Alex Gray - Five ways to kill a man

The golf club in Kilmacolm was situated at the end of a winding road, high above the village, tucked tidily away from any passing traffic. Lorimer had driven up from Greenock with more hope than expectation that he might come across some background information relating to Sir Ian and Lady Jackson. His first instinct had been to revisit the burnt out mansion house and for a while he had wandered around the area, seeking something that might spark off an idea. Kate’s call had come as he had just arrived back at the car and for a moment he had been tempted to turn around and head back to Greenock. If DI Martin wanted him to sit in on an interview with McGroary then surely she would be the one to call him, Lorimer told himself. And there was no way he’d want to cause Kate Clark any trouble for calling him with the news. So, as the afternoon light faded from a sky that was threatening snow, Lorimer kept to his original plan and headed towards the golf club. If this had been the place they’d come for recreation then, he reasoned, perhaps somebody here could paint personal colour and detail into what was a very sketchy outline of the famous philanthropist and his socialite wife.

The clubhouse was more like a country cottage from a bygone age, its creamy walls and low roof set against acres of neatly clipped grass. Lorimer parked the car and walked towards the entrance at the side, then pressed the bell. A call to the golf club secretary had been made, the man had apologised, he would be unable to see Detective Superintendent Lorimer this evening. Nonethless, he had decided to call in. From past experience he knew that an unexpected visit could produce more than one where answers had been carefully prepared. And surely there would be somebody here who could tell him things about the Jacksons? He stood for a moment, waiting to be admitted, then turned to look out at the buildings beyond the car park. A modern bungalow lay back from the main drive and, to its left, a collection of huts painted dark green that might belong to the resident groundsman. Trees surrounded much of the perimeter, one narrow path snaking behind them into thicker woodland.

‘Hello, can I help you?’ The drawling tone made Lorimer spin around to see a tall, angular-looking woman of indeterminate age dressed in matching heather-coloured Argyll-check sweater and slacks. She was, Lorimer decided, almost a caricature of the lady golfer. But there was nothing superficial about the steely gaze she had turned upon this visitor to Kilmacolm Golf Club.

‘DCI Lorimer,’ he said, producing his warrant card that still bore that rank. Explaining his designation as an acting Superintendent just wasn’t worth the hassle.

‘Monica Hutcheson,’ the lady golfer offered with a nod, eyeing his card with a suspicious look. Yet she stood aside to let him enter, holding the door then closing it firmly behind him.

She did not extend her hand, Lorimer noticed. After all, he reminded himself, Isherwood was probably a member here as well. Perhaps a visit from a mere DCI was simply not enough to merit that.

‘I’m investigating the death of two of your former members, Sir Ian and Lady Pauline,’ he continued, watching the woman’s carefully pencilled eyebrows rise as he mentioned the Jacksons’ names.

‘Gracious,’ the woman murmured. ‘What a horrible thing that was,’ she added as if it were a gross breach of manners to say more.

‘I was hoping’, Lorimer went on, ‘to speak to some of their friends.’

‘Whatever for? Haven’t we all been upset enough?’ The woman’s outrage was palpable. But before Monica Hutcheson could continue, a door behind the main reception desk opened and a short, grey-haired woman emerged.

‘Oh, Mrs H. Sorry, didn’t know you had company,’ the woman began in an accent that Lorimer recognised as pure Glaswegian.

‘Betty.’ Monica Hutcheson’s mouth curved in a wide smile that failed to reach her eyes. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking DCI Lorimer into the lounge. I’m sure you can fill him in with anything he wants to ask about the Jacksons.’ And with that she sketched a tiny wave and headed towards the ladies’ locker room.

Lorimer glanced around him, noting a darkened room to one side and the doors leading off this reception area. A board directly ahead of him bore the words KILMACOLM GOLF CLUB WELCOMES… but who or what was welcomed had been left blank. It certainly didn’t feel as if it was DCI William Lorimer.

The woman called Betty stood where she was, her bird-like head to one side. ‘You’re Lorimer?’ she asked, crinkling up her eyes as if she had seen him before somewhere. ‘Like the same wan that found they wee lassies in the woods last summer?’

‘I…’ Lorimer began but before he could say another word, Betty had caught him by the arm and was leading him to the door from where she had emerged.

‘Sadie Dunlop. Yer canteen lady. She’s my late man’s cousin. Ah get a’ the talk frae Sadie,’ Betty confided. ‘An’ I can tell ye, she thinks a lot of you, Mister Lorimer.’

‘Ah, Sadie.’

‘See ah’m the main cleaner in here but ah get tae do a bit of this and that. Waitressing an’ other things. A’body knows wee Betty MacPherson.’ She grinned and jabbed a surprisingly sharp elbow into Lorimer’s arm.

‘D’ye want a cup o’ tea? Mikey the chef jist made some scones. They’re still hoat.’ Another jab from Betty’s elbow came before Lorimer could dodge.

‘Yes, thanks,’ he replied, somewhat bemused by the little woman’s flow of conversation.

‘An’ I tell ye,’ Betty leaned towards him conspiratorially, ‘there’s naebody kens a’ the toffs in here like I do.’ She nodded as though to confirm her words. ‘So jist ye ask away aboot that pair. Noo, sit doon here and ah’ll fetch yer tea. Milk and sugar?’

Lorimer was relieved to see that there were few other people in the main lounge. One older man was ensconced in the Times and a couple of white-haired matrons were sipping tea at a table in the corner. The seat Betty MacPherson had selected was well out of earshot from anyone else in the room. Despite that, she dropped Lorimer a wink and motioned for him to follow her out of the lounge and into a smaller room next door.

‘This is the family room. Naebody’ll bother us in here,’ she told him. ‘There, ye came in jist at the right time, so ye did,’ Betty exclaimed, setting down a laden tea tray on a well-polished table, beside a pair of dark leather settees. ‘I wis jist gettin’ ready for the off.’

Glancing at his watch, he could see that it was approaching six o’clock. It was doubtful now whether he’d manage to join Maggie in time for visiting hour. Outside the sky was darkening but there was still enough light to see the misty outline of hills, the putting greens and the starter’s hut at the first tee.

As Betty poured from a silver teapot, Lorimer glanced around him. It was a pleasant little room with watercolours on the walls of what must be different vistas of the golf course. A television was set on a shelf at an angle in the corner opposite them. Had the Jacksons spent time in this room, sitting perhaps in this very spot, watching golfing events like the US Masters?

‘There’s yer tea. Now eat up, Mikey’s scones are rare.’

‘Thanks, Betty.’ Lorimer smiled at the woman, suddenly grateful for her obvious attempts to make a fuss of him. ‘You said you were related to our Sadie. Do you see her often?’ Lorimer asked. It was always a good idea to initiate a conversation that prepared some common ground and for a minute or two he listened to an account of Betty’s family and how the woman had moved away from her Glasgow home to be near her daughter after her husband’s death. He had waited for that particular turn in the conversation, knowing it would arrive, and as Betty put on a suitable sorrowful face at the mention of Mr MacPherson, deceased, Lorimer interrupted the flow of her narrative.