Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (28 page)

‘Oh, right, sorry. Do you want me to do anything with them?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The clubs.
Do you need to see them or anything?’

‘Sorry, Simon, I don’t follow you.’

‘I’ve found them. There’re here at the golf club.’

‘Are you sure? Where exactly?’

‘Fairly. They’re in Mr Masters’ golf bag in his office.’

‘Are you there now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t touch anything. Don’t let anyone else touch anything. Stay there. I’m coming over. Is that clear?’

*

Unlike previous low key visits to the White Cliffs Golf Course, Romney and Marsh’s arrival was heralded by the sirens and lights of a fast moving patrol car. It was a sign of Romney’s impatience to acquire what could prove to be crucial evidence in the murder case. Romney and Marsh hurried across the turf towards where Simon Draper was waiting for them outside the pro-shop with a confused looking man Romney hadn’t seen before.

To the youth, Romney said, ‘Did you do as I asked?’

‘Yes. As soon as I finished talking to you we came out here to wait.’

‘Good lad.’ Romney turned his attention to the new face. ‘Who are you?’

‘Alan Kent. I’
m the new golf professional.’ He looked quite bewildered by the unfolding situation.

‘Simon’s told you what’s going on, has he?’ The man nodded. ‘Good. I’d appreciate it if you’d just stay out of the
way for a few minutes.’ Alan Kent looked like nothing would please him more. ‘Come on then, Simon. Show us what you’ve found.’

Marsh half-expected Romney to start rubbing his hands together.

The youth led them into the shop and through to the little office at the rear. He went to a bag of golf clubs standing in the corner.

‘These are Mr Masters’ clubs. Mr Kent opened them up to see what clubs Mr Masters was using. Every golfer’s interested in what equipment everyone else plays with. When he pulled out the big driver I recognised it from the shop. It was the same type Mr Emerson took. Mr Masters doesn’t, didn’t, play with that club. The others are in there too. I’ve checked.’ Romney was pleased with the lad and made no attempt to hide it.

They wrapped the bag of clubs in some plastic sheeting. Romney had the uniformed constable who’d driven them over carry it to the patrol car. As both Kent and the boy had handled the clubs they were asked to attend the station the following morning in order that their prints could be taken.

Romney smoked with the air of someone who had just made his first hole in one, as he and Marsh made their way back to the patrol car. Marsh could almost detect a spring in the DI’s step.

‘Well, there’s a bit of luck,’ he said. ‘Two mysteries solved in one fell swoop. Superintendent Falkner is going to be a happy man. And I just might make my holiday after all.’

‘Masters kills Emerson and then tops himself? It’s very convenient for us, sir.’

‘You’re not thinking of pissing on my chips, I hope,’ said Romney.

Marsh found the imagery distasteful. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

‘What’s wrong with a bit of good fortune now and again? If those clubs had gone back to the widow, we’d as likely never have seen them again.’

‘What was his motive?’

‘Who cares? We’ll never know with him dead. Subject to confirmation by forensics, the murder weapons have turned up, property of a man who committed suicide. It might be a little too neat for you, but unless you can provide reasonable doubt that’s the way it’s going to stay.’

‘What about the circumstances surrounding Masters’ suicide. Don’t you find what pathology suggested strange?’

‘Not really. Maybe he just read the manual:
Suicide – getting it right first time.
I wish more people who decided to demonstrate the ultimate act of self-criticism would. It’d save us a lot of bother.’

Marsh changed tack in the face of Romney’s stubbornness. ‘We will still be seeing Masters’ widow though, won’t we?’

‘What for? Why put her, or ourselves, through all that unpleasantness?’

‘Do you mind if I do?’

‘Be my guest, Sergeant,’ said Romney, ‘if you enjoy that kind of thing. You’ll find me smoking cigars with our dear leader.’

*

Despite the hour, Marsh realised that the development was not something she would sleep on if she had a choice. She sought out a phone number for Masters’ wife and, remembering the one and only time she’d met her – wailing and pathetic – braced herself for the difficult but to her mind necessary call.

Two hours later and on her own time, Marsh arrived at the Masters’ home. The garage-linked property sat in the middle of a dev
elopment all much of a muchness – a planner’s idea of contemporary Britain with Tudor trimmings.

The woman who answered the door was smaller than Marsh remembered. She had been crying recently. Marsh thought she had her brave face on. Marsh was invited in and made comfortable in the lounge.

The decor reflected a minimalistic influence. The ubiquitous over-sized flat screen television, two large leather sofas – harmonised with the carpet and walls – faced each other across the chrome and glass coffee table. One wall was given over to a display case inside which trophies of varying size, shape and materials bore testament to sporting success. Marsh made for it, grateful for a way into the reason for her visit.

‘Your husband’s?’

‘Actually, most of them are mine.’

Marsh was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice
. ‘Really?’ She made a face to apologise.

‘It’s OK. Most people assume they must be Elliot’s.’

Marsh leant in for a closer look. ‘What are they for?’

‘Golf. I was a decent women’s competitor.’

‘Obviously,’ said Marsh, impressed. ‘But why was?’

‘Back injury. I fell off a chair changing a light bulb. Damaged my spine. That was that.’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Marsh.

The woman made a face of philosophical resignation and offered Marsh refreshment.

‘I suppose you want to talk to me about Elliot?’ she said, when they were settled. Marsh nodded, caught with a mouthful of lemonade. ‘Are you the one who headed me off when I turned up at the golf course?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought so. Thank you for that. I don’t know what I was thinking. Someone from the club called me and told me what had happened. I suppose I couldn’t believe it. I’m glad, now, that I never got to see him. It would have been a horrible memory for me to have.’ The woman’s eyes became watery.

Marsh said, ‘Do you know why he did it?’

‘I wish I did. I’ve thought of nothing else. I have no idea. We were happy. That’s not just hoping. We were. We had been trying for a baby.’

‘No money troubles?’

‘I work at a bank in the town. Elliot’s job seemed secure. We were comfortable. We don’t even have a mortgage.’

‘Your husband probably told you about the death at the golf course recently.’

‘Yes. It upset him. He knew him.’ Faye Masters caught something in Marsh’s look. ‘Wait a minute. You’re not suggesting that Elliot was involved are you?’

‘There is nothing to suggest your husband was involved,’ she lied, ‘but the murder remains unsolved and Elliot’s death is a coincidence we don’t like. You said yourself that you can’t think of a single reason why he would take his own life.’ Marsh registered the shock on the woman’s face and ploughed on. ‘Where was Elliot on the night Phillip Emerson was killed?’

‘At home with me.’

‘You’re quite sure?’ The woman’s answer was too quick. Either she was lying, or she was certain because her husband never went out.

‘I told you. We were trying for a child. We’d been trying every night for the last ten days. It was my best time. He was here.’ Faye Masters was sadly matter of fact with her disclosure. ‘There is no way he was involved in anything like murder. Elliot was a big, powerful man, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘I met your husband when we first investigated the murder. I liked him. He seemed like a nice man. I’m not trying to do anything other than work everything out. I’m just doing my job,’ Marsh added apologetically. ‘There is no obvious motive that connects your husband with the death of the other man. I hope you understand I’m just following up what I must. This is a terrible time for you and I don’t want to make it any worse.’

Marsh suddenly felt grubby for what she had got herself into with the woman who should just be left alone to grieve for a man she clearly loved. She had enough problems, now. But the idea that Masters, unable to defend himself, might be tainted in death just for the sake of convenience angered her. She’d been unconvinced of Masters’ guilt when the finger was first pointing at him. She remained even more so now. She said, ‘He was a type one diabetic wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. He contracted it as a teenager. He always said it ultimately ruined his chances of ever making something of himself on the professional tour circuit.’

‘Did he manage it well?’

‘He was very careful about his diet and insulin. His father died early of it after a horrible struggle with complications because he didn’t take care of himself. He didn’t want to go the same way.’

‘I’m just learning about it myself,’ said Marsh. ‘Did he suffer from ‘hypos’?’

‘Occasionally. Not often. Why are you asking?’

She would find out at the inquest anyway thought Marsh. ‘Because of the nature of your husband’s death an autopsy had to be carried out. His blood sugar levels were found to be dangerously low. The medical person I spoke to suggested he would almost certainly have been suffering a reaction to that. I was told that his judgement could have been greatly impaired as a result.’

‘You mean that’s why he killed himself? Because he had hypoglycaemia? I wouldn’t accept that. Hypo’s made Elliot dizzy, disorientated, hungry. They could swing his mood. But he couldn’t physically do anything that required coordination. He couldn’t have hanged himself if he was suffering a diabetic fit.’

‘That’s exactly what the woman in the pathology lab suggested.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know yet. Why wasn’t he at home the night he died?’

‘He told me there was a function on at the golf club. He liked a drink sometimes with his friends and he wouldn’t drive home if he’d had a few. He’d stay over at the club house. They’ve got rooms. He’d done it before.’

‘What did he do for his insulin when he didn’t come home, or when he was at work for that matter?’

‘There’s a small fridge in his office. He kept it there. He had to inject himself through the day.’

Marsh remembered it. ‘Did you speak to him that night?’

‘Yes. Briefly
at about nine o’clock. When he’s not here I usually get an early night. I was in bed by nine-thirty.’

‘How did he sound?’

‘Normal. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

Marsh struggled with her conscience briefly. ‘No. I’m just being thorough. I’m trying to understand everything. I’m trying to make sense of it all.’

‘And have you?’

‘No, not yet.’

*

On her way home, Marsh called in at the White Cliffs Golf Club. Nobody would be playing golf, but there were a few cars in the car park. She made her way around to the members’ entrance. The lobby area reminded her of some archaic old boys’ club from the city, black and white tiled floors, leather furniture and lots of oak. She followed the gentle hum of conversation until she found the bar and restaurant area. She was aware of her presence generating attention as she made her way to the bar.

‘I can’t serve you if you’re not a member. Sorry,’ said a uniformed steward in a not unfriendly tone.

She showed her warrant card. ‘That’s all right. I can’t drink when I’m on duty.’

He smiled at her. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Elliot Masters, the golf pro. Know him?’

‘Of course.’

‘Were you working the night before he was found?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was the function?’

‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘The night before he was found there was a function here. What was it?’

‘There wasn’t. Last do we had here was over a month ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Marsh. ‘Well, was he in here that night? Did you see him?’

‘No, he wasn’t. If he had been, I’d have seen him. It’s quiet here mid-week. I’m the only one on in the evenings. I work till finish.’

Marsh took his name, thanked him and left to ponder the new set of questions she’d generated for herself.

***

16

Romney’s car was a strange sight in the car park of Dover police station the following morning. Marsh hoped that the DI getting his transport back might improve his mood and make him more receptive to what she had to tell him.