Peter Lovesey - Skeleton Hill

‘I was, along with Reggie and Mrs White, who are still very much with us. Do you want to wait for Reggie?’

‘Aren’t you going to take another putt?’

He winked. ‘I’m taking it as holed.’ He picked up his ball and pocketed it. ‘That goes down as a seven for the first hole.’

There was a shout of ‘Fore!’ from behind them.

‘That’s Reggie,’ Tipping said. ‘I can’t see him, can you?’

Another shout from the major: ‘Move the bloody buggy. It’s blocking my line.’

‘As if he ever hits straight,’ Tipping said. He returned to the golf cart and moved it off the fairway.

Diamond could see the major hunched over his ball now, not all that far from the green. By luck or skill the shot came off and the ball stopped inches from the hole.

‘Not bad. Was that your seventh?’ Tipping asked his opponent.

‘Fifth.’ The major held up five fingers.

‘He’s lying,’ Tipping muttered to Diamond. ‘Tap it in, then. That hole is halved.’

‘You took six?’ the major said. ‘You’ve never done that before. Is that true?’ He strode up to the green and asked Diamond, ‘Did he really take only six?’

‘I lost count,’ Diamond said, not wishing to get involved. ‘I was distracting him, anyway. Questions about the buried skeleton. Do you remember anything suspicious going on around the fallen oak tree some years back?’

‘“Some years back” is far too vague,’ the major said. ‘Can’t you be more precise?’

‘All right. After 1987, when the tree came down, and before 1997.’

‘What do you mean by suspicious?’

Tipping was quick to say, ‘Your score for the first hole, old boy.’

Diamond said, ‘A car or van parked near the tree. People digging.’

‘No,’ the major said. ‘I would have noticed. Can we get on with the golf?’

‘I’ll not delay you much longer,’ Diamond told them. ‘I must get back anyway. You said Mrs White is the other founder member of the society. There were eight originally. Who were the other five?’

‘Two of them are dead,’ Tipping said. ‘Roger Rhodes was a gentleman farmer. Crashed his light plane, poor chap, and Willy Drake-Allen, the BBC man, caught one of those hospital bugs. The others moved away. Jamie Fleming went back to his beloved Edinburgh. He was our policeman – before your time, I expect. George Philpot bought a villa in Italy. Who was the other one?’

‘Underhill,’ the major said. ‘The vicar of St Vincent’s.’

‘Of course. He served his time locally and was given a new parish in Norfolk.’

‘So you had the Church and the police on side as well?’ Diamond said, impressed by the power base of this small group.

‘Still do. We recruited the next incumbent at St Vincent’s, the Reverend Charlie Smart.’

‘And who is your policeman?’

‘Policewoman,’ the major said, ‘Assistant Chief Constable Georgina Dallymore.’

Diamond’s boss. He had to bite back a strong word. He couldn’t believe it.

John Wigfull’s day started in a promising way. The desk sergeant said two people were waiting in connection with the missing cavalier and there were phone messages as well.

Strictly it wasn’t his job to interview witnesses, but – he reasoned to himself – everyone knew he was more than just a PR man. He’d worked in CID for years. Besides, the cavalier was his pet project. He didn’t want some rookie constable taking it on and missing the significance. He would meet these people himself.

The first was a woman who’d seen the piece in the Bath Chronicle and was certain she recognised the missing man as a down-and-out who was caught stealing food from tables at Saturday’s car boot sale at Lansdown. Wigfull soon learned that she was a witness with attitude. ‘I had you lot come out to him after he helped himself to one of me home-made meat pies, but the bobbies you sent were woodentops. They asked him his name and he told them it was Noddy and they didn’t turn a hair. They let him walk away scot-free. There’s no respect any more. And when I got home and opened the paper there the thieving bastard was, all dressed up in a fancy hat.’

Wigfull decided not to go into an explanation about the hat. The Civil War connection would be lost on this lady. ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same man? He isn’t a down-and-out, as you put it. He’s a university lecturer.’

‘It was him. No question.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Now you mention it, though, he didn’t sound like a dosser. The voice was posh.’

‘Did he say why he’d helped himself to the pie?’

‘Stole it, you mean. Let’s call a spade a spade. No, he had no conscience. I asked him to pay and he said he didn’t have no money. That much I believe, but he shouldn’t have picked up my pie, should he?’

‘How was he dressed?’

‘Dead scruffy, in muddy old jeans and one of them hoodie things, and he smelt.’

‘Don’t you think you might be mistaken?’

Her face reddened. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’

He was tempted to answer ‘yes – and a time-waster, too.’ He’d met plenty like her and they’d go on for ever if you let them. ‘Frankly, madam, we know who the missing man is and he isn’t the sort to behave the way you describe.’

‘Is that so? Well, that’s me and the fucking police finished!’ she said in an explosion of outrage. ‘You’re all the same, on the side of the villains, looking for excuses for them. I came here out of the goodness of my heart, giving you important information, and you treat me like I’m a bloody liar. If that’s the way you want to run the city, you can stuff it where the monkey puts his nuts.’ She marched out, leaving Wigfull untroubled by the tirade. He’d been told on a PR course he’d attended that the majority of so-called witnesses are attention-seekers. The woman was a prime example. His spirits improved when Mrs Swithin came in: one of those well-bred old ladies you know will keep their emotions in check. Dressed in a tweed jacket and pleated tartan skirt, she radiated good sense. ‘Is the photo in the paper reliable?’ she asked first. ‘I’m talking about the face, not the way they dressed him up. Is that really the missing man?’

‘Rupert Hope, yes.’

‘And he’s an academic?’

‘Bristol University.’

‘I have to tell you, then, that he’s been behaving out of character, trying to open people’s car doors. This was up at the racecourse, in the car park. Reggie, my husband – the major – was convinced he was up to no good, so we phoned the police. I happen to possess a powerful pair of binoculars and I stayed on watch while Reggie went to meet the police car. I had the man in focus for quite ten minutes and saw his face clearly. He was definitely the gentleman in the paper.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘A hooded garment and blue denim trousers.’

The same man, apparently. Wigfull’s promising morning took a roller-coaster plunge. ‘Did the police come?’

‘Yes, but unfortunately the man had left by then, in the direction of the main enclosure.’

‘Was this on a race day?’

‘Not at all. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. It was Wednesday of last week and very quiet at the time. People use the car park every day of the week. We’re often up there keeping an eye on things. That’s how I noticed his suspicious behaviour.’

‘Did he actually break into any of the cars?’

‘No, I think they were all locked.’

‘And did the police catch up with him?’

‘As it turned out, no. They returned later and took statements. We had to wait almost an hour. Reggie’s a responsible citizen, but he gets testy if he’s kept waiting. Anyway, we saw the item in the Chronicle and both agreed it was our duty to get in touch with you. The man wasn’t behaving as one expects a university lecturer to conduct himself, but these days one never knows. They employ some strange types in so-called higher education.’