Murder on the Second Tee (16 page)

‘Okay, I think. I really like Wallace. McKellar is an asset with his local knowledge but he can be so insolent I want to lay hands on him.’

‘He’s been used to answering to older men from this part of the country, men he respected instinctively. You have to earn his respect, and I’m sure you’ll do it in time. It must be good to have Baggo with you, a familiar face.’

‘But he’s so irritating, looking for a joke in everything. Wallace seems to find him funny, and that encourages him. Why does everyone insist on calling him Baggo?’

‘Because he’s comfortable with it. I saw that up in Pitlochry when we met. It may help make him feel accepted. When you call him Chandavarkar it probably makes you sound stiff and formal.’

‘It’s a perfectly good name. Baggo sounds demeaning somehow.’

‘He’s happy with it, darling.’

Flick scowled. ‘Anyway, he breaks the rules. I told you about that photograph.’

Fergus turned round and faced her. ‘I sometimes break the rules, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘The way Baggo has played it he’s maximised the chances of Knarston-Smith helping us as much as he can and at the same time saving his marriage.’

‘But still, productions should always be properly logged as they are found. If they aren’t you are likely to give the defence an open goal.’

‘There are things you want to do that aren’t regular and can be concealed by a white lie, but are not basically dishonest. I think what Baggo has done with the photograph is one of them. It’s a bit like rugby. Some of the laws of the game are routinely ignored – like putting the ball into the scrum straight. Any top-class rugby player will do things he knows are illegal if the referee isn’t looking – like holding the ball after he’s been tackled. It’s funny, you know, how rugby and golf are so different from that point of view. In golf everyone sticks to the rules. Should you not allow a bit of the rugby ethos into your policing?’

Flick looked at him aghast. She had not expected to hear what the divisional commander had said to her that morning and she certainly had not expected this from Fergus. Previously when they had talked about ethics he had said little apart from condemning cops who planted evidence or made up verbals. Now she knew why. ‘I don’t see it that way,’ she said huffily.

There was so much he wanted to say about restrictive rules of evidence, ivory-tower judges and sheer common sense, but this was not the time for it. Flick believed that if a police officer compromised his or her principles in any way they were no better than the criminals they were pursuing, and for now at least he should not challenge that.

The less than companionable silence that followed was broken by the phone.

‘It’s nearly midnight,’ Fergus grumbled as Flick answered.

Her face was grim as she listened to the slurred voice of Jamieson, the divisional commander, berating her efforts with a torrent of abuse.

‘… I told you, I told you, to be careful with Saddlefell, and there you are, on national news, national news mind you, saying you hope for an early arrest then you lead Lord Saddlefell out covered in a blanket like a common criminal when you don’t have a fucking case and you have to let him go after a couple of hours. What were you thinking of? And I get home after dinner to find messages from the chief constable, MPs, members of the House of Lords, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, asking one fucking question: what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Christ knows what the papers will make of it tomorrow.’

‘But …’

‘And there’s been another murder right under your nose so we’ll have the media with us till we catch the killer. I’m not going to be made to look a fool because of you, Fortune. So tomorrow don’t step an inch out of line, try and find something out and be ready to hand over the case to someone competent first thing on Monday morning. I’d take you off it now if I could but I’ll have to speak to Maxwell’s boss.’

‘Maxwell?’

‘I know he’s your husband, but he’s a bloody good policeman and that’s what we fucking need. So do you understand? Tomorrow you find out as much as you can, collate everything you’ve got and on Monday hand it over. And don’t do anything else.’

‘But sir …’ The phone clicked as the divisional commander rang off. Flick looked helplessly at Fergus.

‘I could hear a bit of that. Don’t worry. I’ll refuse to take the case.’

‘Could you do that?’

‘I will anyway, and I’m pretty sure my divisional commander will back me.’

Flick put her head on Fergus’s shoulder, he put his arm round her and they remained like that till she was asleep. He gently roused her and tenderly helped her to bed. His shirt was wet where her head had rested.

* * *

‘So what is the inspector really like?’ Lance Wallace asked Baggo.

He had driven Baggo to his home, a modest detached house built with light brown sandstone on the main street of Dairsie, a village on the St Andrews to Cupar road. With its neat gravel path and small, tidy borders on either side, the whole impression was of solidity and order. Lance’s wife, Jeannie, had been forewarned and greeted her guest as if Scotland’s reputation for hospitality depended on it. Steaming plates of mince, tatties and peas which Baggo said tasted as good as a biryani, had been followed by Caboc, a soft buttery cheese coated in oatmeal and served on big, coarse oatcakes. Washed down by heavy beer, it relaxed both men after their traumatic day, Baggo having long since ceased to care about eating beef. After they had finished Jeannie had tidied up while Lance poured the special Glenmorangie. After some talk about the inquiry Lance asked the question he had really wanted to ask.

‘The inspector? I like her, but she often does not give a good impression. She is very private and difficult to get to know. Her main problem is she does not have a proper sense of humour. She will generally laugh a bit after everyone else as if she needs them to tell her something is funny. I have found myself cracking jokes to wind her up. But she is decent, honest, brave and clever. She does not take advantage of her position and can talk to anyone. I met her husband during a cross-border inquiry, as she did. He seems a good bloke. How is she getting on here?’

Lance pulled a face. ‘So-so, at best. She’s seen as being too serious and a stickler for the rules. Of course she hasn’t been with us for long.’

‘It’s hard for women in the police. I would find it daunting to have to order a lot of Scotsmen about. There’s a sense of clannishness here that strikes me. Of course, I’m what most people still call a Paki. Cheers!’ Hoping he had not given offence, Baggo raised his glass.

Lance ignored the Paki remark and the implied criticism of the Scots. ‘What about this odd private eye who’s going about the place creating mayhem?’

‘Noel Osborne, known as “Inspector No”, was in charge of Wimbledon CID. I got on alright with him, but it was a different story for Flick Fortune. If there was an irregular way to do something he’d do it. He’d cleaned up the East End of London years ago, according to him, and he’d done it with planted evidence, false confessions, the lot. He and Fortune hated each other and were always scoring points. She complained about his sexist attitude and he mocked her university degree and called her Felicity, which is her name but she never uses it. That drove her mad. He’s an alcoholic and when he’s drinking he’s hopeless.’

‘I hear that was the problem at the Christmas Fayre. I wonder what he’ll be like tomorrow. Fancy another?’

The subtle, mature spirit made Baggo feel very good. He held out his glass. ‘This is even smoother than Amrut, our Indian single malt from Bangalore,’ he said.

Lance raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m flattered,’ he replied.

* * *

Osborne was aware of his head. It hurt. His mouth was dry. The phrase ‘like a badger’s arse’ swirled about in his mind. His stomach felt tender. He needed a pee. He opened his eyes. He was face down on a bed, some vomit on the sheet under his head. Lights were on. A lot of small bottles were scattered about. There was something tight round his throat. Elastic. He pulled at it and a flowing white beard came round from the back of his neck. Gingerly he got up and tried to walk but his ankles were tied together. He looked and saw a pair of red trousers half on, half off. He was wearing a strange, red jacket with fur trimmings. The horrors of the previous day began to come back to him. He shuffled past the open mini-bar door to the toilet and peed, not caring where he sprayed. Using all his coordination he drank water from the tap as he could not find a glass. Then he went back to bed. He tried to put the lights out but could not master the complexity of the switches. Avoiding the vomit, he carefully put his head down and went back to sleep.

‘It’s a dreich day, so you’ll need your breakfast,’ Jeannie said, looking out at a dark grey morning. Baggo did not have to go outside to realise it was going to be a day when the cold dampness would reach his bone marrow. Briefly he thought of Mumbai and sunshine then concentrated on swallowing the porridge in his bowl. He found it as unappetising as the previous night’s dinner had been delicious, but Jeannie was clearly proud of it and he had no wish to upset her. He was alert and ready for the day, having slept well in the Wallaces’ nineteen-year-old daughter’s room. She was at Aberdeen University studying English Literature, but if the posters decorating her room were anything to go by, her taste in music did not extend much beyond One Direction.

‘Lovely,’ he said after the last slimy spoonful had gone down. ‘No thanks,’ he added quickly as Jeannie offered him more. The two fried eggs and crispy bacon she put in front of him next were far more to his taste, and he ate happily while Lance cross-examined their seventeen-year-old son, Alan, about what he had done the previous night.

‘You were late home. Where were you?’

‘In St Andrews. At Willie Carlyle’s.’

‘So were Willie’s parents in?’

‘Aye.’ Alan, who had come down to breakfast late and bleary-eyed, wearing a tee shirt, tracksuit bottoms and nothing on his feet, spooned his porridge as if on autopilot.

‘Did they give you beer?’

‘Aye.’

‘And there were no spirits?’

‘Naw.’

‘And on Monday morning McKellar won’t tell me about you trying to get into pubs?’

‘Don’t know what he’ll say. Maybe he’ll try and frame us.’

‘Don’t cheek me. Were you in a pub?’

‘Only for a wee while, earlier. We just had a couple of pints.’

‘Which one was it?’

‘Didn’t catch the name. Relax, Dad. We weren’t caught.’

‘You’d be seen, though. By people who know who you are.’

‘By people who know who you are, Dad.’ Throughout this exchange Alan had not lifted his eyes from his bowl of porridge. Now he glared at his father across the table. Jeannie wrung her hands in distress as Lance ignored his bacon and egg and out-stared his son.

‘It must be hard to be the sergeant’s son in a small area,’ Baggo said, earning a silent nod from Alan. ‘And hard in a different way being the father.’

‘You can say that again,’ Lance said through clenched teeth. He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.

‘I was very lucky,’ Baggo went on, ‘as my dad was in medicine, not the law, and it was not too embarrassing if I got caught doing something I shouldn’t have.’

Jeannie said, ‘Alan hopes to study law at university next year.’ Smiling proudly at her son, she put a hand on her husband’s shoulder.

‘Lollipop Logan was there too,’ Alan said huffily. ‘He was totally pissed, he’s younger than me and his dad’s the sheriff.’

‘I don’t care. You are my son and as long as you live in my house it’s my rules.’

‘Why do you call him “Lollipop”?’ Baggo asked, trying to divert the boy from a serious confrontation.

Alan looked at his mother, blushed and put the last spoonful of porridge into his mouth. ‘Dunno,’ he mumbled, sliding his bacon and eggs to his place.

‘That breakfast will keep me going all day,’ Baggo said, his imagination working on possible origins for the nickname. ‘We should be moving, Lance. As I was dressing this morning I had a thought.’

‘Right. We have a big day ahead. And you,’ Lance turned to Alan, ‘consider yourself grounded till further notice.’

Alan put down his cutlery with a clatter, got up and hurried out of the room. ‘Fuck off, Dad,’ he shouted before he slammed the door.

In an instant Lance was out of his chair, making after him.

‘Stop!’ Jeannie almost screamed. ‘Stop, stop. You have your work to go to. And he’s a good boy, really he is. All his mates go to pubs, as you know. It’s hard for him being your son. Please try to understand.’ She got up and stood between her husband and the door, her shoulders quivering.

Lance sat back down, breathing deeply. ‘Sorry, Baggo,’ he said.

‘It is nothing I haven’t seen before,’ Baggo replied. About midway between father and son in age, he saw both viewpoints but identified more readily with the son’s. He changed the subject. ‘As I was dressing this morning,’ he said, ‘it occurred to me that there is one thing both victims have in common that no one has considered. They are both connected to Haleybourne Golf Club. Parsley was a member and Thornton was an assistant pro. Today I would like to go there and ask some questions, and I ask a big favour. Please could you get me to Edinburgh Airport so I can fly down to London and be there by lunchtime? I could go to either Heathrow or Gatwick but Heathrow would be closer.’

Lance scratched his head. ‘Why are you so intent on going after the murderer? I thought your interest was the money laundering.’

‘I’m sure the crimes are all related. And until we find the murderer and gather enough evidence it will be difficult to properly pursue the financial criminals. I do not want them to get off in return for giving evidence for the prosecution in the murder.’

Lance said, ‘I see your point. I suppose it might give us the breakthrough we need. If you dropped me in Cupar at HQ you could borrow our car, but we’d need it tomorrow. When will you be back?’

‘I hope later today, but I might be delayed.’

‘There’s no way Sanderson, who organises the car pool, would lend one out to someone not in Fife Division.’

‘What about Alan?’ Jeannie asked her husband. ‘He could drive Baggo through and come straight back. It could be a sort of punishment for last night.’

‘Or this morning,’ Lance said grimly. He saw Baggo looking eagerly at him and capitulated. ‘All right,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Jeannie, you’d better call him. But make sure he hurries.’

* * *

‘I’ll ride in the back,’ Baggo volunteered as Jeannie pressed a plastic box containing sandwiches into his hand. He made a mental note to bring a good present when he returned. Leaving most of his luggage, he had his computer over his shoulder and Knarston-Smith’s memory stick beside the money clip in his trouser pocket. For back-up he had sent the contents of the stick and No’s briefing from Saddlefell to a secure e-mail address, but he did not know what he would do with the clip. Perhaps, if he was positive he knew the identity of the murderer and there was not enough evidence … He preferred not to think about that.

Equally grim-faced and looking very much like father and son, Lance occupied the passenger seat while Alan took the wheel. It was a short drive to Cupar and it passed in silence until Lance hissed ‘speed’ as they reached the outskirts. Alan kept the speedometer at a steady thirty-five miles per hour until they slowed for traffic lights. Police HQ was at the far side of the town. Alan skidded as he brought the car to a halt outside the front entrance. Ignoring his son, Lance wished Baggo good luck as he got out. Baggo moved to the passenger seat and Alan revved the engine before screeching away.

‘You drive well,’ Baggo told Alan some miles down the road after he had safely avoided a tightly-packed group of lycra-clad cyclists with an apparent aversion to signalling.

Alan shrugged. There was a hint of a smile.

‘My dad and I fought like cat and dog when I was your age,’ Baggo said. ‘He tried to teach me to drive. Did your dad teach you?’

‘He tried.’ Now the smile was real, if rueful.

‘We came over from India when I was a bit younger than you,’ Baggo continued. ‘But in India the driving is dreadful. If you want to overtake you put your hand on the horn and go ahead. My dad had no idea about driving in England, but he thought he knew it all. He took me out when I was learning and we had terrible shouting matches. Once I was so angry that I got out of the car but he moved over to the driving seat and went home. It took me two hours to walk back – in the rain. Was it like that with you?’

‘A bit.’

‘I still argue with my father. He wants me to marry an Indian girl, a Brahmin like me and I don’t want that, so we fight. But I never ever forget that he loves me and would do anything to help me. One night when our relationship was at its worst, I got into trouble. I hit an English boy who had called me a Paki and made fun of me. I broke his nose pretty badly and his friends said I had started it. The police came to question me, and my dad, who was a consultant at the local hospital, stood up for me and got me a lawyer he paid for himself. The charges were eventually dropped, but I learned two lessons. One, whatever we might argue about, my dad was always there for me, and two, when you are in the police you can have a massive influence on other people’s lives. Your dad is a good man, and I can see he cares deeply about you. Part of his authority comes from his reputation, so having a son who flouts the law, even just going to pubs under-age, makes him look bad.’

Alan drove on in silence. Some miles further on he said, ‘I know he cares, but …’

‘He has a difficult time in a small community where people know each other. Will you go away to university?’

‘I hope to be accepted for Edinburgh. It depends on this year’s Highers.’

‘Good. Things will improve, especially when you reach eighteen. But in the meantime, cut him some slack and maybe he’ll do the same with you.’

Alan said nothing but nodded. Baggo asked about school and the conversation became increasingly relaxed. By the time they reached the Forth Road Bridge Alan had laughed a few times. When he dropped Baggo at the airport he grinned. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ he said.

* * *

Flick sat on the edge of the bath, wiping her face. She had never looked forward less to a day’s work. If morning sickness was not bad enough the cold, damp dawn leading to a short, bleak day depressed her further. She despaired of the little she had achieved in the inquiry. Chandavarkar had found out far more than she had, and she had needed Fergus’s analysis to begin to make sense of the situation. Most of all, the small-minded resentment against her because she was young, female and English was getting her down. If only she could have the baby and never go near a Scottish police office again …

‘Get a grip and buck up,’ she said out loud, rubbing herself vigorously with her towel. She hadn’t got where she was by giving up. This was a hugely difficult, high-pressure inquiry and she had made real progress. In the short time between the alarm waking her and getting out of bed, Fergus had cuddled her and said, ‘You are good at your job and I believe in you. Don’t let anyone get you down.’ It was something to hang on to. And maybe she should give a little, like calling Chandavarkar Baggo. If he didn’t mind, why should she? He was an outsider, like her, but he had the gift of getting on with people in a way she never could.

In the car as she drove to Cupar for the daily briefing she thought about what she should say. About one thing she was determined, she would not tell them that she would be off the case within twenty-four hours.

The officers assembled for the briefing looked and sounded as grim as they had the previous day. If any were pleased to get overtime they failed to show it. They fell silent for Flick, who began by taking them through the information on the whiteboard, now decorated with photographs of the characters featured. Then she called on different officers to report. McKellar confirmed that early on Friday morning Mrs Eglinton had booked a time on the Eden in the names of Eglinton and Parsley. A number of officers had tried to identify the chambermaid said to have told Osborne about the gold money clip in Saddlefell’s possession. They had not been successful. Flick ordered them to keep trying.

Gilsland had with him in Cupar the computers seized in the search but had yet to find anything interesting on them. They were well protected by passwords and he admitted that it would probably be necessary to call in officers who were also IT specialists. He added that he was being careful in case a wrong move should delete everything. Wallace reported that nothing relevant had been picked up by the microphone in Forbes’s room. He said that di Falco was continuing to question guests but had not learned anything of note.

Amy Moncrieff had visited Grace Thornton’s friend, Ina Campbell, the previous evening. Mrs Campbell had been devastated to hear of Bruce’s murder and alarmed to hear that his mother had visited him minutes before he died. At first she did not want to speak to the police, but when informed that Mrs Thornton had told them about their lunchtime meeting, had recounted what they had said.

It had been, Mrs Campbell explained, the first time Bruce’s mother had mentioned his sexuality. With her husband refusing to admit the boy was gay, Grace had talked about Bruce being confused and needing to sort himself out. Though the two women had been best friends for decades, it had been very hard for Grace to describe the circumstances that had brought Bruce back to St Andrews without visiting the parents who had doted on him.

Ina had secretly entertained doubts about Bruce as he had never had a girlfriend. She assured her friend that it did not reflect badly on his parents, and that he still loved them. However he needed them to accept the truth, and it was that need for acceptance that created the barrier between them. There were many worse things in life than having a gay son. Gay sons were often more dutiful and loving than those who were conventionally married. Inside, Bruce would be longing to restore his relationship with his parents, especially his mother.

Ina Campbell had been uncertain about how much Grace had accepted, but she had been persuaded to visit Bruce and talk to him face to face. Ina had reassured her that if she showed some understanding, he would more than likely meet her half way. ‘Did I do wrong?’ she had asked Moncrieff, wringing her hands with anxiety. ‘Is it my fault …?’ That possibility in the forefront of her mind, Moncrieff had tried to be both non-committal and consoling.

‘Well done, Constable,’ Flick said when she finished, aware of sneers on the faces of a number of the men. ‘You got that absolutely right. Now, we have a lot of material, and I want to have it all collated by the end of today, so every statement must be typed up and all information logged. We need to find out why these two people were killed, and to do that we have to keep talking to suspects, hotel staff, anyone who might tell us something. Remember, it’s the small details that often unlock a case, so don’t be shy about reporting things that seem unimportant. They may turn out to be vital. Let’s make today count.’