Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

to sound irritated. “This is a number four and that’s what I’m playing. It must have hit something and come out.”

      “Or pigs can fly, or it’s somebody else’s ball. We’ll soon find out.”

      Before I can congratulate myself on another great idea, Sharp’s self-satisfied mug appears over the side of the bunker and he pulls back in surprise. Since Mrs. D. and I are kneeling against each other like a couple of out-of-work bookends it is an emotion you can forgive him.

      “Good Gawd!”

      Sharp’s voice usually sounds dead middle-class with pretensions to something better, but now, caught off guard, it slips a couple of notches.

      “What is it?”

      Minto looms up at his elbow and his mouth jumps open when he sees us.

      “What the hell are you doing down there?”

      He is blustering because he is frightened. I don’t blame him. So am I.

      “This lady fell into the bunker and hit her head,” I say. Well, it must happen all the time, mustn’t it? Sharp obviously does not agree with me.

      “How long have you been there?” he says, suspiciously. “Wait a minute! I know you. You work for Cronk’s crowd. You were at the Shermer YCs the other night with their receptionist. I’ve seen this bloke before—” he starts explaining it all over again to Minto.

      “Yeah. And I know you,” I chip in. “You forced me off the road and nearly killed me.”

      “You forced yourself off. It was a bloody stupid place to try to overtake.”

      “I don’t like this,” says Minto, who has been staring fixedly at Mrs. Dent ever since he saw us. “She’s got a bump on the side of her head.”

      “I told you: she fell in,” I say desperately, but Mrs. D. doesn’t help matters by redoubling her groan rate.

      “I see what you mean,” says Sharp menacingly. “It’s not the first time something like this has happened up here.”

      “Yes. There was that chap—what was his name? Medley? Smedley?”

      “Bachelor. Strangled them and then—”

      “—when he’d sexually assaulted them—”

      “—he buried them in the bunkers.”

      “That’s the one.”

      They beam at each other like a couple of excited kids who have just landed a large minnow.

      “You’re round the twist,” I say indignantly and start to pat Mrs. D.’s cheeks gently.

      “Come on, love. You’re all right. Pull yourself together.”

      To my relief, her groans start turning into words and she stretches out her arms for support.

      “What happened? Where am I? Was there an accident?”

      “No, no, it’s all right,” I say soothingly. “Everything is going to be fine.”

      But it isn’t. Mrs. D.’s faltering fingers catch hold of her knickers and pull them out of my pocket.

      The following few seconds seem like hours and then Mrs. D. drives the final nail into my coffin by uttering her first recognisable words in minutes.

      “Those are my knickers,” she says, and her voice has just the right note of surprise and indignation to ensure that any judge worth his assault would have me inside for eleven years.

      “Now wait—” I begin, but Sharp does not. Leaping into the bunker, he brandishes his putter like a club of the non-golf variety and throws a few words over his shoulder to Minto.

      “You get the police. I’ll hang on to this bastard.”

      “Don’t be wet,” I tell him. “You’ve behaving like an overgrown boy scout. I’m no more a sex maniac than you are. A bloody sight less if what I saw last night is anything to go by.”

      Although constructed purely out of spite and imagination, this is a master stroke because Dawn has told me that the bird Sharp was with at the YCs dance was none other than Minto’s daughter and that they are practically engaged. Certainly Sharp’s interchange with Minto before my discovery has revealed a considerable familiarity. From the looks on both their faces I can see that this may well be a thing of the past, and I am not slow to follow up my advantage.

      “I saw you in the car park with that dark-haired bird. Bloody good job the police didn’t. You want to get some blinds on the car if you’re going to carry on like that.”

      “Shut your lying mouth,” howls Sharp, clenching his teeth and bringing back the head of the putter.

      “Why? A bit close to home, is it? You don’t mind pointing the finger at other people, do you? But when it comes to—”

      “Get the police!” snarls Sharp. “Can’t you see he’s trying to play for time? If we hadn’t got here when we did, he’d probably have killed that poor girl.”

      “Just what I thought last night when I saw your friend’s feet wedged against the windscreen,” I go on. But I don’t get any further. Sharp takes a swing at me and the putter slices the air above my head. Before he can try another one I step forward and hook him hard to the pit of the stomach. His head jerks forward and my left swings in and catches him flush on the side of the jaw. They are as pretty a couple of punches as I have ever thrown and when my left whips into his mug I know it is going to need a crane to set him on his feet within five minutes.

      At the sight of his mate biting the dust, Minto looks about as happy as a goldfish dropped into a tank of piranha, but he still tries to come cocky with it.

      “Stay where you are,” he snaps, his voice quavering a bit. “Don’t try anything.”

      “Piss off,” I say, because I am no stranger to the big bluster myself. “Get in my way and I’ll push your face in.”

      I get my arms under Mrs. D. and haul her up until I can give her a fireman’s lift on to my shoulder. Sharp is beginning to stir but he is in no mood to cause anybody any problems and I step over him and out of the bunker like Edmund Hillary. Minto runs along beside me, jumping up like a Yorkshire terrier.

      “I’ve warned you. You won’t get away with it. Put that woman down. I’ll fetch the police.”

      “Why don’t you do that. I’ll lend you a soap box if you have trouble reaching the receiver.”

      He splutters something and I keep walking. In fact, I have no idea what I am going to do apart from getting the hell away from the place. Fate obviously does not want me to become a driving instructor and after today’s little episode my career beside the wheel seems likely to become one of the shortest on record.

      I stalk over to the car and pour Mrs. D. into the back seat whilst Minto makes an M.G.M. production of taking my number from a safe twenty yards.

      “There’s three more on the seventh green,” I shout to him. “I cut them up into little pieces and poked them into the hole with the flag.” I throw in my mad laugh for good measure and he starts scuttling off down the road towards the clubhouse. Good luck to him.

      I climb behind the wheel and jet off towards town, wondering what I am going to do with Mrs. D. I am supposed to take her back to the School but I don’t fancy that although I don’t know where she lives. I wish my mind would sort itself out and start thinking clearly, but it won’t.

      Luckily, Mrs. D.’s mind is more helpful.

      “Ooh, my God!” she groans. “What happened?”

      “We were having a quick grope in a bunker when you caught a golf ball across the side of your nut.”

      “Ouch!” She touches her temple gingerly. “My God,