The Corpse on the Court (19 page)

The message read simply: ‘I am interested in the whereabouts of your daughter Marina Holland. If you are also interested, get back to me.'

Carole was aware of the ambiguities in her words. They implied greater knowledge than she had. And the word ‘whereabouts' might suggest an unsubstantiated belief that Marina Holland was still alive. Carole was taking a risk, but reckoned that risk was worthwhile. The worst that could happen – and indeed the most likely thing to happen – was that Iain Holland would ignore her email and send no reply. But there was the distant possibility that her message might provoke a response.

Carole Seddon took a deep breath and clicked on the ‘send' button.

W
hen Jude's lesson started and they were standing at the net by the entrance to the court, the first thing she asked the track-suited George Hazlitt was about the scoring. ‘In real tennis,' he explained, ‘it's different from lawn tennis. You only need to be one game ahead to win the set. Get to six-five and you've won it.'

‘Any other differences?'

‘Well, you still go fifteen – thirty – forty – game, like in lawn tennis. But you call the score of the person who's won the last point first.'

‘I beg your pardon?' said Jude, whose hope that there couldn't be any further perversity in the rules of real tennis had just been disappointed.

‘Well, you see, Jude, in lawn tennis the players take the service in alternate games. In real tennis the service can change any number of times in a single game.'

‘So that's what happens when they change ends?'

‘Exactly.' George Hazlitt nodded encouragingly.

Now for the big one. ‘But
why
do they change ends?'

‘Ah well, this is to do with chases.'

Jude raised her hands in horror. ‘Please, not chases. Piers has tried to explain chases to me more times that I care to remember and—'

‘Don't worry.' The pro grinned. ‘Forget about chases. We'll come to that later. Let's start with just the basics – hitting the ball.' He reached down to a circular recess in the court floor and picked up the basket full of balls that nestled there. ‘Look, I'll go down the service end – that's where the dedans is – and you go down the hazard end and I'll just send a few balls down to you and see how you go. You say you have played a bit of lawn tennis?'

‘Not for a long time.'

‘Well, the first thing you're going to notice is that the bounce of a real tennis ball is very different.' He picked one out of the basket and slammed it down with considerable force on to the stone floor of the court. It bounced up about his shoulder height. ‘See? Now if I'd done that to a lawn tennis ball, it would have shot up into the air, way over my head. So you're going to get much less bounce and you're going to have to bend down really low to reach a real tennis ball. Let's try some. As usual, doing it is much more useful than talking about it.'

They took up their positions. ‘Stand about a couple of yards in front of the back wall, in the middle,' George Hazlitt shouted down the court, ‘and I'll send a few down.'

He had the basket of balls on the floor beside him, picked a couple out and sent the first one fluently down the centre of the court. Jude swung Piers' racket over it and missed by about a foot.

‘And another one.' The pro's second ball followed exactly the same trajectory. Jude's stroke was about six inches too high for that one.

The third ball she actually hit. Well, that is to say it made contact with her racket and went spinning off into the wall.

By the time George Hazlitt had sent down the entire basketful – between forty and fifty balls – she had managed to return two over the net. The rest lay scattered on the floor of the hazard end.

‘Not bad at all,' said the pro, as he returned the basket to its hole and used his racket to shovel balls back into it.

‘Not bad in the sense of really dreadful?' suggested Jude.

‘No, I've seen many people do worse on their first hit. And I can see you've played lawn tennis. There it's all about following through with the racket. In real tennis you want to stop once you've hit the ball. Think of it as a chopping movement, like you're bringing an axe down on the side of the ball as it makes impact. And the lower the ball is in its trajectory when you hit it, the better. Don't worry, it takes a while to get used to the basics.'

‘Ten years is the figure that's been quoted to me.'

George Hazlitt grinned. ‘It needn't be that long.'

So they progressed and Jude began to realize that the pro was really a very good teacher. He showed her the required body positions, standing sideways rather than facing front to take the ball. He taught her a couple of basic serves. And he got her nearer than Piers ever had to understanding what a chase was. He gave her just enough encouragement, not undiluted praise but words that made her feel she was achieving something.

They ended the session by playing a couple of games, something Jude would not have believed possible a mere hour before. She knew full well that George Hazlitt was holding back for her, missing a couple of her returns that he could easily have reached. But he managed to do it without making her feel patronized.

The lesson only lasted an hour of the hour-and-a-quarter booking period, but by the end of it Jude was glowing and she knew her face was red and sweaty. Though, in spite of its bulk, her body was supple from the yoga, this was a different kind of physical activity and had used muscles unexercised for a long time. She had enjoyed the experience, though, and even begun to taste the obsessive attraction of real tennis.

George Hazlitt came to shake her hand over the low part of the net, as if they'd played a genuine game rather than him just popping dolly shots to her. Jude was effusive in her thanks but even at that moment couldn't curb her investigative instincts. ‘A rather happier experience than last time I came to the court,' she observed.

The pro looked puzzled for a moment before what she said fell into place. ‘Yes, poor old bugger. I'm sorry that was your introduction to the game.'

‘Well, I'd also been here on the Sunday, for the Sec's Cup.'

‘Of course. I'd forgotten. There are so many people around for an event like that.'

‘Oh, I wasn't expecting you to remember. And of course I saw Reggie fall on the court then, too.'

‘That's right. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if that had been caused by a minor heart attack too. He was in a pretty bad way.'

‘Presumably you have to have some kind of first aid training to do this job?'

‘You bet. With regular update sessions to see we're not getting out of touch. Oh yes, I'm a little devil with the defibrillator.'

‘I'm sure you are. Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?'

‘Of course. Reggie Playfair had been a member for years.'

‘Piers Targett has asked me to come along.'

‘Good, I'll see you then. And if you want to book another lesson or fix up a game for yourself . . .'

‘I'm not ready to play a game.'

‘Don't you believe it. Some of those returns you were doing towards the end were pretty damned good.'

‘Well, thank you.'

‘There are plenty of beginners in the club, I'm glad to say. And a lot of young players, which is also good news. I've been working hard to lower the average age of the members here.'

‘Yes, one does get the impression that to play here you have to be in your sixties, from the right public school and preferably with a hyphenated surname.'

George Hazlitt shook his head with something close to annoyance. ‘That's the image of the game. Hampton Court, toffs . . . It's really not like that any more. We've got our fair share of Old Etonians and Harrovians here at Lockleigh, but we've also got builders, decorators, farmers. The membership's not all out of the top drawer by any means. Not all rich either. We've got a guitarist, we've even got a writer, so neither of them have got two pennies to rub together.'

‘And how do you get the younger ones in?'

‘I've got relationships with a couple of the local schools, do regular coaching sessions with them. Then I've been round the local state schools with Lady Budgen – we've got a good little double act going there, you know, talking about the game. We've had a bit of interest from that area. Have you met Tonya Grace?'

‘Not exactly met, but I saw her when Piers was partnering her in the Sec's Cup.'

‘Of course he was, yes. Well, she's a very promising young player, and just from a comprehensive in Brighton. Felicity's sort of taken Tonya under her wing and been encouraging her. I think she and Don may even be helping her financially, subscription, court fees, travel expenses, that kind of stuff . . . But please don't mention to anyone that I told you that. So the game really is moving away from its elitist image.'

Jude grinned. ‘It certainly will be if I start playing.'

‘Well, we must see to it that you do. Give me a call. There are lots of people round your standard you could have a really good knock with. You have to remember, Jude, real tennis has this extremely cunning handicap system, which means you can have a competitive game, whatever your standard.'

‘Yes.' While she still had George Hazlitt on his own, Jude wondered how she could possibly get the conversation round to the identity of the real-tennis-playing woman with whom Oenone Playfair suspected her husband had had an affair. But before she could embark on that rather tricky manoeuvre, a voice from the walkway called out, ‘Morning, George. Morning, Jude.'

It was Jonty Westmacott. Of course, thought Jude, the Old Boys' regular Wednesday eleven thirty doubles. A fixture on the calendar so important that Oenone Playfair had even postponed her husband's funeral to accommodate it.

When Jonty had passed through into the club room, Jude said, ‘His gout must've got better.'

‘Oh?'

‘I saw Tom Ruthven over the weekend. He was trying to get a fourth for today because Jonty was a doubtful starter.'

George Hazlitt grinned knowingly. ‘Gout this time, was it?'

Jude was puzzled. ‘Oh?'

‘I'm afraid Jonty is one of those players who's not above a bit of gamesmanship. If he plays badly, there's always a reason other than his own incompetence.'

‘Actually, last week he was complaining of a tweaked tendon in his knee.'

‘Yes, there's always something with Jonty. Injury, or of course something wrong with the equipment. I've strung his racket too tight or . . . the balls.' George Hazlitt raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I probably get more complaints about the balls than anything else in this club. They're not completely spherical, the bounce isn't true, they're too soft . . . I've heard them all. And because Ned and I make the balls by hand – a new set of sixty every fortnight – well, the members know who to complain to, don't they?'

The pro looked at his watch. ‘I must go, got some calls to make. But I'll guarantee you one thing . . .'

‘What?' asked Jude.

‘That sometime during the next hour and a quarter Jonty Westmacott will summon me out of the pro's office because there's something wrong with the court.'

‘And will there be something wrong with the court?'

George Hazlitt shook his head wryly. ‘Will there hell? But I will have to take the complaint seriously because I'm afraid that's part of what the job of being a pro is about. And also . . . I can't help feeling a bit sorry for old Jonty. I mean, he was a really good player. Handicap down in the twenties in his prime. Even then he wasn't above a bit of gamesmanship. But now . . . it's frustration because he can't play like he used to, that's what makes him do all this stuff. Age, the dreaded age. Heigh-ho, it'll come to us all.' He moved towards the walkway. ‘Anyway, I'll see you, Jude.'

‘Yes. Just one thing, George . . .'

But Wally Edgington-Bewley, Tom Ruthven and Rod Farrar had just arrived. The window during which Jude might have pursued her enquiry had closed.

She was glowing with health after she had showered and changed, but she also knew that the following day she would feel all the bending and stretching she had done. Particularly in her knees and the back of her calves. She hoped, though, that this wouldn't be her last time on a real tennis court. The bug had begun to bite.

Remembering the etiquette of the game, she waited in the dedans until such time as the players had to change ends. She watched Rod Farrar serve to Jonty Westmacott, who hit his return into the net. ‘Thirty-love,' said Tom Ruthven.

Rod Farrar served again, with exactly the same result. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous!' spluttered Jonty Westmacott.

‘What's the trouble this time?' asked his partner, a very patient Wally Edgington-Bewley.

‘Well, it's the height of the net, isn't it? I mean, I don't normally put that many into the top of it.'

‘The rest of us seem to be getting the balls over all right,' observed Tom Ruthven.

‘Yes, but you've always tended to sky them rather,' said Jonty. ‘My game's always depended on my returns going very low over the net.'

‘So what do you want to do about it?' Wally looked resigned. This ritual – or something very similar to it – had been carried out every Wednesday morning for eleven years.

‘I'll have to have a word with George,' replied Jonty Westmacott and bustled off the court towards the pros' office. The three men left on court sighed and raised their eyes to the heavens.

Because there was a break in play Jude could have left straight away, but she lingered to see how this little scene would play itself out. George Hazlitt, looking suitably serious, came out of his office, carrying a marked stick. Jonty Westmacott followed.