The Red Chairs Mystery Page 3
In 1983, though, he came over to London for the annual World Golf Match Play event at Wentworth. He was knocked out of the competition by Seve Ballesteros in a quarter-final match and was going to fly home to the States the following morning, but somehow Jamie contacted him and persuaded him to stop off here. I believe he flew his own jet from Heathrow into Dunsfold aerodrome and Jamie met him there. They played nine holes, together with the pro and the club champion, stopped for photographs, had a snack lunch, completed the round and Arnie was off again. The local press were full of it. I’ve copies somewhere of the some of the articles. Jamie wanted the publicity for the newly branded club, of course. And for himself, I suppose.’
‘So that’s when it became Sussex Royale?’ enquired Holly.
‘Yes’, the Colonel replied. ‘It’s not such a big step from Royle to Royale, and Jamie is a real James Bond fan. I think Ian Fleming’s early book, ‘Casino Royale’, influenced him. There’s our sister club, too: the Hampshire Royale, not far from Liss. Jamie rebuilt the clubhouse over there when he bought it, incorporating a stylish ‘Goldfinger’ bar, a ‘Thunderball’ restaurant and a ‘Moonraker’ patio.’
‘Don’t tell me they’ve got an ‘Octopussy’ swimming pool’, interjected Holly. ‘That would not be a good thing.’
‘Ha!’ The Colonel’s laugh was surprisingly high-pitched. ‘I’m glad we’ve been spared all that glitz, to be honest. This place used to be plain Graffham Golf Club, once upon a time, and it’s still mainly about the golf. When Jamie took over, it was just a rough track, used mainly by a few of the local farm-workers and people like that.’
‘That explains the GGC I saw painted over on the gate by the fifth green earlier’, Holly interrupted. ‘I’d better speak to Mr Royle as soon as possible. Where does he live?’
‘His wife lives here in Sussex; but he’s usually in London, or travelling. At the moment he’s in America. I was trying to get hold of him earlier’, said the Colonel. ‘He’s in Chicago this weekend. Then he’s going to Oregon, to play at the famous Bandon Dunes resort for a few days before flying across the Pacific to Hong Kong and Bangkok. He’s not due back for a while.’
Holly needed explaining that this was going to be a big weekend in the world of golf. The Ryder Cup match, pitting a twelve man European team against twelve Americans, would be played at the Medinah Country Club a few miles north-west of Chicago. Jamie Royle was there as the guest of a business associate, one of the Medinah Club’s vice-presidents, Charlie ‘Chuck’ Flanagan.
‘It’s the final practice day today, and then the Opening Ceremony’, the Colonel was saying. ‘The three-day match starts tomorrow. Jamie won’t like his trip interrupted by what’s happening here.’
‘I don’t suppose he will’, replied Holly without a trace of sympathy. ‘But we can’t help that, can we? You’d better give me his number.’
The 2nd
Chapter
Holly began her series of interviews with John Tranter. The head green-keeper, a giant of a man in his forties, had spade-like hands in constant movement while the rest of him sat square, upright and motionless. Splayed out on the table one second, these great paddles clenched themselves into fists the next, then clasped together, thumbs twiddling a moment later. There was grime in the creases and under the nails, Holly noticed as she tried not to fall under their swirling, mesmeric spell, forcing herself to look into the man’s open, almost blank face as he pondered her questions. His answers were monosyllabic.
Tranter had brought with him a plan of the golf course, manipulating his colossal fingers with surprising dexterity to unfold and spread it out on the table, and then indicate the cluster of sheds and machinery buildings where he and his staff were based, over on the newer, second half of the course, well away to the east of the fifth fairway and green. He had noticed nothing untoward in the previous days, he said, or that morning, and had no explanation for the arrival of the incongruous red chairs and their gruesome contents. Some birch trees had been felled, he said, and the logs stacked by the Stave Lane gate during the previous autumn and winter seasons, and the grass cuttings there had been added to periodically, most recently about two weeks earlier.
This was as much as he could recollect. Holly stared silently at him for a full minute while he cast his eyes down, as if trying to pin his restless hands to the table by the force of his gaze; but they went on drumming softly and persistently anyway. She had never known anyone so obviously anxious during a police interview, but did not think he had anything in particular to hide. He was just that kind of person, someone who preferred a simple outdoors life and his own company. ‘You’re not in any trouble, you know’, she said eventually. ‘Thank you, Miss’, he replied, shambling to his feet, upsetting the chair and getting his legs in a tangle as he turned and tried, failing, to prevent it from clattering down. ‘I’m sorry’, he mumbled, picking the chair up again. ‘Off you go’, Holly waved him out of the room, ‘And send in someone from your team. I want to interview them all, one by one.’
An hour later, Holly was none the wiser, having spoken to the three other men and one young woman on the green-keeping team. She went in search of the Secretary, a list of the bar and kitchen staff in her hand. He took the opportunity of asking again whether she would permit him to open holes ten to eighteen. Checking the course plan, she agreed, if reluctantly, then returned to the Committee Room to continue her interviews.
First up was one of the two chefs, Liam, a cheery fellow who had nothing of interest to tell her, but who returned soon after his interview with a turkey sandwich on a plate, garnished with some crisps and a small dressed salad, accompanied by a knife and fork, neatly rolled in a napkin. There was also a cup of coffee in a porcelain cup and saucer. The napkin and all the items of cutlery and crockery were distinguished by the SRGC crest: a turquoise golf club at an angle, wearing a lop-sided golden crown. Holly was delighted. ‘I thought you were looking a little peaky’, said Liam. ‘If you don’t like turkey, I can do beef or smoked salmon or prawns. Just you say!’ ‘This is perfect’, she replied with a grin.
It took another hour to interview the remaining club staff and the few members who remained in the building, but Holly learned nothing more to help her work out what had happened during the night. She said as much to Peter Harding before collecting the previous 24-hour CCTV tapes and asking for a key to one of the club’s golf buggies. It was time to revisit the scene.
***
Dark clouds had gathered, but it was not yet raining as Holly returned to the car park with the tapes, putting them securely in the boot of the Micra. The Porsche and Jaguar were no longer there, only Mark’s Hyundai, a smart black Range Rover, a white VW Passat, and a few less swanky vehicles that she presumed belonged to house staff. The Colonel’s smart metallic-blue Audi A4 estate was in the reserved space marked ‘Secretary’, with Mrs Parton’s tiny red Toyota Aygo in the spot next to it.
Holly took one of the buggies and headed off again towards the mysterious red chairs where, this time, she found a black undertaker’s van close by the duck boards. Two men in dark suits were manoeuvring an awkward package into the back. The dead woman’s torso could not fully be straightened, hence the use of a body bag rather than a temporary coffin. The men were soon securing this onto a trolley in the back of the van using foam cushioning, the idea being to prevent as far as possible any risk of further damage while the body was in transit. Holly worried that they would not get her to Chichester in time for Dr Narayan to carry out his inspection. She had little time to be concerned, however, before one of the forensic men called her over. They had uncovered something: writing on the leather seat underneath the body. The marks had been made by a felt-tip pen, and she could make out just the one word, written in inch-high capitals: MURDERERS.
Holly shuddered involuntarily, took out her phone to photograph the accusation. ‘Who wrote it?’ she thought, ‘And who was the message for?’
‘Okay’, said Holly. ‘Thanks.’ She refused permission for the removals van to use the Stave Lane entrance, still hoping for clues from that quarter. ‘Too bad’, she thought. ‘It will just have to bump its way across from the clubhouse.’ Then she decided to continue her tour of the golf course. Having studied John Tranter’s large-scale map, and having a retentive memory, she was confident of finding her way, making use only of the little map on the back of one of the course scorecards that she found pinned to the buggy’s steering wheel.
The sixth hole running north, uphill, to a plateau green, was a mid-length par 4; and from the elevation, Holly had a beautiful view back southward over the course towards the clubhouse across the big pond to the south-east. The elegant rolling chalk uplands of the South Downs formed the perfect backdrop in the distance. As she watched, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. A glorious rainbow appeared briefly. One end of it seemed to emerge magically from the earth about two hundred yards in front of her, rising apparently out of the dead centre of the seventh green, an exquisite sward like a smooth and tranquil emerald island set in an expansive ocean of heather, still a vista of beautiful pink, purple and white, despite patchily in places turning autumnal brown. A large birch tree stood shining to one side, silver bark shining, and softly yellowing leaves shimmering in the breeze. Opposite, a curling sentinel bunker guarded the right part of the pristine putting surface. The gravel pit behind threatened a watery end to wayward shots hit either beyond or to the left. Holly couldn’t help wondering why golfers seemed bent on always making things so difficult for themselves.
The sun went in and droplets began falling on the Perspex windscreen of the buggy. Anxious to complete her tour before the rain grew heavy, she set off downhill, her foot a touch firm on the accelerator, until uneven ground threw the machine sharply up and sideways, the two right-hand wheels momentarily losing contact with the earth. Mastering the unsteady vehicle again, she trundled on more slowly, pulling up next beside the eighth tee on the edge of the water, pausing deliberately to take in the view and the atmosphere. As the rain eased, it all became strikingly quiet and peaceful.
The sun reappeared and Holly noticed a couple of moorhens, readily identifiable with red and yellow beaks, and white stripes against the bluish-black of their flanks, paddling backwards and forwards. A grey heron stood motionless nearby, poised to strike. A pair of damselflies darted here and there among the fronds of water plants near the edge. Holly was reminded of a magazine article she had seen, describing a new phenomenon being flagged up in America: ‘Nature Deficit Disorder’. Children who were paying little attention to anything other than what could be displayed on their smart-screen devices, were said to be missing out, putting themselves at risk of failing to develop important social skills, spending so much time and energy on establishing and maintaining ‘virtual’ relationships on-line, but very little in face to face communication, even with their family members. The remedy, according to several authorities, was for families, especially including the grandparents, to get out into nature together more often.
Alone there for a moment, taking it all in, Holly recognised that she had been paying little attention in recent years either to nature or to personal relationships, except of course with her dad.
The sun vanished again. A blustery chill wind caught her, so she decided to cut short the expedition and head back to the clubhouse. From the eighth tee, she had to loop back around a wide tongue of the pond that the golfers were meant to hit across. Regaining the fairway, looking ahead, she saw a lone golfer moving in her direction. Mark Berger had already played the back nine holes with Kyle, who had then left to resume his duties in the professional’s shop. With nothing else better to do, Mark had decided to go round the loop once more, and was now playing the sixteenth for the second time, a hole which shared a large double-green with the eighth. Holly watched him play a high shot, the ball landing three or four paces from the flagstick, stopping dead where it pitched. She caught up with him after he putted out and was making his way to the seventeenth tee box, right beside that of the ninth, the two holes facing off at right angles to each other.
‘Hello again’, he said, smiling, as she drew up nearby in her buggy. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘It’s early days!’ She replied to avoid revealing her lack of progress.
There was a silence. Unsure what to say or do next, but spotting an opportunity, Holly decided to ask about golf. ‘What’s so wonderful about it?’
‘I wouldn’t know where to begin’, Mark answered, giving a little frown. ‘It’s physical… You know, it is a healthy form of exercise… Walking. You are out in the open… There’s beautiful scenery! It takes skill to play well… And it’s character-building. You need patience, not letting your emotions get the better of you… Also it’s sociable, being part of a club, meeting new people, playing with friends. And, you can travel anywhere in the world and get a game, because – due to the handicap system – anyone can play with anyone on more or less equal terms… And no two courses, no two holes even, are alike. There’s constant variation. If nothing else, the weather makes sure of that.’
Some of these ideas were new to Holly. Hitting a small, hard, white ball that wasn’t moving couldn’t be that difficult, she thought, and not very exciting either. ‘Was it Winston Churchill or Mark Twain who called golf, “A long walk spoiled”?’ she said, ‘Somebody like that’.
‘I don’t think it was Churchill. He used to play golf when he was younger. My father told me he was once a member at Walton Heath, one of the famous Surrey clubs’, said Mark. ‘Anyway, golf is golf and going for a walk is something else. A person can enjoy both, you know.’
‘Alright, then’, Holly enquired, ‘What are the negatives?’
‘Let’s see’, said Mark. ‘It’s expensive, and a little bit exclusive; except in Scotland where there are more public courses and lots of folk learn to play when they are still at school… It takes time to play: at least three hours, often more than four… And it is a difficult set of skills to acquire. You need lessons and lots of practice… Also, to be honest, it can be very frustrating. On the other hand, when you’re hitting the ball sweetly and your short game is on song, there’s hardly a better feeling in the world. You only have to hit one great shot in a round, or sink a long, curling, downhill putt, say, and you’re always going to be eager to come back for more the next day.’
‘It sounds like a sorry form of addiction to me’, Holly broke in, half-serious.
‘Some addictions are better than others, though. Don’t you agree? Golf is not so bad… Let me show you.’ Mark took a nine iron from his bag and dropped a ball on the turf. ‘Come and stand over here, please.’
Wary, unsure what to expect, Holly realized she had been asking for trouble, but could not immediately think of a way to back down.
‘Now, take hold of this club, swing it and hit the ball.’
Mark watched closely as Holly gripped tightly, right hand an inch below the left, swung her arms up and outwards, bending both elbows, then made a bit of a lunge downward towards the ball, missing it, hitting the grass a couple of inches behind it. The ball itself did not move even a fraction, despite getting heavily spattered with mud.
Holly expected him to laugh, but when she looked up, Mark’s face simply showed kindly concentration. ‘That’s what we all do a
s beginners’, he said. ‘We swing our arms a bit wildly and lose control of the club. Actually, you did well to bring it down so close to the ball… But now, let me ask you, did you ever play baseball or rounders?’
When Holly admitted to playing rounders at school, Mark asked her to show him with the club in her hands how she would hit a rounders ball, whereupon she re-gripped it with her hands closer together, overlapping slightly, lifted it to waist height, took it back by rotating her shoulders clockwise, rather than by moving her arms, and then reversed the process to strike an imaginary ball back at waist height in front of her again.
‘That was great’, said Mark. ‘Did you notice what you did with your hands? Approaching the point of impact, your left hand was on top, and at impact you suddenly switched, bringing your right hand over. That’s where extra power comes from. Try again!’
Holly repeated her earlier effort, hearing a satisfying swish of wind as she did so.
‘That’s perfect’, said Mark. ‘You kept your head completely still… Well done! That whole performance is exactly the same for a golf swing, except you bend forward from the waist so that the clubhead points down at the ground where the ball is. I’ll show you. Stand up straight.’
Mark walked behind Holly. Turning her head, she was looking slightly alarmed, prompting him to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry’, he said. ‘I’m just going to show you something.’ Moving close, he put his arms around her and covered her hands, still holding the golf club, enfolding them in his own. ‘Bend forwards a little’, he said. ‘Now turn with me.’