Murder on the Second Tee (3 page)

Flick tried to regain the initiative. ‘Why are you here at all?’

‘A conference, Inspector. A useful opportunity to discuss matters of mutual concern away from the pressures of everyday business.’

‘And were there any divisions of opinion among you?’

The thin man screwed up his face and shook his head. Saddlefell replied smoothly, ‘There always will be, Inspector, when you have a diverse group of independent minded, intelligent people. But yes, our chairman died recently and we planned to elect his successor here. And, to be quite straightforward with you, we have found it hard to agree on whether to lower the threshold of wealth for our clients. You see, we deal only with very high net worth clients, and we manage their financial affairs. We presently do not accept anyone who is not worth at least three million pounds. Some directors wish to lower this figure to one point five million, and we have yet to resolve that issue. You see, we are a niche bank. We say, rightly, that we carry great people, freeing them to get on with whatever business made them rich in the first place.’

‘Hence Bucephalus, Alexander the Great’s famous horse.’ Flick nodded, pleased that a childhood memory had flashed back to her and noting a slight raising of Saddlefell’s eyebrows. ‘Do you want to be elected chairman?’ she asked him.

‘I have made myself available,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I don’t know if anyone else will put their hat in the ring.’

The door burst open and four grim-faced men in golfing clothes walked in.

‘That body on the second tee …’ the speaker was short, with a pot belly straining against a lime green sweater. A tiny mouth with fleshy lips was set in a round, flat, white face. His accent suggested an expensive education.

‘Hugh Parsley, I’m afraid,’ Saddlefell said quickly. ‘These are the police,’ he explained, gesturing at Flick and Wallace, ‘and I have fully briefed them about why we are all here.’

The little mouth twitched. ‘Was he murdered?’ the first golfer demanded. ‘The policeman beside the white tent said …’

‘Yes.’ Glaring at him, Saddlefell interrupted again. ‘I trust by some local madman,’ he said, looking at Flick.

There was a moment of silence. One of the four golfers, who looked to be in his early thirties, with a thatch of luxuriant, dark hair and wearing a crazily patterned jumper, rushed to sit beside the woman in the tee shirt Flick thought of as the party gatecrasher and grasped her hand. She did not react. The youngest looking golfer, tall and darkly handsome, put his hand to his mouth as if he might be sick.

When she saw no one was going to say more, Flick brought the meeting to a close. ‘Well thank you. This is a murder inquiry, and I hope not to cause too much inconvenience, but I would be obliged if you would all go to your rooms and stay there until either I or Sergeant Wallace have seen you. This may take most of the morning, but you will understand that it has to be done.’

Looking less than happy but raising no objection, the Bucephalus party filed out of the room.

Flick told Wallace to begin by interviewing whoever had served the Parsleys’ table the previous evening. She decided to start with the Eglintons.

‘Typical New Labour peer.’ Eileen Eglinton ignored her husband’s warning scowl. ‘He made a packet,’ she said meaningfully, ‘then gave a lot to charity, muscular dystrophy I believe, and even more to the Labour Party. Now he’s Lord Saddlefell of Tarn Howes.’ Her clipped vowels suggested generations of real aristocracy.

Flick looked at her rather than her husband. ‘Do you think he’ll be the next chairman?’ she asked.

Mrs Eglinton’s size was emphasised by capacious dark green trousers and a loose-fitting maroon sweater. Her lower jaw protruded slightly and her brown, prematurely wrinkled complexion testified to a life spent outdoors. While downstairs she had stared out of the window, she now turned an unblinking gaze on Flick.

‘I hope not. They’ll elect Simon if they know what’s good for them.’

‘That’s up to them, my dear.’ Simon Eglinton, the tall thin man, had a head that was round, white and smooth. His wispy, straw-coloured hair needed attention from a hairdresser. He appeared to have checked the distress he had shown earlier. He looked steadily at Flick then put aside the putter with which he had been making practice strokes without a ball and sat on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands clasped.

‘Did Mr Parsley have any views on that matter?’ Flick asked.

‘Oh, Sauce was always loyal,’ Mrs Eglinton said before her husband could answer. She occupied an upright chair beside the window. A copy of
The Times
, folded at the crossword, lay on the table in front of her.

‘Sauce?’ Flick asked.

Simon Eglinton got in before his wife. ‘Yes. Hugh Parsley – HP. The sauce, you know. It was his nickname at school and he’s never shaken it off.’ He paused then added quietly, ‘Never shook it off.’

‘Simon and Hugh were at Eton together,’ Mrs Eglinton explained.

‘I gather you dined with the Parsleys last night?’ Flick said, thinking that the dead man looked younger than his schoolfriend.

Mrs Eglinton was quicker than her husband again. ‘Yes. We went to the Sands Grill on the ground floor. They do a decent steak.’

‘Just the four of you?’

‘The others went to the Road Hole Restaurant.’

‘What did you discuss over dinner?’

‘I banned business talk. The men talked golf, and we also discussed holidays.’ Simon Eglinton, apparently content for his wife to field the questions, nodded agreement.

‘How was Mr Parsley?’

‘He seemed fine. A bit cross about not getting a time on the Old this morning. They have a ballot, you know. He relaxed as the meal progressed.’

‘How long was he married to Mrs Parsley?’

‘About eight years. He was divorced then got in tow with Belinda when he was with Goldman Sachs. I believe she was a telephonist.’ Mrs Eglinton pulled at her left ear. Flick noticed that while the skin of her left hand was rough, with short nails and nicotine staining, her right hand was much smoother, the nails manicured.

Mrs Eglinton smiled. ‘I can see you’re observant, Inspector. I’m left-handed and use it to do my gardening. In company, I hold my drink with my right hand.’ She held up an imaginary wine glass. ‘I enjoy a drink, but I’m passionate about my garden. We have a couple of acres.’

Years of competing in a man’s world had left Flick’s confidence shallow and brittle. Mrs Eglinton’s easy self-assurance grated on her. She saw the compliment as patronising, however it may have been meant.

Abruptly she asked, ‘Was their marriage happy?’ She knew she sounded lower middle class but didn’t care.

‘I wouldn’t say it was unhappy.’ Ignoring Flick’s raised eyebrow, Mrs Eglinton carried on, ‘How is poor Belinda? Is someone with her?’

‘She’s as you might expect, Mrs Eglinton. And yes, a female officer is with her.’

‘Well, I shall do what I can for the girl. She was never very comfortable with Hugh’s colleagues. We’re the nearest she’s got to having friends at the hotel.’

‘I’ve seen her talking quite happily to Mark Forbes,’ her husband interjected.

Mrs Eglinton snorted dismissively.

‘Where did Mr Parsley stand on the issue raised by Lord Saddlefell about lowering the threshold for clients to one point five million pounds?’ Flick tried to keep any note of awe out of her voice.

Simon Eglinton coughed. ‘This is very confidential, Inspector. I trust that what we tell you will go no further than necessary?’

‘I understand.’

‘Things have been difficult in our business since 2008. Terry Saddlefell has always been expansionist, while I believe in doing things as we have always done them, and I’m happy to say that the bank is doing well again. Hugh Parsley was in my camp. Oliver Davidson, one of the golfers, supports me. Saddlefell has Nicola Walkinshaw, that’s the lady in black, and Mark Forbes on his side. Forbes was the golfer who spoke when they came in. Since our chairman Sir Paul Monmouth died in September, there has been an even number on the board – six, and none of us on our side is prepared to allow the acting chairman the deciding vote on an issue of this importance. We are all working directors. We have never had non-executives on the board. This weekend we have with us two of our senior employees to inform our discussions, and we intended to elect one of them to bring us back up to seven. I think Gerald Knarston-Smith is the obvious choice, and I have reason to believe that he is against lowering the threshold. I suspect that Sheila Anderson, the other candidate, may hold the opposite view. Gerald was one of the golfers. Sheila was in the tracksuit. I suppose now there will be two vacancies, but I intend to make sure any election is postponed until we know what happened to Hugh.’

‘Do you know how Mr Parsley came to be on the golf course last night, sir?’ Flick asked.

Simon Eglinton smiled. ‘Hugh was always attracted to forbidden fruit, Inspector. At school, at university and during his first marriage.’ He shook his head.

‘Both marriages,’ his wife corrected him.

He frowned at her then continued, ‘The girls had gone to bed and we’d discussed some business in the library with Nicola and Sheila. It was late. “C’mon, Eggers,” he said, “let’s do some illegal putting.” So we did. He got golf jackets, putters and balls from the club store and we strolled out of the hotel and round to the sixteenth green of the Old. It was ridiculous, with visibility practically zero, but we’d played on the Eden yesterday afternoon and Hugh’s putting had been abysmal. I’d suggested a tip he was desperate to try, and so we went over to the first green where we could at least see something. The R and A is floodlit and there is some light from the town. We spent about ten minutes fooling about but it was still very silly. I said I was going in but he wanted to stay outside. We said goodnight and that was the last I saw of him.’ His voice caught.

‘Did either of you put a ball in the burn?’ Flick asked.

Eglinton appeared puzzled. ‘No. Not while I was there, anyway.’

‘Could you describe his putter, please, sir?’

‘Was that what was used …?’

Flick said nothing.

‘Well, it was a hideous thing with a blue grip and metal bits sticking out the back. I told him he’d be better mashing spuds with it and getting a proper putter, like that one,’ he indicated the traditional blade he had been handling, ‘but he wouldn’t listen. He said half the pros use things like his one.’

‘Did you see anyone else out then?’

‘No.’

‘What did you do after you left Mr Parsley?’

Eglinton looked startled then smiled. ‘Of course. You have to ask. I came to bed. And stayed here in this room. I imagine I got here about half past eleven. Is that right, dear?’

‘I wasn’t looking at my watch, but I suppose so,’ his wife agreed.

‘And you, Mrs Eglinton, what did you do after dinner?’

‘I came up here. I’m reading a good book at the moment, a biography of Harold Macmillan, and I wanted to make some progress with it.’

‘Did you leave the room at all after that?’

‘Well, Inspector, I am one of those smokers the health police are trying to criminalise, so every now and again I sneak out to enjoy my perfectly legal pleasure.’

Flick winced. She blamed cigarettes for her mother’s untimely death and was vehemently anti-smoking. ‘Alright, but where did you go?’ she asked, an edge to her voice.

Mrs Eglinton paid no attention to Flick’s disapproval. ‘Beside the front door. You meet all sorts there. The night before I was chatted up by one of the waiters.’ She gave a vaguely equine snort.

‘Did you go for a cigarette after your husband returned?’

She screwed up her face. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘How long were you out of the room?’

‘Ten, twenty minutes, maybe. I can’t remember. I sometimes have two. And some fresh air.’

‘Did you see anyone else from the bank party then?’

‘No.’

‘Do you remember your wife leaving the room, sir?’ Flick turned to Eglinton.

‘Yes I do. I decided to have a bath. My wife was back when I came out of the bathroom.’

‘How long were you in the bathroom?’

‘I can’t remember. I had a good soak. It had been cold outside. Twenty minutes, maybe.’

‘Did you go out again, Mrs Eglinton?’

‘No. Not till breakfast.’

‘Do either of you remember anything at all that might help us catch Mr Parsley’s killer?’

‘No.’ Mrs Eglinton spoke firmly.

Eglinton shook his head. ‘No.’ Visibly controlling himself, he pointed an unsteady finger at Flick. ‘I met Hugh Parsley during my first week at Eton, Inspector. We fought then, fists, kicks and hair-pulling. The real thing. Then we made it up and became friends. He was my best man and I his – twice. I persuaded him to leave Goldman Sachs to join Bucephalus, the bank my grandfather founded, and he was very good for us, as we were good for him. We were close, Inspector. When two people know each other well for many years …’ He looked away, his shoulders quivering. ‘May God forgive whoever is responsible. I never will. I wish we still hanged murderers.’ The last sentence was barely audible. Abruptly, he turned to face Flick. Speaking slowly and emphatically he said, ‘I don’t want his memory, or the reputation of my family’s bank, to be dragged through the mud.’

Seeing a passion and depth of feeling she had not expected, Flick said, ‘I understand, sir. There is one more thing. The body is not nice to look at, but it will be tidied up after the post mortem. Late this afternoon, Mrs Parsley will be taken to Dundee to formally identify her husband. Would you be good enough to accompany her?’

Eglinton looked startled then apprehensive. ‘Of course. I shall do my unhappy duty. Not nice to look at?’

‘Some of the blows struck his face, but these things can be disguised,’ Flick said.

His wife stood up as if to end the discussion. ‘My husband has always put his duty first, Inspector. His directorship of his family’s bank is almost a sacred trust to him. If he believed it would be better in Saddlefell’s hands, he would support him all the way. I want you to understand that.’

‘Thank you both very much,’ Flick said. ‘Someone will be in touch regarding the identification, sir. Meanwhile, please don’t leave the hotel.’ She could sense the Eglintons relaxing as she closed the door behind her.

In the foyer she found di Falco busy with departing guests. There had been no problems, but no worthwhile information either. Then she liaised with Wallace who had interviewed two directors, Nicola Walkinshaw and Mark Forbes, and Sheila Anderson, the Client Wealth Manager. Forbes could not recall seeing Parsley at all the previous evening and said he had gone to his room to read when dinner was over. He said he had not left his room. Walkinshaw and Anderson confirmed that after dinner they had talked with Parsley and Eglinton. Saddlefell had organised a big table in the Road Hole Restaurant and afterwards some had gone to the Jigger Inn, just outside the hotel. Walkinshaw and Anderson were in the lobby on their way there when Parsley had invited them into the more comfortable library for a malt whisky. They had stayed for nearly an hour, discussing business. The main topic had been international corporate taxation. Both women had commented that the two men had drunk a good deal, sampling some expensive malts. Walkinshaw and Anderson said they had left at the same time, about quarter past ten, and gone to their rooms and stayed there. They had both made phone calls, using the phones in their rooms, Anderson to her husband, at home with their two small children, and Walkinshaw to her partner, a barrister named Freddy Middleton who was due to arrive later on Friday evening. None of those interviewed had seen anything at all suspicious.

‘I didn’t find out any more about the bank than Lord Saddlefell told us, ma’am,’ Wallace said. ‘Do you get the feeling they’re clamming up on us?’

‘The Eglintons had plenty to say.’ Flick summarised what they had told her then paused. Absent-mindedly, she felt her stomach then took her hand away rapidly. She added, ‘But I thought Lord Saddlefell seemed to be trying to put a lid on what we learn about the bank. Do you think we should try to squeeze more out of the others before we see him together?’

‘Right, ma’am. Oh, I forgot. The waiter who served the Parsleys and the Eglintons last night in the Sands Grill said they came in at eight and left about half past nine. They ate steaks and drank a lot of expensive wine. He heard them talking about golf, and the Parsleys were planning a trip to India. The waiter told them about Mumbai, he said. An odd fellow, pale for an Indian. He speaks with a bit of an Indian accent and, excuse me, ma’am, a bit English like you. He seems to know you. He gave me this.’

Wallace dug into a pocket and produced an envelope. Scrawled across the front was ‘INSPECTOR Fortune. Personal’. Flick opened it and found a single sheet of paper torn from a notebook. She recognised the spidery hand which had written, ‘I shall be at British Golf Museum near old-fashioned ball maker from 10.30 till 11.30. Must talk. Baggo.’

Flick swore under her breath. Seeing Wallace’s quizzical look, she muttered, ‘This might change everything. You organise the incident room. I think Cupar would be best. Make more inquiries with the staff, and maybe move on to the other non-director, Knarston-Smith. See what he says about the chairmanship and who did what after dinner but definitely leave Saddlefell till I get back. Oh and get hold of Parsley’s laptop. He’s sure to have brought it with him.’ She got up and headed for her car.