‘We need to find that date book,’ Moran said.
‘It doesn’t appear to be in the house and it definitely wasn’t in her handbag or in the car. I wonder if her killer may have taken it.’
‘Or disposed of it, if his name’s in it,’ Moran remarked.
‘Lawrence doesn’t think Mrs. Hastings was killed here,’ Jane told him.
‘Gibbs rang to say that Andrew Hastings’ wife is alive and well. Apparently Hastings has an alibi for his movements on the Friday. According to his wife, he was at a golf club do that went on late into the evening. Gibbs is going to the club to check it out.’
‘Looks like we might be wrong about Andrew Hastings then,’ Jane reflected.
‘Yes, but on the positive side at least we can eliminate him from our enquiries. I’d like you to go to the Samaritans in Soho, find out exactly what Sybil Hastings did there, and the details of anyone she was dealing with.’
Jane recalled that Moran used to work in the West End. ‘Do you know the address of the Soho branch?’
‘Forty-six Marshall Street — it’s just off Beak Street.’
Jane jotted down the address in her notebook. ‘I know Beak Street — it’s near the trendy shops in Carnaby Street.’ She was about to put the phone down when Moran continued.
‘I’ve had an artist’s drawing done of our unknown victim. Can you get a recent picture of Sybil Hastings so I can release the details to the press?’ He put the phone down.
Jane asked Agnes if they could have a cup of tea in the kitchen, leaving Lawrence to check out the lounge, although he didn’t find anything of interest. Before they left, Jane asked Agnes if she could have a close-up photograph of Sybil, which she duly provided. Then Jane dropped Lawrence off at the lab in Lambeth before continuing to the Samaritans branch in Soho.
Gibbs arrived at Coombe Hill golf club, turning off the A238. He couldn’t help noticing the instant change in surroundings. It was like driving into the countryside, with an abundance of oak, pine and sycamore trees, and a few houses, even bigger and more expensive than Andrew Hastings’, set back off the road amongst the trees. Gibbs was surprised at how many golfers were in the grounds, particularly as it was winter. Some were carrying their clubs to and from their cars, whilst others practiced on the putting greens and chipping areas. He searched for a parking space amongst the Jaguars, Bentleys, Rolls Royces, Mercedes and other sports cars, chuckling to himself about how out of place the unmarked CID Hillman Hunter was. Spotting a space next to the entrance, Gibbs parked and got out the car.
‘Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?’ an authoritative Surrey accent boomed, in a haughty manner. Gibbs looked up to see a tall, balding man in his mid-sixties standing by the entrance to the clubhouse. He was dressed in a blazer, blue shirt and striped tie, with beige trousers that were an inch too short and revealed his white socks. He marched forward with a stern expression and as he approached, Gibbs recognized the badge on his blazer as that of the Blues and Royals, part of the Household Cavalry.
‘You’ll have to move your car — that’s the captain’s space you’ve just parked in.’
Gibbs held up his warrant card. ‘DI Gibbs. I’m here on official police business.’
‘It wouldn’t matter if you were the Commissioner, young man — you’d still have to move the car. Park it over there in the area clearly signposted for visitors.’
Gibbs took a deep breath. Not wanting to risk another complaint about his attitude, he bit his tongue, apologized, and went to move the car. Returning to the steps of the clubhouse, the secretary introduced himself as Major Whitehead and asked how he could help. Gibbs responded that it was a delicate matter and that he needed to speak to him in private.
‘Very well. I’m just finishing dealing with an important matter, but perhaps you could wait in the players’ lounge.’ Whitehead pointed to a sign in the hallway, turned and walked off.
The players’ lounge overlooked the well-manicured eighteenth green and its attractive tree- and heather-lined fairway. The large room was filled with leather easy chairs, sofas and small circular tables, whilst cabinets of trophies and engraved honors plaques lined the walls. Gibbs noticed that the Club Captains Board for 1979 had A. W. Hastings written on it. The bar was busy with golfers chatting to each other about their handicaps, how well they had played and about the stock markets. Some wore club blazers and ties, whilst others were more casual in club motif woolen sweaters. A couple of men were dressed in plus fours with knee-length socks. There were no women in the room.
Gibbs had no interest in the game and had only ever played mini golf when he was a kid on a family holiday at Butlin’s. He thought it ironic that Sybil Hastings, who lived and socialized in this upper-class world, should be found stabbed to death in the boot of a car in Peckham.
Gibbs went over to the bar and ordered a pint of lager.
The barman smiled. ‘Are you a member, sir?’
Gibbs smiled back. ‘No, just visiting.’
The barman frowned. ‘Then I can’t serve you, sir, but a member can buy you a drink.’
Gibbs took out his warrant card and showed it to the barman. ‘Major Whitehead said I could have a pint on the house. We wouldn’t want to upset him, would we?’
The barman was very apologetic and poured Gibbs a pint. He downed it quickly, licking his lips satisfactorily. Placing the empty glass on the bar, he asked for a refill. As the barman placed the replenished pint on the bar, Whitehead walked over.
The barman smiled. ‘Should I put the officer’s two pints on your tab, major, or on the club hospitality account?’
Whitehead glared at the barman and was clearly not pleased. Gibbs didn’t help matters by raising his glass and saying ‘bottoms up’ before gulping half of the contents.
The disgruntled major led the way through to his large office, which also overlooked the eighteenth green. The walls were oak paneled and covered with an array of golfing photographs. Amongst them were pictures of George VI, Winston Churchill and celebrities such as Jimmy Tarbuck, Bob Hope and Sean Connery. The floor was covered in a thick red carpet and at the far end of the room were period leather armchairs and a sofa. The major’s large Jacobean writing desk had a leather-inlaid top and matching oak high-back chairs either side of it. He pointed to the chair opposite him and invited Gibbs to sit down.
The major proudly puffed out his chest. ‘Before this golf course was built, the area was known as Gallows Hill. Many highway men and nefarious villains met their maker on the scaffold on Coombe Hill.’
‘Really? How interesting,’ Gibbs replied drily.
The major wafted his hand at the pictures on the wall. ‘As you can see, we have had Royal members as well as—’
Gibbs interrupted. ‘I’m investigating the murder of one of your members.’
The stunned major listened as Gibbs continued.
‘Mrs. Sybil Hastings was found stabbed to death in the boot of her car in Peckham.’
Whitehead was visibly shocked and seemed close to tears. ‘My God... Poor Andrew, losing his father and now his mother, in such a horrific way. Sybil was a member here for many years. She was a private woman but incredibly generous, and helped with charity events and parties at the club. She was a very accomplished golfer, as was her late husband. How is Andrew? Is there anything I can do for him?’
‘He’s obviously distraught and in shock, but he’s bearing up. I need to ask a few questions.’ Gibbs took out his notebook and pen. ‘Can you tell me who Mrs. Hastings regularly played golf with?’
‘Well, Andrew, for one, but mostly at weekends with him. Then there were two or three local women that she regularly played with.’
Gibbs asked for their names and addresses, but the major said he wasn’t sure if he was able to provide personal details of members without their permission. Gibbs couldn’t be bothered to argue with the pompous major and asked him to contact the women personally to request that they ring him at Peckham CID.