Merely Players (16 page)

Thomas Bulstrode Tucker disappeared resolutely to the course on Sunday mornings, worshipping at his chosen golfing shrine come sun, rain, hail or frost. Brunnhilde Barbara, who controlled the rest of his social life with a Valkyrean fierceness, indulged him in this. She approved of three things in her husband: his high rank in the police service; his embracement of Freemasonry, where he was in line to become Master of his local lodge; and his participation in the mystic rites of golf. She was under the impression that the latter two had helped him to a series of promotions, that he would not be a chief superintendent without his enthusiastic membership of his local lodge and of Brunton Golf Club.

The only one of the three with which Barbara could claim any personal contact was Freemasonry. Thomas looked good in an evening suit, or even a well-tailored lounge suit; she had judged him against others on ladies' nights at his own and other lodges, and found in his favour. He was quite handsome, with his full, well-groomed head of hair, now attractively silvered at the temples. He could make an adequate speech at the Masons, where the standard of competition was not high. There was ample scope for the conventional, and Thomas could be neither heckled nor questioned.

Because of her husband's perceived success at the lodge, Brunnhilde Barbara had no idea how abject was his failure both as the Head of Brunton CID and as a humble playing member of Brunton Golf Club. Indeed, she was wont to announce with a Wagnerian certainty at coffee mornings that Thomas played golf and that she understood he was quite good at it.

Percy Peach knew that he was not.

He ranked Tommy Bloody Tucker as one of the world's worst golfers. In Percy's not entirely unbiased view, his chief's golf was a reflection of his capacity as a senior police officer. Another question which posed itself to Percy Peach's perennially enquiring mind was why the worst golfers so often seemed intent upon drawing attention to their ineptitude by wearing the most garish golfing attire.

On this bright but bitterly cold morning, Tucker favoured a tight-fitting pale-blue cap with the legend ‘Welsh Ryder Cup, 2010' as its badge. His sturdy physique sported a canary yellow roll-neck sweater. His lower limbs carried plus twos in a scarlet and green tartan which even the most colour-blind of Highland chieftains had surely never sanctioned. His knee-length socks were a deeper yellow than his canary sweater; their neatness was marred by the loose threads which bore witness to his frequent sorties into bushes in search of his errant golf ball. The deep scuffing in the leather of his two-tone fawn and white golf shoes also demonstrated heroic endurance rather than expertise.

The chief superintendent was having one of his better golfing mornings. The ball was running long on frozen fairways, so that when he topped his drives, as he habitually did, they were running like startled rabbits over the iron-hard ground. To avoid damage to the regular greens, the few enthusiasts on the course today were forced to use the temporary greens, which on frozen turf made putting a game of chance. The holes on these rough surfaces were six inches in diameter rather than the normal four and a quarter. This lottery was today favouring the duffer Tucker, the man who had long suffered at the unremitting hands of the gods of golf.

The larger holes were gathering in the putts of this peacock practitioner of the sport. Tucker and his three companions had agreed on the first tee that serious golf was impossible. These conditions could offer no more than healthy fresh air and exercise. But as the morning wore on and Tucker's ball disappeared erratically into a succession of the large holes, these same conditions became in his view ones which tested the skills and adaptability of the dedicated golfer.

The three men with him were by now ready to welcome any diversion from his voluble celebrations. They were thus quite happy to see a motionless figure waiting as impassive as the grim reaper beside the tee on the thirteenth hole.

T.B. Tucker was not. He ignored the muffled man in black ostentatiously, insisting that they putt out on the frozen temporary green of the twelfth. It was a move which was in his view immediately justified. His own putt from some six yards was at least a foot wide of the hole when it hit a frozen heel-mark on its second bounce, broke sharply left, and dived into the edge of the large hole. ‘Read that one just right!' said Tucker with satisfaction. His companions looked at each other and cast their eyes towards heaven as they followed him glumly. He evidently meant that seriously.

‘What the hell do you want?' Tucker enquired aggressively of his chief inspector.

‘And a good morning to you, sir!' returned Percy Peach equably. ‘Most effective use of the googly, if I may say so. I've never seen a googly turn like that on the second bounce before.'

‘This is the one chance in the week I get to relax. And you have to pursue me, even here!'

Percy, conscious of the three men listening expectantly behind his chief, bowed his head reverently for a moment. ‘I'm very sorry, sir. I'm merely acting on orders. Your orders.' His smile when he looked up again was splendidly complacent.

‘I never ordered you to disturb me and my friends at the golf club.'

Percy had removed his bobble hat as Tucker approached. He now allowed his eyebrows to rise a little towards the whiteness of his bald pate. For an impressive moment, he looked hurt but mute in the face of this injustice. ‘You told me you were to be apprised immediately of any serious crime on our patch, sir. With particular attention to high-profile cases.'

Tucker had walked on to the tee. He now teed the ball for his drive, determined to impress his companions with his insouciance in the face of this impertinent interference. ‘Well, what is it, then?'

‘A suspicious death, sir. A death which in my opinion is almost certainly murder.'

Tucker paused in addressing his ball. ‘What sort of murder? Don't tell me you've come here to report some routine domestic incident.'

‘Murder is never merely an incident, sir. You said that to me in 2008, sir. I remember thinking what a worthwhile reminder it was for all of us. I treasure your aphorisms, sir.'

Tucker, who was not quite sure what an aphorism was, decided to dispatch his ball whilst he pondered this. It was a mistake. His familiar crouch over the ball translated itself suddenly into the galvanic heave of his backswing. It was a little too much for his worn shoe-studs to handle on this frozen turf. His feet slid swiftly from beneath him and his garish posterior hit the unyielding ground with a thump which seemed to the appreciative onlookers to measure at least four on the Richter scale.

After a few seconds of a silence which throbbed with suppressed hilarity, Tucker's partner in the four-ball managed to enquire whether he had seriously damaged himself. An opponent suggested hopefully that they would quite understand if he wished to abandon golf for the day in view of the farcical conditions. Tucker shrugged their solicitude nobly aside, rolled on to all fours, and rose gingerly to assert his shattered authority. He said with all the sarcasm he could muster, ‘And what exactly do you expect me to do about this, Peach?'

Percy studied him for a moment with his head on one side. ‘You could shorten your backswing a little, sir. Turn the shoulders by all means, but resist with the hips. Your energy and determination were impressive, but you lost balance, you see. You could try—'

‘Not about my golf swing, you fool! What do you expect me to do about this so-called high-profile murder?'

‘Ah!' Percy studied the ground for a few seconds; it seemed that the evidence in the frost of his chief's recent fall held a professional interest. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘Well, sir, I expect you to do nothing of any consequence. I expect you to maintain your professional overview of the situation, as it is your professed policy to do. I have fulfilled my orders in coming here to apprise you of events.'

The three men behind the chief superintendent in charge of Brunton CID were listening intently, but one of them had his hand over his mouth, whilst the other two were finding the top of a frost-covered fir tree to the left of them of absorbing interest. Apparently their pompous companion's mastery of the local crime scene was not as absolute as he always professed it to be in the clubhouse.

T.B. Tucker strove to assert himself. ‘I shall take overall charge of the case, of course. You will direct the day-to-day investigation, Peach. You will start by questioning anyone who had any sort of a grudge against the dead man. Is that clear?'

Percy marvelled at how this man never lost his talent for the blindin' bleedin' obvious. ‘Of course, sir.' He produced a notebook and ball-pen from some recess in his heavy clothing and adopted an even more formal tone. ‘Could you give me a full account of your movements on Friday night and Saturday morning, please, sir?'

‘I was— what the hell do you mean, Peach?'

‘I'm obeying orders again, sir. I have reason to think from statements you made to me last week that you had a great dislike of the dead man, as a result of an appearance with him on a television programme called
The Gerry Clancy Show
. If you could just tell me where you were at these times, preferably with the name of a witness who could confirm your statement, I shall probably be able to eliminate you from the initial list of suspects.'

Tucker's jaw dropped to reflect his total bafflement. Peach was glad to note the familiar distressed-goldfish look on these noble features. He had only seen it indoors before, usually in the sanctity of Tommy Bloody Tucker's office. In this more public setting, the look was even more impressive. The chief super managed just two syllables before the vacancy overtook him again. ‘You mean—'

‘I do indeed, sir. The identity of the victim is yet to be formally confirmed, but we believe it to be one Adam Cassidy. More familiar to some as Alec Dawson, I believe. The man who, according to your own account, made you look a right arse before millions of television viewers. Hence my request for a statement, sir.'

‘And I repeat to you, Peach, don't be bloody ridiculous!'

There was steel in the tone at last. It was time to be on his way. Peach addressed an apology to the golfing companions of his chief, as if he had noticed them for the first time. ‘Just police routine, gentlemen. Just an attempt to eliminate one person who recently had occasion to dislike the man who is now a murder victim.' He dropped his formal tone and added in a lower voice. ‘In my own personal view, I think your golfing chum is not really a dangerous or violent man. I think you should have no fear of completing the rest of your round with him. Sorry to have interrupted your game.'

Tucker had limped painfully away from the tee during this. He brushed his rear carefully free of frost and grass, wincing at the physical hurt as well as the damage to his
amour-propre
. Through gritted teeth he ordered, ‘Be on your way, Peach!'

‘Yes, sir. Enjoy your game, sir. Hope the fall hasn't affected your googlies.'

ELEVEN

T
here could be no doubt that Jane Cassidy was genuinely upset by the news of her husband's death. She burst into tears, and asked if the police were really sure that it was Adam. When told there could be little doubt of that, she sank on to the sofa, and allowed the young woman in police uniform to make her a cup of tea.

PC Nell Hayward recorded these things carefully in her report. It was distressing to have to report sudden deaths like this to the next of kin, but the case was going to be a big one, and she had a career of her own to consider. She gave Mrs Cassidy the few details she had been told to release about the death. Over the tea, she told her that it would be necessary that she answer a few questions for Detective Chief Inspector Peach, who had taken charge of the investigation. Mrs Cassidy said that she certainly couldn't do that today. She had to break the news about Adam to the children and she would be in no state to answer questions after doing that. Tomorrow morning would be quite acceptable, said PC Hayward firmly. They were sorry to intrude at a time like this, but the circumstances demanded it. She was sure that Mrs Cassidy would want to give them all the information she could, to ensure that they arrested someone quickly.

Was this Mr Peach a good man, the widow wanted to know. Very good indeed, said PC Hayward. No, she hadn't worked with him herself, but she was sure he would solve the case quickly and bring the culprit to justice. DCI Peach had a considerable local reputation. Nell just managed to prevent herself from saying formidable. That didn't seem quite the right word, being police code for a right bastard if you riled him.

The mortuary attendant sized up the man carefully. You had to be very careful with the identification of dead bodies, particularly when they followed violent and unexpected deaths; the next of kin could collapse on you. He wondered if this man had been summoned here so quickly because of the fame of the corpse. He fancied so: the powers that be wouldn't want the faintest possibility of error, if they were about to announce to the world that the man who played Alec Dawson was dead.

At least this haste meant you didn't have to disguise the effects of a post-mortem; that could be very tricky. He liked the look of the man who had come here to do the identification. He was white and drawn, but you would expect that. He also looked composed and determined. You could never be sure, but experience told the attendant that this man was unlikely to disintegrate under the weight of emotion when he saw what he had to see.

He took him through the formalities, filling in the boxes on the form for him to sign. He found himself instinctively producing his best script when the man said he was a teacher. ‘Relationship to the deceased?'

‘I'm his brother. His elder brother by three years.' Luke answered the routine questions, watched the man completing the form for him, told himself that this was reality, not a dream from which he would shortly awake. ‘Do you want me to sign that?'