The Defective Detective : Murder on the Links (3 page)

  “Electrocuted?”

  “Yeah.  Wide eyes, hair standing on end, smell of burning.  It’s a dead giveaway isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah.  That and the massive bloody battery and wires in the golf cart thingy.”

  “And he was soaking.  Conducts the electricity a treat.  Sprinklers mysteriously came on before it happened did they?” I looked over to the lawyer who nodded dutifully.

  “Device?”

  “Yeah.  Arthritis.  Didn’t do it.”

  Not one to take this lying down.  Mitch rounded on the lawyer.

  “Well one of you two
must
have done it.  I don’t care what the evidence says!” he said, his eyes darting from the lawyer to Travers and back again.  “You.  You
did
do it didn’t you?”

  “I told you I did,” said the lawyer.  “Now prove it or piss off.”

  “Right,” said Mitch.  “Well then.”

  He wagged his finger at the lawyer.

  “Ah,” he said, turning back to Travers.  “But I did find a cigar butt on the corpse.  There!”

  He beamed at Travers.  He turned around and beamed at me. 

  I shook my head.  He stopped beaming.

  “No?”

  “Nope,” I said.  “Different brand isn’t it?”

  Mitch stamped across the room and snatched the cigar Travers was holding.

  “Shit,” he said and gave it back.  Mitch turned around to look at me, “Where are you getting this from Clint?”

  I shrugged.

  “Oh bollocks to it,” said Mitch.  “If you’re so clever you work it out then smart arse.”

  The policeman who had been hovering in the centre of the room finally snapped into action.

  “Right,” he said.  “So we’re happy it’s not the lady lawyer.  Which I’m quite glad about.  Mr Travers here appears to have been unable to set up such an elaborate trap.”

  “Steady on,” said Travers.

  “Sorry,” he continued.  “So that means we’re back to you then, doesn’t it.  You were there before anyone else.  Apparently asleep although frankly I have my doubts so let’s stop messing about, come on, I’m taking you down the station.”

  The other policeman put his hand up to speak.  I nodded eagerly at him.

  “He said he’d never met any of these gentlemen before today.  Said they asked him to make up the numbers.”

  I laughed, “That’s good – make up the numbers? Get it?”

  Everyone stared.  That happened a lot.

  “Never mind. You,” I said pointing to the accountant.  “You did it.  I know you did it.”

  “Eh?” he replied. 

  “Officers, take
this
man into custody.  He’s the murderer and I have the evidence here.”

  I snatched a bunch of papers from a nearby desk and waved them comically at the bewildered accountant.  I looked around at everyone and waited for someone to move, to say something but everyone was staring at me as if I was Miss bloody Marple.  This was going to be difficult because I was just making it up as I went along.  I needed time to think but the officers started to move forward and all I could think was shit, shit, SHIT I need to think.  Please just

  “B
ah!” I said, my body making a strange involuntary noise just to make the room go quiet and stare at me.  “How long was I out for?”

  Mitch bent down to help me up.  I reached up and touched my left elbow.  I must have fallen on it as I went down.

  “Erm, just a couple of minutes.  Not long.  Clint,” Mitch said quietly in my ear as I began to stand.  “You’re on to something.  He just tried to make a break for it so don’t screw this up, tell them how he did it.”

  I cleared my throat.  Everyone stared.

  I breathed deeply and tried not to think about sleep.

  “Craig Smith,” I began slowly.  “Why don’t you tell everyone here what you had against Mr Zelnick?”

  “Nothing,” he said quickly.  “I’d never met him before today.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  “No we don’t.”

  Dammit, for a moment there I thought it was actually going to be that easy.

  “Why then, if you two had never met, did you have such a dislike for him?”

  “What?”

  “The other members of your party commented on it.”

  “I’m not putting up with this a moment longer,” Smith stood up, picked up his coat and began striding towards the door but Mitch was ready for him and stepped forward knocking into Smith’s damaged arm.

  Smith screamed and dropped his coat on the wooden floor.  Out of one of the pockets slid a small homemade electronic device with two distinct buttons.  I lunged forward and grabbed it and held it out for the assembled masses.  If this was the switch that opened his garage door I was screwed.

  “Let me spell it out for you,” I said, trying hard to fight back the tiredness. 

  And that’s exactly what I did.  Told everyone how it all fitted together, how Smith had found out Facebook that the dead man would be playing today.  I told them about how he had arrived early and got rid of the fourth player, how he had rigged up not just the sprinkler system but also the electrical charge in the golf bag.  I told everyone how he had activated both with his remote and how he had watched as Zelnick had died.

  “That’s just the remote that opens my garage,” said Smith.

  I was furious and pressed the buttons hard.  There was a loud
bang
in the corner of the room and smoke started rising out of the golf bag which sat next to the other police officer.

  And that was it, the room exploded with voices and movement and Smith hurled himself at me, knocking me down and

“…f
or the last ten years,” said Mr Smith.  “But no-one knew.  There’s no way anyone could have known.”

  “Well?” said one of the officers.  “Can we arrest him now?”

  Mitch nodded then turned around to look at me.  “Yes.  Take him away.”

  “Hang on a second,” I said, jangling my loose handcuff once more at the officers.

  “Oh yes,” one replied and removed the offending bracelet.

  “Well done, lad,” said Travers, coming up behind me and slapping me hard on the back.  “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Thanks, I think,” I said.  “So what did I miss?”

  Travers let out a
bwaaaaaaaaah!

  “Remember the accountant, the one who Zelnick sent down?  The one I told you about, had a heart attack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Smith was his son.  Blamed Zelnick for his death.”

  And then the other occupant of the room, an older man with swept back white hair, stood up and approached us.

  “Clint is it?” he said in a way that was a statement rather than a question.

  I nodded dutifully and he looked to Mitch and raised an eyebrow.

  “Erm, Clint, this is Mr Forsyth,” said Mitch deferetially. “My boss.”

  “Well done, lad,” said Forsyth.  “That was pure cabaret.  Brilliant lunacy.  I loved it.”

  “Blind luck if you ask me,” said the other officer as he dragged the still smoking golf bag out of the bar.  “There’s no way he could have known the accountant was related to any of this.”

  “Blind luck?” said Forsyth.  “What do you have to say about that Clint?”

  “I don’t know about that, there were, well… clues I suppose you’d call them and, well people told me stuff and…”

  Mitch opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

  “So, Clint,” Forsyth continued.  “Blind luck was it?”

  “Course not,” I said, reassured.  “Just seemed obvious really.”

  “Whatever it was you got a confession from someone who, until minutes ago would have gone free.”

  He nodded and looked at me for a second without speaking. 

  “Well it appears we have an opening for a man of your talents at the Agency.”

  I waited for him to stop, to backtrack on the offer but it appeared he was serious.  I looked over to Mitch who just nodded ever so slightly.

  “So, my little defective detective.  What do you say?”

  “Erm.  Okay.”

T
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