The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (34 page)

‘Oh - right. Well I think I made it clear that I
don’t need any professional help except my own. I just signed on as your
patient to secure confidentiality. So by all means delete the file. I won’t be
making any other appointments with you. You just put bandaids on bloated bodies
which are already damaged beyond your skill to repair.’

What a charmer.

‘Erm, OK. Just as you like, Mr Anderson. Did you
have a busy Christmas period? Do some of your patients, like so many of mine,
expect miracle cures for their own excesses? Or do you have them trained yet?’

‘My patients know better than to ask me for magic
bullets, Ms Bruce. I deal with more serious imbalances of the vital forces
within the body.’

As always, talking to Anderson made her want to
rush out and get legless and overdose on Belgian chocolate. One last try. A
long shot.

‘I expect they still want you on hand over
Christmas though. Did you see there’s been a third murder?’

‘Yes, but it’s of no concern to me. I was away
visiting relatives down south, and I’m busy right now, catching up on my work,
so please delete my file, on the assumption that what I told you remains
confidential.’

If he thought that only she in this area knew his
exact motive, that gave him a motive for getting rid of her, if suspicion was
gathering round him. Had Will Bennett taken her hint and looked into Anderson’s
past records? ‘Down south:’ what of the medics there he blamed for his son’s
death, surely he’d have gone after them if anyone?

Was there any way of checking on whether he really
was away at the relevant time? Short of asking his neighbours on some crazy
pretext... Besides, even if he had really gone south, he could have travelled
back to do the murder and whizzed back all in a day. Maybe hired a car under an
assumed name. Taken a train and bought a ticket for cash. That was all Will’s
department, checking facts and CCTV cameras.

‘Ye must be hornier than a
Viking helmet, man.’ During a break at Ivy Lodge, Stacey was slurping a caramel
macchiato to go, Erica drinking smoky Lapsang Souchong from her own stash.
Stacey was scoffing chocolate hobnobs (‘vital office supplies’) while Erica
watched her. ‘That lad of yours works too bliddy hard. Crap job if ye ask me.’

‘He’s got an insanely busy time over the next
couple of weeks.’ Erica swam, jogged, and did gym classes, but apart from giving
her the usual exercise high and filling her with energy, they did not act as
any kind of anaphrodisiac, rather the reverse. ‘Good job I’m self-sufficient
and able to care for my own needs as a woman should.’

‘Aa’ll bet ye get yer AA batteries delivered by
truck.’ Stacey nudged Erica painfully in the ribs and sloshed coffee over her
sleeve. ‘Jeez, yer ribs hurt me fkn elbow!’

Miles breezed past. ‘Hi girls!’

‘Miles! How did the skiing go? Howard said he
thought he saw Mel over Christmas. I thought maybe something had gone wrong.’

‘Oh it was great, but Mel had to cut and run, some
crisis at work, as per usual.’

So Mel
had
been around over Christmas.
Erica remembered Howard’s conversation at the Christmas dinner dance, how he’d
mentioned Mel and Kingston being deep in consultation on the golf course,
though Mel claimed to hardly know Kingston. An awkward lie, he’d said. Was it?
Also Erica had a nagging feeling that somebody else had lied at the Golf Club.
Not a big lie, or she’d have noticed it consciously. An awkward lie where there
was no need for one, or so it seemed. Any lie might be significant, if she
could only remember it.

One way of recovering a lost memory was through
hypnotherapy. But she could hardly ask Miles to hypnotise her, only to hear her
casting suspicion on Mel. She could go to another therapist, but how could she
know they were trustworthy or reliable? And Miles would think it so odd...

Jamie too had cancelled his trip to stay with
relatives to be on duty in the hospital in case any amateur Santas fell off the
roof. Of all the many suspects she’d collected for Kingston’s murder, only
those who had been away and could be shown to have been away at the time of
Gupta’s killing could be eliminated from suspicion. Unless of course there was
more than one killer... Was she really considering Jamie as a suspect, she
thought with shame?

Combining genuine
convictions with cunningly setting up further investigations, for her next
health page she dealt with remedies of all kinds for SAD, Seasonal Affective
Disorder, which makes sufferers gloomy and torpid, some to the point of
disability. Remedies like daylight simulation light bulbs, for example, and
where to get them. Herbal remedies like St John’s Wort for depressive symptoms.
Getting as much daylight as possible. So many people must go to work in winter
in the dark, come home in the dark, and spend all day in artificial light.

She suggested getting out for walks outside when possible,
even in cold or wet weather, and told how when she was feeling down, or had
thinking to do, she made for the sea, and how she would often run south along
the seafront and along the north pier to the end under the huge empty sky and
watch the waves smashing against the stones. She had been going there daily
recently. She went on to recommend exercise, as even when exhausting, it is
paradoxically energising.

So, it would now be natural to follow up with a series
of features on sports and outdoor hobbies which would look into the health
benefits but also into the social benefits of, say, golf. Her research would
enable her to penetrate the Golf Club and ask questions. Although Chambers was
in a different club, and Gupta - did he play? He hadn’t been at the dinner
dance. Nobody of any skin tone darker than ‘Antibes Tan’ or ‘Coronary Crimson’
had been there... still, somehow the Wydsand Golf Club kept cropping up.

What about Mel, and Howard’s description of him
being in close conversation with Kingston. Mel’s bland unhypnotiseable gaze
came into her mind, his air of concealing some private joke. Did Mel have a
motive to kill Kingston, maybe something to do with being outed, or some
business deal perhaps? The other two murders could have been copycat killings,
or done to hide the real motive - although again, to think someone she knew
could have inflicted those mutilations was horrible.

‘Selwyn Blackett here,’ said a jovial voice when
she rang Wydsand Golf Club.

She explained her mission. He was suddenly less
jovial.

‘Well, I don’t know, Miss Bruce. We don’t, that is
to say, the members come here expecting, I mean to say, it is a private club
you know. There are rules about non-members and
ladies
coming into the
bar... and a
journalist
, well...’

Hm, lady journalist, two strikes against her.

‘I’m doing a health article, Mr Blackett, not an
exposé - not that you’ve anything to expose, I’m sure. Just one visit and a
chat will do, and a few facts I can get from your website. It will help to give
golf a boost in the area, encourage people to join.’

He laughed. ‘We’ve a long waiting list for this
club, Miss Bruce, we’ve no need to sell ourselves. We make a point of being
extremely particular about what sort of people we allow to join. The members
like to think they’ll meet here their own sort of people, people they feel at
ease with. People who know how to behave.’

Ah PLU, like Kingston? He knew how to behave all
right. She bit back enquiring exactly what he meant by ‘own sort’. The first
job was to get in there, any questions about ethnic minorities and women could
wait.

‘Oh, dear. I was hoping you or someone there could
spare me a few minutes. You were all so friendly at your Christmas dinner dance
- such an enjoyable evening.’ She hoped some personal connection with a member
would help.

‘You came to the dance? Yes, it was a good do.
With whom did you come?’

‘With Mel.’

‘Oh, I see.’ The joviality was back in place. ‘I
think I remember you. Red and black outfit, rather striking? Yes, Mel is a
sound chap. I should have thought you could just talk to him.’

‘You know how it is, Mr Blackett, it’s better to
get information from an official source, it looks better in the paper. What
exactly is your role at the club?’

‘I’m Membership Secretary. Well, I’m standing in
for our Membership Secretary, whom you may know was injured by a golf ball.
Damned disgrace! Bloody people get onto the course you know, whacking away like
maniacs. He’s recovering, I’m glad to say, but we’ll be having our first
committee meeting of the new year soon and a new Mem. Sec. might well be
elected. Why don’t you come along at lunchtime and I’ll show you round, and you
can take a look at the course.’

The Golf Club bar looked
rather dissipated in daylight, as bars do. A pale sun shone through the big
picture windows, glinting on the bottles and trophies. Outside, the green
landscape flowed in gentle undulations, decorated with fawn sand bunkers and
clusters of trees and bushes. Colourful figures strolled in pairs, towing
trolleys bristling with clubs. Erica managed a glance into the distinctly
inferior ‘ladies’ clubroom’, but was allowed to perch on a stool in the main
bar where a few men looked at her with alarm. Maybe they were afraid she’d
menstruate on their furniture.

She met Selwyn Blackett, a powerfully built man
with a small paunch. He had bushy eyebrows that met in the middle and thinning
hair on top. He was smartly dressed in golf gear. She’d noticed that golf
clothes were in bright, even ice cream, colours. Baby blue, primrose yellow,
fancy patterns, even pink... all the colours and designs the sort of solid
businessmen who joined Golf Clubs could never wear in any other part of their
lives. Maybe that was one of the main appeals of the game, the chance to let
loose with colour and feel it was conventional, even de rigeur. A kind of
respectable version of cross-dressing? She mentioned the colours, not her
speculations.

‘Safety. Make you stand out on the greens. Helps
to avoid accidents. Golf balls are very hard, you know, and they travel at a
hell of a speed. Still get the odd whack, when a ball goes astray, or some
idiot doesn’t look out where he’s going.’

‘Yes, I know how dangerous they are. Someone hit
me on the arm with a golf ball while I was running down the track along the
side of the course.’

He bristled and opened his mouth to defend the
honour of his members.

‘I’m sure it wasn’t any of your lot. It happened
at night.’

‘Oh, I see. Those damned yobs find golf balls and
break windows with them, the little vandals. Envy I suppose. Can’t be arsed to
work for money themselves, but resent others having it. A pity the police can’t
seem to do anything. They could do with some healthy exercise.’

‘Like golf?’ Erica said with faux innocence.

Blackett chose to ignore her comment. ‘D’you know,
a full eighteen holes of golf is a good four miles’ walk. Most of our members
drive everywhere and have desk jobs so it does them the world of good. Shall we
go outside?’

She gladly abandoned her drink and followed him
out. They’d probably fumigate the bar when she’d gone.

Even though it was winter, the course was green
and soothing to look at. They strolled along, Blackett hailing various players
who looked at her suspiciously. She should have brought a leper’s bell to ring.

‘That’s Robert Kingston’s house over there isn’t
it?’ She could see only the upper storey windows of the houses from here. It
seemed a good chance to bring the conversation round to the murder.

‘Yes. A bad business, that. Respected member and a
good golfer too. Very keen, when work allowed. They still haven’t caught
anyone, you know. It’s a disgrace. Those neck-end lads were hanging
around....haven’t heard the police have arrested any of them. Though there’ve
been those other murders. The Operator. Some lunatic.’

‘Of course Mel knew Mr Kingston.’

‘Possibly. A little. I don’t think they knew each
other well. Old Mel’s away so often. I did hear Robert once mention that Mel’d
put him onto some shares. But they weren’t what you’d call friends.’

This didn’t sound like a row or anything, unless
the shares had plummeted. But who would be able to tell her that?

 ‘I wonder if Kingston’s widow will sell the
house,’ she fished.

 ‘It’ll be snapped up, you can bet on it. Plenty
of members would give their eye teeth for that. Well, not much point in giving
their right arms, hey?’ He laughed.

‘Yes, so Mr Archer was telling me. Mr Kingston’s
neighbour. He’s thrilled to bits to be living so near the club. ‘

‘I’m sure. Actually his mother used to be a
cleaner at the clubhouse, and his old dad was a groundsman here. Grew up with
golf... Ah, times change, eh?’

He sounded a bit regretful, as if them as cleaned
the club should stay on the right side of the j-cloth. As they strolled back
towards the clubhouse, Erica glanced back at the houses and caught a glimpse of
movement at Archer’s window. He was gazing out over the course. Blackett raised
a hand in a kind of ironic salute to him, and he returned the gesture.

‘I’m surprised he isn’t out playing this morning.’

‘Maybe he’ll drive up later.’

Drive? So much for all the healthy walking and
open air. She said as much.

‘Oh, he’s not a member of
this
club yet,
goodness me no. He belongs to the city club. He’s on our waiting list. Very
keen. Always wanted to be a member here, and live right there in those houses.
Lifetime ambition. Bit of an upstart, you know. But getting that house was a
long-term investment for him, and well worth it. ‘

Erica was surprised. Surely Archer’d given the
impression he was a member already. Was that the awkward lie that tugged at her
memory? Then she remembered the Christmas dinner dance. Someone said, ‘Nobody’s
brought old Archer’. That should have told her; if he was a member, he wouldn’t
need to be brought as somebody’s guest. She looked up at his window, but he was
gone.