One Last Lesson
Authors: Iain Cameron
One Last Lesson
IAIN CAMERON
Copyright © 2014 Iain Cameron
ISBN 978 1-499-60449-8
The right of Iain Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Find out more about the author and forthcoming books at:
For Vari, Lucy and Amelia
TABLE OF CONTENTS
His heavy work boots
crunched noisily through the damp undergrowth, twigs snapping and leaves rustling with every step. Earlier in the week, he had slipped on a muddy slope and scratched the side of his face on an overhanging bramble; it hurt like hell and left a long, raw scar but on this occasion he was ready and ducked his head just in time.
Lost from sight now, Meg would be bounding across the fairway
and chasing an imaginary rabbit, but at least she wouldn’t be disturbing any golfers as they were a fair-weather bunch at this place and the cold, dank mist that hung over lower parts of the course like giant bundles of cotton wool, would put them off for a few hours at least.
Mike Ferris once played there until unceremoniously booted out
after an argument with Fred Kingston, the club secretary. Ferris’s house backed onto the course and golfers often came tramping across his garden looking for their balls. Kingston, the officious prat, was adamant they were doing nothing wrong but in the fight that followed, he ended up in hospital with a broken nose, cracked cheekbone and severe concussion.
If the little sod had been a bit more forgiving when he final
ly woke up, he might have realised that the invectives he spat out with such venom were provocative to a man like him and played a large part in what followed. He didn’t go as far as to say it was his own bloody fault, but it didn’t stop him thinking as much.
Patched-up and repaired, Kingston was eager to press charges but
was held back by the actions of the club chairman, who was wary of having the police snooping around, just in case they took a closer look at his relationship with the pretty young blonde in the golf store as she was only fifteen. Ferris knew he wasn’t the smartest card in the deck when it came to making important decisions but if the choice was either to leave the golf club or face a jail sentence, even he could see it was a no-brainer.
He pushed his way through the overhanging branches and stood for a moment on the smooth, close-cut grass of the green and gulped in a deep lungful of cold, damp air, a welcome change from the pungent, almost perfumed smell of rotting wood and decaying leaves that hung over the forest for most of the winter. On the left, about twenty feet away and seemingly innocuous and benign,
was the eighteenth hole. On a clear day, it provided excellent views of nearby hills and woods from its elevated position, but down a steep slope and around a sharp dogleg, was the eighteenth tee.
The number of times he
would be playing well for it all to go tits-up at this one. Get the flight of the ball wrong, and it would end up lodged in one of the thick copses of trees that lay on either side of the narrow fairway or even worse, if it hit the slope too sharply, it would come rolling back down the hill to mock him. For good golfers, it was a demanding challenge and with patience and perseverance, it could eventually be mastered; but for him, it was frustrating and maddening in equal measure and a good excuse to dump the golf bag in the back of the cart and head back to the clubhouse and the succour of a couple of double whiskies and the understanding ear of the barman.
He stopped and looked around for Meg. Usually, she could be found rooting around the bushes close to the hole but hearing nothing
, except the dawn chorus of starlings, thrushes and blackbirds, he set off down the slope. Visibility around the green was clear but as soon as he was halfway down the hill, he was cloaked in the mist that seemed determined to hug the bottom like giant pillows held there by invisible threads.
When
the ground levelled out, he stopped and cupped his hands. ‘Meg! Meg!’ His voice sounded flat and hollow and didn’t seem to carry any distance. He knew sounds in fog could be deceptive and with visibility down to only a few yards, the dog could be anywhere but he was confident the bark he heard in reply came from the left. He walked to the edge of the fairway and after a moment’s hesitation, pushed his way into a dense clump of ash, birch, brambles and rhododendrons, known as Hallam’s Wood.
The dog was in a clearing beside
an over-grown rhododendron bush, pawing the ground around the plant’s base. He stomped angrily towards her, his head full of punishments the stupid dog would suffer for her disobedience. Suddenly he stopped and his mouth fell open as if emitting a silent scream. The dog’s paw was resting on a slender, human arm.
Detectives already at the scene told him it could be accessed either by a long walk from the clubhouse
, or by parking in a country lane and taking a short cut through the undergrowth. Detective Inspector Angus Henderson of Sussex Police, who spent many of his weekends and a good part of his youth tramping over places like this, did not hesitate in selecting the more direct route.
‘Why did we have to come this way Angus,’ came the irritated voice of S
ergeant Carol Walters some way behind him, ‘it’s all muddy and these thorns and branches are ripping my tights to shreds?’
‘Quit bleating woman, would you rather a two-mile hike across a bloody golf course?’
‘No problem, I always wanted to have a go on one of them little golf buggies.’
‘
Me too, but not with you at the wheel or we’d probably end up in a bunker or at the bottom of a lake.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my driving.’
‘That new bash on the front wing of your car would suggest differently.’
He stopped walking at the point where the woods ended and the fairway
began and waited until she drew level.
‘Are we there yet?’
‘You sound like my nephew. No, we’re not there yet but I thought you could use a break.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.
Now I can tell everyone in the office you do have a generous side.’
He
ignored her and continued walking.
‘So, what were you planning to do on your mythical day off?
’ she said. ‘This was the first clear bit of daylight in the crime figures for six months, you told me.’
‘I know, I know
. I should have gone into the office as usual, it was only tempting fate. What was I doing today? This being spring, although you wouldn’t know it from the look of the weather, I was down at Brighton Marina getting my boat ready for summer. What about you?’
‘Did I tell you my sister was getting married in June?’
He nodded. ‘Aye you did, several times.’
‘
We were in Croydon together looking for an outfit for me. In some ways it was a blessing when the call came through as we can never agree on anything and we were on the point of falling out big time. See, I told her before we left the house that I didn’t want to spend more than two fifty and what does she do? Falls in love with a dress that costs twice as much.’
It was myth that all Scots loved golf
and Mark Twain’s pithy description of ‘a good walk spoiled,’ summed up his feelings, despite having caddied for his father and being cajoled into playing once or twice by the highly persuasive captain of the police golf team. It was too pedestrian for his tastes and still only forty-two, he would maybe take it up when he retired but for now he preferred leisure pursuits with a bit more activity and involvement, like walking the South Downs or sailing his small yacht, ‘Mingary.’
He knew the wags at Sussex House, the headquarters of Sussex CID in Brighton, often enjoyed a good laugh behind his back with their ‘hello sailor’ jokes and camp accents, as if sailing in a force-nine gale or crossing the Channel
and cruising past an oil tanker a quarter-mile long or container ships as high as an office building was a sport for wimps; but he wasn’t the sort to be put off that easily.
‘I hate
arriving late to a bloody crime scene,’ he said as they walked across the close-cropped grass towards a small encampment of haphazardly parked vehicles, people and incident tape. ‘By now, every Tom, Dick and flat-footed Bobby has trampled over the area and whatever clues were once there are now gone forever.’
She grunted in response, probably still surly after
a walk that had caked mud all over her shoes but if she ever wanted to make it to Inspector, these were the sorts of things she needed to be worrying about. They headed towards a young constable who was guarding a small gap in the incident tape and pulled out their warrant cards.
‘Morning sir,’ he said affably.
‘Good morning constable; where is it?’
He turne
d and pointed into the bushes. ‘Down that path over there for about thirty or forty yards; its over to the right. The pathologist and several SOCO’s are already down there. You can’t miss ‘em.’
The extended arm was superfluous as it was
obvious from the number of freshly broken branches that were dotted around the entrance to the path that many boots had already tramped this way, causing the DI’s mood to sink lower. Closer to the scene they could hear low, hushed voices. Good. He expected nothing less from his team and frequently reminded them not to lose sight of the fact that the body, whether it was a pallid corpse washed up on the beach, a runaway slumped in a shop doorway or a young girl dug up on a golf course, was someone’s mother, daughter, lover, sister or aunt and deserved their respect.
He nodded to various members of
the CID team who were standing and watching Scenes Of Crime Officers, on their knees, searching the ground for clues, before donning the paper murder scene suit and gloves he kept in the car, designed to prevent contamination of a crime scene.
He pushed through the bushes and knelt down beside Girabala Singh, the Home Office pathologist. To those
not in the know, she was an intelligent, attractive thirty-something with deep brown eyes, a sexy mouth and curvaceous figure. To others, she was a no-nonsense tyrant who smiled little, was devoid of a sense of humour and only released information when she was absolutely sure of the facts.
‘Good morning doc.’
‘Ah, good morning Detective Inspector Henderson, so glad you could join us.’
He
ignored her little taunt; he wasn’t in the mood for verbal jousting. ‘What have we got?’
‘Young female
I would say, from eighteen to twenty-one, I can’t confirm the exact cause of death until the post-mortem but I think it is safe to say she was beaten to death with a blunt instrument.’
He leaned past her shoulder to get a better look and was appalled at the sight; a young
, attractive girl, with fine sandy coloured hair, now matted in blood but it couldn’t conceal the deep indentation in her skull. What a bloody waste he thought, as a sudden flush of anger rose through his body like the morning tide surging over a groyne.
‘How long
has she been dead?’
‘You know better than that to ask me that so soon, Inspector. I never give out such important information until I have completed my post-mortem examination.’
Henderson took a deep breath and sub-consciously clenched his fists as if ready to take a swing. His job was hard enough without so-called experts giving him the run-around. ‘Best guess doctor. Give me something to work on.’
She looked at him closely, the smoky, dark eyes assessing if he was a worthy recipient of her
hallowed counsel. She turned back to the body. ‘What I can tell you is there has been very little deterioration of the skin from anything other than minor animal disturbance,’ she paused a moment, ‘so I would say she has been here no more than three or four days.’
‘
If this is Sunday, she’s probably been here since what, Wednesday or Thursday?’
‘I
will know for sure after the post-mortem, so don’t quote me, but I think that would be fairly close.’
‘Any other marks or bruising?’
‘Yes, extensive bruising on her face and on her arms and legs.’
‘Was she killed here or somewhere else?’
‘Ask your SOCO’s but I have seen no evidence of a struggle around here.’
‘Any evidence of sexual assault?’
She sighed. ‘You want it all now don’t you? Why don’t you give me a chance to get her back to the mortuary and then I will tell you all you need to know?’
‘Doctor Singh, I don’t want to be here any
more than you do but I just need something to go on, something to give these people,’ he said jerking a thumb towards the small group of detectives he passed earlier, ‘an idea how and where to start looking for her killer. Just tell me what you’ve noticed so far.’
She sighed and jerked her shoulder defensively like a surly teenager. ‘There is bruising around her inner thighs, deep scratches on her waist and hips, which would lead me to consider that yes, a sexual assault looks likely.’
Henderson knew better than to ask if that meant rape, sodomy or a non-penetrative attack but he guessed the absence of that level of detail could wait until the post-mortem and wouldn’t materially affect how he was going to set up this investigation. Realising he would get nothing more from the taciturn Doctor Singh, he stood up and looked around the murder scene while she continued her examination of the body. A few minutes later he said, ‘see you at the p-m,’ and walked towards the small posse of detectives.
