After placing his ball on the tee, he selected a driver, then looked down the deserted fairway. Pockets of mist clung in the dip created by the River Medlock as it meandered its way along the side of the course. Barely visible in the mist, about two hundred yards away was the green. The shadow to its left was a dense grouping of gorse bushes and he knew two kidney-shaped bunkers lay in wait to its right. A good drive would get him to within chipping distance of the green.
Lazily he swung at the air to the side of his ball, using the movement to gauge his muscles and joints. A bit of stiffness in the left shoulder. He reached his arm up over his head, bringing it round like a swimmer doing backstroke. A few more repetitions and he was satisfied it was loose enough. He stepped up to the ball, fingers and toes rippling, buttocks clenching and unclenching as he made infinitesimal adjustments to his posture. First shot of the day, he thought. And if I cock it up, it could throw me out for the rest of my round.
The club connected with a pleasing crack and he completed the swing before looking up, knowing it was a good one. The ball was almost invisible against the grey sky before it suddenly reappeared below the horizon and bounced to within metres of the gorse bushes.
'Nice one, Trevor,' he murmured, sliding the driver back into the bag. Now for the next pleasure — walking down the unblemished fairway.
As he strode over the grass he breathed in the chill morning air. Another few weeks and it'll be too cold for this, he thought. His mind turned to Milner. He'd turned up with some cash, but not the full amount. She would settle up a bit more the following week, he'd asserted. Trevor analysed the conversation. He knew the signs. Milner suddenly becoming an advocate for the woman, making excuses for her, buying her more time. It all pointed to the probability she was settling her debt by spreading her legs for him. He considered going round and demanding some of that payment for himself — God knows he'd been happy enough to accept favours like that plenty of times in the past.
He couldn't help grinning at some of the memories. Best time was when he got into the property game, buying up dingy bedsits and then renting them out to the dross who could afford nothing else. Always rent to women, was his motto. Preferably abandoned and damaged ones, those struggling to cope with what life had dealt them. There were plenty of rent days when tenants would literally get on their knees and beg. He found it the ideal position for them to bargain from. Most seemed to accept what he suggested as an unavoidable part of life. One or two would try and refuse. But, truth be told, their defiance only excited him. He liked a verbal tussle and there was only one time when events had escalated to brute force.
The business with Milner, however, was a different matter. There was no way he could allow an employee to get away with it. After all, it wasn't just the client getting shafted. It was him, too. And Trevor Kerrigan took it from no man.
He paused to glance over his shoulder. A line of dark footprints stretched all the way back to the start of the fairway. He nodded, pleased to have been the first to mark the virgin grass. His eyes turned to the green ahead. There was the white dot of his ball, just short of the green. He leaned his head to the side. What was that by the edge of the bushes? Something red. He continued on his way, his eyes fixed on the scrap of colour. As he got closer he could see the object was made from material. Flimsy material. A pair of knickers? Maybe some couple had been using the golf course for a spot of open air shagging. Yes, they were knickers all right. He could now make out their lacey edges. Within metres of the bushes he heard a sound — high pitched, girlish. Surely not. They couldn't still be at it, he thought, not in this temperature. But a branch was moving. Shaking slightly. Rhythmically. Oh yes. He hoped she'd be on top. Then he could get a good look at her before bawling them out.
He crept quietly up to the bushes but the dense clusters of spikes stopped him from seeing between the short branches. With a leering smile ready on his face, he stepped round. Confusion made his expression falter. Something black, crouching low. But rearing upwards towards him fast. Very fast. Teeth. Great snarling teeth. And a sharp, sour smell. He just had time to ball his fingers into a fist when a blow caught him under the chin, snapping his head backwards and exposing his throat. The second swipe tore his windpipe out.
Twenty-Seven
'That's your bloody phone.'
Jon's eyelids felt glued shut. He moved away from Alice's elbow as it jabbed him in the ribs. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabbed his mobile.
'Spicer here.'
'Morning, Sir, it's Sergeant Innes at Longsight.' Jon managed to grunt in reply.
'Sorry for the early call.'
'What time is it?'
'Just after seven.'
He'd been asleep for what? Six hours. He felt like he needed sixty more. 'What's up?'
'A body has just been found on the Brookvale golf course. Severe lacerations to the face, neck and upper chest.'
Jon was on his feet and reaching for his trousers. 'I'm on my way.'
The sun was just clearing the trees by the time Jon arrived at the entrance to the golf course. The brightness would be short lived. Despite the weather forecast, a slab of grey cloud was moving across the sky and Jon thought it would be raining by lunch. His tyres made a drumming noise as he drove over the cattle grid and on to the gravel drive beyond. It rose up and, looking to his left, he saw the brown of the moors in the distance. To his right the chimneys, towers and cranes of Manchester were just visible.
As he pulled into the car park at the side of the clubhouse, he noted a green van, two police cars and a monstrous four-wheel drive already parked there. A sign to the side was headed by the words, Club rules. He read the first one. No trainers or shirts without collars allowed. Thinking how much he hated the petty rules and sad hierarchies of these places, he deliberately parked in the slot reserved for the President.
At the tee-off for the first hole three lines of footprints led across the still damp grass. They ended at a patch of sunlight that was creeping up the fairway, pushing back the shadows cast by the pine trees behind them.
'Who's been down there so far?' Jon asked, after introducing himself to the uniforms.
'The groundsman and the constable who first responded to the nine-nine-nine call.'
Jon's eyes went to the distant bushes. A bag of golf clubs and two arms, flung backwards, were just visible. He looked over his shoulder at the jeep. 'That his car?'
'Yes. Registered to a Trevor Kerrigan of The Beeches, Droylsden Road.'
'Have you run his details?'
'No need, Sir. Kerrigan's well known in this area.'
'Why?'
'He's a loan shark. Loads of reports linking him to intimidation of people owing him money. He's almost been collared for assault on several occasions, but either the victims won't testify or one of his thug employees owns up.'
'So no shortage of people bearing a grudge.' He looked back at the fairway. The crime scene manager was still fifteen minutes away. He didn't want to wait that long. 'I'm going to take a look.'
As he ducked under the blue and white ribbon of police tape stretching across the top of the car park, the sergeant said, 'Sir, is this another one?'