‘Shot!’ said Barbiero-Ruche, with only the tiniest trace of malice in his voice. He pulled his Ping driver out of his bag and then surveyed the fairway; to the right was a clump of trees, and he eyed them nervously. ‘How far do the trees go?’
‘Quite a long way. Keep to the left of the marker — you’ll be in trouble if you go anywhere near them, because there’s thick rough to the side of them.’
‘Okay,’ said the Italian, uncertainly. He shot the trees another furtive glance, stabbed his tee in the ground and placed his ball on top. He then stood back, and began to line himself up. To be absolutely safe, he turned a forty-five degree angle away from the trees; if he hit the ball straight, it would go off the left hand side of the fairway.
He made three practice strokes, each ripping a six-inch divot out of a different section of the grass, and then he lined his club head up behind the ball. Almost in slow motion, he swung the club back and as it swung, he swayed along with it, so that by the time the club head was at the top of the backswing, he himself was leaning at almost forty-five degrees to the ground. Then, with a loud grunt, he let rip at the ball with all his force, unwinding his body, swirling his wrists, wrenching his shoulders down, blistering the club head through the air and swaying his body back with one sharp jerk. The club head, travelling well over one hundred miles an hour, passed six inches over the top of the ball, and ripped into the virgin grass two feet in front of it.
Barbiero-Ruche spat out a mouthful of air and angrily smacked his club head down again, ripping out yet more grass. Rocq winced, and was glad they weren’t on the first tee, in full view of everyone. If word got back to Paul Longmore, the club pro, of the calibre of guest he was bringing along, he had a feeling his days at this club would be numbered.
The Italian calmed down, and lined himself up again for another attempt; this time, the club face connected with full force with the ball, which, along with the remains of his shattered tee, hurtled into the air.
‘Shot!’ said Rocq.
They both watched as the ball climbed, Rocq with mounting glee and the Italian with mounting gloom, as it began to veer sharply to the right, traversing the fairway and then, as sharply as it had climbed, it began to drop, straight into the very midst of the trees on the right. They both stood in silence as the ball dropped out of sight and then, after a moment, there was the resounding crack of a ball bouncing off a tree trunk, followed by the lesser crackling sound of a ball tumbling into thick undergrowth.
‘Mamma mia!’ The Italian took a deep breath, put down another ball and again took aim. He despatched this ball to a spot in the same trees, which, Rocq and he guessed, was within six inches of his first ball. ‘I concede ze ’ole’, said the Italian, angrily ramming his club back into his bag. Rocq turned his face away so that the Italian could not see his grin, and they again set off down the fairway.
‘How sure are you about the frost?’ asked Rocq.
‘For sure, frost. It is impossible, with these conditions, that there cannot be frost. Impossible. You should buy a little coffee yourself. It’s going to go — how you say — bottoms up?’
‘“Through the roof,” Theo, is the right expression.’
‘Okay, for sure, through the roof.’
Three hours later and one hundred pounds richer, Rocq climbed into the driving seat of his Porsche. Barbiero-Ruche lowered his dejected hulk into the passenger seat. ‘Stupid game, golf,’ he repeated for the tenth time. His tally for the round had been two pars, one eagle, three nines, twelve unfinished holes and sixteen lost balls.
‘You’ll have the chance to get it back tomorrow, Theo.’
‘For sure,’ he said, not at all sure.
The Porsche took off, and the Italian winced as the weight of his stomach pressed against his backbone; he clawed nervously for the seat-belt. ‘You have a pilot’s licence for this thing?’
Rocq grinned. They tore down the steep hill, then he slammed the gear lever down into second, and stood on the brakes. As they started to enter the sharp left-hander, he pressed the accelerator down hard; there was a pause for a second, and then the turbo began to deliver its pound of flesh. The limpet grip of the tyres held them rock steady as they accelerated out of the bend at eighty miles an hour. The Italian’s eyeballs bulged. They came up behind a slow-moving car, and Rocq was forced to brake hard and sit behind it as they went into a blind corner.
‘Who’s this girl you fixed, Rocky?’ said the Italian, brightening up considerably at the thought that he wasn’t necessarily going to be wiped out in a smash in the next few moments.
An old friend, Theo. Bangs like a shit-house door.’
‘She look good?’
‘Stunner. Just how you like them — ’bout five-eight, long blonde hair, blue eyes, gobblers lips.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Mary. She’s got a great sense of humour.’
‘Could be better than the golf, eh?’
‘Maybe you’d better start practising, fat man.’
She was five-foot two, with short dark hair, brown eyes, and her name was Deirdre. If she had a sense of humour, she did a good job of keeping all trace of it from her face when she was introduced to her bedmate for the weekend. The expression on her face told one thing and one thing only: the two hundred and fifty pounds she was getting paid for giving Theo a good time for the next couple of nights was not enough.
‘What happened to the blonde hair?’ Theo asked Rocq as he followed him through into the drawing room of Rocq’s cottage.
‘Must have dyed it,’ hissed Rocq.
‘And her eyeballs too?’
‘Any more complaints, and you’re in the garage with a pot of vaseline and the local cat.’
‘Which way is it?’ asked the Italian.
‘Come on, Theo, I think she’s stunning,’ said Rocq, lying through his teeth, and making a mental note to sue a certain madame when he got back to London on Monday.
‘You always fix me with dogs, Rocky.’
‘Shut up, she’ll hear you.’
‘I think you should hang her out of the window — scare the birds off your garden!’
‘Shut up. What do you want to drink?’
‘Scotch.’
‘Deirdre?’ said Rocq, turning to her.
‘I’ll have a beer,’ she said.
Rocq went into the kitchen; Amanda was rummaging in a cupboard. ‘Have you ever cooked in here, Alex?’
‘Think I boiled an egg once.’
‘What in — an ashtray or an empty bottle?’
‘Theo’s tummy button.’
She grinned. ‘That’s a beauty you fixed him up with.’
‘Don’t think she’s too crazy about him either.’
‘Where the hell did you drag her up from?’
‘Twenty-two stone Italians aren’t in big demand.’
‘I think she’s on the game.’
Rocq didn’t want to tell her she was right. ‘Rubbish. She’s a friend of an old friend of mine — I had a very nice bird lined up for him, and she blew out at the last minute.’
‘Lucky Theo.’
Rocq’s cottage, in the hamlet of Clayton a few miles outside Brighton, was listed in the Doomsday Book; it had withstood everything that had been chucked at it for the past seven centuries, but now the tiny building was in grave danger of having met its match.