LITMIR.BIZ

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a hurry too. Can’t see why. Only old Roman bones, isn’t it?”

      Alice Godalming patted the Secretary’s hand. “Here’s the Law.”

      A very tall youngish detective inspector strode into the large, sunlit lounge. He had a confident air about him, which Josie, peeping round the back of the bar, quite approved of. Bit old, though. And he’d be wed. Not an insurmountable problem. Well-spoken, and that made him intriguing. Yorkshire, but smooth, no edges.

      He smiled at Alice as the introductions were concluded.

      Alice said nothing. The DIs now looked far too damned young to her.

      “Good afternoon, ma’am. Sir. I’m fairly new on the force here, so that’s why we won’t have met before,” said the CID officer, with an easy assurance. “I’m Detective-Inspector Richard Tomlinson, from District Headquarters. I’ve been told by my superior, Superintendent Mabbatt, to ascertain what’s known about this unfortunate matter. I’ve already detailed my sergeant to assist Constable Root—one of your members, I believe—”

      “He’s a very nice man,” interjected Alice Godalming. “Very considerate. I wish some of the other young fellas around were as polite.”

      “—ah, quite, ma’am. Sergeant Strapp is aware of his competence, I’m sure. But Constable Root should have back-up just now. Mr. Church, you were saying?”

      Church breathed a sigh. A competent and socially acceptable policeman. Something was going right, for once. “Forgetting myself, Inspector. Now, this lady is Mrs. Godalming—a drink, Inspector?”

      Then they all heard a vast shout: “Summers! Where’s that bloody cart, man! We’ve got to see Arthur Root!”

      The socialising was over. The offered drink was forgotten.

      Tomlinson, an acute observer of humankind, had been forewarned about the plod. Clever, he’d been advised. “And a bit more. Clever for a beat copper, Root. You’ll find out.

      CHAPTER 4

      “So what happens when your mates get here, Arthur?” Gary wanted to know, as two plainclothes officers came at a steady pace along the light rough on the left of the fairway.

      “You say nowt. Do what they teach you in the army. Hold your water.”

      “All I want is to get off home,” said Owen Burroughs.

      So do we all, Root concurred silently as Sergeant Isaac Strapp puffed up the rise to Anglers Kop. The lithe female officer with him looked as if she should be in a gym-slip. When he had outlined the nature of the find, and who had made it, Strapp made sure he had got the details right.

      “And this is, again?”

      “A friend, Gary Brand. He saw and heard no more than I did. And this here’s the driver of the JCB. Not too good yet, are you, Owen?”

      Strapp was examining the remains. “You feeling all right?”

      This was to his fellow-officer. “I’ve seen a corpse before, Sergeant. I’ll do,” she said firmly, moving forward a half-pace.

      “Skin’s just bits of leather,” said Strapp. He turned to the still-trembling finder, but addressed Root. “I just want the basics, Constable. What have we got, for a start?”

      Root indicated the area sloping away from the seventeenth tee, in the direction of the woods below; and then to the newly acquired land.

      “See down there? That’s the practice ground. There’s an extension in hand. This hill’s being levelled. So the earth-moving vehicle’s here. You can see what’s turned up.”

      “Turned up is right. Obviously human. And old. Well?”

      “It’s a chance discovery. Owen here stopped his digger-blade a few feet from the remains.”

      “Full name, sir?”

      “Owen Burroughs, what of it? I’m just the poor sodding driver and I want out of this soon as—”

      “In a minute or two, sir, please. I won’t keep you long, I promise.”

      He nodded for Root to continue.

      “Short, Arthur. This is only the start, you know.”

      * * * *

      They waited under the broad portico. Six pillars supported a severe classical portico. Nervously, the Secretary lit a cigarette. “We can smoke inside, but I don’t, usually. Matches, lighter, damn. Major?”

      “Join you. Inspector? No? I like the Dutch cigars. Willems. Bliss keeps them for a few of us. Does it take this long to get a bloody battery changed?”

      “Damned gout,” he told Tomlinson. “So you’re what, the Johnnie in charge, what d’you call it, Site Manager, something like that?”

      “Usually, we’d say Crime Scene Manager, Major, and yes,” Tomlinson went on quickly, “yes, Mr. Church, I appreciate the fact that we’ve not established that a crime has been committed. Just keeping your Captain in the picture, sir.”

      He remembered Mabbat’s advice and rechecked. “We’ll need to talk to your greenkeeper, sir. Has he been sent for?”

      He had. Necessarily, this. Birtwhistle would know more about the lie of the land than any member possibly could.

      Church muttered, “I should have brought a raincoat. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this, not at all. Won’t the, er, the remains get wet?”

      The CID inspector took it in his stride.

      “We’ll arrange to have them covered shortly, sir. By the way, I gather that you’ve not long since had another fatality here at the club.”

      “Sheer bloody murder! Bad business, yes, right, Phil?”

      “Ghastly!” said Phil Church. “Three years ago it was, and my nerves were shattered for months, had to lay off the gin and down tranquillizers.”

      There was a growl and a hiss of pain from the Major.

      “Steer round the bloody dips, man!”

      Tomlinson did not offer sympathy as they made their way fairly smoothly down the eighteenth and then up again; and less smoothly off the fairway to the excavation. “We’ll have the media types here soon. Tarts from the telly, they’re the worst,” came another growl. “Right, Phil?”

      “We’ll keep them in hand for you, sir. I have express orders on that point.” Straight from the top, that had become clear. “Right here, Mr. Summers, that’s close enough. Now, I’d like you all to have a good look at the remains and this Kop, then please stay beside the buggy, gentlemen, will you?”

      Tomlinson motioned to his CID colleagues and Root.

      “Right, we’ll have the run down soon. First, who’s who?”

      Summers thoughtfully produced umbrellas as the rain began to lash the thin poor soil. The clenched fingers of the skeletal hand shone white, cleansed by the driven rain, as the three men advanced to the beginning of the area Root had designated as the discovery site. The skull glistened. A flap of skin fell away from the left cheekbone. Seconds passed. A minute.

      “The buggy?” suggested Tomlinson.

      “Gladly,” Church agreed. “The way that arm’s sticking out of the ground. Fingers—! As if they’re pointing! Horrible! What a way to end up!”

      Tomlinson spoke briefly to his sergeant and DC Amy Briggs, then he asked Arthur Root to fill him in on what he knew. Like Izzy Strapp, he asked for a short briefing. “You’ll stay, Sergeant,” he ordered. “Keeping dry?”

      “And you gentlemen,” Tomlinson went on, “before you go back to the clubhouse, what can you tell me about this matter? Anything come to mind immediately? Mr. Summers, you first, please.”

      Summers

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