Adam Maxwell: Murder on the Links

“A bunch of them didn’t make it to the toilets. They had to close the, err, you know, the lounge part of the bar.”

Out of the trees four men I vaguely recognised were staggering towards me like something out of a zombie movie.

“I better get out of here,” I said and sprinted towards the golf cart once more.

“Mind if I tag along?” the fat, Tweeded, cigar smoker asked. “I’ve had it with this little prick.”

He gestured towards the policeman and hauled himself into the passenger seat. Mitch looked at the approaching zombies then back to us before clambering in the back.

“Be my guest,” I said and turned the cart around.

“You the comedy turn then?”

“Something like that,” I flicked on and off my best fake smile. “Clint.”

“Bartholomew Travers. Come on then, step on it.”

I stepped on it and the golf cart groaned under our collective weight, gradually coming to life and moving us away from the scene of the crime and the approaching attackers. They were shouting something I couldn’t quite make out but it wasn’t nice, I was certain of that.

“First time you’ve seen a corpse is it lad?”

I nodded, “Yeah. First time.”

He sucked on his cigar.

“Don’t know why the bloody police are here. Poor bugger just had a heart attack.”

“Err, murdered actually,” Mitch piped up from behind. “He was murdered. And Clint, I think they’re going to catch us.”

Travers turned and glared at Mitch. Then he turned to look at the four blokes chasing the golf cart.

“We’re never going to outrun them with all this extra weight are we?” he said.

“Do you, erm, sorry to ask and all but do you stand to profit from the murder?” Mitch asked.

“Shut up, man. I am, or at least I was, one of his greatest rivals. That much is certainly true but it doesn’t follow that I will gain anything from his passing,” Travers turned back to me, leaning in until I could smell the ashtray of his mouth. “Is he housebroken?”

I laughed my best fake laugh but the lads had practically caught up, coming towards us like a stinking cloud of obscenities. You could actually smell them gaining ground. My head tipped forward as I started to lose consciousness, the cart swerved but I pulled it together, steering back on track.

“So, erm, do you or not? Sorry to be a pest, it’s just my job you see.”

“Hang on,” said Travers, twisting in his seat, screwing his cigar firmly into his mouth then pushing Mitch off the back of the cart with his not inconsiderable strength.

Mitch rolled onto the fairway and into my pursuers, knocking them to the floor.

“You need to be more resourceful, son,” said Travers

The cart picked up speed.

Slightly.

“So how do you fit into this murder ?” said Travers, the cigar waggling up and down in his mouth as he spoke.

“Oh I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose, it’s like you said, I’m just the comedy turn. And besides Mitch says he’s got it all sewn up.”

“Does he now?”

I nodded, “Yeah, that lawyer confessed to him and that’s enough as far as he’s concerned.”

“Avelina killed Damien? Bwaaaaaaaaaaaah!” the last syllable bursting out of his mouth like the cry of an enormous karate-chicken. “And what do you think?”

I shouldn’t think anything but Mitch was such a dick. No pun intended. He had always been like this and he always bloody got away with it.

I shook my head.

“Nah. She’s a lawyer. She’s just pissing with him because she knows she can.”

Travers exploded with laughter again.

“So, sonny,” he continued. “If it’s not her then who?”

I shrugged, “Dunno, you probably.”

Then that laugh again.

“Very good!” he said and slapped me on the back. The golf cart swerved.

“Which way are we supposed to be going?”

“For years and years.”

“What? No, I mean which way is it to the clubhouse?”

“Oh right,” Travers pointed behind us. “Back there I think. Sorry, hearing not what it was.”

“What’s for years and years?”

“Well that’s how long I’ve know Zelnick. Damien. Poor man.”

“Oh, right, sorry I asked.”

“Poor, poor man.”

It seemed rude to interrupt him any further, he stared straight ahead in silence as the golf cart moved across the fairway.

“I’m sorry,” I said eventually. “Were you two close?”

“Not particularly. It just reminds one of one’s own mortality.”

He took another drag on his cigar, exhaled and then began to pick up pace, telling me about the dead man and how they were both going into business together, gradually gathering momentum until he seemed to have regained his earlier and sunnier disposition.

“You see he had a lot of money at one time but then he lost a great deal. There was a terrible business with his accountant.”

“Smith?”

“No,” said Travers. “Never seen him before in my life. We were supposed to be golfing with another friend of ours but he couldn’t make it. Smith was just there to make up the numbers. Pity really, he wasn’t the friendliest type.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Damien’s accountant was using his business to launder money for Big Terry.”

“Smith?”

“No, not that fool. He seemed to take against us the moment Damien joined us. I’m talking about Damien’s original accountant. He was using Damien’s business to launder money for Big Terry.”

“The gangster?”

“That’s the one. Bloody nasty piece of work. You always expect dwarfs to be friendly don’t you, like on telly, but Big Terry…” he trailed off. “Anyway Damien didn’t know anything about it. When he did find out his accountant was carted off but had a heart attack and died before it went to trial. Damage was already done.”

“But you two were rivals?” I said.

“Quite right, yes. Until then. Thing is he needed some capital after what had happened so we started to set up a deal negotiating to work together to get this sculpture.”

“Sculpture?”

“Oh yes. Wildly expensive, wonderfully beautiful. It would have been the start of a fantastic partnership. And of course a boatload of money. But it was not to be.”

“Not for him at least, but presumably you still stand to make a killing from the deal? That is – er – I mean…”

“Absolutely. That goes without saying. An absolute schooner of it. No more or less than if he were still alive. And think of the long term…”

“So did anyone else know about his involvement apart from you?”

“No. No-one. He insisted upon complete secrecy. Pride I suppose.”

Travers turned away slightly and drew the cigar out of his mouth, looking at the end he continued, “Gone out. Blast it. Here…”

He reached into his pocket and took out a lighter.

“You couldn’t light it for me could you? Damned arthritis, I can hold a golf club but can’t light a bloody cigar. My wife says it’s for the best.”

“Yeah, of course,” I took the lighter with my left hand, doing my best to keep the cart steady with my right.

“Hey! Watch

The voices came back first. People shouting, the sound of running and then Travers voice trampling up into my consciousness. My eyes snapped open.

“…the bloody golf cart NOW!” he screamed.

The side wall of the clubhouse was metres in front of us. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop in the same way a cloud would if it had slowly hit a pillow.

“Don’t panic,” I said.

“Are you allowed to drive?” he retorted.

“Not exactly, no.”

He nodded then smiled and let out another Bwaaaaaaaaaaaah!