The Best of British Crime omnibus (58 page)

The all too familiar noise of a siren sounded behind him, breaking into his reverie. Glancing in his mirror he could see the blue light flashing on the roof of an ambulance coming up fast behind him. He pulled over, lowered his window and signalled it on by hand. It tore past, the shock-wave of air rocking his own car.

Following at a more sober pace Harry saw the ambulance brake, cut boldly across the bows of an on-coming truck and turn in to the entrance to Westgate Golf Club. At the same point he himself had to wait for some considerable time to allow an oncoming stream of cars to pass. When at last he made the turn he found himself accelerating hard up the tree-lined private road that led to the club. And he could not have said whether it was the son or the policeman in him which gave him that sudden sense of urgency.

When he came in sight of the club-house the ambulance had drawn up outside the doorway. One of the uniformed attendants had dismounted and was talking to the club secretary. Commander Whitby was pointing out across the golf course. Harry saw his arm sweep round as he indicated a grassy track. Used by service vehicles, which wound its way towards the sixth green and the eighth tee.

As the attendant jumped aboard and the ambulance moved away, the secretary ran for his own estate car. Before he reached it Harry's Austin 1100 had braked to a halt beside him. The secretary looked round and when he saw who the driver was his strained expression changed.

‘Mr. Dawson. Thank heavens you've come.'

Harry had the door open and one leg out. ‘What's going on?'

‘It's your father.' The secretary's eyes shifted away from Harry's intent gaze. ‘He's – there's been an accident.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘So far as we can make out he was practising down by the sixth green – your father that is – and – well, you know how the ground falls away steeply to the brook—'

‘What
accident?' Harry cut in icily.

‘A drive. A drive hooked off the eighth tee. It seems it struck your father full pitch on the back of the head and—Luckily Dr. Roach was in the club-house. He went straight out and—'

‘How bad?' Harry said, forcing himself to keep his voice level. ‘How bad is it?'

‘Well, Dr. Roach was with him when I came back to phone for the ambulance but I'm afraid – his head hit a stone in the brook.'

‘Jump in,' Harry said suddenly. ‘I'm going to follow that ambulance.'

The secretary scrambled into the passenger seat. Harry set off along the grass track, not caring if his suspension took a hammering from the uneven ground. The ambulance had already disappeared, swaying ominously, into the hilly section of the course – referred to feelingly by the members as The Himalayas. Neither he nor the secretary spoke another word till they came over the top of a rise and found the sixth green in a little hollow below them.

The sixth hole was a very tricky Par 3. The green was hidden from the tee so the drive of some 190 yards was a blind one. And the length had to be just right, for a set of bunkers were waiting to trap a ball which fell short and a drive hit too strongly would finish up in the deep burn just beyond the green.

It was from this steep-sided burn that the two ambulance men were lifting a body. They laid it on the mown grass edging the green and moved to fetch the stretcher from the ambulance.

Dr. Roach was squatting at the top of the bank, packing his instruments into the suitcase which every doctor keeps in the back of his car. He glanced up as Harry slammed the door of the Austin and walked quickly over. Harry had played the doctor in the early rounds of a club tournament, and he could not help liking the small, greying and slightly fussy G.P.

‘How bad is he, Doctor Roach?'

Dr. Roach straightened up with something of an effort and looked compassionately at Harry.

‘I'm deeply sorry, Mr. Dawson, but your father's dead. He must have been killed by the fall.'

Harry had been in the presence of sudden, violent death before and had learned not to be unduly affected by it. But when he looked down at the still form with its blood-soaked head and twisted grimace he had to make a violent effort to control himself.

‘Killed?' he repeated incredulously.

‘It was probably instantaneous. The blow from the golf ball stunned him and he fell down this steep bank into the stream. There's so little water in it now that the stones are all exposed. He cracked his head on one of the large boulders. I don't suppose he knew a thing about what happened—'

Harry stood back to let the ambulance men place his father on the pull-out stretcher they had brought from the ambulance. His gaze never left the scarred face till the attendant pulled up the blanket, hiding it for ever from his sight.

Only then did Detective Inspector Harry Dawson lift his eyes to record the scene around him.

The sun had broken through the morning clouds and the course was looking particularly beautiful. Yellow flowers speckled the dreaded gorse bushes to the left of the green. His father's golf-bag lay on the grass at the edge of the green. Three or four of the new Dunlop 65s had spilled from the pocket. Standing in a ring but keeping at a respectful distance were a couple of groundsmen and half a dozen players who had been drawn to the spot by the unusual sight of an ambulance swaying across the eighth fairway. A little apart, talking to the secretary in whispers, was a young man of about thirty. He had a small selection of clubs in a light bag over his shoulder and was emphatically dressed for golf, so much so that he might have posed as a model for some fashionable brand of sportswear. And he had the rather exaggerated good looks to carry it off.

At the moment, however, he was nervous and distressed. He moved tentatively towards Harry and spoke in a quiet, low voice.

‘Mr. Dawson, I want you to know how – dear God, I wouldn't have had this happen for—'

His voice tailed off. Harry did not stop watching the blanketed form being carefully loaded into the ambulance.

‘Who are you?'

‘I'm Peter Newton. I was out practising. I drove a ball off the eighth tee up there and sliced it badly—'

‘The eighth tee?'

‘Yes. I've been trying to cure this slice—'

Once again Harry cut through the man's hesitant excuses. He spun round towards the secretary.

‘Have you notified the police?'

‘The police?' the secretary echoed and his mouth remained open.

‘Naturally,' Harry said, and then, as he saw the Commander hesitating, he suddenly exploded. ‘Damn it, a man has been killed here!'

‘Of course.' Commander Whitby nodded and finally got his mouth closed. He turned away and hurried off in the direction of the club-house.

Harry now for the first time directed the cold stare of his blue eyes at Peter Newton.

‘Where's his friend?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘The person he was playing with. Where is he?'

The clubs rattled in Peter Newton's bag as he turned to look round him helplessly.

‘As far as I know he – your father was alone.'

‘You're sure of that?'

‘Well, I certainly did not see anyone. The moment I saw I'd sliced my drive towards him I yelled out “fore”. But he can't have heard me. When I saw I'd hit him, you can imagine. I dashed across. He'd fallen down the bank, was lying down there, right in the bed of the stream. His head was—'

‘And no one with him?'

Peter Newton shook his head. ‘No one when I got here. Mr. Dawson, this is the most terrible thing that's ever happened to me. I mean, as I was just trying to explain—'

Harry turned away from the pleading face. ‘Save it, Mr. Newton. Save your explanations for the police officer in charge of the investigation.'

Ten yards away the ambulance doors were slammed shut, providing an emphatic punctuation mark to Harry's terse statement.

‘An accident,' Harry said. ‘He kept calling it an accident. Damn fool of a Divisional Inspector. How can he know at this stage? I tried, Nat, I tried to tell him. But—'

‘But he told you to mind your own business.'

‘More or less, yes. As you know I'm on annual leave just now
– persona non grata
and all that. Would you be a mate and get on to him for me?'

‘Yes, of course.' Nat's voice faded in the telephone receiver as he turned away, probably reaching for a memo pad. ‘What's his name?'

‘Carter. And if he's still saying there's no suspicion of foul play. I suggest you—'

‘Leave it with me, Harry,' Nat cut in reassuringly. Harry realised that his personal involvement in this thing was impelling him to talk rather emotionally. ‘Leave it with me. I'll be back to you as soon as I can.'

‘Thanks, Nat.'

Harry replaced the receiver and leaned back with a sigh of relief. He was seated at his father's desk, which was still littered with eloquent reminders of the man who had been using it only a few hours before and now lay in the police mortuary. Nat Fletcher was a colleague of Harry's and a good friend. It was better to leave him to tackle the officious and self-important Carter.

Douglas Croft had come up the spiral staircase and entered the room just as the telephone conversation had begun. Harry had signalled him to stay and listen to what he was saying. Now he turned to Douglas, who was hovering just inside the door, an expression of bewilderment on his sun-tanned face.

‘Harry, do you – do you think there's suspicion of foul play?'

Harry did not answer for a moment. He was studying his father's engagement diary, which lay open on the desk. ‘Suspicion? Yes. Yes, I do, Douglas.'

He stood up and crossed the room to a corner cabinet where the drinks and glasses were kept. He found the whisky bottle, poured a measure and added the same amount from the bottle of Malvern water.

‘A man dies of severe head injuries,' he said over his shoulder. ‘He was supposed to be playing golf with some person unknown. That person has not yet been traced. Blood was found on a large stone beside the brook.'

Harry made a gesture towards the drinks cupboard and Douglas shook his head, refusing the unspoken invitation. He was too intent on Harry's words to be diverted by anything else.

Harry walked into the middle of the room, staring into the glass of whisky as if it were a crystal-gazer's bowl.

‘And a man comes forward, Douglas— A man comes forward claiming to have sliced a practice-drive from a tee two hundred and twenty yards away.'

‘A pretty long way to hit a slice,' Douglas murmured.

‘A drive,' Harry continued slowly, ‘which stunned my father, causing him to fall into the stream—'

‘Your father?'

Both men turned in surprise. Mrs. Rogers, dressed for the street and still holding the basket of goods she had bought in the supermarket, was standing in the doorway leading through from the kitchen.

Her face had gone very pale. She seemed to have sensed that something terrible was about to be revealed to her. ‘Has something happened to Mr. Dawson?'

‘Come and sit down, Mrs. Rogers.' Harry hurried across to relieve her of the basket before she dropped it on the floor. ‘Over here on this chair. I'm afraid it's all very sudden and tragic.'

‘He— Is he— ?' Mrs. Rogers surrendered the basket but made no move towards the chair.

‘My father died this morning, Mrs. Rogers. He was killed out on the golf course.'

‘K-killed?' The word half stuck in the housekeeper's throat.

Douglas Croft interposed, hoping to lessen the shock. ‘It could have been an accident, Mrs. Rogers.'

Harry turned on him angrily. ‘He was deliberately killed!'

The eyes of Douglas, directed over his shoulder, widened in alarm. Harry spun round and saw Mrs. Rogers sway. He reached her just in time to take her weight before she crumpled to the floor.

‘Quick, Douglas, get those things off the settee.'

While Harry supported the very considerable weight of Mrs. Rogers' inert and sagging form, Douglas gathered up the books and magazines that littered the settee. Harry dragged her over and placed her on the cushions so that her legs were above the level of her head.

‘Shall I fetch some water?' Douglas suggested.

‘Hm?' Harry was staring in surprise at the limp face with its closed eyes. ‘Oh, yes.' Then he added, more to himself: ‘I'd hardly have thought she—'

By the time Douglas returned from the kitchen with the glass of water Mrs. Rogers' eyelids had begun to flutter. Harry supported her head so that she could drink.

‘Here, Mrs. Rogers. Have a sip of this and then we'll get the kettle on for a cup of tea.'

Mrs. Rogers ignored the words and the glass of water. Her eyes were wide open now, staring past Harry, past the wall of the room. She was in a state of shock.

She ran her tongue over her lips and whispered just one word.

‘Dead.'

Harry despairingly surveyed the chaos on the breakfast table and the utter confusion which he had succeeded in creating in the kitchen. His watch told him that it was half-past nine. He would not have believed that it could take him so long to prepare and eat his breakfast, even with the whisky which he had polished off the night before befuddling his brain.

When the private door-bell rang he wondered whether to ignore it. He was still in his pyjamas and dressing-gown and had not shaved. It was in any case probably another of those infernal reporters. But the ring of the bell was followed by a sharp ratatat on the knocker which somehow gave an impression of authority. Pushing his fingers through his hair Harry went out into the hall and down the flight of stairs to the private entrance at the side of the shop.

On the threshold stood a rugged man in his early forties. His hair was neatly clipped, his eyes alert and restless. He wore a short blue raincoat and his hands hung at his sides as if ready to make some sudden movement of defence or attack.