Murder on the Second Tee (6 page)

‘The injury to the back of the neck could also have been caused by the face of the putter. Marks on the skin would be consistent with that. The injuries to the left temple were caused by repeated striking of that area by two different surfaces, probably the face and then the back of the putter. I estimate that around seven blows in all were landed there.

‘Here comes my reconstruction. Mr Parsley has his back to his assailant when he is struck from behind by a right-handed person holding the putter in a conventional grip and using a baseball-type swing. The blow lands just above and in front of his right ear. Had Parsley seen the person swinging the putter he would have almost certainly avoided being hit or deflected the blow. He falls forward and a second blow to the back of his neck is struck probably by the same implement. Face down, he is then attacked by a right-handed person using first the face then the back of the putter, standing in front of Parsley’s head and employing a golf-type swing. Had it been a left-hander they would have to have stood very close to his torso. More importantly, the last few swings left an impression on the skin and bone, and I can tell that when the back of the putter was being used the toe of the club pointed down, not up as it would have if swung left-handed. I said I might be accused of speculation, but listening to myself, I would be happy to defend my reasoning in court as deduction. Is all that clear?’

‘Thank you, yes. How many attackers do you believe there were?’

‘I can’t say. It could well have been a single assailant.’

‘Can you comment on how strong any of the attackers might be?’

‘Some of the blows would have required a degree of strength. A reasonably but not exceptionally strong woman could have managed.’

‘You said the heaviest blow was to the right side of the head?’

‘I think so. I base that on the damage to the skull. That blow caused significant bony injury. Although the left side of the face appeared to have got the worst of it, the underlying bone was not so severely affected.’

‘Should we be looking for blood spatter on trouser legs?’

‘There would have been some spatter from the last few swings, and drops of blood might have reached the feet and legs of the assailant.’

‘What about the timing?’ Flick asked.

‘I’ve based the time of death mainly on body temperature. The slight evidence of post-mortem lividity and rigor mortis would be consistent with my estimate. So would the stomach contents. I am told that he ate between eight-fifteen and nine-thirty. His food had not yet passed out of his stomach into the small intestine. If he was deeply unconscious after the assault his digestive tract might have worked more slowly than usual. I believe that the assault took place at least one and perhaps two hours before death. The blows to each temple fractured the bone which splintered and tore arteries. Blood from the arteries collected inside the skull and formed clots. These continued to grow and compressed both sides of the brain. I cannot be exact, but I estimate that the clots we observed took between one and two hours to form. The clot on the right side was larger than that on the left. Of course, once the heart stopped the clots stopped growing. A similar haemorrhage was found at the base of the skull and that increased the pressure on the brain. After the attack it is likely he lay where he was until he died.’

‘Had he been given immediate medical attention, would he have lived?’

‘Perhaps. An operation to drill holes in the skull and relieve the pressure on the brain might have saved him. Or it might not. He would probably have suffered permanent brain damage.’

‘You believe the attack took place where he was found?’

‘Yes. There was a significant quantity of blood, including spatter, on the grass round his head.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Flick said, genuinely grateful for the fullness of the information. Too many pathologists, in her view, were wary of committing themselves to anything they could not justify with unassailable confidence.

‘Not at all Inspector. How are your inquiries proceeding?’

‘They’re just proceeding so far, but your input has been really helpful.’

‘Well good hunting then. And feel free to call me if you think I can help further. And, Inspector Fortune,’

‘Yes?’

‘You ask some good questions.’ The phone clicked.

Trying not to feel too pleased with herself after that unexpected compliment, she picked up her green pen and began to write on the whiteboard.

Noel Osborne, formerly the Met’s ‘Inspector No’, swallowed the last bite of his churro and wiped the sugar from his hands onto the leather upholstery of the Mercedes. He felt inside the bag he had bought in Malaga Airport. Two left. Thank goodness for the packs of sugar-roasted almonds he had in his case. When he wasn’t drinking he needed them as much as cigarettes. He scratched his crotch then lit up.

‘Not in the car please, sir!’ The driver had one of these gravelly voices the Sweaties thought made them sound hard. Mustn’t call them Sweaties, Osborne reminded himself. He was on their territory. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke at the driver just to show who was boss. The man was an idiot: hadn’t even got his name right. Just as well he had spotted the Old Course Hotel board the fool was carrying, or he’d still be at Edinburgh Airport. He sucked in another satisfying lungful then, unhurriedly, pressed the button to open the window. When he felt the blast of cold, damp air he threw the cigarette out quickly and closed the window.

He looked out over the Fife countryside but in the early evening darkness could make out nothing. A couple of weeks had passed since he had answered the phone in his rented apartment near the beach in Fuengirola and heard a man with a North of England accent who called himself Lord Saddlefell ask if he would investigate a murder. He had thought it was a wind-up but had Googled the names Saddlefell had mentioned and discovered that Sir Paul Monmouth, chairman of the Bucephalus Bank, had been killed in a hit and run incident in London. In subsequent calls Saddlefell had told him that he was sure Monmouth had been murdered but the directors did not want the police prying into their clients’ affairs. Osborne was to find out who was responsible without troubling about things that did not concern him. Having realised the man was for real, Osborne had haggled over his fee. He wanted to move out of town, rent a place with a swimming pool up in the hills near Mijas, and that would cost money.

Within an hour of Parsley’s body being found Saddlefell had phoned in a panic. There had been another murder. He gave in to all Osborne’s demands and told him to get himself to St Andrews as soon as he could. After a lunchtime flight Osborne would reach St Andrews in time for dinner. With some apprehension he asked himself if the bankers would all be wankers.

He closed his eyes. Twenty-four hours earlier he had been in bed, with Maria on top. He visualised her dark nipples brushing his lips, his hands kneading her fat arse … If he moved to Mijas would she move in? Did he want her to move in? Before she came on the scene his life had been given over to internet porn and cheap Rioja. But when a woman got her claws into a man she would take liberties. That was a law of nature. Already she was bloody touchy and insisted he paid her for housekeeping not sex. It was just as well he was off the batter. He was an all or nothing man and for this job he would need to be sharp …

‘Welcome to the Old Course Hotel, Mr van Bilt.’ Osborne opened his eyes to find a clown in a kilt holding his door open.

‘You mean Osborne,’ he muttered as he clambered out. ‘Pillock,’ he added audibly once in the foyer.

Five minutes later he was in his room, wondering what he should do next. The phone rang. It was Saddlefell, who wanted to see him urgently. Osborne was hungry so they agreed to meet at the Sands Grill on the ground floor.

When Osborne emerged from the lift, Saddlefell was walking up and down outside the restaurant, agitation in every jerky stride and anxious glance. After a peremptory handshake he led Osborne to a table in an alcove where they would not be overheard. Sensing weakness, Osborne’s confidence rose.

‘You come well recommended,’ Saddlefell began.

Osborne tried not to show surprise. His entire career had been a battle against authority.

‘You got results,’ the banker continued. ‘And if the Justice Department didn’t like the appeals against contrived confessions, planted evidence and police brutality, many in the Home Office did like the way you put the bad guys behind bars. I believe you know Lord Carr of Trustworth? No? He knows you and was very impressed by your handling of the literary agent murders in London.’

‘Called for a delicate touch,’ Osborne conceded.

‘And that’s exactly what we need here. We have clients who are rich, important and sensitive to bad publicity. I am convinced that someone among the senior people in the bank is a murderer. I need you to find out who it is before the police do, and to make sure they get evidence which will sink the guilty party. I think you know what I mean.’

‘I’ve always believed in old-fashioned methods,’ Osborne said ambiguously.

Saddlefell smiled. ‘Excellent. You’ve brought your laptop, as I asked? Good. I’ll e-mail profiles of all the bank people here and what I know about these two killings. Save it on your computer then delete the e-mail. Have your supper and you can read it all tonight. Oh, and I’d better give you this. The password for the zip file.’ He pushed a folded piece of paper across the table. ‘Tomorrow you can start interviewing. The other directors have agreed that you should be brought in, for the reasons I’ve given, and the two senior employees we have with us have been told to cooperate. Let me know if anyone gives you problems, any right to remain silent crap. That includes wives or partners. I’ll leave it up to you when you tell the police what you’re doing. I don’t know whether they’ll help or not. They’ve got an inexperienced woman heading their inquiry so I expect you to have her for breakfast.’

‘What’s her name?’ Osborne asked.

‘Inspector Fortune. Quite young. Not bad-looking, either. From her accent I’d say she might come from London. Is anything wrong?’

‘We’ve met,’ Osborne said. Inside he was cursing. Flick bloody by-the-book Fortune would suss out what he was up to in no time, and she wouldn’t lift a finger to help him.

‘Terry! Good to see you at last!’ A large American with a Southern drawl sat down at the table and wrung Saddlefell’s hand as if he had saved his life.

‘Webb!’ Saddlefell responded with an enthusiasm Osborne could tell was phony. ‘Noel Osborne, meet Webb van Bilt III, a business colleague from Atlanta. He’s missing Thanksgiving just to be with us.’

‘This trip has gotten me out of a heap of trouble back home. Marlene wanted me to go to Kansas to meet her folks while my mom expected me to be with her in Sacramento. This way both are a little mad at me, but not a lot. And I don’t have to eat turkey, which I hate.’

‘Well, thank you for coming. Did you have a good journey?’

‘Until I reached Edinburgh. There was no car to meet me off the London plane. Eventually I hitched a ride crammed in the back of the hotel mini-bus, but now my suitcase is missing. It must have gotten left behind at the airport in the confusion. But what’s this about Hugh? Is it true he’s been murdered? It’s terrible. I can’t believe it.’

‘’Fraid so,’ Saddlefell said. ‘I’ll tell you about it over a drink. I’m sorry about the car. I told Knarston-Smith to make sure that one should pick you up.’

‘Well, best laid schemes, and all that,’ van Bilt said. ‘Are you eating now? I could sure use a Martini. To drink a toast to Hugh, if nothing else.’

Saddlefell said, ‘I could do with a drink too. Noel’s hungry I believe, so we’ll see you tomorrow.’ He smiled pointedly at Osborne, got up and left.

Long used to rejection, Osborne had a look at the menu but he fancied a curry and the bank was paying.

‘Oi, waiter!’ he shouted. ‘Bring me a prawn vindaloo.’

* * *

‘Service!’ With a sigh of relief, Baggo put the steaming dish up. ‘No, hang on!’ he said as the waiter reached for it. He sprinkled some chopped coriander over the brown sauce. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

As soon as he had received the summons to the Sands Grill kitchen he regretted boasting to his new work-mates about his skill in creating hot Indian dishes. Prawn vindaloo was not even on the a la carte menu but Graham Fallon, the chef, had a can-do attitude and Baggo had been astonished at the variety of ingredients available, including garam masala. There had been no ghee, but he had made do with unsalted butter to fry the chilli, garlic, onion, ginger, curry powder, turmeric and vinegar he hoped would burn the roof off the mouth of the awkward guest.

‘Who is this man?’ he asked.

‘I heard he was a private eye,’ one of the waiters said. ‘I thought Lord Saddlefell was going to eat with him, but they talked for a bit and Saddlefell left with an American.’

Baggo went to the door leading to the dining room and looked out. His heart sank. Redder, fatter and sleazier-looking than he remembered, Inspector No was munching his way through his curry with obvious relish. Baggo’s first instinct was to hide as No would ruin his cover. Then he had another thought and approached his old boss.

‘Is your prawn vindaloo alright, sir?’ he asked.

No did not look up. ‘Yeh,’ he said, shoving another heaped spoonful into his mouth.

Waiters are invisible, Baggo thought. ‘I remembered that this was your favourite, and I am delighted to have satisfied such an esteemed guest.’

No looked up. It took a moment and a glance at the staff nameplate before the penny dropped. ‘Baggo!’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘My career has changed direction, gov. I am now in catering. Eventually I hope to have my own place, but first I must learn my trade.’

‘But what about the police?’

‘It was one old-fashioned method too many, gov. There was this dirty, rotten scoundrel we were never going to catch. I planted a fingerprint, got found out and was drummed out of the Brownies.’

‘That would never have happened in my day.’

Was No re-inventing himself? ‘Planting evidence, gov?’

‘I mean getting sacked. Unless you got found out in court and had all the do-gooders baying for your blood.’

‘May I ask what you are doing here, gov?’

‘I’m here to catch the person who’s been murdering bankers. The Bucephalus Bank wants it done with discretion.’ He paused, scraped his plate, and continued, ‘You could help me, Baggo. You could have been a good copper. Let me know, will you, if you hear anything that might help. There’d be something in it for you.’ He winked.

‘Of course, gov, but mum’s the word. They don’t know about my past life in the police, so please do not spill the beans. To anyone.’

‘Well keep in touch. I’m in room 215. And I’ve got a lot of homework waiting for me on my laptop, so must go.’ He burped ostentatiously.

‘I am delighted you enjoyed your meal, sir,’ Baggo said loudly. ‘It has been an honour to cook for such a discriminating gentleman.’

No thought for a moment, fumbled in his wallet and produced a five euro note. ‘The way the euro’s going the only thing this will be good for is wiping the ring of fire the morning after a good curry,’ he said.

‘A most superior guest,’ Baggo observed on returning to the kitchen.

* * *

‘Are you sure it’s not some deranged local?’ Fergus Maxwell asked Flick as they cuddled each other on the sofa, disengaged from the film on the TV.

‘I just feel there’s something very odd about that bank. The people I saw today are like no one I’ve encountered.’

‘You know what they call bankers. But if this is all to do with some great money laundering scheme, would the murder not be pre-meditated? Look, the weapon was found by the murderer or murderers at the scene and left there, and the repeated violent blows are consistent with rage, frenzy even. Don’t you think?’

She nodded. ‘I see what you mean, and I ask myself how anyone apart from the Eglintons could have known where Parsley was, assuming he was the intended target.’

‘In the dark it could have been a case of mistaken identity,’ Fergus agreed. ‘But from what you say, all the directors might have known where Parsley was. They all have rooms on the first floor overlooking the Old, don’t they?’

She nodded.

‘Well, when Parsley and Eglinton walked from the sixteenth to the first green they would have passed in front of the hotel. It’s a terrific view over to the R and A, which is lit up and looks better than it ever does in daylight. It would have been quite natural for any of the directors to go out on their balcony to soak up the atmosphere. And I bet Parsley and his friend were chatting and making a noise as they went. They could have seen Eglinton return to the hotel, too.’

‘Good point, darling. Thanks.’ She cursed herself for not thinking of that. In a marriage between two people with the same rank in different divisions, mutually supportive respect was seasoned by unspoken rivalry.

‘Would you like me to check on all the recent releases to see if there is someone out there who might have done this? I’ve a better chance of recognising the names of local criminals than you have. I’m not interfering in your case,’ he added, feeling her stiffen.

‘Yes, please,’ she said after biting her lip. ‘It’s been a tough day,’ she whispered. ‘I was sick at the crime scene. Made me feel so pathetic. Then at the end, the sheriff refused a warrant to search the bankers’ rooms or even the clothes they sent to the laundry. “Lack of probable cause,” he said, despite what MacGregor told me about blood spatters. How am I supposed to catch whoever did this?’

Fergus patted her stomach as if it were delicate porcelain. ‘It’s such a difficult time for you. And this case would come along now. How’s your team?’

‘Oh, McKellar’s surly. The rest are fine. Wallace is dependable. How did he come to be called Lance? It’s not Scottish.’

‘I’ve heard he was conceived after his parents had watched
Camelot.
I’m glad you’ve got him. And don’t under-estimate McKellar. He’s been a bobby in St Andrews for nearly thirty years. He knows all the problem families, keeps his ear close to the ground. You should ask him tomorrow if he’s heard anything interesting and I bet his attitude will improve.’

‘I doubt it. His resentment of me seeps out of his pores.’

‘Darling, it was once said of Maggie Thatcher that she was unpopular in Scotland because she was bossy, English and a woman. She’d have got off with being any two of these, but all three and she was finished up here.’ He grinned.