Murdered On The 13th

Chapter Two

Chapter Two“You're wanted, Sergeant,” Duff nearly whispered the words as Watters sat at his desk in the duty room. “Himself wants you.”

Watters placed his pen neatly in its holder, looked at the pile of pending investigations, and sighed. “I'd better go, then.” Rising from his chair, he made his way upstairs to Superintendent Mackay's office.

It was always trouble when Mackay called for him. However successful Watters had been in tracing stolen property, or in finding the drunken brute who beat up his wife, Superintendent Mackay never seemed pleased. So, it was with some trepidation that Watters tapped at the panelled wooden door.

Mackay was at his desk, with a splendid view of the prison next door and a cutlass hanging on the wall, a reminder that however exalted his position, the head constable of the Dundee Police could still work on the front line. “Ah, Watters,” Mackay looked up, “You spent rather a long time on a simple case of theft when we have rampant crime in the town.”

Watters stepped inside the office. “Yes, sir. I thought it best I resolved the cause as well as the mystery.”

“You're here to solve crimes, Watters, not put the world to rights.” Mackay treated Watters to a glare from his cold-blue Caithness eyes. “As it happens, Mr Sturrock was pleased with your efforts. He sent a case of beer for the Duty Room, so no doubt you'll get your share later.”

“That was very generous of him,” Watters said.

“Too generous. More importantly, I have a case for you.”

“Sir.” Watters stood at attention beside Mackay's desk.

“I was going to give it to Inspector Anstruther,” Mackay said, “but Mr Sturrock specifically requested that you're the man for the job.”

“Did he, sir?”

“He did, sir. And as Mr Sturrock is a councillor and a highly important man, I had little choice.” Mackay sighed. “It seemed he was impressed with what he called your tact and ingenuity in that incident in his home.”

Watters nodded. “It was nothing, sir. An open and shut case of a mislaid five-pound note.”

Mackay grunted. “That's not how Mr Sturrock reported it. Very well, then. You may find this next case more difficult. We have a murder at Dalcumbie Golf Course.” Mackay smiled faintly. “You play golf, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At Dalcumbie?”

“No, sir. That is the elite course in Dundee. I play at the Dundee Artisan Course.”

“Ah,” Mackay said. “I thought golf was a democratic game.”

“In theory, sir, but some courses are not.”

“Well,” Mackay said. “You will have your chance to place your plebeian boots over their hallowed turf. There is a dead body on the thirteenth green.”

“You said it was a murder, sir?”

“As the man was stark naked and ripped to shreds, I'd say so.”

“Do we know who it is, sir?”

“Not yet.” Mackay returned to his paperwork. “Take Scuddamore with you, Watters, and keep me informed of progress. This is not a good time for a murder.”

“Is there ever a good time for a murder, sir?” Watters asked, but Mackay only lifted a hand to wave him away.

Scuddamore and Duff were waiting as Watters returned.

“We have a murder case,” Watters said.

“That will make a change from sooty cockerels,” Scuddamore said.

“Get the mugs out, lads.” Watters was very aware that Inspector Anstruther was watching everything he did. I'll give him a show to watch.

With both of his detectives holding a mug, Watters fetched his own and poured in tea from the pot that he kept beside the fire. “Here's to us lads, wha's like us?”

“No' many,” Scuddamore continued the ritual.

“And they're a' deid,” Duff completed the formula as they clicked their mugs together and drank the black, unsweetened tea.

“Right,” said Watters, “let's get to work.”

* * *

Dalcumbie Golf Course was two miles north of Dundee between the city and the range of the Sidlaw Hills. Watters took his usual cab, with Eddie at the reins.

“There's been a murder at Dalcumbie,” Watters said. “Do you know anything about it, Eddie?”

“I heard about it, Sergeant.” Eddie was about forty, with agile brown eyes, and ears that heard everything. In his job as a cabbie, he roamed all around Dundee and often picked up snippets of information that Watters found useful.

“Anything for me?” Watters spun half a crown in the air with the weak sunlight glinting from the silver coin.

“Not yet, Sergeant,” Eddie said. “Just one of the lads – another cabbie – said it was a ritual killing, whatever that means.”

“A ritual killing?” Watters spun the coin again. “In what way?”

“I dunno, Sergeant Watters. Old Eck, that's his name, Old Eck, says it was like a human sacrifice.” Eddie gave a twisted grin. “Do you know what I think, Sergeant? I think he was such a bad golfer that his partner bashed his head in with a club.”

“Thank you, Eddie.” Watters pocketed the half-crown. “That wasn't worth a penny, let alone silver. Take us to Dalcumbie.”

“Sergeant George Watters of the Dundee Police,” Watters introduced himself at the clubhouse. “And this is Detective Scuddamore. I understand you have a dead body.”

“On the thirteenth green.” The club secretary looked stunned. “Andrew Forsyth was our club captain.”

“The Andrew Forsyth?” Watters asked. “The chairman of the Tayside Bank?”

“Yes,” the spokesman spoke in hushed tones.

“Has anybody moved the body?”

“No,” the secretary said. “We thought it best to leave things for the police.”

“Who found the body, and when?” Watters asked.

“I did,” the secretary said. “I was playing a round early in the morning, and I saw poor Mr Forsyth, just lying there,” he lowered his voice, “naked.”

“I'll speak to you later, Mr…” Watters said.

“Carberry. Jack Carberry. Do you have to tell people how he was found? We have a reputation as a respectable club.”

“Show me the body, please, Mr Carberry.” Watters thought it significant that Carberry was more concerned with Forsyth's state of nudity than with his murder.

As the secretary had said, Andrew Forsyth lay face-down and naked across the thirteenth hole. A middle-aged, successful banker, his body was covered in scratches, some deep, others merely on the surface, from his neck down to his knees.

“I've never seen anything quite like this before.” Watters bent to examine the body. “It's like some wild animal attacked the poor fellow, yet none of these scratches is serious; certainly, none of them killed him.” He glanced around. “There is no blood on the grass and no sign of a struggle. I'd say that somebody murdered Mr Forsyth elsewhere and dumped his body here.”

“Yes” Carberry seemed fascinated by Forsyth's corpse, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Is there any sign of Forsyth's clothes?” Watters asked.

“None at all,” the secretary said. “Nor his golf clubs.”

“Do you know what Mr Forsyth was wearing?”

The secretary nodded. “Mr Forsyth always wore the same clothes. Light brown trousers, brown boots, a fancy Indian scarf, and a short grey jacket.”

Watters ensured that Scuddamore took notes. “Scout around for them, Scuddamore. If you can't find them, we'll look for them in the pawnbrokers. Was Mr Forsyth married?”

“No.” Carberry shook his head. “He was a single man. He always claimed he was married to the bank and the golf.”

“Aye,” Watters said. “Well, he's not married to anybody now.” He turned the body over, to see Forsyth's front was as scratched and cut as his back. “Somebody did not like the man. Did he have any enemies?”

“None that I know of,” the secretary said.

“What's that in his mouth?” Watters failed to prise Forsyth's jaws open. “The surgeon will find out for us.”

Carberry glanced down at Forsyth's mutilated body and visibly trembled. “Who would do this sort of thing?”

“That's what we'll try to find out,” Watters said. “I want to interview all the members of the golf club. You'll have a membership list in the clubhouse. And I want to see the people at his bank, and his neighbours.” He looked at Scuddamore. “We have some work to do, Scuddamore.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said. “I've never seen the appeal of golf.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Watters said. “Very few women play.”

Scuddamore grinned. “That must be it, Sergeant.”

“I want you to go to the bank and interview everybody,” Watters said. “Find out if Mr Forsyth had any enemies, and how he lived. I want to know his friends, hobbies, family and everything else.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said.

“In the meantime, I'll go through the club members,” Watters said.

The membership list was short, with only twenty-three men being members of the exclusive Dalcumbie Golf Club, each one notable in his profession or position. Watters spent three days interviewing them, without adding much to his knowledge.

“Andrew Forsyth was a very private man,” Arthur Cook said. “He did not speak much except about golf and his banking.”

“He was a quiet man,” James Menzies said. “A good golfer. We played together a few times.”

“Did he ever mention any enemies?” Watters asked.

Menzies shook his head. “No, he only spoke about the golf. He was my banker as well if that's of interest.”

“Maybe later,” Watters said, knowing that people with anything to hide rarely volunteered information.

“He was not interested in anything except his work,” Mr Baxter said.

“He concentrated on his game to the exclusion of all else,” Charles Ogilvie said. “He did not even seem to have a woman in tow.”

“A woman in tow?” Watters pounced on the phrase. “What do you mean by that, Mr Ogilvie?”

“Well,” Ogilvie looked a little embarrassed, “he was not a married man and pretty wealthy, so one would suspect that single women would be sniffing at his heels, an eligible bachelor and all that.”

“No women in his life at all?” Watters noted that down.

“None, Sergeant,” Ogilvie said. “Andrew Forsyth lived for his work and the golf, nothing else.”

Watters remembered Ogilvie's words when the police surgeon gave his report. “Mr Forsyth was suffocated,” Dr Musgrave said, “I found this stuffed in his mouth.” He showed a small bundle of ten-pound notes.

“There are a hundred pounds here,” Watters said.

“That's correct,” Dr Musgrave said, “but that was not what killed him.”

Watters handed the money back. “What killed him, Doctor?”

“This.” The surgeon produced a golf ball, bounced it on the ground, and handed it to Watters. “What do you make of that?”

“Good quality.” Watters examined the ball. “Hand made by Gourlay of Musselburgh. It's an old one though, a feathery. Gourlays stopped making featheries over ten years ago and started making gutties.” He looked up. “Tell me more, Doctor.”

Dr Musgrave placed the ball in a metal dish. “I found this golf ball stuck in Mr Forsyth's windpipe. That's what killed him. Somebody stuffed it as far down his throat as they could after they tortured him.” He shook his head. “Somebody, or rather some bodies, plural, subjected this unfortunate fellow to a frenzied attack.”

“Some sort of animal, we thought,” Watters said.

The surgeon shook his head. “There was no animal involved, Sergeant Watters. As far as I can judge, human nails caused all the injuries on Mr Forsyth's body. He had bruising on his wrists and ankles, consistent with being restrained, as if he was tied down and then attacked, ripped to shreds before somebody rammed a golf ball in his throat and a wad of money in his mouth.”

Watters took a deep breath. “What sort of person would do such a thing?”

“That's your job, Sergeant, not mine. I can tell you that more than one person was involved,” Dr Musgrave said. “Judging by the width and depth of the wounds, I would estimate two to three people.”

“It's a strange thing for a man to do.” Watters contemplated Forsyth's battered body.

“Aye, maybe so,” the surgeon agreed. “Perhaps it was not a man.”

“Women?”

“I'd say so.”

“Thank you,” Watters said. “That narrows it down to only half the population.”

“I did not say only women,” Dr Musgrave pointed out. “There may have been men involved as well.”

“When?” Watters asked. “Could you tell me when the murder took place?”

Dr Musgrave pursed his lips. “I'd say about sixteen hours ago. Around midnight.”

“Very appropriate,” Watters said. “Very dramatic. Now all I need to do is establish a motive and find the killer.”

The surgeon did not smile. “I have seen a lot of things in my time, but nothing like this, before. Good luck, Watters.”