Read Online Death on the Eleventh Hole by J. M. Gregson - Free Book Online
Authors: J. M. Gregson
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I’m sure the police will come and see me again, but they’ll ring first. They handle bereaved mothers with kid gloves, it wouldn’t be good public relations if they didn’t… No. I don’t think so. So far, they don’t even know you exist… Of course they will, in due course, it’s their job to find out things. But I don’t see why you’ve any reason to fear them… Yes, I’m sure you could come here… All right, but I think you’re being a bit paranoid… Can’t wait to see you! It seems a long time… I know, but it seems longer. I’ll look forward to that… And that too, you randy sod! Bye, then.’
She mouthed a kiss into the mouthpiece, then sat looking at it for a moment after he had rung off.
Sex was definitely different.
***
Chris Rushton was back in the murder room beside the Ross golf course by four thirty. There was a note to tell him that Superintendent Lambert had gone home, but should be contacted there if anything urgent came up. It wasn’t like John Lambert, that, not with a murder investigation gathering pace.
DI Rushton, full of the importance of the breakthrough he had made at St Anne’s House, felt cheated by this absence. He had been looking forward to demonstrating that he wasn’t desk-bound, that he could use his judgement and initiative when the occasion offered. He decided not to ring the chief at home. It would sound like boasting, and he had too much experience of Lambert’s gentle irony to risk offering him an opportunity.
He had found the squat at Sebastopol Terrace in Gloucester, but neither Joe Ashton nor anyone else had been there in mid-afternoon, though there were signs of occupation about the place. He logged the information he had acquired on a new file in the computer. Then he looked at what had come in during his absence. There were a few sightings of vehicles on the quiet road by the golf course where the body had been found, but no one yet knew the time when the body had been dumped. There was a note to say that the full PM report would be delivered by hand the next morning.
Chris felt a rather guilty satisfaction in the knowledge that there had been no discovery throughout this busy Wednesday which rivalled the importance of his own contribution.
It was quiet in the Terrapin hut that the police had brought here to provide an incident room. Most of the hastily assembled team were out on the leg-work of routine which always occupied the first days of a murder case. Rushton liked it like this. He set about organizing the material which was accruing into the most logical order, trying to ensure by his cross-referencing that any connections which might emerge as significant would not be missed.
He was thoroughly immersed in the work when a voice almost in his ear said, ‘Still keeping your nose clean, Inspector?’
Rushton looked up into an unshaven chin, which had a crooked smile and twinkling blue eyes above it and a shapeless sweater below it. For a moment, he did not recognize the face which had appeared unbidden in hideous close-up, not six inches from his own carefully shaved visage. But the twisted, slightly mocking smile gave the identity away.
‘Danny Malone!’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘If I didn’t know you better, me old mate, I’d think that didn’t sound very welcoming.’ The Irish accent, which had been strong twelve years ago, was only just discernible now. He pulled up a chair, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘And anyway, it’s not just Danny boy any longer. It’s Sergeant Malone, of the Drugs Squad.’ He thrust out his chest beneath the sweater in mock pride.
Rushton nodded and grinned. ‘I heard.’ They had trained together, chalk and cheese in temperament, but thrown together by a common suffering as cadets. Rushton had been the model trainee, serious in intent and heedful of all advice, Malone had been the gifted but wayward recruit, full of potential but with a tendency to use his own initiative
She mouthed a kiss into the mouthpiece, then sat looking at it for a moment after he had rung off.
Sex was definitely different.
***
Chris Rushton was back in the murder room beside the Ross golf course by four thirty. There was a note to tell him that Superintendent Lambert had gone home, but should be contacted there if anything urgent came up. It wasn’t like John Lambert, that, not with a murder investigation gathering pace.
DI Rushton, full of the importance of the breakthrough he had made at St Anne’s House, felt cheated by this absence. He had been looking forward to demonstrating that he wasn’t desk-bound, that he could use his judgement and initiative when the occasion offered. He decided not to ring the chief at home. It would sound like boasting, and he had too much experience of Lambert’s gentle irony to risk offering him an opportunity.
He had found the squat at Sebastopol Terrace in Gloucester, but neither Joe Ashton nor anyone else had been there in mid-afternoon, though there were signs of occupation about the place. He logged the information he had acquired on a new file in the computer. Then he looked at what had come in during his absence. There were a few sightings of vehicles on the quiet road by the golf course where the body had been found, but no one yet knew the time when the body had been dumped. There was a note to say that the full PM report would be delivered by hand the next morning.
Chris felt a rather guilty satisfaction in the knowledge that there had been no discovery throughout this busy Wednesday which rivalled the importance of his own contribution.
It was quiet in the Terrapin hut that the police had brought here to provide an incident room. Most of the hastily assembled team were out on the leg-work of routine which always occupied the first days of a murder case. Rushton liked it like this. He set about organizing the material which was accruing into the most logical order, trying to ensure by his cross-referencing that any connections which might emerge as significant would not be missed.
He was thoroughly immersed in the work when a voice almost in his ear said, ‘Still keeping your nose clean, Inspector?’
Rushton looked up into an unshaven chin, which had a crooked smile and twinkling blue eyes above it and a shapeless sweater below it. For a moment, he did not recognize the face which had appeared unbidden in hideous close-up, not six inches from his own carefully shaved visage. But the twisted, slightly mocking smile gave the identity away.
‘Danny Malone!’ he said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘If I didn’t know you better, me old mate, I’d think that didn’t sound very welcoming.’ The Irish accent, which had been strong twelve years ago, was only just discernible now. He pulled up a chair, sat down and crossed his legs. ‘And anyway, it’s not just Danny boy any longer. It’s Sergeant Malone, of the Drugs Squad.’ He thrust out his chest beneath the sweater in mock pride.
Rushton nodded and grinned. ‘I heard.’ They had trained together, chalk and cheese in temperament, but thrown together by a common suffering as cadets. Rushton had been the model trainee, serious in intent and heedful of all advice, Malone had been the gifted but wayward recruit, full of potential but with a tendency to use his own initiative
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