The minicab with the Mount Olympus logo was outside the stable block with its engine ticking over. He got in and nodded to the ‘paramedic’ that he vaguely recognised from that first night.
They arrived at Bath Spa station in good time for Colin to catch the seven forty three train to London Paddington. Nobody gave him a second look on the platform or on the train. He dozed for a while with his head on his chest to shield his face somewhat from any passenger wandering up and down the aisle who might glance around at their fellow travellers.
The train pulled into the station at just after a quarter past nine and Colin made his way quickly along the concourse and towards the stairs down to the Tube. A Circle Line ticket deposited him at London Victoria in just under twenty minutes. Colin checked the timetable for the next train to Lewes; he had just less than thirty minutes to kill. He told himself not to make such puerile jokes, but they just sort of slipped out. What could he do?
He bought a newspaper and a scalding hot cup of coffee; as he sat on a bench waiting he went over the planned itinerary in his head. He needn’t have bothered really, he had gone over and over it so often that there was no chance he’d forget anything. The old clock above him ticked around inexorably and the station announcer broke into Colin’s reverie with news of the imminent boarding of his last train ride this morning. Just before half past eleven, Colin was walking along the platform at Lewes station and making for the exit.
Colin turned right on Lansdown Place and made for Eastgate Street. He was enjoying the walk through what was clearly an ancient town. The sun wasn’t much in evidence this particular morning sadly; the skies were starting to fill with clouds and Colin felt the threat of rain in the air. Nothing was going to be allowed to dampen his spirit however. There were two particular reasons for this; firstly he was back doing what he was best at and secondly, he had quickly examined the OS map on the train coming down from Victoria and spotted a familiar name.
This had to be an omen! He was now crossing the River Ouse using the Phoenix Causeway! How cool was that. It would have been even cooler if it had been named after his mythological namesake, but Colin would discover later that it was named after an old ironworks in the town. A little more prosaic perhaps, but nevertheless he was happy to accept it as an omen.
He continued his leisurely stroll; there was no rush. He continued via Malling Street and Chapel Hill, passing the entrance to Lewes Golf Club and finally arriving at his destination just before twelve noon. He looked back towards the town. He could see the property on Chapel Hill where DCI Richard Armitage lived. Currently living a bachelor’s existence, his cushy number in Corporate Development gave him ample opportunity to take time off to wander over the road and play a round of golf. He told his superiors he was ‘networking’ and that was sufficient for them to turn a blind eye.
Colin knew that Richard Armitage would finish work early and drive the three minutes from the Police HQ in Church Lane via Brooks Road and pull up to his parking spot near his home. This guy had the work, home, leisure equation down to a fine art! Colin remembered the haggard, careworn faces of the commuters on the train to Paddington. Those poor buggers spent a minimum of three hours every working day just travelling; let alone the stresses of whatever job they were stuck in.
Meanwhile, on the south coast, here was a criminal who had his job, home and main leisure activity on his doorstep! If you could forgive him the way in which he had amassed the fortune he had squirreled away from his dirty dealings in London, then the manner in which he continued to come up smelling of roses would be enough to mark him down as a target.
Colin heard the bolts go back on the door behind him. His destination had been The Snowdrop Inn which opened at noon, according to their website. Colin followed a couple of other early arrivals into the bar. While they were ordering up a meal and a drink, Colin casually took in his surroundings. Rather than being named after the herbaceous plant that he assumed might pop up in various spots around the Larcombe estate in the spring, in fact the inn was built close to the site of a fatal avalanche. When it was his turn to order something Colin decided to take it outside into one of the beer gardens, so he could keep a weather eye on the nearby hillside and also glance down Chapel Hill to await the arrival of Richard Armitage.
He was pleased to see umbrellas were still available on several tables, should the clouds decide to bring a more persistent shower. The threat was there, but the October sun still had a little warmth and with his jacket securely fastened to keep the pistol hidden, he was comfortable enough. His food arrived and proved to be excellent pub fare; not quite up to the cordon bleu experience of his first day at Larcombe, but the freshly caught fish and local vegetables were just the ticket.
He left the Snowdrop Inn after a quick trip to the gents and a friendly wave at the staff at the island bar. He threaded his way through tables with a growing number of the lunchtime crowd now seated, drinking and eating in convivial surroundings. It was a pity that he was unlikely to be around these parts after the afternoon’s intended activity; it was a pretty pleasant place to spend a couple of hours.
When he was outside he waited while a line of traffic meandered past, nose to tail on its weary way towards the town centre. He checked his watch; it was almost one fifteen.
“There you are!” whispered Colin. The policeman had found a kindly motorist who, fed up with travelling in crocodile file any longer, stopped to let him cross the line of traffic and pull into his parking area. Richard Armitage positively jumped out of his Mercedes sports car and skipped over to his front door.
The traffic was moving even slower now as the crocodile took a little time to get back up to crawling speed; Colin waved at a grey haired old lady driver and darted in front of her and took advantage of the long gap between the vehicles coming up the hill away from the town. He was soon at the entrance to the Golf Club. He retrieved his bobble hat from the rucksack and the binoculars. Hitching the rucksack over his shoulders he set off along the path that ran alongside the course.
The footpath veered off towards New Road after a bit of a hike and Colin threaded his way through bushes and trees until he reached the approach to the eleventh green. There were several couples and foursomes on the course, but the sight of someone wearing sturdy walking boots, a weatherproof jacket and bobble hat who could be spotted occasionally scanning the skies with binoculars didn’t raise any suspicions whatsoever.
Colin kept his distance from the golfers; if a ball landed fairly close to him he moved fifty yards towards or away from the spot. If anyone asked them later if they had seen anyone they could have said they saw a man, blue jacket, red bobble hat, jeans and boots. They may have thought he wore glasses; if their eye sight was exceptional they might even have said he had designer stubble, but any description would be vague. Height, weight and age would be tricky to gauge at the distances Colin kept between him and the object ball.
Richard Armitage was a creature of habit. Colin could imagine him preparing a light lunch; showering and changing into something appropriate for eighteen holes with one of his cronies. An Olympus operative had played here a handful of times over the summer and sussed out the start time that the ‘crafty copper’ tended to stick to. He had the two o’clock slot pencilled in every Wednesday.
In early October most people were off the course well before dusk and unless he was delayed by some ‘hackers’ who didn’t know one end of a club from another, Armitage and his playing partner should reach the eleventh hole by four o’clock. Colin was prepared to wait. Patience was the key.