name, sir?”
“Owen Burroughs, what of it? I’m just the poor sodding driver and I want out of this soon as—”
“In a minute or two, sir, please. I won’t keep you long, I promise.”
He nodded for Root to continue.
“Short, Arthur. This is only the start, you know.”
* * * *
They waited under the broad portico. Six pillars supported a severe classical portico. Nervously, the Secretary lit a cigarette. “We can smoke inside, but I don’t, usually. Matches, lighter, damn. Major?”
“Join you. Inspector? No? I like the Dutch cigars. Willems. Bliss keeps them for a few of us. Does it take this long to get a bloody battery changed?”
“Damned gout,” he told Tomlinson. “So you’re what, the Johnnie in charge, what d’you call it, Site Manager, something like that?”
“Usually, we’d say Crime Scene Manager, Major, and yes,” Tomlinson went on quickly, “yes, Mr. Church, I appreciate the fact that we’ve not established that a crime has been committed. Just keeping your Captain in the picture, sir.”
He remembered Mabbat’s advice and rechecked. “We’ll need to talk to your greenkeeper, sir. Has he been sent for?”
He had. Necessarily, this. Birtwhistle would know more about the lie of the land than any member possibly could.
Church muttered, “I should have brought a raincoat. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this, not at all. Won’t the, er, the remains get wet?”
The CID inspector took it in his stride.
“We’ll arrange to have them covered shortly, sir. By the way, I gather that you’ve not long since had another fatality here at the club.”
“Sheer bloody murder! Bad business, yes, right, Phil?”
“Ghastly!” said Phil Church. “Three years ago it was, and my nerves were shattered for months, had to lay off the gin and down tranquillizers.”
There was a growl and a hiss of pain from the Major.
“Steer round the bloody dips, man!”
Tomlinson did not offer sympathy as they made their way fairly smoothly down the eighteenth and then up again; and less smoothly off the fairway to the excavation. “We’ll have the media types here soon. Tarts from the telly, they’re the worst,” came another growl. “Right, Phil?”
“We’ll keep them in hand for you, sir. I have express orders on that point.” Straight from the top, that had become clear. “Right here, Mr. Summers, that’s close enough. Now, I’d like you all to have a good look at the remains and this Kop, then please stay beside the buggy, gentlemen, will you?”
Tomlinson motioned to his CID colleagues and Root.
“Right, we’ll have the run down soon. First, who’s who?”
Summers thoughtfully produced umbrellas as the rain began to lash the thin poor soil. The clenched fingers of the skeletal hand shone white, cleansed by the driven rain, as the three men advanced to the beginning of the area Root had designated as the discovery site. The skull glistened. A flap of skin fell away from the left cheekbone. Seconds passed. A minute.
“The buggy?” suggested Tomlinson.
“Gladly,” Church agreed. “The way that arm’s sticking out of the ground. Fingers—! As if they’re pointing! Horrible! What a way to end up!”
Tomlinson spoke briefly to his sergeant and DC Amy Briggs, then he asked Arthur Root to fill him in on what he knew. Like Izzy Strapp, he asked for a short briefing. “You’ll stay, Sergeant,” he ordered. “Keeping dry?”
“And you gentlemen,” Tomlinson went on, “before you go back to the clubhouse, what can you tell me about this matter? Anything come to mind immediately? Mr. Summers, you first, please.”
Summers shook his head. He explained that he had been appointed only in the late spring, and he could think of nothing that the inspector wasn’t already aware of. Neither the major nor Church had anything to add, except for an expression of regret at the passing of a life. The Secretary had paled noticeably. He indicated that the big man beside him would speak for both.
“Had enough? Up you get then, Phil,” Major Wynne-Fitzpatrick ordered. “Shocking sight. Don’t blame yourself. Never get used to it.”
He cursed his gout and continued.
“Not much for you, Inspector. Can’t help with an identification. Could be anyone. It’s over to you, really. As for this hill we’re having levelled, we’ve only got rumours, ancient tales, just a fog, like any old battle story, none of it substantiated. Can’t really say any more that will help, so we’ll get ourselves off,” the Captain grunted as he heaved himself onto the golf-buggy. “As Phil here says, there’s a mystery of sorts about the Kop. We’ll have a natter in the bar when he’s come round a bit. How about the JCB driver? Take him back with us? Looks all in.”
“He’s needed here, sir. Now, I’ll be here for quite a while, but please remain in the clubhouse. Anything you can tell me later will be of use in our investigation, so perhaps you’ll review what you’ve seen? This officer will go with you. She’ll answer any questions you might have in the meanwhile. Oh, leave me an umbrella, will you, Mr. Summers?”
The golf-buggy slid away. Root wondered if he himself would ever find himself in need of one. He glanced at Gary. The lad was holding up well. Soon, the back-up vehicles would arrive. And very soon he would have to make his initial report; just as soon as Izzy Strapp was done with.
“Constable?”
“I’ve started the log, sir. All down in my notebook.”
There was no hint of approval. Police training was comprehensive. Good, ordinary coppering. “Don’t give it to me verbatim. Just the basics, for now.”
So he got them, such as they were.
Arthur Root gave a time and a place, sixteen forty-three hours, those present, himself alerted by a form of distress signal, three whoops on the JCB’s air-horn. Unemotionally, he detailed what he saw, what action he had taken. There was a skull, entirely visible above recently-turned soil, together with what were obviously the remains of a human arm. And so on. Three minutes, no more, he judged. “And, after ensuring that the said vehicle was in a safe state, and ascertaining that no medical attention was needed immediately,” he finished, “I completed my notes, sir.”
“Clear enough,” said Tomlinson. “Sergeant? Anything to add?”
“Just normal procedure, Inspector. The constable had it all in hand. Not much for me to do, really. Wait, that’s all.”
Tomlinson turned, splashing Root with the cold rain on the bright umbrella. “Now, Mr. Burroughs. Just tell me what you did, why you’re here and what you saw. Please?”
It took no more than a few minutes to have the facts confirmed by
