The Feathery (15 page)

"Righto, and Scotland Yard is investigating Malachy Gallagher’s activity while associated with Barkley, who’s under scrutiny for some illegal gambling business."

Riley looked down at Bradshaw’s notebook again, and pointed a finger at the name, Johncke, the Swede, who, according to Barkley, had died. "Why is Johncke still listed here?"

"We’ve found he had a history of having others do the dirty work of convincing antique collectors to give up what they cherished."

"So you think Johncke could have been involved in both the New York murder and Heathrow robbery?"

Bradshaw paused before he answered Riley. His eyes were locked onto a name on the list. "It’s a possibility, but there’s another who could’ve been a co-conspirator."

"How and who?" Riley asked.

"This person of interest has worked with Johncke on other occasions to acquire the collectibles he wanted to possess by any means. We’ve found out that that person had contact with some unsavory characters in New York City."

Riley was getting impatient with Bradshaw’s game of not naming his so-called ‘persons of interest’ and irritated again by his not calling them ‘suspects’. "Which suspect is it? Harding or Barkley?" He asked.

"Barkley is not eliminated, but I’ll be having a talk with Mary Harding very soon." Bradshaw answered.

"So, you suspect Mary Harding of being the go-to person for Johncke? Anything from the other inspectors who attended our meeting?" Riley asked.

Bradshaw picked up a report from his desk. "Yes, they helped run down the Johncke angle and the Harding connection. The Yard’s Art and Antique Squad spent time in Belfast investigating the usual persons of interest with no positive results." Having said that, Bradshaw grinned, remembering Riley’s reference to the movie
Casablanca.
"But they did come up with Malachy Gallagher’s suspected link to IRA terror in London."

"How about this Covington lady, Chief Inspector?"

"When she played on the European Women’s Golf Tour she was friendly with another professional, Jennifer Lawton, who has been seen with Mary Harding. Could be a connection. And we can’t rule Sarah Covington out of this."

Riley rose from his chair and reached across the desk to shake Bradshaw’s hand. "I’m returning to the states tonight. I’d like the names of those in New York who have connections to Harding." Riley fixed his eyes on Bradshaw for five seconds before he squinted and said, "if the person is in New York City, I’ll find the scumbag who killed my friend, Lem Shattuck."

Bradshaw handed Riley a handwritten page out of his notebook with three names and their New York City addresses.

"Good luck, Detective Riley. I’m putting a man on detail to watch Harding, starting tomorrow morning. If I get more on her link to the New York City underworld, I’ll inform you."

 
T
he next morning, one of Bradshaw’s men, Tony Jones, was assigned to a surveillance detail watching the activity of Mary Harding. Jones parked the van with no-see-in tinted windows across from her flat on Queen Victoria Street that served as a small antique gallery and living quarters. He observed the comings and goings of several persons carrying boxes and shopping bags. Jones suspected that what they carried were stolen antiques and Mary Harding was their fence, since she’d been charged with the receipt of stolen antiques once before. But that charge had been dropped for lack of evidence.
That’s a good reason for another investigation,
he thought,
but today it’s one of a higher priority…murder and robbery.

On the third hour of Tony’s surveillance, a person fitting the description of Harding left the apartment carrying one piece of luggage and a small package. She wore a brown tweed suit, tailored in a masculine cut. A black leather necktie was tied under the collar of her blue, button down shirt. Her hair was pulled tightly in a bun resting on the back of her head. It confined every dark brown strand originating from her severe hairline. She drove an older model Bentley toward Westminster, and Jones followed her.

Mary Harding parked on a side street in Westminster and entered an upscale apartment without the piece of luggage, but she carried the package under one arm. Jones found a parking space a few doors down from the apartment. He waited and watched from there. It was two hours before Mary Harding left the apartment without the package, and drove off. Jones followed her to the motorway leading to Heathrow Airport. She entered the long-term air port parking lot as Jones called in a report to Chief Inspector Bradshaw to ask whether or not to arrest Harding.

Bradshaw’s answer was delayed for a few seconds before he said, "okay, Tony, we don’t have enough to make an arrest, but just find out where she’s headed, and when she’ll return. She may lead us to the New York City feathery connection. Oh, and give me the address of the flat she visited in Westminster."
Before terminating the call, Jones gave Bradshaw the street name and number of the flat. Then he drove up to a bobby near the exit from the parking lot to the ramp leading onto the airport concourse. Jones flashed his Scotland Yard identification. "I say, mate, I need to park right here. I’m on a case."

The bobby directed him curbside. Jones left his car quickly, and he was in time to see Harding coming down the escalator from the parking garage. He followed her to the check-in counter of British Airways and waited until she received her boarding pass. After she started toward the gate, he bucked the line in front of several startled passengers waiting there. He showed the agent his credentials and asked where Harding was going, and when she’d return. He was told by the ticket agent that she was on her way to New York’s Kennedy Airport and would return to London in two days.

I
t was a fine evening for golf. Randal Lyle, the Turnberry Security Chief who was recently retired from the Glasgow police force joined with Scott and Derrick Small on the Ailsa course. Randall was fifty one years old, with a six-foot frame and a muscular body kept that way by jogging seven miles and doing 100 sit-ups every day.

At the 5th hole, a 530-yard, par 5 called,
Fin Me Oot
, a tee shot had to clear over 200 yards of heathery gorse before finding fairway. Scott was set to drive his ball, but stopped his swing when something caught his eye on a hill beyond. A young boy was bent over, looking at the ground. Because the youngster was in Scott’s line of fire, Matt gave a holler of "Fore!" But the warning went unheeded. On Matt’s second shout, the boy waved his arm to Scott in a gesture that told him to go ahead and hit. Scott deferred to local knowledge, and he asked Derrick about the kid’s activity.

"Scott, the lad’s working with a ferret." When this didn’t clear Scott’s puzzled expression, Derrick explained further. "He’s after a rabbit, and just sent his ferret on the leash down a hole to catch one. He wants you to go ahead and hit your ball."

Scott was still a little confused about ferreting, but hit his drive over the boy and a good distance out on the fairway. When the others finished teeing off, Scott walked where the boy was kneeling. Just as he got there, he saw the kid pulling a yellowish-furred, weasel-like creature out of a hole in the ground. The strange animal held a rabbit in his bite by the neck. The boy made the ferret release the rabbit from its mouth, and he took his captive by the ears, dropping it in a burlap bag where it joined some others wriggling around inside. Scott introduced himself to the redheaded kid.

He shook Scott’s hand with a look of embarrassment on his blushing, freckled face. "My name’s Douglas McEwan. I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t leave the rabbit hole just when your caddie hollered. I had my ferret down there and if I left him, he would’ve run away with the rabbit, for sure."

Scott took a closer look at the ferocious little animal. "No problem, Douglas. I was just curious about what you were up to."
"You’re an American, sir?" Douglas asked.
"That’s right,"
There’s something familiar about this boy.
He looked closely at Douglas’ freckles and red hair. He pondered the connection. Then he remembered: Douglas fit the description of Hugh McNair’s caddie as told by the English writer in McNair’s journal. And the other even stronger coincidence was the same name, McEwan.
"I’d guess they don’t ferret much in America," Douglas said. "I watched your drive go over my head. You’re in fine shape. It was a powerful drive, sir. Will you be playin in the Open?"
"Yes. Will you watch it?"
"I’ll be doing some ferreting on the Arran course in the mornings, then. Arran will be closed during the Open, and the crowd noise will keep the rabbits in their burrows. Ticket prices are much too dear for me, so I’ll be watching it on telly at midday."
"I’ll leave you some passes in the pro shop with Derrick Small," Scott said.
A smile lit up Douglas’ face. "I hope you win against them all, Mr. Beckman." He ran through the brush with his ferret under one arm, and the burlap bag with its several squirming lumps slung over a shoulder.
After the boy left, Derrick caught up to Scott. "I let the McEwan lad do his ferreting on the course and started the lad caddying this year when he reached fourteen years."

 They’d driven off the first tee at seven in the evening and were finishing at ten- thirty, just as the first stars appeared and the extended daylight of Scotland finally came to an end. Scott shot a 68 on the Ailsa course, and was pleased about that. He joined Derrick, Lyle and Matt for drinks and dinner at the Kilt and Jeans.

The hearty pub dinner featured a specialty of Scotland called
haggis,
made from the chopped-up heart, lungs and liver of a sheep. Those not very appealing ingredients were mixed with onions and oatmeal and boiled in the sheep’s stomach, then served in that same organ. Scott thought the
haggis
washed down with a pint of Guinness Stout, tasted much better than its ingredients sounded.

The caddies for the Open started to stake out the pub. Matt told those gathered at the bar how Scott and he had done loops at El Camino, as kids, and how Scott’s frequent fantasy when playing on the greens there was a make believe notion each putt was the one to win a Masters or British Open.

Matt looked at Scott and grinned. "Fantasy time is over, dude. Day after tomorrow, it’s all for real."

 
S
cott spent the next day away from practicing or playing golf. He picked up his credentials and allocation of Open passes while Matt was out on the Ailsa Course double-checking the distances from key landmarks for his yardage book.

At the Turnberry Pro-Shop, Derrick Small prepared for a buying spree by the Open crowd. He finished counting cash with those big hands of his, and put the pound notes and change in the cash register. When Scott entered, Derrick had moved to a table where stacks of wool sweaters with the Turnberry logo were waiting to be arranged by size and color. "Douglas McEwan came here looking for an Open pass. Do you know anything about it, Scott?"
"Oh sure, I promised him some the other evening when he was ferreting for rabbits. Said I’d leave a pass here." Scott reached in his pocket and retrieved two from a stack. "There’s one for his dad, too."
"His father’s a plumber. "The McEwans are from Saint Andrews, where his ancestors were golf club makers in the eighteen hundreds. David McEwan moved here last year to find work."
Now Scott had a St. Andrews connection along with the McEwan name and the ferreter’s resemblance to the description of the McEwan caddie in McNair’s journal. But he thought the link was too weird to mention to Derrick at this time.
"Seems like a good kid, Derrick."
"Aye. He’s a bright lad, but a bit outspoken at times when caddying. David McEwan will be thrilled to attend the Open with his son."

 
After Scott left the Pro Shop, he walked the grounds to have a look around. The large tented exposition and refreshment areas were in the final stages of construction. A bank was available on-site as well as a travel agency and a first-aid facility. Corporate courtesy tents were set up to house clients who would partake in complimentary champagne and catered meals. The area had the look of a circus midway or a state fair.

He passed by the practice range and recognized several of the more famous players hitting balls there. Some had competed in past British Opens, and won. Seeing these superstars sent a shiver down his spine.
I’m a long way from El Camino, and I’ve made it to the British Open to go up against the best players in the game, thanks to you, Sandy.

Scott entered the locker room where Matt was hanging out with a few of the caddies. They were cleaning clubs and golf shoes, getting them ready for the official practice round the next day. Scott reached in his golf bag and removed an eight and a ten-degree driver. The ten-degree was in his allowed fourteen club allotment to be used when a high cutting drive was called for.

"Gotta get these checked out by the Royal and Ancient. Something called
COR
, Matt."
"Oh, the old
coefficient of restitution test
…
COR
," Matt proclaimed.
"Smart-ass caddie. Okay, Matt, brief me on it."
"They want to check your drivers for the trampoline effect." Scott looked as if he needed more detail, so Matt continued, "Say a golf ball hits a steel plate two feet thick at one hundred miles per hour and bounces back at seventy-five miles per hour. Then the trampoline effect or COR is zero-point-seventy-five."
"Like, seventy-five percent of the ball’s energy springs back from the steel wall. Is that right?" Scott asked.
"You got it. If you relate that to your drivers, the R and A doesn’t want to see any more than eighty-three percent of the applied energy or speed bounce off a driver’s club face when it hits a golf ball at one hundred miles per hour or at any speed for that matter. In their one hundred miles per hour test, the golf ball cannot leave the club face at more than eighty-three miles per hour or the
COR
specification of zero point-eighty-three is exceeded…making the driver illegal."
"How do you know about that, Matt?"
"I called the USGA at Golf House in New Jersey when I started caddying, and they explained it to me."