Death on the Eleventh Hole by J. M. Gregson Read Free Book Online Page A

table, he paid his pound on their modest wager without his customary complaints about the handicaps of the opposition. And he switched to halves after the first pint. Something was clearly preoccupying the Captain.
    His companions shrugged the thought aside in the noisy hilarity which surrounded their after-match drinks. They came here to enjoy themselves, and they usually succeeded. If Richard Ellacott was a little out of sorts today, they weren’t going to let that stop them savouring their beer, toasted sandwiches and exuberant conversation. You might not be able to play golf like Tiger Woods, might even in your sixties be on the downward slope of golfing achievement, but you could enjoy this part of the day more than ever, especially when you could savour the thought that other people were at work.
    Had they been a little more observant, they might have noticed that their Captain was watching the progress of the Oldford Gazette around the lounge bar. The club had it delivered every Wednesday, just as it took the Daily Telegraph each morning for the benefit of its members. Today far more members than usual picked up their local rag and gave close attention to its front page, where the body which had been found on the neighbouring course at Ross-on-Wye got full coverage.
    When his companions had left and the clubhouse was almost empty, Richard Ellacott sauntered over to the bar, where the steward had just put down the paper before going away to connect up another keg of lager. He glanced carefully around to make sure he was not observed and then took the Oldford Gazette away to an armchair in the corner.
    He read the coverage of the murder very carefully. The police had not yet released a picture of the dead girl, but there were large photographs of the spot where she had been discovered on the eleventh hole at Ross golf course, with quotations from members and speculation about how long the body had been lying there before it was discovered. Foul play was definitely suspected and enquiries were proceeding, but there was as yet no sign of an arrest.
    The police knew nothing yet, then. Or nothing they were prepared to release to the local newshounds. The slightly smudged print gave an impression of great haste, as if the paper had held back its deadline to include the tremulous prose with which it greeted this local sensation. Richard Ellacott went over everything twice, finding it curiously consoling that there was no mention of his name anywhere in these hastily compiled columns.
    He had not expected anything, of course. Perhaps the police would never even come to see him. He drove home to his wife with a dozen greenhouse carnations, and gave her conversation more than his usual attention.

 
    Six
     
    Chris Rushton locked his car carefully outside St Anne’s House in Gloucester. The big, shabby house was in the red-light district and he was glad that it was daylight now. He was relieved also as he went into the place that he was in plain clothes. The people he saw moving about in the place were the sort who would have shown instant hostility to a police uniform.
    It was easy enough to distinguish the voluntary helpers from the clients the place was trying to help. An elderly woman was listening patiently to a white-faced, shifty-looking man who was almost six feet tall and looked as if he weighed less than nine stones. She directed Rushton to Father Gillespie’s room without a curious glance and turned back to the man who looked as if he would not live out the year.
    The inspector found the priest kneeling in prayer with an emaciated girl, who was probably eighteen but looked fourteen. Rushton stood awkwardly outside the open door until they had finished. Father Gillespie must have been aware of him, but he did not divert his attention from the girl. He said as they stood up, ‘You were fine today, Annie. You ate enough to keep body and soul together. And we’ve just given a little food to your soul, haven’t we? I