Authors: Quintin Jardine
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #World Literature, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Crime Fiction, #Private Investigators, #Scotland
As Easy as Murder (15 page)
‘He’s as laid-back as his granddad,’ I assured her. ‘He’s got loads of stuff to do here yet, but I’ll tell Uche to make sure he calls you as soon as he’s done.’
‘He’d better not need bloody Uche to tell him,’ she snorted, a welcome flash of the old Ellie. ‘How’s the Black Prince getting on anyway? That’s what Harvey and I call him,’ she added, as if explanation was needed.
‘He’s going fine. They’re a good partnership.’
‘That’s what we thought. I’m glad it’s working out. You know, I’ve got to say: the manager, the sponsors, the caddie . . . everything’s almost too good to be true.’
One of two British writers had noted the connection in their advance pieces about the event, but they’d all been too cautious, or cynical, to go overboard on it. However, with a score on the board, everything had changed and for a day at least, he was the big headline. There was video footage as well, on the European Tour website, from the after-round briefing in the media tent. There wasn’t much, but Jonny handled himself well, particularly when he was asked how his late uncle would have felt about his performance. ‘He’d be trying to buy the movie rights,’ he replied, with only the faintest smile.
My first instinct was that I’d like to have punched the questioner’s lights out. Jonny was his own man and what he’d achieved had nothing to do with Oz. But then I thought of those endorsements and the fact that their relationship had been a help to his far
distant manager in securing them. If the sponsors, or the tour publicists, had put it into the public domain, that was probably fair enough.
I didn’t have a chance to discuss it with Jonny. Our alarms had been set for five thirty, and he had left for the course just after six, so that he could fit in a full practice session before his tee time, a more civilised nine forty. I’d decided that I wasn’t going to go that day. ‘Why not?’ he asked, when I told him as he worked his way through breakfast, a mound of scrambled eggs on toast. (Tom was still sound asleep upstairs, so I’d delayed mine.)
‘You’ll have plenty of followers as the co-leader. I can’t be there every day you’re playing. Besides,’ I added, ‘you don’t need me. You’re so focused. You didn’t look at me once yesterday and you didn’t even hear Shirley screaming when you had that eagle. If I did go, you wouldn’t even know I was there.’
‘Maybe not, but Uche would. For all he’s smooth, the guy’s more African than you’d think. He’s dead superstitious; you’re his good luck charm, so he said after the round. If he doesn’t see you he’ll worry, and he might get his yardages wrong, give me a three metal instead of a three iron. You’re a vital part of the team, Auntie P. Come on.’ He paused. ‘But hold on, I’m being selfish. I’m forgetting about Tom. He can’t have packed lunches every day.’
‘He’d be quite happy with that,’ I assured him, ‘and he would today, regardless. There’s a class trip this morning, to the ruins at Ullastret; they’re doing Iberian history.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Can I bring the dog?’ I asked, mischievously. His face fell, but
I didn’t let it hit the ground. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Kidding. Charlie’ll be okay. Ben Simmers will pick him up if I ask him, and keep him with his two.’ Ben’s dogs and Charlie are from the same stable; they’re family too.
I was easily persuaded in the end. Actually I’d been dead keen to go, but felt that I might be intruding. But if I was that important to the Black Prince, I could hardly refuse.
In the end, I was glad I’d let myself be persuaded. When I showed up on the first tee, the first people I saw were Patterson and Shirley. She’d found some tartan in her wardrobe and was dressed up like a bloody cheerleader. As I’d suspected, there was a proper gallery, up to a hundred people, but she was front and centre. Jonny had eyes for nothing but the fairway when he appeared, but Uche clocked her straight away. The look that he threw her suggested that if I was his good luck charm, then Shirl was a voodoo doll. Then he saw me, and brightened up.
Jonny started the way he’d finished the day before, with a steady straight drive, and once his partners, neither of whom had come close to breaking par in the first round, had played, we set off after them. ‘Out of sight, and lip zipped,’ I warned Shirley.
I’d thought that most of those who’d watched the start would have stayed in the stand, but I was wrong; they followed us around, as did a few journos, and a small contingent of photographers and radio correspondents. Television Man joined us too, at the sixth, keen to pick up on the story.
By that time Jonny was one under for his round, with two birdies and one bogey, a shot dropped after a pushed tee shot at the fourth finished close to a tree. ‘No worries,’ I heard Uche say as they left
the green. ‘You were bound to lose your cherry some time, and we’re still on top of the leader board.’
That hadn’t occurred to me, but he was, as I confirmed when I saw a board behind the fifth green. The Irish kid and the other early pacemakers were all out later in the day, and so, at eight under, Jonny was on top of the pile.
It got better over the next thirteen holes; four more birdies and one more dropped shot, after contributing another ball to the collection in the lake at the formidable thirteenth, and Jonny finished with a sixty-eight, eleven under for the tournament, and two clear of the ginger ponytail, who had reached the eighth by that time.
I’d managed to get rid of Shirley at the turn by telling her that she looked like one half of Fran and Anna, and that if she didn’t want to figure in any embarrassing television clips on YouTube she’d be as well to lose the tartan or get out of sight. Since the former would have shown the world her underwear, she opted for a tactical withdrawal, using ‘an early lunch, before it gets busy’ as a tactical excuse.
I was waiting beside the last green once again as Jonny and Uche walked off. He took off his sunglasses, tipped back his logo-ed cap, lifted me up with those golfer-strong arms, gave me a great big hug and whispered, ‘Glad you came, Auntie. Uche never put a foot wrong.’
I kissed him on the cheek and whispered back, ‘Good for him. Now put me down; we’re on telly.’
We were too; as I found out a few minutes later, his mother was watching the Sky coverage, along with a few million others. They
included a couple of journalists at the scene. As Jonny and his caddie headed for the recorder’s tent, one of them sidled . . . no other word could describe it; she approached me like a snake, side on . . . up to me.
She looked to be around thirty, blonde, dressed in loud golfer gear, red trousers and a yellow Ashworth shirt, and with make-up that was incongruously heavy, given where we were. She had a microphone in her hand, and she was smiling, but not with her eyes. They gave a different message; to me it read, ‘Watch out.’
‘Excuse me,’ she began, in the sort of honey-soaked voice that answers the phone sometimes when you’ve called someone who wants to make you feel at home before they screw as much money out of you as they can.
I stared at her, and as I did I was aware of someone moving in on my right, a guy with a telly camera on his shoulder. ‘Yes?’ I replied.
‘I’m Christy Mann,’ she said, ‘from Spotlight Television.’ Her accent was Irish, I noticed.
I frowned. ‘What the hell is Spotlight Television?’
‘It’s an independent station,’ she volunteered. ‘It broadcasts on the internet, and it supplies news footage to other stations.’ Then she moved in a little closer, held the mike higher and got straight to the point. ‘Can you tell me how delighted you are that Jonathan’s leading his first event?’
I’ve heard questions asked in that form by broadcast journalists for as long as I’ve been shaving my armpits, and it’s always struck me as lazy, or stupid, or both. My frown became a glare. ‘How many degrees of delight are there?’ I asked.
‘His what?’ I bellowed. ‘I’m his insignificant auntie, you idiot!’ As I shouted, I caught a glimpse behind her of a tartan-clad figure, rocking on her heels with her hands over her mouth and her eyes full of tears. ‘Have you been talking to that clown over there?’ I challenged.
The reporter went all tight-lipped and serious on me. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss my sources, Miss . . .’
‘Mrs,’ I snarled, oblivious by then to the camera and its red light. ‘Mrs Blackstone.’
She might have appeared to be a good imitation of an idiot, but she’d read her press coverage and she knew her two times table. A little light switched itself on in her deadpan eyes. ‘Mrs Blackstone . . . and you’re Jonathan’s aunt. So that means you’re Oz Blackstone’s widow.’
I was where I didn’t want to be. ‘No it bloody doesn’t,’ I snapped. ‘Oz and I divorced years ago.’
‘But still,’ she schmoozed on, ‘you’ll have a unique insight into Jonathan, and his motivation. They say he’s the next big thing on tour. Do you know where he’s living this week? With you?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘But surely it is; he’s a public figure.’
I went from annoyed to angry. ‘He’s a twenty-two-year-old kid starting out in a very competitive business. Look, if you’re so interested in him, why are you wasting your time talking to me?
Why aren’t you in the media tent with the rest of the press, talking to the man himself?’
For the first time, she backed off a little. ‘We’re not accredited for the tent,’ she confessed. ‘That’s not what we do.’
‘No,’ I barked at her, not caring about the live camera, ‘you hang around places like this looking for gossip. Which golfer’s shagging which tennis player, stuff like that.’
She ignored my jibe. ‘Is he living with you, Mrs Blackstone?’ she continued. ‘Or are you touring with him? Are you part of his entourage?’
‘He doesn’t have an entourage, woman, he has a caddie and a coach!’
‘Where do you live, Mrs Blackstone? In Britain?’
‘No.’
‘In the US?’
‘No.’ I took a step to my right, ready to brush past her. I looked over her shoulder, but Shirley had made herself scarce, gone into hiding probably. I’d have set off in search of the silly cow, but the guy with the camera had stepped in front of me.
‘So you live in Spain,’ Christy Mann exclaimed, as if she’d exhausted all global alternatives. ‘In that case we’d love an exclusive with you and Jonathan at home. The Blackstone saga goes on; it’ll appeal to all of Oz’s fans. They miss him so much; his memorial website has over a million hits a year, you know. And now that you and his nephew are together . . . The world needs to know that, Mrs Blackstone. It’ll all be done in the best possible taste, I promise.’
I looked her in the eye. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘if your brains were
gunpowder and someone lit the fuse, the explosion wouldn’t ruffle your hair. First, I repeat, Jonny and I are not together in the way you imply. Christ, I’m twice his age.’
She jumped in. ‘That’s no barrier these days.’
‘It is for me. Okay? Now, second, if you harass me, or my nephew, or my son in any way, I’ll have you arrested. If you don’t believe I could do that, just try me.’
Her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed. I thought I’d put a stop to her, but I was wrong. All she was doing was thinking, a process that took a little time. ‘Your son?’ she murmured. ‘You have a son? Would that be that Oz’s child, Mrs Blackstone?’
There’s this thing called Wikipedia. It’s a self-building global internet encyclopaedia, and anyone with a little computer savvy can post an entry there. These days, you’re nobody if you’re not on it. I don’t know who began Oz’s bio page, but whoever did it researched his life very thoroughly. It lists his birthplace, his parents, the schools and university he attended, his career, step by step, and his three marriages. What you won’t find there is any reference to his children. Susie and I monitor the content, and any attempt to post material about the kids, we delete. As far as we’re concerned, they’re off limits to any media.
We’ve found, over the years, that the legitimate press, even the red-tops, respect that, but Ms Christy Mann, her crude approach, and her intrusive camera didn’t strike me as legitimate in any respect. I’ll leave you to imagine what I wanted to do with her microphone, but I realised that however much we might both have enjoyed that, it wouldn’t be very sensible. So I swept the red mist
aside, took a deep breath and lowered my voice. ‘Do you have a boss?’ I asked her.
‘That’s irrelevant,’ she said. ‘Will you answer my question?’
‘Not until you answer mine.’
‘If you insist,’ she sighed. ‘Spotlight is owned by a company registered in London, and that’s part of an international media group, American owned. Why do you need to know that?’
‘I don’t like to waste my time,’ I replied. ‘Now I’ll tell you what you want to know. Yes, I have a son, Oz’s son. But if you come within a country kilometre of him, I will use all the power and influence I have to have you crushed. If I have to do that, I’ll go straight to source. And if you think that’s a wild threat for a single Spanish parent to be making, you go and look me up on Wikipedia, sunshine. Primavera Phillips Blackstone; key that in and click the search button.’