Adam Maxwell: Murder on the Links

“Bah!” I said, my body making a strange involuntary noise just to make the room go quiet and stare at me. “How long was I out for?”

Mitch bent down to help me up. I reached up and touched my left elbow. I must have fallen on it as I went down.

“Erm, just a couple of minutes. Not long. Clint,” Mitch said quietly in my ear as I began to stand. “You’re on to something. He just tried to make a break for it so don’t screw this up, tell them how he did it.”

I cleared my throat. Everyone stared.

I breathed deeply and tried not to think about sleep.

“Craig Smith,” I began slowly. “Why don’t you tell everyone here what you had against Mr Zelnick?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’d never met him before today.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“No we don’t.”

Dammit, for a moment there I thought it was actually going to be that easy.

“Why then, if you two had never met, did you have such a dislike for him?”

“What?”

“The other members of your party commented on it.”

“I’m not putting up with this a moment longer,” Smith stood up, picked up his coat and began striding towards the door but Mitch was ready for him and stepped forward knocking into Smith’s damaged arm.

Smith screamed and dropped his coat on the wooden floor. Out of one of the pockets slid a small homemade electronic device with two distinct buttons. I lunged forward and grabbed it and held it out for the assembled masses. If this was the switch that opened his garage door I was screwed.

“Let me spell it out for you,” I said, trying hard to fight back the tiredness.

And that’s exactly what I did. Told everyone how it all fitted together, how Smith had found out Facebook that the dead man would be playing today. I told them about how he had arrived early and got rid of the fourth player, how he had rigged up not just the sprinkler system but also the electrical charge in the golf bag. I told everyone how he had activated both with his remote and how he had watched as Zelnick had died.

“That’s just the remote that opens my garage,” said Smith.

I was furious and pressed the buttons hard. There was a loud bang in the corner of the room and smoke started rising out of the golf bag which sat next to the other police officer.

And that was it, the room exploded with voices and movement and Smith hurled himself at me, knocking me down and

“…for the last ten years,” said Mr Smith. “But no-one knew. There’s no way anyone could have known.”

“Well?” said one of the officers. “Can we arrest him now?”

Mitch nodded then turned around to look at me. “Yes. Take him away.”

“Hang on a second,” I said, jangling my loose handcuff once more at the officers.

“Oh yes,” one replied and removed the offending bracelet.

“Well done, lad,” said Travers, coming up behind me and slapping me hard on the back. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Thanks, I think,” I said. “So what did I miss?”

Travers let out a bwaaaaaaaaah!

“Remember the accountant, the one who Zelnick sent down? The one I told you about, had a heart attack?”

“Yeah.”

“Smith was his son. Blamed Zelnick for his death.”

And then the other occupant of the room, an older man with swept back white hair, stood up and approached us.

“Clint is it?” he said in a way that was a statement rather than a question.

I nodded dutifully and he looked to Mitch and raised an eyebrow.

“Erm, Clint, this is Mr Forsyth,” said Mitch deferetially. “My boss.”

“Well done, lad,” said Forsyth. “That was pure cabaret. Brilliant lunacy. I loved it.”

“Blind luck if you ask me,” said the other officer as he dragged the still smoking golf bag out of the bar. “There’s no way he could have known the accountant was related to any of this.”

“Blind luck?” said Forsyth. “What do you have to say about that Clint?”

“I don’t know about that, there were, well… clues I suppose you’d call them and, well people told me stuff and…”

Mitch opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

“So, Clint,” Forsyth continued. “Blind luck was it?”

“Course not,” I said, reassured. “Just seemed obvious really.”

“Whatever it was you got a confession from someone who, until minutes ago would have gone free.”

He nodded and looked at me for a second without speaking.

“Well it appears we have an opening for a man of your talents at the Agency.”

I waited for him to stop, to backtrack on the offer but it appeared he was serious. I looked over to Mitch who just nodded ever so slightly.

“So, my little defective detective. What do you say?”

“Erm. Okay.”

Adam Maxwell was born in 1976 and spends a great deal of his time in the loft on his own cultivating a fear of crowds. He has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing from Northumbria University, and lives in the wilds of Northumberland. Sometimes he throws things at passers-by.

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