Hole in One by Catherine Aird Page A

were assembled as set of purpose as did the bevy of men in the artist’s famous depiction of The Night Watch of Amsterdam. A collection of solemn-faced golfers with their game in mind, they took up their positions in the Committee room in silence, taking in the presence of Detective Inspector Sloan and Detective Constable Crosby without comment.
    â€˜I think we’re all present and correct except for Eric Simmonds,’ said the Captain, a former naval officer who’d served his time at sea. ‘How is he by the way? Does anyone know?’
    â€˜Still as weak as a kitten,’ said Brian Southon. ‘I dropped in there last night. But getting better slowly.’
    â€˜Right.’ The Captain clasped a sheet of paper firmly between two large hands.
    â€˜Now, you all know about the body at the sixth …’
    There were nods all round.

    â€˜And that it was not an accident …’
    More nods.
    â€˜Deplorable, quite deplorable,’ said Gerald Moffat automatically. ‘We’ve never had anything like this before in all the history of the Club.’
    â€˜Not good,’ agreed the Captain gruffly. He shot a glance in Sloan’s direction before going on. ‘And which is worse, it would seem highly likely that the – er – perpetrator would seem to have been someone who knew the course well.’
    â€˜We do have Visitors remember,’ pointed out Luke Trumper. ‘Lots of them.’
    â€˜The police,’ said the Captain, ‘have details of all the Visitors, guests and Societies.’
    â€˜What about Open Meetings?’ asked Nigel Halesworth. ‘We get dozens of outsiders playing every time.’
    â€˜The Secretary has the names and addresses of everyone who has played in our Open Meetings,’ rejoined the Captain.
    â€˜Players are not the only ones who know the course,’ pointed out Brian Southon. ‘Don’t forget that.’
    â€˜I understand the police have taken that factor on board, too,’ said the Captain.
    â€˜When I was out East,’ began Major Bligh, ‘we had a feller who went berserk with a kukri …
    The Captain overrode this with practised ease. ‘Now, Detective Inspector Sloan here will tell you what he wants to know from us all …’
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    â€˜Ah, there you are, Sloan. Come along in. We’ve been waiting for you.’
    Detective Inspector Sloan suppressed an automatic instinct to wipe his shoes on a mat before he entered the mortuary at the Berebury and District General Hospital. The place was convent-clean, the body of a sand-covered young man the only object not shining and polished.

    â€˜Not a lot to tell you yet, of course.’ The pathologist waved a hand that already held some arcane instrument whose precise use the detective inspector didn’t care to think about.
    â€˜Anything would be a help at this stage, doctor,’ said Sloan. ‘Anything at all but especially a name.’
    â€˜Much always wants more,’ said the pathologist gnomically.
    Sloan stifled an inclination to say that he only wanted information – no, that was wrong – what he really wanted was data. Data was information leading to a conclusion, which wasn’t the same thing at all.
    â€˜Burns here has everything ready and there’s not a lot of clothing to hold us up.’
    Pathologist and policeman watched as Detective Constable Crosby and the pathologist’s assistant dealt with the young man’s clothing, sealing it into separate bags for Forensics, marking each with a number as it began its long journey that would only come to an end in a court of law. That is, thought Sloan to himself, if ever it got to court. Full many a police case was born to bloom unseen and waste its sourness on the desert air.
    â€™T-shirt, underpants, jeans and socks,‘enumerated Crosby. ‘That’s all.’
    â€˜Not a lot to be going on with,’ said Sloan. ‘And