the pathologist left the room she sat down and began to draft a brief, factual statement.

‘There’s been another development, ma’am,’ Wallace said. ‘Di Falco and I questioned the Saddlefells, Forbes and Walkinshaw about their movements between half past two and quarter past three, and they all say they were in their rooms. But Forbes, whose room is next to Thornton’s, said he heard a voice in the corridor saying, “It’s me, Terry.” He said it could have been Saddlefell, but he couldn’t swear it was. He was vague about the time. I think we have enough to bring Saddlefell in for questioning.’

‘I am very suspicious of Forbes,’ Baggo cut in. ‘He plays games with people’s lives and he has been having an affair with Belinda Parsley.’

Wallace whistled softly and McKellar shook his head.

Flick was astonished. ‘How did you find that out?’ she asked.

‘She admitted it to me. I haven’t spoken to him yet.’

‘But does that change anything?’ Wallace asked.

Baggo said, ‘I don’t know, but I do know that I wouldn’t trust Forbes not to try to frame Saddlefell.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Flick asked, sensing he could say more.

Baggo did not want to reveal his part in No’s scheme to plant the money clip, which was still burning a hole in his pocket. ‘I will explain it all later, Inspector ma’am.’

She said, ‘Saddlefell had the opportunity to commit both murders, and he lied to us about when he went in on Thursday night. Killing Parsley would make it easier to blame all the money laundering on him and Knarston-Smith. But why kill Thornton?’

Baggo said, ‘I have just spoken with Eglinton and his formidable memsahib. He told me that at the meeting this morning, when Davidson heard what had been going on, he threatened to spill all the beans to you. Eglinton said the rest of the directors, but particularly Saddlefell, wanted to keep a lid on things. If Thornton was killed wearing the Santa outfit, it was probably mistaken identity. Davidson had told everyone he would be dressed as Santa this afternoon.’

Wallace said, ‘Thornton’s alone in the room, wearing the Santa costume. There’s a knock on the door. He either looks out the spy-hole or the killer identifies himself. Thornton knows him and is not afraid of him so opens the door and turns to walk back into the room. The lob wedge was beside the door so the killer comes in and hits him from behind, believing he is attacking Davidson.’

‘That is as good a theory as any,’ Baggo said.

‘Saddlefell had a motive for both killings,’ Flick whispered. ‘It’s just a pity there’s been no sign of that money clip.’

‘I had a quick word with Mrs Parsley,’ Wallace said. ‘She said her husband would either have carried the clip in his pocket or left it in the room. I checked and it wasn’t on the body and Mrs Parsley couldn’t find it in the room. We didn’t find it either. The killer probably took it.’

Baggo shook his head. ‘Is Saddlefell the sort of person who would want to take a trophy after killing Parsley? He’s not the only one who did not want Davidson to spill the beans. If we take him in, he’ll call a lawyer and say nothing.’

‘If he’s rattled he might make a mistake,’ Flick said dismissively. ‘But I’d better say something to the press first. I think I’ll confirm the identities of the victims and the times and places of death. I’ll say we’re treating both cases as murder. We’re pursuing a number of lines of inquiry and if any member of the public has information about either killing they should contact us. I have the incident room number. Will that do?’

‘They’ll want to be told something they don’t already know, but we should give them as little as possible,’ Wallace said.

‘There will be questions,’ Baggo said, ‘such as whether we hope to make an early arrest. It would probably be best to reply “No comment” to all questions.’

‘You’d be surprised how much these reporters can find out when they put their minds to it,’ McKellar warned. ‘They’re fly beggars,’ he added.

‘Should I say that both victims appear to have been beaten to death by golf clubs?’ Flick asked.

‘I’d say no,’ Wallace said. ‘We want to keep plenty of details up our sleeves so we can sort out the attention-seekers when they come to confess.’

‘And spot when a suspect tells us something only the killer would know,’ Baggo added.

Flick read through her notes, took a deep breath and got up.

‘Do you want me there, ma’am?’ Wallace asked.

Flick smiled at him. ‘No, but thank you,’ she said.

Hoping she appeared more confident than she felt, she strode through the lobby as the Christmas Fayre shut down. The news of the second murder had cast a pall of fear mixed with excitement round the hotel but a few determined shoppers continued to seek late bargains.

In a non-speaking role Flick had attended a number of press conferences in London. They had all been well-planned, held in an appropriate room with microphones. This was virgin territory for her, but she was determined not to let the situation overwhelm her.

‘It’s her, the inspector,’ she heard as she moved clear of the hotel entrance and positioned herself facing the journalists and under a light. Slowly, loudly and clearly, she read out her prepared text, a confusion of flashlights, cameras, microphones, notepads and people a few feet in front of her. When she came to the end she smiled, nodded and made to return to the hotel.

‘Were both men killed with golf clubs?’

‘Was the second victim in a gay relationship with a banker?’

‘Is anyone else in danger?’

‘Are you investigating the Bucephalus Bank for money laundering?’

‘Do you have a prime suspect?’

All these questions were fired at once. ‘No comment,’ she said firmly.

‘Can we expect an early arrest?’

‘No comment.’

‘Do you mean that there will be no early arrest as this murderer is too clever for you?’

Flick rounded on the weasel-like man in a dirty raincoat who had asked the last two questions. ‘I don’t mean that at all. Of course I hope for an early arrest. We are following some promising lines of inquiry.’

More questions were shouted but Flick ignored them and walked quickly back into the lobby.

‘How did it go, ma’am?’ Wallace asked.

‘Okay, I think,’ she replied, wondering if she should have risen to the reporter’s irritating challenge. ‘Now, what do we do about Saddlefell?’

As she spoke, there was a knock on the door and Gilsland rushed in, hair now wild, shirt front out of his trousers, arms making strange semaphore signals. He had been checking the CCTV covering the corridor where the directors’ rooms were. ‘You have to see this, ma’am,’ he blurted.

In the CCTV room a number of grainy screens were active. Gilsland pointed to one which was frozen and showed a lift, a couple of doors and a lot of wall and ceiling. No one had thought to twist the camera back to where it should have pointed. Gilsland pressed a button and at 14.20 Sheila Anderson went from the lift to her room. ‘She stayed there till the alarm was raised,’ Gilsland commented. He hit fast forward until 14.43 when a woman came from the lift. She was middle-aged, with white hair cut short. As she looked round her sharp features were clearly shown.

‘That’s his mum,’ Flick gasped.

After looking left and right the woman went out of the picture but reappeared at 14.51. Head down, a hand to her face, she waited for the lift then went in. Nothing happened until 14.59, when Jocelyn came out of the lift. At 15.02 unidentifiable heads bobbed about as the alarm was raised. Di Falco emerged from the lift and appeared to be the first police officer to get there.