The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (36 page)

At work in Ivy Lodge that afternoon, she got a
call from Ian Dunne.

‘It’s my elbow.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘My elbow, woman. You know, pointy thing halfway
up my arm. It’s giving me merry hell. Ruining my game and, what’s worse, I can
hardly raise a glass. Lucky I’m an ambidextrous drinker, eh! The doc’s tablets
are doing bugger all. Thought you could slip me some of your eye of newt or rat’s
arse or whatever.’ His elbow must be in agony, his mind had been deranged. ‘Your
article on golf. I like it. I didn’t realise you could treat real illnesses,
like golfer’s elbow. Thought it was all stuff that people imagined they had. So
I’ll give it a whirl.’

Oh great. She arranged an appointment, giving him
some advice to follow in the interval. Why oh why had she written about golf?
Dunne would swallow the remedies with a mouthful of Scotch and fag-smoke
instead of letting them dissolve in a clean mouth. His mouth hadn’t been clean
since he was weaned. Then he’d sack her if they didn’t work.

 She suddenly realised how much writing features
meant to her. It was something different, it was interesting, challenging,
socially useful, and although the constant deadline hung over her like a cloud
of blood-starved mosquitoes, she would miss that buzz if it went.

The media seemed to be
holding its breath. From being claimed as the Operator’s newest victim, it was
now being hinted that Anderson actually was the Operator. Someone had leaked or
sold to the media some of the phrases from his office walls, which seemed to
clinch it. Public discussion on social media and online comments made it clear
they’d made up their minds. According to Jamie, the mood of paranoia among
medics, consultants in particular, was lifting even as the days lightened with
the promise of eventual if reluctant spring. Evidence, proof and trial were
just formalities. Erica was beginning to feel, perversely, protective of Anderson.
A mixed-up mess, yes. The Operator? Not so sure. What if Will and cronies
stopped looking and the real one was still out there?

The weather was unsettled too. Sudden freezing
winds would blow up, whipping the sea to a cold fury. She would run down to the
pier to watch the mighty waves and think, and was frequently shepherded back by
the harbour master as huge waves began to hurdle the wall, first as spray, then
as great bodies of water that could wash a person off into the lethally icy,
boiling sea. The unruly water matched her mood and even the wind brought a
bitter pleasure of its own.

Ian Dunne arrived at Ivy
Lodge with his golfer’s elbow. It did not bode well when Erica politely asked
him to put his cigarette out. He was not pleased. Her attempts to talk to him
about his background, to learn about him so she could use her intuition and the
Materia Medica to choose a remedy were stymied amid gruff demands to ‘just give
me the bloody pills, woman!’ He made it clear that he had no intention of
giving up golf to rest the joint, even for a couple of weeks. She explained how
to take the pills, by tipping them into the cap, tipping them into his mouth
and letting them dissolve slowly, at least half an hour before and after
eating, drinking and smoking. She showed him a helpful exercise and where to
apply ice and heat and for how long and how often. She prescribed Rhus Tox.

‘These look more like contraceptive pills. Are you
sure there’s enough in here to do any good?’

‘It’s your own body that will heal you. The remedy
just kick-starts that process.’

He stowed the little envelope away in his pocket. ‘Take
a hell of a kick-start for that Anderson to heal himself! Poor guy’s obviously
a raving nutcase. Bad conscience, if you ask me. They’ll never send him to prison.
It’ll be the funny farm, you can bet on it. Hey, we can run a follow-up feature
on him when the trial’s over. ‘My lone meeting with the Operator, by Erica
Bruce. How our health correspondent met a multiple killer and lived.’’

‘I’m glad you read my stuff so attentively.’

‘I read every word of the paper like it was my
daddy’s Will! I read your golf piece, didn’t I? I was glad to see you listed
all the local clubs, including mine. Wouldn’t want all the publicity to go to
that lot at Wydsand Club. They’ve got a waiting list as long as an orang utan’s
arm. Still, they’ve had a bad year in some ways. We’ve been joking about it in
our club bar. Harry Archer’s been getting some stick I can tell you! Wanting to
join a club where you get murdered! A waiting list to be whacked!’

‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? It was only
Kingston. Gupta wasn’t in a Golf Club from what I gather, and as far as I know,
Paul Chambers was a member of your club. ‘

‘Yes, but Chambers was going to join Wydsand Club
as well. He was on the waiting list, same as Archer. Meant to retire to the
coast. Anyway, I’ll give these pills a try. Thanks, pet. Glad to see you’ve
packed in trying to be a proper reporter. It just isn’t your area.’

He left just in time to save his life, cradling
his elbow and taking with him the stench of stale Marlboros. She opened the
window, regardless of the wintry blast which charged in without so much as an
appointment and chased paper all over the room.

Somehow she had to calm down and get her brain
into gear. She re-established order, ran home, had a hot shower and sat down
with some Thai Quorn casserole she’d made and frozen in portions, and a glass
of wine.

What had Dunne said? Wydsand Golf Club had had a
bad year. Kingston, a prominent member, was murdered. Paul Chambers, who was
waiting to join, had been murdered. People were dying to get into that club.
Even their membership secretary had been put out of action for a long time. He
could have been killed...

There might be a connection. Suppose Gupta’s
murder was a one-off copycat crime, a big assumption admittedly, the whole
thing could centre on Wydsand Golf Club. Harold Archer was also on the waiting
list to join, but had not been attacked. Though he wasn’t a doctor. But
Kingston was already in the club. Why him and Chambers? A lie, an awkward lie.
Archer had lied to her. He had given her the distinct impression that he was a
member of Wydsand Club, said how good it was to stroll down to the club, when
actually he was still having to drive up to the city. And after he’d bought
Kingston’s mother’s house for a premium price. But surely he’d have known about
the waiting list at Wydsand before he bought the house? Dunne did.

Surely it wasn’t about the waiting list? No, that
was ludicrous! People might be dying to get into the club but surely they weren’t
willing to kill to get in. It was just a game after all. A respectable hobby.
If the waiting list was that long, you could hardly murder your way down it
until your name was at the top. Could you? Unless it was all about resentment,
revenge for injustice. Someone getting their name above yours, or something
similar.

She called the club and found out when Selwyn
Blackett, who’d shown her round on her previous visit, would be in. She
possessed her soul in patience until then. They refused to give his home or
work numbers. The next day she trekked back to the club and once more upped the
coronary rate by invading the testosterone-ridden bar at lunchtime, after
parking her bike among all the shiny cars. Its handlebars seemed to droop
dispiritedly but Erica charged in all guns blazing.

‘Has it occurred to you that this club could be
the centre of these so-called Operator murders?’

Blackett choked on his single malt, spraying
whisky all over his cuff. ‘Good God! you journos do get carried away. That’s
rather far-fetched, you know. That Gupta bloke didn’t even play, and Chambers
is in the City club.’

‘Yes but Chambers is on your waiting list. Think
about it.’ She outlined the basic connections for him. ‘Maybe the membership
secretary’s golf ball to the head wasn’t an accident. I took one on the arm
that was meant for my head. OK, it could have been random vandalism, but put
together with Kingston’s and Chambers’ deaths, it makes this club look like an
unhealthy place to be. Harold Archer, Kingston’s neighbour, is on your waiting
list, isn’t he? And pretty desperate to get in, after buying that house he’s
saved for all his life, watching you lot playing outside his window.’

‘What, and he could be next? You ladies and your
idea of logic! The Operator kills doctors, dear! Hence the name, Operator!’

‘Well
sweetie
, possibly somebody on your
list, like Archer, could be - well, shortening the list.’ She was sticking her
neck out.

‘Now look,’ he spluttered. ‘Archer is a
respectable chap, or we wouldn’t have him on the list at all. He understands
how it is. My predecessor, the Membership Secretary you claim was knocked for
six on purpose... he explained to Archer, that whatever he’d been told, living
by the course did not put him top of the list, and he had no choice but to
accept that. He’s getting on, and it’s a long list, but the rule was, anyone
belonging to another club was put further down the list unless they resigned
from the previous club. Bit strange really, you never know, perhaps the next
Mem. Sec. will see if we can bump him up the list.’ He winked, clearly
expecting his position to be made permanent. ‘Naturally he doesn’t want to
resign from his old club until he’s safely in here. Otherwise he could be left
with nowhere to play for an unspecified time.

‘The rule was originally to stop people joining
several clubs and not giving allegiance to any of them, clogging up the
membership lists and stopping other men joining. Fair enough, though in his
case it could be argued that the rule was a bit unfair. But, you have to have
rules, and they have to be seen to be enforced.’

She listened impatiently to all this. ‘You enforce
an arbitrary rule, which you admit is unfair, then merrily scrap it if the Membership
Secretary changes? Seems a funny way to run things. Was Paul Chambers ahead of
Archer on the waiting list?’

‘Yes he was. So were other chaps. You’re not
suggesting... our club has to take
murderers
? Some must advertise, but
we don’t. All our applicants must be proposed and vouched for by members to get
in. And wait their turn on the list. There’s no-one here with any dark secrets,
I assure you.’

Like Mel and his male lover? Kingston and his
violent sadism?

He spoke again before she could reply. ‘You’re laying
yourself open to slander accusations talking like that. It isn’t right. You’ll
have to leave. ‘

Their attempts to keep their voices down were
getting more and more forced.

‘Look.’ Erica was practically hissing now. ‘You’ve
just told me Archer expected to be a special case because he’d bought a house
here. Where would he get that idea from if not from Kingston who sold him the
house at an inflated price? I agree, it sounds weird to think anyone could kill
their way to the top of the list. There’s a lot I haven’t worked out yet. And
there’s Gupta. But what are you leaving your club open to, if it turns out
Archer’s guilty and you’ve bent the rules to let him in? What will that do to
your reputation? If I were you, I wouldn’t let any one through your own front
door at night until this is all sorted. And I’d be watching out for flying golf
balls.’

‘Well I’ve certainly heard a lot of balls today.
You really must go, Ms Bruce. Or I’ll have to consider calling the police. I
must say, I wish I hadn’t agreed to let you in here in the first place. Some of
the members didn’t like it at the time.’

She got riled then. ‘Nice to know you’re willing
to admit murderers, as long as they aren’t female or Asian of course!’ She
stormed out of the club, but the thought of having to unlock her bike and pedal
off in a rage watched by Blackett was cringe-making. She sat down on the
boundary fence, in sight of Kingston’s house, to cool off. She was
uncomfortably aware that she had her own prejudices against organisations like
the Golf Club and its rules. She mustn’t let that cloud her thinking.

Did she have to tell Will? It did sound daft, and
the police were well satisfied that the medical connection was the valid one.
She might be maligning a harmless man looking forward to playing golf in his
retirement. On the other hand, if she did nothing and someone else died
horribly, the blood would be on her hands, at least in a sense. Her thoughts
lurched aside for a moment. It was possible to feel that one had blood on one’s
hands through doing nothing, as well as something. Might that apply to Craig
Anderson? Punishing a sin of omission, instead of commission? Could he have
been guilty of the Gupta murder, if her theory was correct? Gupta was accused
of a similar act of negligence, albeit wrongly, to that of the medics Anderson
blamed for the death of his wife and child.

She phoned Will as the wind chilled her rage-hot
cheeks and numbed her phone hand unheeded.

‘Erica!’ his all too familiar sardonic tones stung
her ear like lemon juice in a cut finger. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘I’ve a theory about the Operator murders.
Seriously, I think I might know who it is.’

There was a silence. ‘Some of my colleagues think
the same, actually. We’re getting close to making an arrest.’

‘If you mean Craig Anderson, I don’t think he
committed the murders. At least not two of them. Gupta perhaps. I think the
medical connection is just a blind.’ She explained about Harold Archer. ‘Surely
it’s worth looking into.’

‘Do you expect me to take this seriously? Or are
you wasting police time? One minute you’re hounding me in defence of Tessa
Kingston, now it’s Craig Anderson. It’s a very ingenious idea but it defies
common sense.’

‘I was right about Tessa.’

‘Erm... I have no statement to make at this time.’

‘Oh come on Will! Have you established any
connection between Tessa and the other victims? No, I thought not. OK my theory
sounds a bit out there, but since when did murderers use common sense? A loss
of proportion is typical. Plenty of killings are for motives that seem
senseless to sane people. I’m sure there’s something in this, Will. Think how
you’ll feel if someone else dies while Craig Anderson is still in hospital.
Think how I’ll feel. Do you honestly think I’d ring you up for fun, after the
way you’ve been treating me just because of - the past? Do you think I enjoy
being patronised and my ideas rubbished? I can get that from my editor!’