Murder on the Second Tee (4 page)

Flick needed to Google the British Golf Museum on her i-Phone, but was relieved to learn it was where she thought it was, behind the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse. She drove to the car park beside it, entered the squat, glass-fronted building and paid her entrance money.

Soon she came to a tableau showing a nineteenth century craftsman working at a table. His moulded face was grim, he sported long, black sideburns and was poorly dressed. He appeared to be using an awl to compress white feathers into a leather holder. A larger and more vicious looking awl sat on the table at his elbow, a primitive golf ball beside that. In front of her, four men peered through the protective glass.

‘Allan Robertson was the Tiger Woods of his day,’ one man explained in a rasping New York accent, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, ‘but I sure can’t see Tiger sittin’ there just makin’ balls.’ His companions sniggered agreement and they moved on to another exhibit.

Flick stayed put and pretended to listen to the commentary which came on at the touch of a button. She could hear the New Yorker lecturing his friends on Bobby Jones and stabbed the commentary button again. She was becoming increasingly impatient when she heard a voice in her ear.

‘A perfect murder weapon, that big awl, Inspector ma’am.’

She turned to face Detective Sergeant Bagawath Chandavarkar, known as ‘Baggo’ from his earliest days in the Met. ‘What on earth are you doing here, and why all the cloak and dagger stuff?’ she hissed.

Although there was no one nearby, Baggo spoke quietly and urgently. ‘I am working undercover. After you left, I joined the SFO at Scotland Yard – your friend Inspector Cummings was instrumental. Now I have been seconded to SOCA.’ Born and raised in Mumbai, where English grammar still mattered, he had spent his last three school years in Slough after his father, a consultant urologist, moved to Britain. His natural sing-song voice had been flattened by years in the South of England.

‘Yes?’ Flick showed her impatience.

‘You know, the Serious Organised Crime Agency. We have been investigating the Bucephalus Bank. They nearly went under in 2008, but received money from America to keep afloat. Since then we believe they have been money laundering, but they are very clever. The chairman Sir Paul Monmouth was killed in September, and it may not have been an accident. It looked like a hit and run. When we heard they were coming up here, I persuaded the hotel to let me work as a waiter to observe them. Now this murder … I think we should compare notes.’

She digested the implications of what he had said. ‘Come to my house, 52 Kinburn Grove. It’s ten minutes from the hotel. Can you be there this afternoon between shifts, say at four?’

‘I’ll be there. Oh, and congratulations on your promotion. But I too have been bumped up. I’m a detective sergeant now. I shall move on to view the other exhibits. I have taken up golf and find this fascinating.’

‘Congratulations to you,’ she said as he turned away. She shook her head, and taking the quickest route out, retraced her steps.

* * *

Leaving the museum, Flick could see that the white tent had been removed from the second tee and golfers were walking down the first fairway. The area where the body had lain was still fenced off by police tape. The pin had been put on the other side of the green. Golfing life went on as if nothing had happened.

At the hotel, McKellar waited for Flick. He held a polythene production bag containing a wallet.

‘No cash in it, ma’am, but it was Parsley’s. You’ll want it checked for fingerprints, I take it. We found it in a bush in front of the tee. There was some vomit near it, but Robertson said we shouldn’t bother getting a sample. You know what I mean, ma’am?’ A smirk creased his dour face.

She felt herself blushing. ‘Right. Tell the lab we need a result ASAP.’ She turned away from McKellar and strode across the lobby.

Having been informed at reception that Wallace was seeing Mr and Mrs Knarston-Smith, Flick found their room. Though it overlooked the Old Course, it was not as grand as the Eglintons’ and was on the second floor of the spa wing adjacent to the Jigger Inn. Wallace opened the door. The golfer wearing the garish sweater was sitting on the bed, his pale face twitching, his hand gripping his wife’s knee. Flick had seen criminals look more relaxed during taped interviews. His wife, who had seemed so out of place in the conference room, was less tense than her husband but looked no happier than she had earlier. Flick sat on a chair facing them, her back to the window. Wallace pulled a second chair beside her.

Earnest looking, with thick, oily, black hair brushed straight back so that it gave him about three extra inches of height before flopping to the side, Gerald Knarston-Smith forced a smile. His wife, Cynthia, fashionably thin with artfully untidy, straw-blonde hair that hinted at a spirit of rebellion, pursed her lips and seemed to find something fascinating about her scuffed trainers.

‘Mr Knarston-Smith is the manager of the investment arm of the bank. He and his wife were telling me they went to the Jigger Inn last night. As I say, that’s the wee white cottage in the hotel grounds. They came back to their room just after eleven and saw nothing of interest,’ Wallace reported.

‘Who were you with in the pub?’ Flick asked.

‘Latterly just the Saddlefells.’ Between his rapid-fire delivery and his public school accent Gerald did not speak clearly. His eyes darted to his wife, as if seeking approval. She nodded.

‘Did the Saddlefells leave at the same time as you?’

‘We left before them, didn’t we, darling?’

‘Yes. Sandi, sorry, Lady Sandi, was set on trying another of her “superior” Islay malts.’ Cynthia’s tone was dry.

Flick made a mental note but decided not to pursue the matter. She asked, ‘Were you aware of any controversy or ill-feeling during the evening?’

Gerald shook his head. Cynthia showed no reaction.

‘And you remember nothing that might help our inquiry?’

‘Nothing.’ He stroked his nose then added, ‘I’m afraid.’

‘Did you like Hugh Parsley?’ Flick asked, hoping to stir some response.

‘Oh, er, yes. Yes.’ He managed to make the second ‘yes’ definite. His wife’s curled lip told a different story.

‘Simon Eglinton?’

‘A great chap.’ He smiled. His wife nodded.

‘Lord Saddlefell?’

Gerald shrugged. ‘I’ve never had a problem with him.’

‘Is there a director you do not care for, sir?’

As he hesitated, his wife raised her eyebrows.

Flick said quietly, ‘We are trying to find a murderer, and while we have open minds, it is entirely possible that one of Mr Parsley’s work colleagues killed him. The sooner we learn what tensions there are in the bank, personal as well as business, the sooner we’ll be able to eliminate people from our inquiry and arrest whoever was responsible. So please be frank with us. We won’t disclose what you tell us unless it’s necessary.’

Gerald frowned. Cynthia nudged his ribs with her elbow. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, in confidence, Inspector, I’ve never really seen eye to eye with Mark Forbes.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well … he doesn’t go out of his way to be liked. He’s respected, good at his job, doesn’t suffer fools at all …’

‘Those he thinks are fools,’ Cynthia cut in. ‘You’re a lot brighter than he is.’

‘Yes, well …’ Gerald shrugged.

‘Don’t be wet, Gerald,’ Cynthia hissed then addressed Flick. ‘Mark Forbes is a vile man, Inspector. He is rude, mean-spirited and he worships money. He refuses to give to charity because he thinks he pays too much in tax. Eileen Eglinton runs a charity clothing store but Forbes puts his stuff on e-bay. It’s people like him who give bankers a bad name.’

Suddenly bold, Gerald cut in. ‘This year Cynthia ran in the London Marathon. Her father died of cancer and she ran to raise money for cancer research. Everyone in the office sponsored her, even the cleaners, but when I asked Mark, he just said “Don’t be silly”. She did it in four hours, fifty-one and raised over four thousand pounds,’ he added proudly, patting her knee.

‘And Forbes is a total fake.’ Cynthia warmed to her character assassination. ‘He’ll tell you he was at Rugby, but it was the comprehensive, not the real thing. God knows what he based that accent on. He makes The Queen sound common. His mother visited the bank once and he hustled her out of the door before she could speak to anyone. But Jean at reception told you she had a broad Midlands accent.’ She looked to Gerald for confirmation.

He nodded energetically then said, ‘He’s a terrible bully round the office. I think he enjoys making some of the girls cry.’ He paused. ‘And I’ve heard him boast about how he nipped out and pinched a taxi he’d heard a disabled man order in a restaurant.’

‘What does Mr Forbes do in the bank?’ Flick asked.

Gerald looked disappointed by the change of subject. ‘He’s in charge of futures, commodities and derivatives.’

‘Is there anything at all unusual or, well, dodgy about how he does business?’

Gerald’s eyes swivelled round the room. ‘I do not believe so.’

Wallace said, ‘But you were playing golf with Mr Forbes this morning, sir.’

‘That’s the way it was arranged. Hugh Parsley and Simon wanted to play the Old with their wives, but they didn’t get a time in the ballot. There were four more of us who really wanted to play the Old: Forbes, me, Oliver Davidson and Bruce Thornton. Actually,’ he giggled nervously, ‘we all wanted to avoid having to play with Lord Saddlefell. I’m not very good but he is dreadful. At our summer golf outing someone called him “the mad axeman”. His swing is a sort of chopping movement and he gets incredibly angry at bad shots. So it was worth putting up with Forbes. But I wasn’t looking forward to it. He plays unbelievably slowly and he never lets other players pass through. On the first tee, he immediately bagged Bruce as his partner. He’s a professional, you know.’

‘A professional golfer?’ Wallace asked.

‘Yes,’ Gerald said, pulling a face. ‘Oh dear. Well, I suppose you’ll find out anyway. There was a bit of a scandal. Oliver Davidson – he’s our currencies man - left his wife and children last year and came out as being gay. He’s brought his new partner, Bruce, here with him. Bruce is an assistant pro at Haleybourne Golf Club. It’s to the west of London. But he comes from St Andrews, I believe. Last night he went off to see some old mates. Either that or he was body-swerving dinner. Gosh.’ Gerald stroked his nose. ‘You know, I believe Hugh Parsley was a member at Haleybourne. Oh dear.’

‘What is it?’ Flick asked.

‘This could be nothing, Inspector, but Hugh Parsley was really homophobic.’

‘You must tell us what you know, Mr Knarston-Smith,’ Flick said, her voice severe, wondering if it was just nerves that had made him open up.

‘It was so embarrassing. Hugh didn’t care what he said. If Oliver had just been an employee and not a director I’m sure he would have taken the bank to the cleaners.’

‘What sort of things did Mr Parsley say?’

‘Hugh called Oliver “Pinkpound”. Last month Oliver announced that he had just made a million pounds by sitting on his bottom doing nothing, and Hugh said loudly, in front of staff too, “It’s not often your bottom’s doing nothing, Pinkpound”. The rest of us didn’t know where to look. It was awful.’

‘How did Mr Davidson react?’ Flick asked.

‘He ignored it, or pretended to, but you could see he was mortified.’

‘How do you get on with Mr Davidson?’ Flick asked.

‘Fine,’ Gerald said. ‘He keeps himself to himself. Some people think he’s lost interest in the bank.’ He smiled. ‘He keeps a jacket in a cupboard and drapes it over the back of his chair as if he’s somewhere about the office when all the time he’s out for ages.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘What did you think of Mr Parsley?’ Flick asked Cynthia.

Gerald bowed his head as she replied, ‘He would try it on with anyone. At one bank do he told me it would advance Gerald’s career if I had an affair with him. I told him to piss off. And yesterday I could see Sheila Anderson keeping her distance.’

‘What about his business ethics?’ Flick asked.

‘I really could not say.’ Gerald went back to stuffy mode while Cynthia looked sceptical.

‘But Mr Eglinton and he were great friends, I believe?’

Gerald nodded. ‘They’d been at school together. Simon Eglinton is a good man. He saw the best in Hugh.’

‘And Mrs Eglinton? Might Mr Parsley have tried it on with her?’

Gerald shook his head. ‘If he did, she’d have given him short shrift.’

‘She’s a real lady,’ Cynthia said. ‘She speaks the same way to everyone, and she has a great sense of humour. Her father’s the Earl of Knapdale, you know. She’s actually Lady Eileen Eglinton, but she never rams it down your throat.’

‘What about the woman on the board, Nicola Walkinshaw?’ Flick asked.

‘I don’t see much of her,’ Gerald said shaking his head emphatically.

‘Any reason for that?’ Wallace asked.

‘No.’ He shook his head again. Cynthia frowned.

‘How do you get on with Sheila Anderson?’ Flick asked, looking at Gerald.

He seemed to relax. ‘I don’t have a problem with Sheila, honestly. I know why you ask: the vacant seat on the board. Gosh, I suppose there’ll be two now.’ He put his hand to his mouth. To judge from her raised eyebrows, his wife had realised this already.

‘Who do you want to be the next chairman?’ Flick asked.

Knarston-Smith gulped. ‘Well …’

‘My husband has not come out in favour of anyone,’ his wife interjected sharply.

‘What about lowering the wealth threshold?’

‘I … I haven’t decided.’

Flick exchanged looks with Wallace. She asked, ‘Are you sure there is nothing else you can tell us that might assist?’

They both shook their heads.

Flick thanked the Knarston-Smiths and told them not to hesitate if they thought of anything else. Out in the corridor she realised she was hungry. ‘I could do with something to eat. Let’s go to the conference room and order a sandwich.’

* * *

After some discussion with Jocelyn, the conference room they had used that morning was given to the police for their inquiry and a Police Only notice was pinned to the door. Flick was handed a key and sandwiches and coffee were promised. To her surprise it was Baggo who brought them, carrying the tray one-handed at shoulder level. As he laid out a tablecloth, plates and knives, Wallace finished a call on his mobile.