Emil pulled himself to his feet then into his chair, as if it was a safe haven. His lips moved but no sound came out. He wanted to scream, but his throat was too sore.

  The man checked his watch. ‘This is what’s going to happen next,’ he said. ‘I was kidding about the police being on their way. Actually they’re outside, but they gave me five minutes with you, to explain your situation. When I leave, they’ll come in. They’ll arrest you and they’ll take you into custody, past the film and still photographers that I have waiting outside. As they’re booking you in, you’ll become front page news as my company breaks the story of your dirty little plot. Tonight or tomorrow, you’ll be charged with whatever the prosecutor in Barcelona decides he can make stick. Given the firebomb that you planted in the advertising lady’s car, I expect that to include terrorism. That’s got a very broad entry threshold and could put you away for fifteen years.’

  He checked his watch again. ‘My five minutes are nearly up,’ he said. ‘Before I go, though, one more thing. Half an hour ago, my colleague Hector and I, and Comissari Roza of the Mossos d’Esquadra, met with your brother and your wife and told them what you’ve been up to. Their thinking, as they expressed it to us, is to cancel the sale of your company, discontinue the Ciervorapido project, which they say was your idea in the first place, and take legal steps to forfeit your shares. Oh yes, and your wife said she’s going to leave it to you to tell your girlfriend. So long Emil,’ he called out as he reached for the door handle, ‘it’s been rotten knowing you.’

  Fifty-Nine

  In his teenage years Sauce Haddock had wondered when a golf club became a country club. As he drove into the Bright Islands complex, the question resurfaced. ‘When they add a clubhouse like a sultan’s palace, tennis courts, a swimming pool and a spa complex,’ he murmured. ‘And a pro shop the size of Harrods,’ he added, as he was greeted in the driveway by a youth in a uniform, on a mission to park his car.

  ‘How can we help you today, sir?’ another clean-cut student with a vacation job asked as he stepped into the shop, carrying the driver, mid-irons and wedge that he had brought with him.

  ‘I’d like to hit some balls,’ he replied. ‘I’m a guest in the resort hotel. I hope to play a couple of rounds, if I can find a partner, but for now I’d just like to loosen up.’

  ‘You’d be Mr Haddock, yes?’ she asked.

  He nodded, cautiously.

  She grinned. ‘The hotel briefs us on new arrivals. They told us that you were coming from Scotland. Love the accent,’ she added.

  ‘Yours is okay too. New England?’

  ‘Yes, I’m impressed. How did you know?’

  ‘My old boss’s wife’s from that part of the world. She lives in Scotland now . . . or she did until a few days ago when she and her family moved to Spain.’

  ‘Oh, Espana,’ the young woman purred. ‘I’d love to go there. When I graduate my plan is to visit Barcelona, Madrid, all those cities.’ She switched to business mode. ‘The driving range, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s over there, to your left beyond the clubhouse. I know that there are plenty of bays available. The balls are stacked for you.’

  He thanked her. ‘Are there any pros around?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, would you like a lesson?’

  ‘Not today,’ he replied. ‘But I am trying to find one. His name’s Ryan Pilgrim. He may not be a teaching pro, but . . .’

  ‘He isn’t,’ she confirmed, ‘but Ryan is around today. I saw him earlier. If you go to the range, I’ll locate him and ask him whether he would like to join you.’

  Haddock followed her directions, walking around the palatial clubhouse until he saw the practice area. First there was a short-game zone, a large area surrounded by a mix of rough and bunkers with four flags marking the target holes for the six members who were honing their skills. Beyond that lay an immaculately cut undulating nine-hole putting green where two elderly ladies appeared to be having a contest. Finally, there was the driving range itself, twelve numbered bays with a pyramid of golf balls stacked beside each one. As the pro-shop girl had promised, it was lightly used, with only three golfers at work on their games. He chose bay number eleven.

  ‘Good day sir. Do you have everything you need?’

  Haddock turned to see an attendant approaching him, of the same vintage as the other two and wearing the same uniform. ‘Fuck me,’ Haddock thought. ‘These kids all go to politeness school.’

  ‘I didn’t bring any tees,’ he replied, finding himself anxious to offer the boy some way, any way, to help him.

  ‘That’s okay, sir. There’s a box next to the balls. That will last almost for ever, but if you need another stack I’ll roll one across.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know.’ He laid down his clubs, loosened his belt by one notch and began the yoga-based stretching routine that he performed before every round. When he was finished, and feeling supple, he picked up his seven iron and went to work. The bay had an artificial surface, but the contact was clean; ‘Hit the little ball first, the big ball second,’ he told himself; the serious golfer’s mantra before every iron shot. He hit twenty-five balls with the seven, twenty more with his four iron. When he was satisfied with the consistency of both distance and trajectory, he switched to his driver. He was teeing up his sixth shot when he became aware that someone was watching him. As he looked around, the man approached; he was tall, with a brown complexion, clean-shaven, age range early to mid-thirties.

  ‘Are you Mr Haddock?’ He nodded. ‘Ryan Pilgrim,’ the newcomer said. ‘I thought it had to be you from the way you hit the ball, low. It’s as if you grew up allowing for the wind. I’ve competed against a few Scottish players: I see it as their trade mark.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ Haddock admitted. ‘But it can also give us an advantage. The higher you hit the ball, the greater the margin for error.’

  Pilgrim looked him in the eye. ‘You wanted to see me, Joanne said. I can guess why. It’s about Sandra, isn’t it.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it is? You know?’

  ‘I do. An English guy, Bryan Brown, who’s a member here: he was spreading the word in the bar earlier. He had a call from his wife. He said that Sandra’s dead and the cops are calling it a homicide.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m one of them. Detective Superintendent.’

  ‘Pretty unusual way to be investigating a murder,’ Pilgrim observed.

  ‘Pretty unusual circumstances,’ the Scot countered. ‘Do you know that Sandra used to be a cop herself?’

  ‘Yes, she told me. She wasn’t close to many people here, but she told me stuff.’

  ‘Just how close were you?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘Did we sleep together, you asking? No. She and I were friends, good friends. I think we both knew without saying, that anything more would just have made things complicated. We got to know each other here, in this place, oh, about three years ago. I’m what they call a touring pro in the US; Bright Islands is my listed home club. They pay me a modest retainer for the limited exposure that brings, plus I have a cabin on the property. Mostly I play the secondary PGA tour, but occasionally my ranking will get me a start on the smaller events on the main tour.’

  ‘How did you and she meet?’

  ‘I saw her first on this practice ground,’ Pilgrim said, ‘just like I saw you. I don’t give lessons; that would be taking bread from the resort’s assistant pros, but I could see a flaw in her set-up and I mentioned it. She was an okay player, mid-handicap. You’re lower than that, I can see. What are you?’

  ‘The lowest I’ve been’s plus one, when I was just a sergeant. I’m two point one right now. Every promotion I’ve had’s put a shot on my handicap. How was Sandra?’ he continued. ‘Even as a police officer she was a bit of an enigma.’

  ‘How was she?’ the American mused. ‘When we met, she was just beginning to get over her thing. She was damaged, Mr Haddock.’

  ‘Sauce.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sauce,’ he repeated. ‘It’s what everyone calls me. Truth is I prefer it to Harold or Harry.’

  Pilgrim smiled. ‘I get it. As I said, Sandra was damaged. She acquired a reputation as a loner when she moved out here. Spoke to nobody she didn’t have to, just sat in her house watching the sea, like Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott.’ He smiled at the flicker of surprise that showed on Haddock’s face. ‘I’m a college boy, Sauce. Even on a golf scholarship we had to study stuff. I majored in English lit.’

  ‘Me too,’ the Scot murmured. ‘That’s why I became a cop. I reckoned that if you weren’t going to be a writer, you could only teach it. I didn’t fancy being part of an academic time loop, so . . .’ He paused. ‘Sandra was damaged, you said. How much of her story did she tell you? Or did you know of Leo Speight before she arrived?’

  ‘I knew of him,’ the golfer said. ‘Who didn’t? Have you been in the house yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Then you’ve seen the trophies. Everything that Speight ever won is in those cases . . . apart from one item.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘His silver medal from the Olympics. The only fight he ever lost, although the world knows that he was robbed. After that he wore it everywhere he went, Sandra said, to remind him not to take anything for granted ever again. After he died, so did she; never took it off. I never met Speight,’ he continued. ‘He died two weeks after I moved here. Sandra and I arrived around the same time, for similar reasons, as it happens. I was damaged too. I’d been trying to make my way through to the main tour, totally focused on my game, travelling every week from my home in Arizona, so it came as a complete surprise when my wife went off with a real estate salesman from Phoenix. She also took our car and our furniture, but she was kind enough to leave me with the mortgage.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Say that again. I was bust. I’d have had to take a club pro job . . . or maybe even teach English lit . . . if my agent hadn’t found the Bright Islands opportunity. It let me recover emotionally, and keep playing. My finances still aren’t right, but I’m getting there.’ He smiled, sadly. ‘Sandra offered to sponsor me, but I couldn’t allow that.’

  ‘Why not?’ Haddock asked.

  ‘Pride, pure and simple,’ Pilgrim replied. ‘She understood that, but she did insist on paying for a couple of lessons with a swing coach in Las Vegas. That was last year and they paid off. I’ve had eight top ten finishes and two wins since then, which makes me a certainty to graduate to the full tour next year. I’d been looking forward to her coming back, so I could thank her properly.’

  ‘Have you heard from her since she left?’

  ‘I did, WhatsApp messages from time to time. She told me she was touring with Leo Speight’s oldest kid, her virtual stepson, she used to call him. Sent me pics from all the places she went. In one of her last messages, she said she knew someone who was a big wheel in the European media, and maybe could get me a sponsor invitation to a DP Tour event in Spain.’

  ‘One of her last?’ the detective repeated.

  ‘Yeah. It was late February. She said that on her trip she’d been researching, and had found out some pretty interesting stuff. Said she’d be off the radar for a while, but she was looking forward to getting back and catching up. She’d been following me when she was away, she said. I’d had three top tens by then, including a third place finish in Mexico. She said congratulations and . . .’ He paused, as if for thought. Eventually, he took his phone from a trouser pocket and scrolled through its contents. ‘Sandra’s very last message,’ he murmured as he handed it to Haddock. ‘She sent it six months ago.’

  It was a WhatsApp. ‘I saw what you did in Mexico,’ he read. ‘Fantastic. Congrats. This is only the start. My business is almost done, I’ll be back in a week or two and ready to go on tour, full time. I want to be the woman you at the eighteenth green when you have your first win.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’ he asked.

  ‘Surprised. Good. Warm,’ Pilgrim replied. ‘I realised that I wanted that too. But it’ll never happen now.’ His mouth tightened and his eyes glistened. ‘I’ve spent the last six months waiting for that week or two to end. Wondering, but too proud or more likely too scared to go looking for her.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Haddock murmured, awkwardly. ‘Ryan,’ he ventured, ‘can I ask you to do something? Would you be prepared to forward Sandra’s messages to my WhatsApp account? They might be relevant to our investigation. Will you do that? They’ll be kept private, I promise . . . unless they’re ever used in evidence in a trial.’

  ‘Key in your number to my phone and it’s done,’ he promised. ‘I want whoever killed her as badly as you do, maybe worse.’

  The Scot entered his mobile number and handed the phone back to its owner, who summoned a few images then clicked. ‘It’s done. How else can I help you, Sauce?’

  ‘You can tell me about the times she did go with you?’

  ‘You mean did we share a room? No, we didn’t. Our thing, like I said, it was platonic and we were good with that. Well, I was and I’m sure Sandra was too, for that time. We were comfortable together, peaceful, you get what I mean?’

  ‘I do, but it’s not what I meant. Where did you go?’

  Pilgrim scratched his head. ‘Where?’ he murmured, ‘let’s see. There was Jacksonville, Florida, the first time. Then there was Seattle, then Chicago. And Vegas. And Baltimore,’ he added, almost an afterthought. ‘I got a start in a PGA tour event in Baltimore. That’s not a cool place, but Sandra said she’d always wanted to run up the Rocky steps in Philadelphia and it’s close by.’

  ‘Was that unusual? Her going sight-seeing?’ the Scot asked.

  ‘Nope, she did it every time that she came with me. She would walk the course with me, inside the ropes, every tournament round I played, and the usual Wednesday pro-am . . . one time she got to meet Huey Lewis; she loved that . . . but Monday and Tuesday, when I was on the range or playing a practice round with some guy or other that I knew from the college circuit, Sandra would go sight-seeing in whatever city we were at. She’d be away all day, and when she came back there was always a sense of achievement about her. In fact there was one time, the last time in fact, when she came back from Philly, she had that glow about her. I remember I said to her, “Good day?” and she smiled, and nodded and said, “Yes indeed. That’s another box ticked.” I only smiled myself at the time, but now when I think back to what she said about researching in Europe, I’m wondering if she was doing the same thing then.’

  Haddock nodded. ‘Me too. I will get all this back to my people in Glasgow, and have them follow it up.’ He rolled his driver, which he was still holding, in his right hand. ‘Thanks for your help, Ryan. I’ll keep you informed about the progress of our investigation.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ Pilgrim said. He took a ball from the dwindling stack, and a tee, and handed it to the Scot. ‘While I’m here,’ he murmured, ‘set up again for me. There’s a very small change you could make to your takeaway that I reckon would get you those three shots back off your handicap.’

  ‘Can you teach me to putt too?’

  ‘Only God can do that,’ the golfer replied, ‘and even He might be a little shaky over a four footer down-hill with a left to right break, to win the Masters.’

  Sixty

  ‘Jackie,’ Lottie Mann exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what to make of this, but I’ve just had a message from The Accidental Tourist.’

  ‘Who?’ Wright exclaimed.

  ‘The boss; Sauce. It’s what I’m calling him after his gesture in self-funding the Bahamas leg of our investigation. It was my mother’s favourite book when I was growing up. She tried to get me to read it, but it wasn’t quite my thing.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Terry Pratchett, believe it or not. Later on when I met my Dan, all scruffy as he used to be, I had a theory that the character Vines was based on him. Dan says that’s rubbish: he was the model for Nobby Nobbs, he says. Anyway, the AT’s forwarded a string of WhatsApps that he got from Sandra Bulloch’s golfer boyfriend.’

  Stirling overheard her. ‘They were just good friends, according to Gordon,’ he volunteered.

  ‘Not according to her last message,’ the DCI countered. ‘I think absence might have made the fart go Honda as the old joke used to say. Anyway, these WhatsApps: I’ll send them to you and John. Take a look at them, the pair of you and tell me what you think.’

  She retreated to the privacy of her office where she forwarded the messages, then studied them herself, on-screen searching in vain for a common factor or any kind of link to the investigation. She had been studying them for five minutes when she was interrupted by a call, from within the police network.

  ‘Lottie,’ the caller began. ‘It’s Jenny Bramley here. There’s been a development that might be significant . . . or then again might not. Do you remember the slip of paper thet was recovered from the pocket of the victim’s jacket?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mann said. ‘The piece that was useless because it had been made unreadable by bodily fluids.’

  ‘Yes, and I doubted that it could be recovered. I was too pessimistic,’ the scientist confessed. ‘I could tell you that was because I didn’t want to build up expectations, but the truth is, I underrated the skills of my people. They have managed to make it legible. I’m sending a scan to you.’

  ‘Well done your team,’ the DCI told her. ‘Now, back to significance. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a ticket of sorts, a receipt for a deposit made in a self-storage facility in Alloa, Clackmannanshire. There’s no number on it; just the address and a QR code, nothing to give a clue to the contents. Over to you, Lottie.’