Mortal Taste by J. M. Gregson Read Free Book Online

interpreted as aggressive.
    Peter Logan discarded the idea that this was some student hoax. As he moved into the stygian darkness of the deserted park, fear flooded through him, retarding the movement of his limbs, paralysing his power of thought. He managed to gasp out, ‘Look, if it’s money you want, my wallet’s in the inside pocket of my jacket. You’re welcome to it!’
    There were no words of response from behind him. Instead, the pistol pressed hard into the back of his head, driving him ever further into the darkness. He felt turf beneath his feet as he stumbled off the path, then threw up his hands to maintain his balance.
    It was his last movement. His life disappeared into a blinding curtain of white pain as the pistol blew half his head away. He never heard the muffled sound which died in the foliage of the deserted park.

Six
    D etective Sergeant Bert Hook should have been enjoying himself. He had finished work at midday. He was on a golf course, a very good one, the Worcestershire Golf Club at Malvern. A pleasant southerly breeze kept the temperature in the mid-sixties and moved high white clouds across a clear blue sky. The sun was just disappearing over the dramatic ridge of the Malvern Hills above the course. He could almost fancy he heard the strains of Elgar on the gentle down-draught from the hillside.
    And yet the normally cheerful Bert Hook was not happy. Those who play the infuriating game of golf will know that it can often have that effect. A badly topped drive can make a man unconscious of Paradise around him. But Bert was not playing badly; indeed, for a man who had regarded the game with nothing but contempt until two years ago, he was playing quite well.
    But he was partnering his old friend and working colleague, Superintendent John Lambert. And contemplating a venture into homicide.
    The two were part of the Ross-on-Wye team that was playing the Worcestershire Golf Club in a C team fixture. ‘It will be good for your game,’ Lambert had said. ‘Another new experience in your golfing development.’
    It was. And Hook wasn’t enjoying it.
    As a detective, Bert had the greatest admiration for John Lambert. He had worked with him for twelve years now, and his respect for the man had grown with each one. When they were on a case together, Hook worked for long hours and never counted the time. The chief was idiosyncratic in his methods, regarded as a dinosaur by some of the sharp young CID men who directed investigations from an office desk, but Bert Hook and the rest of his team showed him unquestioning loyalty.
    On the golf course, it was very different. It was not that John Lambert was incompetent. Far from it: he enjoyed the status of an eight handicap, a level which Bert Hook aspired to but doubted if he would ever attain. The problem was that Lambert insisted on offering ‘helpful’ advice to his sergeant, whom he saw as a tyro in the game, a man who could and should benefit from his friend’s experience.
    After they had shaken hands with their opponents from the home club on the first tee, Lambert took Hook to one side. ‘We’re partners in the same team, so I’m allowed to offer you advice and guidance. And you mustn’t hesitate to ask me for whatever help you need as we go along.’
    Bert’s heart sank to the soles of the new golf shoes he had bought for the occasion.
    His fears were fully justified. Most of the trouble came on the holes where he was given a shot advantage. From his newly acquired nineteen handicap, Bert received eight of these. ‘The difference in this match will come down to whether you use your shots or not,’ Lambert explained with satisfaction on the second hole. He then stood at Hook’s elbow with an almost maternal anxiety whenever Bert was playing one of his shot holes.
    His tutoring became more elaborate and Bert’s replies ever more terse as the match proceeded. Bert wished with