Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

‘I’ll get you something hot, Jack,’ she said, winking, and headed out.

The office had been turned over pretty thoroughly: pictures off the walls, drawers upended and their contents scattered, the desk overturned, cupboards forced open and the files piled on the floor. The trophy cabinet was open but all the trophies still seemed to be in there. It all looked pretty random.

‘Those trophies worth anything?’ I asked.

Henry nodded. ‘A couple of them, yes. Old, heavy and silver. If you knew where to sell them you’d get a fair price for the scrap value alone.’

‘Anything missing?’

‘Hard to tell yet. We’re just going through it.’

‘How did they get in?’

‘The door was forced.’

I looked across at the window. It had been untouched as far as I could tell. ‘How did they get into the clubhouse?’

Henry nodded at me. ‘Isn’t that where you come in?’

‘My job isn’t all about asking the questions, Henry. But that sure as hell is a large part of it.’

‘As you know, the members’ entry keypad uses a numerical code. We change that code every so often, but at night it is switched off and the door is alarmed.’

‘Who sets the alarm?’

‘I do, or Jenny does. Or, if neither of us is here, the functions manager from the restaurant.’

The golf club had had a restaurant built as an extension to the clubhouse a few years back for events. It was also for hire, to generate revenue.

‘Was there a function on last night?’

‘No.’

‘Who locked up?’

‘Me. I had a lot to catch up with and spending all day yesterday with the council and the health-and-safety people and organising the fence and workers and new path, et cetera. .’ He sighed. ‘Well, it’s put me way behind schedule and this latest caper isn’t helping any.’

‘I can see that.’

Jenny came back in with the coffee and for the next hour I helped put the office back in order. Henry couldn’t be sure if anything had been taken: the club secretary’s office went back a hundred years or more and goodness only knew what had been put away in the back of the many cupboards. When we were finished it looked pretty much as it had always done, just a lot tidier.

Didn’t make a lot of sense to me. If it was just more vandalism then why wasn’t anything broken? The cabinet glass smashed, pictures slashed and so on? And if nothing had been taken then what was the motive? Unless the people who had done it were looking for something.

I guess the question was, had they found it?

Elaine James was sitting behind the small reception desk of the surgery in Weybourne where Kate was doing locum work.

She smiled as I walked in. It was a nice smile. She was in her late twenties, had a trim figure that didn’t argue with her nurse’s uniform, long curly red hair and green eyes that this morning seemed lively with mischief.

‘Are you coming to my hens’ night tonight, then, Jack?’ she asked.

‘I thought it was girls only.’

‘I thought you could be the entertainment.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘As far as I know the girls haven’t booked a stripper, and I hear you do something along those lines.’

‘I’m just a shy boy from County Cork.’

‘That’s not what Superintendent Susan Dean thinks.’

‘Ah,’ I said, catching on.

‘Sheringham is a very small town. Word gets around, you know.’

‘So it seems.’

‘And what with Susan being divorced and single and all, it’s a bit mean to try and tempt her. You’re getting married next year yourself, after all.’

‘I had my hands strategically placed and I was just following orders.’

‘Would you jump off a cliff if she told you to?’

‘If I was married to her I would probably have already done it.’

Elaine laughed. ‘Kate is in her office, catching up with paperwork.’

‘Cheers, Elaine.’

‘And if you change your mind, we will be out and about in the usual pubs. You can surprise us if you like.’

‘Not in this cold weather. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.’

I winked at her and headed through the narrow corridor towards Kate’s office.

The baby was asleep in her cot. Kate was behind her desk. The snail was on the thorn and all was right with the world.

‘Jack, we’ve got a problem,’ she said.

Maybe I’d spoken too soon.

I sat down in the chair opposite Kate’s desk. ‘Shoot.’

‘It’s the house.’

‘Go on.’

‘Cousin Sam’s putting it on the market. We’re going to have to move out.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘She’s been offered a permanent position in the States. She’s going to accept it. She wants to buy a property over there, which means she will have to sell her property here to finance it. Which therefore means we’ll be out on the street. She’s looking for a quick sale and the estate agents don’t think she will have any problem with that.’

‘It’s a nice house.’

‘It’s a lovely house, Jack. Siobhan loves it. I love it, the baby feels settled there. I know you like it, too. It’s a family home. Feels like our family home, Jack.’

She was calling me Jack a few times too often for my liking, and the baby ‘feeling settled’ seemed a stretch. I could see the way this was heading.

‘Diane called me this morning, Kate.’

‘Don’t change the subject. This is important to me.’

‘I’m not changing the subject. She reminded me that my sabbatical is going to finish soon after Christmas.’

‘I know. That’s what I’m saying.’

‘Coming up here was only ever a temporary thing. We said we would see how it went.’

‘You love it up here, you said so.’

‘I do. It’s lovely countryside, the air is breathable. Some of the natives are friendly.’

‘It’s perfect for Siobhan. After all she has been through. She needed to get away, you know that.’

I’ll give that to Kate. She knew how to sucker punch. Helluva lot better than Bill Collier’s work colleague, that was for sure.

‘She’s strong. You know that.’

‘She’s flowering up here. Made a lot of friends. She loves the school.’

Left, right. Snap to the chin. Relentless. She was like Rocky Marciano.

‘We have time to talk about it. Nothing’s decided, is it?’

‘We don’t have time. Sam has spoken to her lawyers, so the clock is ticking.’

‘There are other houses. We can rent meanwhile.’

‘I want that house, Jack. We all do.’

Rock. And a hard place.

‘Go on, Nigel. Jäger bombs all round.’

The guy being shouted at while standing at the counter in the lounge bar of The Lobster was Nigel Holdsworth. Or the Reverend Nigel Holdsworth, to be precise. Except he wasn’t looking very reverend-like at that moment. He was in his late thirties, a tall, fit-looking man with blond hair and an accent straight out of Hooray Henry’s diction classes for people not capable of speaking quietly. The group of friends with him were cut from the same cloth. Corduroy in pink or red, mainly.

I was sitting at the corner of the bar, pretty much minding my own business and letting the noise of the party wash over me. I knew a few of the guys in the group to nod to them passing in the street, but that was about it.

It was a stag party. Kate was out with the hens. We had got a babysitter to mind the kids and I was having a quick pint before heading home to relieve her and cook a bit of dinner.

I raised the freshly poured pint of Guinness to my lips when the hooray reverend jostled my arm and caused some of it to spill on the counter. I looked across but he didn’t say a word, simply handed some shot glasses over to a friend who had come to collect them. I took a deep breath and forced a mental smile and lifted my glass once more. Once more he jostled me. Once more he didn’t say a thing.