Murder on the green E-Book

John-Erich Nielsen

• Herausgeber: Éditions Head over Hills
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Französisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 255

Beschreibung

Amanda Nelson is found buried in a bunker at St Andrews Golf Course...

Amanda Nelson is dead… She was the mistress of Will Tyron Jr., the world's number 1 golfer. And the daughter of General Boyle, a military advisor to the former President of the United States. Passion surrounds this woman… Too much passion: she was found buried in a bunker at St Andrews Golf Course, her head bashed in…
"I still shiver when I think back on the start of the investigation… I was quite far from imagining at that time that the investigation would lead me from the Scottish coast, through Georgia and the mugginess of the American South, to a wind-beaten Irish Moor. And how could I have expected what was going to happen there? My goodness! It was going to be a test of my mettle…" Archibald Sweeney – Criminal Investigation Department, Edinburgh

The French Golf Federation selected “Murder on the green” as its gift of the year.

Discover a investigation that will lead you from the Scottish coast, through Georgia and the mugginess of the American South, to a wind-beaten Irish Moor.

EXTRACT

“Yes and look at that, how the skull has been pushed in. It went right in, Jesus! Oh well… He didn’t suffer.”
“That’s for sure…” replied Sweeney pensively. “Okay, we’re going back up,” McDermott abruptly decided, having reached the limits of his tolerance to humidity.
As the two men struggled up the incline and removed their disposable gloves, General Boyle called out to them:
“So?”
“Buddy Nelson’s dead… Murdered,” announced McDermott in a monotone.
When Robby Elster heard the news, blood did not drain from his face, as he was already livid with worry. The player opted to turn away. He bent his head and put his hands on his hips as though trying to recover from a punch to the stomach.
As for General Boyle, he burst out:
“Oh, damn it! Is this an epidemic or what? And the tournament starts in three hours… Robby, are you going to play?”
Without even looking at him, Robby shook his head.
“Okay, I understand. We’ll send out a press release to the effect that, for personal reasons, etc.” Then turning to the policemen:
“Gentlemen, I’m counting on you to keep this quiet. Not a hint of it to the media, okay? The show must go on… By the way, Lieutenant, will your team be here soon?” continued the general.

ADVICES

A detective story for anyone who's ever wanted to kill their partner! - Golf Magazine

A mystery story in the best tradition with a well-built plot. A new hero to discover. - www.rayonpolar.com

A captivating detective story! - Fairways

The plot brings together the best American golfers. - Golf Européen

Leseprobe

Cover

Page title

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

“DO YOU PLAY GOLF, Inspector?”

His colleagues had warned him that Chief Inspector Wilkinson was eccentric, but this was their first meeting. What could he possibly say in answer to his boss’s question?

Was this a local form of hazing, a way of welcoming new recruits? Was the Chief Inspector about to form his opinion of him based on the quality of his swing? Was he looking for a sparring partner amongst his subordinates? Or a compliant subaltern to provide him with an alibi when he returned home late and drunk to his wife? Or else – and that was the most improbable if not the most upsetting hypothesis – was the Chief drawn to the firm, svelte body of the young inspector? How’s that for a first post! shuddered Sweeney.

If I’d realised choosing the Edinburgh Criminal Investigation Department meant having to put up with weirdos from the capital, I would have stayed back home taking it easy like my old pal Harry. In the end maybe I should have listened to him…

“So, Inspector?”

“Um… Personally, I’m keener on rugby, sir. My father even played for the junior Scottish league,” replied Sweeney, satisfied that his answer had saved him from the disturbing prospects created by his imagination.

What an imbecile Sweeney is, he doesn’t understand a thing! deplored Chief Inspector Wilkinson while closely examining the young inspector’s joyous face. It’s not surprising. Nowadays, the top graduates from Police College choose administrative jobs. They don’t have to get their hands dirty and it’s good for advancement. When I was their age… But never mind…

“That’s not what I was asking, Inspector. Sit down!” ordered a rather annoyed Wilkinson, pointing to the old, worn out armchair supplied by the Scottish Police.

Uh-oh! worried Sweeney when he noticed the sudden swelling of his boss’s bull-like neck. That’s just my luck, the boss looks really worked-up. Now that I’m sitting down, this is going to last forever. It won’t take long before I find out why they all call him Windbag Wilkinson…

As exasperated by the suffocating summer heat as by the hopeless naivety of a rookie who actually believed he was being invited to hit a little white ball, Chief Inspector Wilkinson launched into a passionate, seemingly endless diatribe. He raged against the Scottish Police’s training system, the hierarchy that had forced him out of the field too soon, and his own advancement which, though very distinguished, had forever deprived him of his trade if not his calling. He wound up by railing against inspectors who didn’t appreciate the fact these were the best years of their careers.

While Wilkinson was cursing the fate that brought him rookies like Sweeney, speechifying to the point of justifying his nickname, Sweeney had ample time to examine his boss’s expanding waistline, the impeccable arrangement of his office furniture, the faultless alignment of the objects, however small, on his desk, all of which testified to his boss’s profound satisfaction with his position, which allowed him to dress down young, plodding inspectors. From that moment on, Sweeney was able to listen to him respectfully because he felt confident in the accuracy of his deductive powers. However, he didn’t quite manage to hide how smug he was feeling…

“Do you find me amusing, Inspector?”

“Um… No, of course not, sir. But I thought that…”

“Well, Sweeney, you’ll need to learn how to think better. Do you really believe I would summon my inspectors to a meeting just to organize their spare-time activities? I can assure you I have other fish to fry!” Wilkinson sweated profusely, drenching his overly tight shirt collar, as he fulminated against the system that assigned him novices at a time of year when his experienced staff were on holiday.

“You have to understand, Sweeney, if I could partner you with a more senior inspector I wouldn’t hesitate. But now, at the end of July, with half my team sending me the same ridiculous postcard with the same idiotic beach and palm trees, the remaining staff have to carry on. So when there’s an emergency…”

“You were saying something about golf, sir?” enquired Sweeney whose sluggish grey cells had woken up upon hearing the magic word emergency… Would that have anything to do with a criminal case?” he asked straight away.

Wilkinson smiled at last. Maybe the rookie hadn’t been too badly trained after all.

*

THE CHIEF INSPECTOR scrutinized Sweeney’s face. To think that he was going to entrust a case of this magnitude to a beginner, to this… this… Damn, this raw recruit doesn’t look up to par! reflected Wilkinson.

In truth, the problem with Sweeney was that there was nothing much to say about him because of… his beard. It was the only thing you noticed about him. It was red, short, tousled, shapeless, and overwhelmed the rest of his face. Though Wilkinson tried and tried… No, there was nothing there to see except this red facial hair.

Sweeney was of average height and had no distinguishing features. He didn’t even wear glasses. But his face was totally taken over by a pervasive red beard which lit up his cheeks and chin. His tiny black eyes appeared motionless and inexpressive as though they were barely open. And his clothes… Phooey! He was wearing a dark tee-shirt that had never encountered an iron, a pair of grey trousers that had never even had a pleat, and sad brown shoes like those of an Anglican minister. A real disaster! The overall impression created by Sweeney’s appearance was that it only served to take his horrible red beard from one place to another.

Surprising in a young man, thought Wilkinson. He looks like one of those perpetual students. Oh well, I guess I’ll have to get used to it. I suppose the new generation are all like that… the chief inspector eventually convinced himself.

*

“GOOD, INSPECTOR Sweeney. Let’s start. For your very first case, you’re not going to be disappointed,” declared Wilkinson outright. He thrust his pudgy fingers into a pile of neatly stacked files on his desk and removed a yellow folder without disturbing anything. He opened the extracted document ceremoniously with a wide theatrical gesture thereby releasing unpleasant emanations from his underarms. Then he gazed at Sweeney’s beard.

“Are you ready, Inspector? Have you got a pen and paper?” he enquired as he always did whenever he entrusted a new case to one of his sleuths.

He was greatly surprised when Sweeney produced a small, rectangular, metallic object from the depths of his pockets.

“It’s a Dictaphone, sir. Does it bother you if I use it? They recommend we do so at Police College.”

“Um… No, of course not,” conceded Wilkinson, pretending to be familiar with the methods advocated by his colleagues instructing at Police College.

“But… but you’ll also be taking notes, won’t you?”

“Certainly, sir, once I get back home.”

So saying, Sweeney put his Dictaphone on the edge of the desk. One click and the tape started turning gently.

Wilkinson had the impression that, suddenly and without warning, the modern world had penetrated his previously ordered and predictable office. Furthermore, he felt that the two black hollow orbits of the machine were staring at him and that the sole purpose of their slow rotation was to hypnotise him. After a few moments of hesitation and apathy, the chief inspector was able to look up from the spellbinding device. He mentally cursed Police College recommendations and finally decided to get to the crux of the matter.

“Well… then… so there. It’s about a thirty-two year old American woman who was murdered approximately two weeks ago. Her body was only discovered six days after her death on a St Andrews golf course.”

“Oh! That’s why you were asking me if I played golf. But hold on, sir, St Andrews is just south of Dundee. It’s in their jurisdiction, isn’t it? In what way are we…”

“Do I have your permission to continue, Inspector? At this rate the tape on your… thingamabob will run out. May I now…” questioned Wilkinson, his eyebrows raised in disapproval, only too happy to get back at Sweeney so quickly for the vexation of the Dictaphone.

“So, as I was saying…” he resumed sententiously, “the young woman’s name was Amanda Nelson. She was from Wisconsin but lived in Palm Beach, Florida. She died of… Wait, I’ll read it to you, ‘of a violent blow to the temple’. For further details you can check with…”

“Because I’ll be the one investigating this?”

“What do you think?” Wilkinson interrupted brusquely. “Don’t be so impatient Sweeney!” he admonished. “Learn to listen, for God’s sake! It’s a virtue in our profession. It’s one thing to ask questions, but it’s even more important to learn to listen to the answers. Let me explain. According to forensics, death occurred on Tuesday, July 13th, but the body was only discovered the following Monday morning, the nineteenth, by one of the gardeners at the golf club. Her disappearance hadn’t been reported. The odd thing is the murderer buried her in the sand, in a bunker. You know, one of those big holes that ruins a player’s life.”

“Um… Yes, I can guess, more or less. How far have they got in Dundee? Motive, clues, suspects? An American woman killed on a golf course, it shouldn’t be hard to find out how she…”

“But it is. Here’s where things become complicated. It’s also the reason we are or rather you are taking over, Inspector. Let me walk you through this in order. As you can imagine, we don’t have any eyewitnesses and more surprisingly no one to question. Actually, nobody reported Amanda Nelson’s disappearance despite the fact that she does have a husband, a certain Buddy… Buddy Nelson and a father, General Arthur Boyle, who was the first to come forward when the press started to talk about the discovery of an unidentified body in the sand of a bunker on a famous St Andrews golf course.”

“Famous, famous… Personally, I’d never heard of the place until five minutes ago, sir. I presume the husband is American also, as is the father, right? Granted… but why not do something? Have the American police questioned both of them?”

“That’s the problem. Both the husband and the father have already returned to the United States. Even the body has been shipped to the other side of the Atlantic.”

“What do you mean returned? Both of them were in Scotland?”

“Yes, Inspector. They were here for the British Open which started two days after the murder. Strange, isn’t it? I told you you wouldn’t be disappointed… And the strangest of all is that the two most valuable witnesses had got on a plane even before the body was discovered.

As a result, our Dundee colleagues were only able to question the golf course employees and the people who could have been in contact with Mrs Nelson during her stay in Scotland. All we had time to do was perform the autopsy before shipping her back to her family for burial.”

“Wow… They never talked about a case like that at Police College… But sir, I still don’t understand why it should be the Edinburgh Criminal Investigation Department that’s handling the case.”

“But that’s precisely it, Inspector. We’re the second stage of the rocket,” Wilkinson added quickly for dramatic effect.

He resumed, relishing the moment:

“This Amanda Nelson wasn’t just anybody.”

“Never heard of her.”

“That’s normal if you aren’t interested in golf… Until last year her husband, Buddy, caddied for Will Tyron Jr., the world’s number one golfer!” exclaimed Wilkinson, convinced that this time at least, his inspector would finally react to hearing the name of a sports celebrity, but it was a lost cause.

“Sorry, sir. I’ve never heard of him either. And what do you mean by ‘caddied’?” Sweeney asked artlessly and disarmingly.

To his annoyance, Wilkinson realised that the beautiful rocket he thought he was launching had petered out.

“You’re really something, aren’t you! Don’t you ever open a newspaper or watch television, Inspector?”

“Frankly, no, not often. When I want to relax, I listen to a CD or a compilation, play games on my mobile, or else I go out.”

“So the name Will Tyron Jr. doesn’t mean a thing to you?”

“No more than the name of the skip of the national curling team.”

“Very well… Obviously I can’t get out of telling you the whole story in detail from the beginning. Will there be enough tape on your thing?”

“It’s good for two hours, sir, no problem.” “We’ve already used up one,” sighed

Wilkinson having lost all his illusions.

“Let’s try and be clear. The caddie is the chap who carries the player’s clubs, right?”

“So far so good. We can continue.”

“The best players in the world compete in major international tournaments, a bit like in tennis. There’s a British Open, a U.S. Open, and a Masters…”

“All right… That means something to me, sir. So this Will Tyron Jr. is a sort of Roger Federer of the little white ball?”

“Splendid deduction, Inspector. I’m reassured… And as I was telling you, Buddy Nelson was, up until a few months ago, this player’s official caddie. Are you with me?”

“Yes, but why is he no longer working for him?”

“Very good, Sweeney, it gives me great pleasure to see that you’re with me… A little less than a year ago, the press reported an extra-marital affair between Will Tyron Jr. and… who with? You’ll never guess in a million years.”

“His caddie’s wife?”

“Bingo! Amanda Nelson, the victim. At the start of the current season, Tyron Jr. ended the affair in order to avoid a scandal in the tabloids. And that’s not all…”

“I am following you, sir.”

“It’s an important element in the case, Inspector, and it explains why they’ve put us in charge. I told you that Amanda Nelson was General Arthur Boyle’s daughter, didn’t I?”

“Er… yes.”

“Obviously you don’t know who that is either, do you?”

“Um…”

“General Arthur Boyle is one of the co-directors of the US PGA, the Professional Golfers’ Association which manages the international golf circuit. It’s the largest sports organisation in the world with 28,000 employees

– no need to memorize this, Sweeney, it’s all in the file – and has a much bigger turnover than either Formula One racing or football.

Do you get the picture?

Also, before he retired, Boyle was the number two man at the Pentagon. And for a year, he even served as military advisor to the American president. When he got out of uniform after reaching the age limit, Boyle joined the Wat Mall Corporation as managing director. In just three years’ time he straightened out the company’s finances making it the world leader in the food industry. That’s why the PGA elected him chairman of the board. A special man, don’t you think? And this Amanda Nelson we’re concerned with, was his daughter.”

“Well sir, that’s a bit out of the ordinary.”

“Now, do you understand what I meant when I spoke about your very first big case, Inspector?” “You really want me to be the one in charge, sir? I’d rather continue helping McTirney with the case of the two chaps found drowned in the harbour. I’m familiar with the elements of the investigation. I could take over and he, if you agree…”

“Calm down, Sweeney, calm down. I’ve thought this over. Let McTirney solve the case of the inept underwater swimmers. Despite appearances, I’m asking you to do a simple job. Even if you have to work alone, it’s a great way for you to learn the ropes. Actually, all I’m asking you to do is to take up the slack in August. You know very well that we run on a skeleton staff during the holidays. I need someone to prepare the case on a solid enough base so that when the rest of the staff returns at the beginning of September, they can take over. At that point I’ll turn the case over to two old hands and then I’ll let you go back to working with Inspector McTirney. Do you understand the rules of the game, Sweeney?”

“Under the circumstances, yes, sir. But you said the main witnesses were in the United States. I don’t see how I can do the legwork if I can’t…” “And what do you think this is?” replied a beaming Wilkinson, unfolding a rose coloured carbon copy of a type the young inspector had never seen before.

“Do you know what this is, Inspector?”

Sweeney stared at the paper fixedly, unable to move his eyes away from the bold type above the logo: INTERPOL!

“This… this is brilliant, sir. It means that… that I will…”

“Well yes, beginner’s luck. You are going to visit Uncle Sam. True, not for very long, only five days. Within that time, you will be responsible for collecting, in close co-operation with the local police of course, the statements which will allow us to start procedures correctly in the fall, after the holidays. Still game Sweeney?”

“Wow! I never expected anything like this. When do I leave, sir?”

“Check with administration. They’re in charge of the paperwork. They still need some of your data, your vaccination certificate, your passport, etc. If everything’s in order, you’ll leave in about ten days.”

“So where am I going?”

“Ah! Yes, of course… You have been to the United States before, haven’t you?”

“Um… no, never.”

“You really are inexperienced… Do you at least know where Augusta in the state of Georgia is?”

“…”

“Sweeney, remind me to get you an atlas for your birthday. South-east of the USA, near Atlanta, Georgia, cotton fields, Gone with the Wind, do you follow me? Let me go on…

We’ve contacted General Boyle. All the players and their caddies will be spending four days in Augusta, from August 11th to 14th, for the

U.S. Open. Even though this is a major tournament, General Boyle has given us permission to interview all the witnesses necessary for our investigation. Lieutenant McDermott will be the American liaison officer in charge.”

“Is he Scottish?”

“How should I know? You can ask him yourself. But the most important thing is not losing sight of the fact that the victim was American even if she died in St Andrews. And you’re going to question American citizens on American soil. And you’re going to be doing this under the threat of a possible media circus due to Boyle’s stature. And Tyron Jr., the victim’s presumed lover and her husband’s former boss, could prove to be even more of a problem. To put it bluntly, Inspector, we’re walking on eggshells here, okay?”

“I’d already got that, sir.”

“On top of that, after you get there I want you to report to me daily by phone and I don’t give a hoot about the time difference. I expect a full report when you get back. But you should know how to do that since you’ve just got out of school.”

“Aye aye, sir. No problem.”

“Any questions so far? No? So I’ll summarize this for you in three points: number one, obey orders, number two, exercise extreme caution, and number three, zero initiatives. And don’t hesitate to replay this part of the tape twenty times if you need to. Is that clear, Inspector?”

“Very clear, sir.”

“Excellent. Before you go, as soon you’ve completed the paperwork for your trip, you need to scoot off to Dundee and contact the team that began the job. And Sweeney, use tact with the chaps in Dundee. As you can imagine, they’re sure to be overjoyed at having been removed from the case without notice. There’s every chance our colleagues are in a frenzy over this, despite the fact it’s their investigation that lays the groundwork for the rest of the case. Remember that, Inspector.”

“Okay.”

“Brilliant. Come and see me if you need anything at all. I’m entrusting the file to you, it’s yours from now on… Uh, Sweeney… Your thingamabob there on my desk…”

The inspector hurriedly plunged the Dictaphone back into his trouser pocket, put the precious yellow file stamped Amanda NELSON under his arm and finally pointed his red beard towards the door. And Sweeney, stunned by the weight of the unbelievable responsibility just laid on his young shoulders, closed the door to his boss’s office.

The young inspector, still feeling incredulous, halted in the middle of the narrow corridor of the department. He riffled through the notes and reports that had been shoved into the cardboard file any which way in order to convince himself of the reality of the task he’d just been entrusted with.

Suddenly a thought which had been niggling at his brain during the entire meeting, surfaced.

That’s it! I know who Chief Inspector Wilkinson reminds me of. He looks like Mickey Rooney, the actor! A younger and less funny version…

And Sweeney, completely reassured about his capacity for remembering faces returned to his office light-heartedly.

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

SEVEN O’CLOCK.

The solar orb was rising over the estuary of the River Earn, rousing Scotland from its torpor. The sunbeams began gliding over the still rumpled sheets of the North Sea revealing its opalescent curves. The waves, naked and pacified, were of a rare beauty… Sweeney had never tired of the spectacle.

The Ford Escort headed south, its faded green paint unaffected by the light of the morning sun. The young inspector’s red beard was the only thing blazing under the warm rays of the dawning day. Sweeney was blinded by the brilliant light. He leaned over to his left and extracted a pair of battered Ray-Bans from the obscurity of the glove compartment. Then he glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was seven o’clock. It’s perfect, he thought, I’ll be in St Andrews in less than fifteen minutes.

*

SWEENEY HAD SPENT the previous evening in Aberdeen at his Aunt Midge’s. He had brought her his pedigreed Dachshund, Berthie, in anticipation of his upcoming trip to the United States.

Before leaving his Edinburgh studio, he’d taken the precaution of calling his aunt to ask her if she would look after his eczema-ridden terrier while he worked on his first case. He told her, adding a bit of flattery, that she was the only person he trusted to take care of his dog. He also asked her if he could have dinner with her and spend the night before he left for Dundee the next morning.

They were purely rhetorical questions though. He well knew that his aunt Midge was incapable of refusing him anything and that his room upstairs was always ready for him. All this palaver was just a subtle game between Sweeney and his aunt, a secret code to increase their pleasure at seeing each other again.

Aunt Midge had raised Sweeney. She had taken the five-year-old orphan into her home in the waterfront district of Aberdeen. She gave her brother’s son the only bedroom, covered in yellow wallpaper, of the house. And she made do with a bed hurriedly installed in the storeroom behind the kitchen.

The small brick house had belonged to Grandpa Sweeney, a docker. His unmarried daughter inherited it on his death. Aunt Midge had never imagined that her solitude would end so abruptly, with the arrival of the young boy she learnt to love as her own.

Aunt Midge was proud of Archie’s success. She had prayed and thanked God profusely for Sweeney’s acceptance at Police College… But how she missed her nephew now!

*

THE CAR REACHED the end of the bridge over the estuary and entered the county of Fife. Sweeney had eaten a hearty breakfast an hour and a half earlier, served by his Aunt Midge. She had kissed him on the cheek and then, as usual, she had sent him on his way, telling him to drive carefully. She knew perfectly well why Archie needed to leave so early. She watched him disappear alone into the night.

No matter where he was going, every time Sweeney drove out of Aberdeen, he first headed west on the A93 following the narrow and lively river Dee on his left. He would drive for about twenty minutes and on reaching Crathes Castle, he would leave his old green Ford in an often muddy car park. He would continue on foot and walk on the moors, his sense of direction taking him unfailingly north better than any compass. Sweeney ignored the rare paths for he knew he would be able to find it even in the darkest of nights.

At the bottom of a glen, behind a nearly bare knoll, it would suddenly appear. Sweeney would get closer, extending his hand as though to better understand, then touch it. The granite cross had been standing there, dignified and doleful, for twenty years.

Sweeney would brush it with his hands, caressing it. He would close his eyes and with just the tip of his fingers make out the engraved inscription:

In Memory of Jack and Rosa Sweeney

Murdered on the moor November 21, 1984

The year he turned five… Bloody hell! And each time his fragile fingers would linger, wishing he could carve the ever-missing line into the stone, the name of the son of a bitch who had forever deprived him of his parents! What harm could the two lovebirds have been doing walking through the heather? Why would anyone have wanted to blow their brains out with two shots from a rifle at close range? His vocation was rooted in these unanswered questions.

Sweeney, to attenuate his suffering, liked to imagine his parents still walking hand in hand somewhere on the moor… And after touching the cold and silent stone one last time, Sweeney would return to his own life.

That morning, after leaving Crathes Castle, Sweeney drove south towards the sea in the direction of Stonehaven. A bit further, on the motorway to Dundee, he was briefly deprived of the calming influence of the waves. When he arrived in the still sleeping town, the young inspector felt it was too early for the appointment made three days earlier with his Dundee colleagues, Stirling and Moray.

Rather than wasting time at a café near the station or on the docks, he decided to use the interval before his appointment in a constructive manner. He chose to have a quick look at the St Andrews golf course where Amanda Nelson’s body had been found buried in the sand. He was only about ten minutes away.

Sweeney drove along the seashore in the gentle light of the rising sun. He came to a sign marked ‘St Andrews Links’ showing a monk in a cassock holding two golf clubs crossed against his chest. Sweeney followed the arrow pointing to the left and let the sea breeze guide him.

About a hundred yards down the road, the Ford Escort drove hesitantly into a gigantic car park.

Sweeney decided to park in the protective shadow of the clubhouse.

The young inspector slammed the heavy car door shut and felt the frosty morning air assaulting his back. The hair in his beard bristled as if surprised by the cold. So with a firm step, he hurried towards the comforting rays of the sun.

*

“HEY, MISTER! Get away from there.”

Sweeney was surprised and turned towards the buildings. He saw a man suddenly appear from an adjoining shed like a jack-in-the-box. He was thin-faced and very lean like a typical Highlander.

The golf club employee was gesticulating so wildly his grey velvet cap was at risk of falling from its perch atop his head.

“Hey! I said get away from there. Och, are you deaf?” he shouted again, waving his pruning shears threateningly across the newly mowed lawn.

Sweeney was petrified by the vociferations and gesticulations of the man he thought to be a gardener and stood still. Then the grey cap suddenly started advancing towards him.

The lanky man appeared to be in his fifties. His forehead bent low as though to cut through the wind more easily, he was muttering to himself:

“It’s too much. They’re going to drive me doolally. Do we need to hire security guards or what?”

The furious gardener reached the outer limits of the patch of light-coloured, perfectly even grass in the centre of which Sweeney was standing and stopped short.

“Where do you think you are?” he barked.

“This is private property. Haven’t you seen the signs?”

“Er… Of course I have. I just wanted to see what a golf hole looked like. I noticed that flag over there and I decided to have a look. I didn’t think it was forbidden,” explained the embarrassed inspector.

The man in the grey cap rolled his eyes.

“That’s a first! Look at a hole… Go, get off the green right now. In case you haven’t noticed it’s not visiting hours yet!”

Sweeney was reassured by the gardener’s touch of humour. He complied with the instructions and stepped away from the flag marked eighteen and finally removed his feet from the circle of green grass. And when he got closer to the ill-tempered guardian of St Andrews, he was struck by the odour of lawnmower fuel emanating from the man’s clothing.

Despite the good will shown by the interloper, the Highlander was still fuming:

“What the bloody ‘ell are you doing here? What are you looking for? If you’re just a snoop or a reporter, and they’re all the same to me, I’m warning you, I’m going to call the police.”

“But the police are already here,” retorted Sweeney.

It was the first time the young inspector needed to show his brand new police badge so he had to rummage awkwardly through his wallet before he was finally able to proudly produce his ID.

“Inspector Sweeney, CID. I’ve come about the young woman found murdered here two weeks ago.”

It was the turn of the man in the grey cap to look sheepish.

“Och, at this hour? You should have given us some warning. How was I supposed to know? I thought it was all over. I gave my statement to your colleagues when they were here.”

“The investigation is ongoing, sir. It’s not that simple, you know. Would you mind showing me where the victim was found?”

“Er… It wouldn’t be a problem since I’m the one that found her, except…”

“Oh, you must be the gardener who found her, is that right? I’ve…”