Not entirely coincidentally, Angie Knight’s thoughts were on just that subject. Mick’s lugubrious expression cheered her. She had been mulling over with some pleasure how absolutely convenient for her the news of an early death could be: that of her now-separated spouse. Quick and not too long delayed. With pain, if possible. Not murder, no. Yet a natural death was too good for him, she opined frequently to her intimates. She hoped a different kind of ending would take care of her ex- husband. Lingering and painful. Say a bad car wreck. She worked positively towards his downfall, so far without success. Why should the manipulative sod get into a decent club—it was like letting in a rat with rabies. Meanwhile, she could do without any complications in her life. “How’s Wednesday looking, Mick?”
“Well, why not, my love?”
“If you don’t get the push before then.” Then she added hastily, “Just joking. I don’t want you out. You’re too much of a good thing, Mick. I’ll make sure you’re all right, if anyone starts noseying around you-know-what.”
“Ah. Yes. Quite, Angie.”
Summers did know-what. His debts. They were accumulating, what with the interest Betsafe charged.
“I’m a fixture here, Angie. Yours. Want to put me on your mantelpiece?”
She demonstrated her feelings in unsubtle ways there and then.
“Randy brute, aren’t you?” smiled Mrs. Knight. “Real pro at it too.”
“All I want, a deader on the practice-ground. There goes my lessons for the week. Just what I need.”
* * * *
Phil Church recalled what he knew of previous encounters with a sudden death at Wolvers. He would take Alice Godalming’s advice. That was how he had become a successful and fairly rich businessman: an instinct for sound reasoning, together with his native caution, had done the trick. It would now, he was sure. Spread the load. And go easy on the gin.
“You’re right about this, Alice,” he said. “We need the Major’s advice.”
The timing was impeccable.
“—ah, Major! Here, Alice’s idea. Said you’ll need it.”
“Major! So glad you’re here,” said Mrs. Godalming. “Now, tell us all what’s happened. But Ted, where’s he got to?”
“Bless you, Alice, so kind of you, always said Ted was a lucky devil! I needed that, so I did! Well, he’s told you there’s a casualty—a set of bones—out at the diggings on the Kop? Said he would. Get on that little blower of his. I don’t get on with these tiny plastic things. An all-fíred damnable nuisance, couldn’t finish the round, doing well with the short irons, d’you see, wasn’t I, we were one up one to go, all we needed was a half, but that gets no fiver apiece for myself and Ted, does it, an unfinished round, eh? He’s showering, slow. Should have been in the mob, that’d have shifted him—! Where was I? Ah, phone! Things need sorting out instanter, got to talk to the right people. Get to the top, you see, before the balloon goes up, as we used to say—Phil, I’ll need your office.”
Church knew exactly why.
“But at least tell us what you’ve seen, will you?” pleaded Alice. “Oh, the hell with it, I will have another. Major; don’t rush off just yet, please. Phil and I quite appreciate that you were about to contain matters, but at least wait for a moment to tell us what these ghastly matters are. Major? I am right, Phil?”
“Of course, Alice. Alf?”
“Of course, damned impolite of me! My apologies, my dear! All right, it’s a wretched business. The body’s been in the ground for years, no telling how long, according to what Root’s lad’s just told me—Gary’s his name, been in the military, as you two know, so he’s up to the mark, knows how to make a report—yes, he’s seen the remains. It’s all that’s left of some poor devil. Old bones, according to Arthur Root. A big skull, prominent eyebrows and jaw, so it will be a man’s.”
“Did you see the bones yourself, Major?” said Alice Godalming.
“No. Not my place to. Arthur Root doesn’t want anyone trampling around before the specialists come. Quite right too. Anyway, I wasn’t going back up that hill and down again onto the old Cartwright land. Told my team we’re best out of it. Better here. Yes, Bliss. All of us.”
Phil Church decided that, on balance, this was best left to the Wolvers Captain. Alice thought about criminals she had sent down. Charlie Bliss felt a wonderful glow of importance. He would get to know all he could, and he would tell so little. Until he saw an advantage in so doing. He served the drinks, then he pointed to the large bay window. “Police car just arrived, Ma’am. Gentlemen.”
Major Wynne-Fitzpatrick grabbed the recharged balloon glass and departed with a growl of pain and a heavy clumping of his good foot. “Be right back, Phil. Alice!”
Bliss knew what was in the offing. In a minute or two, he would be out of the action. He probably wouldn’t get as much as a glimpse at the find. Nevertheless, it was turning out to be an excellent day, except, of course, for the luscious Josie’s contemptuous brush-off; but this looked to be the real thing. The Secretary looked to be off-balance, which was how any minor crisis affected him, so he chanced his luck.
“So we’ve turned up a bit of history, have we, Mr. Church? What is it, a leftover from the fight on the Kop? Yonks back? The Romans and the Ancient Brits, would you say? Mr. Chips would know, Mrs. Godalming. He’s the member to ask, right, sir?”
“Bliss is right, Alice. And that would be Mr. Jowett to you. Damn it, he was here an hour or two back, said he’d play the front six by himself, his usual when he doesn’t want company—where is the old fossil, Bliss?”
“Can’t say, sir. Only yourselves around, just now.”
“Phil, be discreet!”
He couldn’t. “I’ll find him! He’s the expert. Heard him talking archaeology for hours. Alice, my dear, Josh could have us out of this mess in a minute!”
“Phil, we’ll catch up with him another time. The police certainly will.”
“No, this is Club business. Now’s the time! Got to be done. The Major’s right—get things sorted out.” And he was away, in Alice Godalming’s estimation away and rudely, into the great entrance hall, presumably making for the locker-room. “Where’s Josh Jowett?” she heard him calling as he went. “Anybody know?”
* * * *
Three of the slow foursome were finishing dressing, Ted Jones almost ready. “Ted? JJ? What do you think? He’s gone, has he?”
Ted Jones, sleeking down his thick black hair with Brilliantine, thought he might have seen his car making a smooth but swift exit.
“Didn’t see him in here, Phil. Hared off, has he? Wish I could. Alice into the gin?”
* * * *
“Who’s this?” said Gary, trying. Root glanced at his watch. Things didn’t happen immediately in any investigation; but they happened. He was surprised to see that almost half-an-hour had passed since that three-note repeated bellowing had flooded the back six with its mournful intelligence. “The brass?”
It would not be a member of the more senior ranks of the Criminal Investigation Department. Not for old bones haphazardly discovered.
“Not the top brass, no. Middling. You’ll be late for tea.”
Tea was dinner for most in South Yorkshire. A full meal, served usually at six-thirty. Ah, well. Tea would keep. “Gary, you keep out of it. Speak when you’re spoken to, otherwise say nowt.”
And here came the first, a comfortably built sergeant Root knew well. He waved to Root, who indicated the find. It was the driver he’d glimpsed in the Focus who was unfamiliar to him. Young, slim, and female. She