Free Skeleton Hill by Peter Lovesey Page B

private income and able to indulge in golf while most of the world was forced to earn a living. In truth he knew he’d soon weary of the life of leisure. Golf wasn’t his sport, anyway. The only white ball game worth playing was table tennis – his sort, in the old ping pong tradition, with sandpaper bats and no crafty spinning allowed.
    Not many cars were parked outside the clubhouse. He checked the time. Five minutes to spare. Rather than go inside he made his way around the building to the first tee. The two members he needed to meet probably kept good time, one being a military man.
    Even on an August morning, it was cool up here, over seven hundred feet above sea level, and he wished he’d dressed as golfers do, in some kind of sweater and perhaps a baseball cap. Nobody was waiting to play when he arrived. In the distance, the pair who had started earlier had already played the first hole and moved on.
    Two minutes to ten. No sign of the Lansdown Society. His assumption about good timekeeping was looking faulty.
    Then a whirring sound came from the side of the clubhouse and a golf cart glided into view and across the trimmed turf to arrive at the tee precisely on time. One of the two riders was definitely Sir Colin Tipping. The other, at the wheel, halted the cart. Major Swithin was short and elderly, but had more than a hint of military swagger as he stepped off and approached Diamond.
    ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Diamond said. ‘Would you be Major Swithin?’
    ‘I would. We have our round booked for now. It’s a regular arrangement. Are you a member?’
    ‘Visitor.’
    ‘You know visitors have to produce a handicap certificate?’
    Not the friendliest of welcomes, Diamond thought. ‘I don’t want to play.’
    Sir Colin Tipping was slower getting off the cart, as if arthritis had set in. He looked just as distinguished as he had in the winner’s enclosure. Today he was in a loose-fitting yellow sweatshirt and check trousers. ‘What’s this, Reggie?’ he said to the major. ‘Have you hired the professional to improve your game?’ He chuckled at his own humour.
    Diamond showed them his warrant card and gave them a moment to absorb the shock. ‘I don’t want to hold up your round, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, we’ll talk as you go along. All I want is the benefit of your expertise.’ This was a phrase he’d fashioned while shaving, the right touch of flattery, he’d decided. ‘Detective Superintendent, are you?’ Tipping said. ‘He’s a senior man, Reggie. You must have done something pretty serious this time. Did you try it on once too often with the barmaid?’
    ‘He says he wants expertise,’ the major said. In this comedy act he was definitely the straight man.
    ‘If that means tips on golf, he’s picked the wrong fellows,’ Tipping said. He grinned at Diamond. ‘Our combined handicap is bigger than the national debt.’
    ‘It’s about Lansdown,’ Diamond told them. ‘I understand you both take a personal interest in this area.’
    ‘Who told you that?’ the major asked. He was not going to be sweet-talked into co-operating.
    ‘The reputation of the Lansdown Society is well known.’
    ‘What do you know about the Lansdown Society?’
    ‘That’s what this is about,’ Tipping said. ‘He wants to join. He wants to be a member, Reggie. Shall I tell him about the secret initiation ritual with the custard pies?’
    Diamond wasn’t sure which of these was the more tiresome: the churlish major or the laugh-a-minute Knight of the Realm.
    ‘We came here to play golf,’ the major said to Diamond. ‘Can’t this wait until lunchtime?’
    Tipping immediately said, ‘Good thinking. See you at the nineteenth hole.’
    ‘My time is short and so is yours, I gather,’ Diamond said. ‘We’ll talk as you play your round. Who goes first?’
    ‘Reggie’s turn today.’
    ‘I don’t care for this at all,’ the major said.
    ‘Get on with it, for heaven’s