CHAPTER ONE
“If the police aren’t going to do anything about it, then WE must!!”
The Broadwas Croquet Club committee sat in stunned silence, chilled to the core by the news that they’d just received from chairman Fran Wall.
The body had been found on lawn three on Monday morning, discovered by Nick Reed as he was about to unleash the mowers ready for the weekly cut. As Nick approached the shed, his mind preoccupied with worries about which mower would require mechanical attention today, he suddenly spotted a shapeless mound on lawn three, which had attracted the attention of a murder of crows.
Nick’s pace began to slow as he approached the sizeable amorphous lump, reluctantly, tentatively edging forward until he could just about identify the object lying prostrate on the lawn. The atmosphere on the lawns was very eerie.
Nick suddenly jumped in the air as he heard a scream.
“SHUT THE BLOODY GATE!”
It was John Guy. Nick had forgotten to shut the bloody gate.
Nick beckoned John over and they both, very gingerly, crept forward, finally being confronted by a bloody corpse just in front of hoop five. Despite himself, Nick licked his lips.
The unclothed body appeared to have been battered and neither Nick nor John could identify the victim. This poor soul had been the subject of a vicious attack with a blunt object – battered beyond all recognition.
With blood drained from his face, Nick wandered off to phone the police.
By the time the police arrived, most of the lawns were cut, apart from a nine metre square area around hoop five. Nick’s elite mowing team were always focussed on the job and the odd corpse on the lawns proved to be little deterrent to such a determined band of plucky volunteers.
Nick and John were appalled by the attitude of the police officer who arrive to investigate the vicious crime. She seemed starkly disinterested in the concerns of Nick and John and gave the impression that this sort of crime was run-of-the-mill and very much beneath the duties of the ‘very busy’ West Mercia Constabulary. As she drove her patrol car back on to Stoney Ley, she shouted “I’ll send forensics up when they’re not too busy!” As she edged down the lane, she added sarcastically “And Interpol…”
But the police never returned and the body lay under a tarpaulin for a full 24 hours. An emergency committee meeting was called and as they sat in the clubhouse, staring out at the wretched soul on lawn three, the committee members were at a loss as to what to do next.
“It’s murder!” exclaimed Fran. “And the police apparently aren’t going to do anything about it. We need to find out who did this! We have a killer in the club and we need to track him…OR her, down! A private investigator?”
“I fully agree with finding the killer Fran,” said treasurer Stuart Smith.
“…Although, if we find the murderer and rescind their membership, our income will be reduced slightly. I might have to look at the club’s finances again and think about raising membership fees.”
The other committee members quietly nodded as they took on board the prospect of potentially serious financial consequences arising out of any successful investigation into this truly grisly crime.
“Might I suggest that WE carry out the investigation?”
Everyone turned to Gill Richardson. “We can be pretty sure that it was a club member who did it. I mean, the gate had the chain secured on the nail when Nick arrived yesterday, so it wasn’t some opportunistic sadistic killer who was just passing by who popped in for a quick slaughtering and then closed the gate neatly after themselves.”
“We know everyone in the club and all their quirks and foibles. Surely, we can work out who did this?” she added.
“I think that’s a great idea Gill, but in the absence of a proper police investigation, I think we should take it one step at a time,” said Fran. “We should try and figure out who would be capable of such a murderous act, and then go on to figure out the motive.”
John Guy picked up his briefcase off the floor and rummaged in it. “I’ve got some statistics here,” he said. “They might give us some clues as to who the likely suspects might be.”
“How can statistics help us, John?” Eileen Holt was sceptical.
“Well, for example,” John replied. “Lawn usage might give us a clue. If we look at the members who never book lawn three, it might give us some idea of a potential culprit. I mean, would YOU slaughter someone on lawn three if it was YOUR favourite lawn?”
“That’s true,” said Paula. “What about those blokes who only ever play on a Thursday afternoon when nobody else is around?”
Jon Carrington interjected “Good point! I’ve never seen them on any lawn other than four. Who knows what other dastardly deeds they’ve got planned for lawns one, two and five!”
John Guy was still shuffling through a massive file with ‘Lawn Booking Stats’ labelled on the front.
“There we go…Geoff Hill, Nick Dean, Chris Bray, Phil Apperley and Patrick Linturn have booked lawn four at 1.00pm on a Thursday since records began. They’ve had that lawn 97.6543% of the time it was available on a Thursday afternoon.” “AND,” he said, stabbing at a calculator, “I’m pretty sure that figure is 73.45674% accurate.”
“Good!” exclaimed Jon. “I hate that lawn.” There were general murmurs of agreement from the committee table. “At least lawn four is put to some use though. I had to mow it AGAIN on Monday,” Jon added, bitterly.
“But the fact that they CHOOSE lawn four every week must surely indicate that they are somehow deranged?” said Nick.
“AND some of them are ex-Worcestershire County Council workers…so they are capable of disseminating effective evil with abandon. In fact, it’s probably in their job description.”
“I see your point” said Fran. “The Thursday boys go to the top of the list – for now.”
“That’s all very well,” said Paula, “But who in the club would have a motive for carrying out such a barbaric act?”
“Someone with a deep grudge,” Jon muttered, almost imperceptibly. “A borderline psychopath.”
There was a unified intake of breath from the committee members as they pondered Jon’s words and almost as one, they squealed “PETER HILL!”
Jon interrupted. “Hang on, hang on! Peter’s anger is always directed against himself – mainly when he misses a shot even a two-year old would hoop, blindfolded. It happens a lot, but I’ve rarely seen Peter take a swing at anyone in anger…he mostly prefers biting. But think! Who lives with Peter and has to bear all of the tension that exists in Great Witley? Who really needs to let out the stress more than anyone on the planet?”
“DIANA !” the committee shouted.
Fran made a note on his sheet of A4. “Straight to the top of the list I think.”
David Kaner interrupted. “Am I minuting this?”
“For the safety of everyone on the committee, leave the bit out about Peter. We don’t want to risk another corpse for the moment,” reflected Fran.
Then Nick said “Excuse me chair. If Diana is going to the top of the list, what about Jackie Guy – same reasoning.”
John shouted “Agreed! Fair enough! Put Jackie at the VERY TOP of the list. The things that girl has to put up with…”
“Here, Here” murmured Eileen, a little too emphatically.
“Look!” said Fran. Shall we just run through members who can’t possibly fall under suspicion? People like Barry Kirby?”
Gill said “You mean Barry, ‘Keep your head down’ Barry? Barry with the only metal mallet in the club licensed by the National Rifle Association? People around Broadwas are saying that on the night of the murder, they heard an unearthly metallic clanging emanating from the pinnacle of Stoney Ley. I’d put him right up there with the Lawn Four Five if I were you.”
“On…the…list” noted Fran.
“Are we all convinced that a mallet was the murder weapon?” Eileen asked.
“Pretty much” Jon replied. “There was an oblong dent in the skull. It looked like a good mallet.”
“In that case,” Eileen said, “We can rule out David Harington. By the time he’d taken aim, the victim would have had the time to stroll off down the Royal Oak AND had a pint and a pie. Actually, after his recent horizontal lining-up antics in the blocks, you can eliminate Stuart as well.”
“Shall I minute that?” asked David.
“Pauline Watson!”
“What?” said John.
“She’s been doing a huge amount of practice recently, especially on jumping. She’s getting good at it. It’s quite a hefty swing she’s developed. Just sayin,’” said Jon.
“Personally, I’d put all the Association Croquet players on the list” said Nick. “It makes sense. To enjoy playing AC, they’ve all got to have some sort of deeply deranged personality disorder. They relish isolation and abandonment. Let’s face it, AC fanatics all demonstrate the same psychological profiles as serial killers – they’re all loners – they all just sit there, quietly watching…AND judging! Put the Ians’ – Lambert and Dampney on the list. And don’t forget to add present company! Guy, Smith and Kaner. All highly suspicious in my view. Oh, and while you’re at it, put Debbie Kaner down as well. She’s married to a fanatical AC player. It rubs off, you know, AND I’ve seen her voluntarily play on lawn one. Very dubious behaviour.”
John objected loudly “Just because we like the game for grown-ups doesn’t automatically mean we’re kill…”
“On the list” said Fran.
“HANG ON A MINUTE!! We’re missing the blindingly obvious here” exclaimed Jon. “JIM NORRIS!”
“What about him?” David asked.
“Has he told you the one about the…”
David facepalmed. “I’ve heard them all.”
“Exactly!” said Jon. “Just imagine you’ve just about had your fill of his jokes and he starts to tell you about the three blokes who want to go golfing and they have to bargain with their wives, and you just…SNAP! Well, who knows what Jim would be capable of if someone refused to listen until he got to the punchline?”
“Good point,” said Gill. “AND he must have been planning this for a long time. He’s even got an escape route to Ealing all worked out.”
“Obviously Jim should go straight to the top” Fran agreed. “AND Roger Wood? What do we think?”
“Absolutely!” the committee agreed unanimously.
“All that Einstein hair. Roger MUST be an evil genius,” said Fran, scribbling away. “AND he quite obviously hates handicap marbles. There’s a lot of anger and resentment bubbling away there.”
“We mustn’t forget the club detective,” said David. “We can’t rule Brian Humphries out. You have to wonder why the police are reluctant to investigate. I reckon Brian could be influencing the local force so they don’t look into it properly. Something to hide maybe?”
“Brian’s definitely a dodgy one” said Felton. He’s right up there with Vivien Ellis, Jennifer Whittaker and Peter Lawrence to my mind. Stick ‘em all down on the list. We need to look at them all, VERY closely.”
“At least we can rule out Janet Barber,” Gill suggested.
“WHAT??” exclaimed Felton. “Have you ever watched her face when she’s ruthlessly clearing you from right in front of the hoop? Look closely next time. She has the cold, dead eyes of a killer. Same goes for Catherine and John Lane. On the list, Mr Chairman.”
“Done!” said Fran with a flourish. “That’s quite a list of suspects we’ve got now. Surely, we must have SOME members who above suspicion.”
“Come off it!” said Felton. “We all play GC. Let’s face it, it’s an EVIL game. I once saw it described as a nasty game played by nice people, but if you actually enjoy playing a nasty game, surely deep down you must be innately malevolent? I’m not, obviously.”
“That’s all very well, countered Nick. “But what about people like Chris Croft.”
“WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT” exclaimed Felton. “He brings in those exquisite cakes every Friday. Don’t you DARE sully his name. The man is a saint. And the same goes for Mary Dryden. She brings cakes up to the mower drivers on a Monday.”
“W…W…WHAT?” shouted Nick. “Mary never brings any to my team!”
“That’s because Jim Dryden isn’t in YOUR team…DUH!”
“Look, can we get on with it” said Nick in exasperation. I mean we haven’t looked at Janet Bedford yet…”
“Well she DOES have the air of a professional assassin” said John. “Good AC player though, so don’t put her on the list. I need her for next season.”
“Sorry” said Fran. “I already snuck her on. Can we eliminate some OBVIOUSLY incapable killers please? This meeting’s going on much longer than anticipated. We need to talk about the annual lunch next.”
“Shona Smith?” said John.
“Nope. She has a dodgy hoop counter. List her!” said Felton.
“Dodgy hoop counter?” queried Stuart.
“Yes. Have you ever heard it?” Felton asked.
“Can’t say I have.”
“EXACTLY!” It doesn’t make a noise. It’s a stealth clicker…AND…it’s cylindrical! VERY suspicious.”
Everyone gasped and the room fell silent for a few seconds, the only noise in the clubhouse coming from Fran’s furiously scribbling pen.
“How about Billy Nicholson then? Surely he’s not capable of violence?” suggested John.
“AND it’s a long way from Pershore. Do killer’s like travelling?” Eileen asked.
“Well, Billy certainly relished travelling to Europe” replied Felton, “So distance is no object to him. I looked at the murder statistics for the time the European team were in Prague and there were a number of killings in the EU around the time of the tournament. That affable, butter-wouldn’t-melt demeanour is an attempt to throw us off the track! And if he can skip across to Broadwas to play from Pershore at the drop of a hat, he could easily cross a couple of borders for a quick bit of playful homicide while he was sitting out his bye.”
“I don’t think I have any choice but to put Mr Nicholson on the list with the other potential miscreants,” agreed Fran. “But surely we can eliminate the Brooks’s?”
“Nope!” Felton muttered. “They would have worked as a team. Gill could have sat on the victim while Keith did the deed. It’s obvious. Gill’s a Brummay! She definitely gives off Peaky Blinder vibes, PLUS, she used to be an AC player!”
“You’ve been pointing a lot of fingers this morning, Felton” Jon said, sternly. “Why aren’t you on the list? I narrowly avoided being bumped off by you last year when you nearly reversed over me with the tractor, AND I hear you nearly saw off Chris Croft and Stuart the other week when you crashed a mower into the tractor.”
“But that wasn’t malevolent…it was…it was…clumsy!” he countered.
“Be that as it may” said Jon. “I’m making a phone note even if Fran doesn’t.”
“Come come gents. Let’s calm down a bit,” said Eileen. “Nobody is pointing a finger at anyone.”
“But they are!” laughed John Guy, bitterly. “That’s exactly what we’ve been doing all morning. There have been thirty fingers pointed so far! That’s very roughly, 43.47826% of the membership!”
“Dave Holt,” said Gill, quietly. “As the club handyman, he knows how to use blunt objects to devastating effect.”
“Yeah, he does,” agreed Eileen. “Great use of accusatory digits there, Gill. Put him down Fran!”
“We MUST be able to eliminate Alan Stevens from the list?” asked Nick.
“Why?” said Felton. “Have you ever been at the sharp end of his sarcasm?” Felton’s lower lip quivered. “It hurts.” He wiped away his tears and gave a big blow into his tissue. “AND, he’s a Brummie”, he continued. “He’s an out an out wrong ‘un.”
“But not Gerry?” said Nick.
“Married to a Brummie. She’s almost certainly corrupted by association. Move on.”
“And then, of course, we have the stalkers,” said Nick.
“The who?”
“The stalkers…Jeff and Jean Faulkner. Have you seen the way they size up the hoops? They’re like leopards hunting antelope. And when they go in for the kill…” Nick stood up and imitated Jeff’s side-saddle jump shots to make his point.
The room drew in its collective breath and nodded in agreement.
“Nobody has mentioned John Steel yet,” said Fran.
“Preposterous idea” Jon guffawed. Steely wouldn’t bother killing unless he could raise sponsorship money for it…don’t anyone mention that idea to him by the way. He’d like a new clubhouse. It’d be a bloodbath.”
“What about Norman Ward?” Gill asked. “Norman wouldn’t be capable of hurting anything.”
“You ARE joking,” Felton scoffed. “I’ve seen him close up. He tries to give this impression of easy-going affability, but he’s like a viper, waiting to strike. AND he once worked with amateur thespians at Bromyard so I bet he picked up a few tricks off Agatha Christie on the way.
“This list is getting a mile long” Fran complained. “Surely we can eliminate some easy ones. How about Keith Parsons?”
“Yes, he should be eliminated straight off,” said Gill. “He’s a titan of golf croquet…above reproach in my estimation Admittedly, he has a funny way of lining up his shot with all that aiming…”
“Titan? Pah! You can say that again about his lining up though. It’s weird!” Felton exploded. “He THINKS he looks like Robin Hood about to alleviate mediaeval poverty with a well-aimed arrow, but he ACTUALLY looks like he’s trying to down a particularly resilient cobweb with a cast-iron feather duster. AND have you ever noticed he always parks OUTSIDE the gate? He’s constantly setting himself up for a quick getaway, I reckon. Put him on the list!”
“Well I’m not putting the Cooke’s down on the list, before anyone suggests them!” Said Fran. “Look at him,” Fran whispered, looking at Billy Whizzbang practising jumping hoop two from just in front of hoop one. He continued “Billy is only interested in scoring hoops and the lad will bring greatness to the club one day, while Gwen couldn’t have done it because none of the club mallets were bloodstained. Billy hasn’t gotten around to buying Gwen her own mallet yet. I think he’s waiting for a big birthday or an anniversary.”
“I think our newest members should be eliminated as suspects, said Felton, magnanimously. “Peter Dobson is still trying to find his way around the lawns and John Kingsley would take too much time to line the victim up before bashing his brains in – I mean one day, I would swear that he was lining his mallet up to pick up a Starlink signal. It worked, mind you.”
“Put Alison Disley on the list though. When she’s hooping, she has the air of an exterminator,” Felton added emphatically. “And while we’re at it, Derry Bancroft is another butter-wouldn’t melt, suspect. The man’s driven! I’ve seen him practising his jump shots on a wet Sunday morning, close up! The glint in his eye chilled me to the core. Absolutely manic!”
“I really hadn’t realised that we’re surrounded by complete and utter maniacs,” Stuart said quietly. “When you look at it as closely as we are doing, it’s quite obvious that people you wouldn’t suspect in a million years, like Howard Freeman and Josie Watson are almost certainly harbouring homicidal tendencies. Josie is cut-throat on the lawns and look at Howard. One day he can hoop from ten yards, the next he misses a sitter. Erratic. The hallmark of a killer. On the list, I’d say.”
“Yes but Andrea Draper and David Creed-Newton must surely be totally above suspicion,” said Paula. “They come across as being so gentle.”
“Nonsense,” said Felton. “Andrea’s a writer – she would be more than capable of creating such a devious and dastardly scenario as that out there – and as for David – have you ever known a man who takes as many holidays as he does? Mafia connections, without a shadow of a doubt. Write them both down in a big, thick red Sharpie, Mr Wall.”
“But surely Emma Laws is above reproach,” said Gill.
Felton guffawed. “WHAT??? I was playing against her in a doubles once, and when we won and I did a victory dance in front of her, she told me to **** *** *** *****!” he mouthed.
“GOOD FOR HER,” said John. “Then she’s DEFINITLY not going on the list!”
“Sue Curphey can’t be under any suspicion, surely,” said Eileen.
“And why not, exactly?” said Felton. “She lives in Lower Broadheath. There are lots of dubious folk in Broadheath. And for that very reason. I’d put Hazel down on the suspect list as well if I were you…AND underline it.”
“What about Malcolm Armstrong?” asked Paula Armstrong.
“YES!” shouted Felton. “On the list.”
“That’s only because he beats you every time he plays you,” protested Paula.
“EXACTLY. It’ll put him off his game. P L E A S E put him on the list, Fran.”
“OK. Just for you,” said Fran.
“So now we’ve established that all these members could be killers, can we PLEASE think about the motive for the killing?” John Guy pleaded.
The committee fell silent for a minute. Completely stumped.
Then suddenly the silence was broken by an almost inaudible whisper.
“I think it may have been me.”
Everyone turned to Felton.
“It may have been you, what?” said Nick.
“I may have done the killing!”
“What do you mean?” asked Fran.
Suddenly really embarrassed, Felton explained.
“Well,” he said, supressing a nervous giggle. I suddently remembered. I decided to have an impromptu practice session late on Sunday, after I’d come up to have a look at the new white-lining machine. It was quite dark by the time I’d washed my balls. I put them back in the clubhouse, then I realised I’d left my mallet on lawn three.”
“So?” said Jon.
“Well, I went to retrieve it and as I walked back over the lawn, because my hands were slippery, I dropped my mallet,” Felton gulped.
“And?”
“Well I heard a little squeak, now I recall. But it was dark, so I didn’t bother to explore for the source of the noise. I thought the squeak was from my new croquet shoes” Felton explained.
Felton gulped even harder as he confessed.
“Erm, Ooopsie! I’m pretty sure I accidentally killed the rabbit!”
“I KNEW IT! You clumsy idiot!” exclaimed Jon Carrington.
“Meeting closed!” said Fran. “Let’s not fret about it. After all, it WAS only a rabbit. Anybody for a quick game of singles before rollup?”
THE END
Look out for the next in the Tuesday And Friday Murder Club series – ‘The Brush That Missed’ (The Little Bit Of Mud On The Yellow And Earned A Rollicking From John Guy)