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He pulled out a cheque book and shook his head. ‘No way. I’ll pay my whack.’

I had no idea what his golf earnings were but a new Commodore doesn’t come cheap so he could probably afford me with room to spare. We did the paperwork and he took on that look people do when they’ve hired a detective. Nothing’s been done or achieved, but they feel better. I took out a notebook and poised a pen. ‘Okay, Mr Grinter…’

‘Joel.’

‘Joel. What does your coach think about all this?’

‘Brett? I haven’t told him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ah, I don’t want to worry him. He’s got enough on his plate.’

I got the names of his contact at Lynx Sports and at the two other management companies who were bidding for him-Golf Management Services (GMS) and Sports Management International (SMI).

‘Which one do you favour?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Depends whether I go to Europe or America or play the Australasian and Asian tours for a season. SMI’s the shot if I go overseas. Brett reckons I should. I’m still thinking about it.’

‘What does your family think?’

‘Mum and Dad are dead. Died real young. No brothers or sisters. There’s people close to me, like Billy and them, but they don’t know anything about the business.’

‘Where’re you going now?’

‘The gym for an hour or so and then back to Brett’s. Early tea and early to bed. I’ve got a six thirty tee-off tomorrow.’

That wasn’t welcome news because I thought I’d better stick with him over the course of the tournament to see if I could spot anyone taking an undue interest or displaying signs of hostility. I knew a little about the geography of Concord and had the impression that some houses had back yards that bordered the golf course. Not ideal. He said he’d arrange for me to get a pass that’d let me in for free and give me access to certain places that were off limits to the public.

I pointed to the cutting. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Sure. Happy to see the last of it.’

I said I’d be there in the morning but that he shouldn’t notice me. We shook hands and he left.

This time I read the cutting carefully. Both of Joel’s parents had been stolen children. Light skinned. His father’s work in an asbestos mine had killed him in his late thirties; his mother died soon after with belatedly diagnosed diabetes as a contributing factor. Joel spelled all this out in an interview he gave after his win and he also made the point that all four major golf championships that year had been won by black men. Up-front stuff.

I hauled out the phone book, located the numbers for GMS and SMI and spoke to their media liaison officers, posing as a journalist for Harry Tickener’s paper. Harry would always cover for me. I put the hypothetical to them that a sportsman or sportswoman they were thinking of taking on was getting death threats. What would their reaction be?

‘We’d snap him or her up,’ the SMI man said. ‘Great publicity, plus we’ve got guys to cope with that sort of thing.’

‘What effect could it have on a career?’

‘On sales of products, zero. On appearance fees a plus, a big plus. People like danger.’

‘If it’s not directed at them.’

‘Hey, you don’t get it. How many people d’you think tried to get close to Salman Rushdie to feel the vibe?’

The GMS man was more circumspect. ‘Handled right it could play. As long as it didn’t go on too long and the man or the girl didn’t make inflammatory statements.’

‘But you wouldn’t shy away?’

A pause. ‘No, but we’d surveille it to see if it was bona fide. People have been known to devise such things to lift the interest quotient.’

I thanked him and rang off, thinking that if I heard any more language like that I’d have to have my ears syringed. But it gave me things to think about. I had a feeling that Joel hadn’t been completely frank with me but I couldn’t put my finger on where the feeling sprang from. Fake the death threat to up the price? I didn’t think so. I rang Lynx and laid it on a bit thicker. I got a similar reaction to the publicity possibilities as long as the threat didn’t actually eventuate. That made a difference.

‘Dead sports stars are forgotten as soon as the funeral’s over. And death threats give sports a bad name-puts the parents off. On balance I’d say a definite no-no.’

I trailed around after Joel on the first day of the tournament and I found it a bloody long walk in the sun. At least I could get under shade for some of the time and have a few beers. Also I wasn’t swinging a club and bending down to place and pick up a ball. Golfers might not always look fit but they must be. I heard nothing in the crowd to suggest that there was anything but goodwill towards Joel. I’d advised him to try to keep trees and other people between him and the spots where back fences bordered the course and, as far as I could tell, he did it and I saw nothing suspicious. Knowing stuff-all about the game, it seemed to me that he played well, but he wasn’t happy.

‘Three over,’ he said.

‘Better than the blokes you were playing with.’

‘But maybe not good enough. The cut’s likely to be two over or even one. Means I have to be one or two under tomorrow.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘Sure I can do it. I’ve shot a sixty-five around here. I can do it if I can just clear my bloody head.’

‘Look, I’ve seen and heard nothing alarming. It could all be just bullshit.’

He didn’t seem interested and went off to practise his putting. I hung around, kept an eye out, followed the Commodore back to the address he’d given me, Brett Walker’s house in Lane Cove, and called it a day.

The next day I found out what a tough game professional golf is. The cut mark was set by the general standard of play in the field and on the second day it was better than the first. Because of the calmer conditions, the pundits said. While other players, including two of the three Joel was playing with, were starting to hit the ball longer and straighter, Joel struggled.

‘He’d be stuffed if it wasn’t for his short game,’ a man in the gallery said. ‘Christ, can he get it up and down.’

‘Abo eyesight,’ another bloke said and his tone was admiring.

Towards the end of the round Joel started to pull himself together. He pounded the ball down the middle and got it on the green close to the cup on three holes in a row. Shouts went up as his putts dropped and I gathered he was in with a chance. The crowd following him built suddenly.

‘I’m new at this, mate,’ I said to the bloke who’d commented on Joel’s eyesight. ‘What’s going on?’

‘He needs to birdie the last to make the cut.’

‘Which means?’

He looked at me as if I shouldn’t be allowed out alone. ‘It’s a par five, means he has to get a four or better.’

‘I get it. What if he doesn’t make it?’

‘Then he’s out his travel and accommodation, and his entry fee and his caddie’s fee. He goes home with bugger-all.’

Joel hit his drive into the trees on the left and the gallery groaned.

‘Great out,’ my informant said as Joel’s ball came sailing out of the trees onto the fairway. ‘He can do it.’

‘Too far,’ another spectator said. ‘He can’t get on from there. Christ, he’s taking driver.’

My informant told me what I needed to know without me having to ask. ‘He’s using his driver off the deck. It’s really designed for hitting off a tee. Incredibly hard shot.’

Joel took a deep breath, set himself and swung. I feared for his spine from the way he wound himself up and let go, but he made contact and the ball took off low and climbed like a fighter jet until it was sailing high towards the green. A roar went up from the crowd gathered there and I felt a thump on my back.

‘He made it,’ my new friend said. ‘He bloody made it.’