To Make a Killing

To Make a Killing by K.A. Kendall Page A

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Authors: K.A. Kendall
innocent”, so he let it remain as conjecture.
     
    “Very well, Inspector Keane. I will help you in whatever way I can. You will be very welcome as our guest. Until tomorrow. Bon voyage!”
     
    Keane let out a long, slow sigh. In spite of their hard and sometimes inspired work, he felt they were still a long way from making an arrest. At that moment, an out of breath Hayes knocked on the door as he entered the office.
     
    “I’ve got it all arranged” Gasp, gasp. “All packed. Flight leaves in two hours.” Gasp, gasp. “Here’s the itinerary.”
     
    “Good. Have you got the evidence with you?”
     
    “Yes, sir.”
     
    “Alright, Ian. You take care of yourself down under, and let’s get the blighter who’s done this.” A cordial pat on the back would have been appropriate, but Keane remained seated in his chair; he was just too old-school. Instead he smiled his sincerity, Hayes smiled back and left the office with the words, “I’ll be in touch, sir.”

Chapter 9
    Saturday, 19th September, afternoon
     
    It was rapidly approaching 12:15. Keane knew exactly where Angus would be, but that didn’t mean it would be easy to get hold of him. Fortunately, the golf course was on the way home to Ascot, so he could save some time.
     
    As Morgan rolled up at the packed car park, he estimated that Angus would probably be teeing off on the 15th hole around about that time. He began making his way across to the clubhouse, when he remembered that today was the first day of the club championship. He had scratched his own entry at the beginning of the week, but he knew Angus was keen to get a good result after last year’s disaster. Keane rushed inside the clubhouse to check Angus’ starting time: 12:42! Drat it! He’d already started. He ran out and over to the first tee. From there he could see the unmistakable figure of Angus, below his tartan cap, striding up the first fairway; or rather over to the deep rough on the left-hand side of the first fairway.
     
    Keane saw that the next group were waiting for Angus’ group to hit their first shot. So he grabbed the opportunity and made a dash towards Angus. Bewildered protests followed him from the men on the tee, so he tried to make light of his clear break of protocol: he held up his own reading spectacles and shouted back to them, “He’s forgotten his glasses! He’ll never find his ball without them!”
     
    Keane ran off towards Angus who was deeply immersed in finding his ball. “Are you playing your usual Titleist, Angus?” cried Keane.
     
    “Morgan! What the devil are you doing here? Don’t tell me there’s an emergency!” commanded Angus.
     
    “No caddies allowed, Angus!” ribbed one of his playing partners.
     
    “Just get your head down, man, and help me find this ball” was Angus’ response to the other player.
     
    Keane got straight to the point as Angus scoured the thick grass, “I’ve had to send Hayes to Australia to follow up on a lead there, and I have to go to Bordeaux, where it turns out there was an identical murder one year ago.”
     
    “And you want me to take charge while you’re away?”
     
    “Yes. I’ll be back tomorrow around midnight.”
     
    “Five minutes are up!” shouted the other playing partner.
     
    “Six foot to your left.” Whispered Keane. Angus stepped over to the patch which Keane had verbally indicated, lifted the grass gently and saw the unmistakable tartan cap emblem of his ball.
     
    “Found it!” replied Angus. “Off tae France with ye.” Angus’ accent had a habit of growing broader, when he played golf, especially when things were going well.
     
    Keane retreated ten yards and watched the big man swing and heave a huge sod out of the ground. Angus picked up his bag (trolleys were for girls), turned, winked to Keane and moved off to see his ball land short of the green and run on up towards the flag.
     
    *********
     
    Jenny was not pleased. It was bad enough that he now wanted to go on

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