Death on the Eleventh Hole Read Online Free PDF

moment that he had forgotten the picture, then felt the corner and drew the photograph of the dead girl carefully forth. ‘Yes, I’m afraid something may be very wrong. Do you think this might be Kate?’
    She took the picture from him, looked for four, five, six seconds silently at the black and white photograph of the unlined, serene face with the closed eyes, whilst her audience watched anxiously for any sign of distress. Then she said in a perfectly even voice, ‘That’s my daughter, yes. That’s Kate.’
    Still she looked at the picture, and still she gave no sign of hysteria. Hook was well aware that grief had many ways of manifesting itself, that an outwardly dull response could well be one of these. He said gently, watching the square, still face carefully, ‘That is the picture of a girl found dead on Ross-on-Wye golf course on Monday evening. I’m very sorry, Mrs Wharton.’
    Still she did not look up from the face of the dead girl. ‘She looks very peaceful. As though she was just asleep.’
    Hook tried hard not to think of what might be happening to that face at the autopsy, thrust from his mind the image of the skin being peeled back to allow the removal of the brain from the skull. He said, ‘Do you know where Kate has been during the last few days?’
    She looked up at him at last. ‘No. We’re not in touch much nowadays. She has — had — her own life to live.’
    Hook nodded imperceptibly to the young woman at his side, and she came in on cue with, ‘Perhaps I could make us all a nice cup of tea, Mrs Wharton. We know this must be an awful shock and—’
    ‘I don’t need tea. I’ll get you one, though, if you want one. I don’t like other people working in my kitchen.’ Mrs Wharton rose abruptly and left the room without waiting for any confirmation.
    Hook said quietly to the WPC, whose first suspicious death this was, ‘Go in there and provide whatever support you can. Don’t talk to her unless she invites it. And let her make the tea herself if she wants to. Performing simple actions can be better therapy for some than drinking sweet tea.’
    He listened for the sound of conversation from the kitchen, for the sudden shriek of pain and outrage which might crack that carefully made-up mask of a face and allow the agony of a bereaved mother to burst out. He heard the sounds of crockery being assembled, but no noise of muted conversation.
    Julie Wharton allowed the young WPC in her crisp new uniform to precede her with the tray as she re-entered the room, but that was the limit of assistance she allowed to the girl. She handed them plates, offered biscuits, poured the tea with a steady hand. Hook, who had accepted the offer of tea to prolong his study of this strange mother, found himself wishing that they could be out of the house and free of this strange, unreal atmosphere.
    He made small talk, but this disturbing host replied in monosyllables. The girl beside him, who had been prepared for a harrowing experience, for holding a tearful and distraught older woman in her young arms, could offer nothing in the face of this polite denial of the conventions of grief.
    Bert Hook eventually said, ‘We’ll need to talk to you about your daughter in due course, Mrs Wharton. But not now. Superintendent Lambert will probably wish to speak to you, later in the week.’
    She nodded. ‘You’ll need someone to identify the body, won’t you? I’ll come with you now, if you like.’
    Hook, who had been wondering how to broach the subject, thought rapidly. The body would need to be tidied up after the pathologist’s cuttings before it could be presented to a relative. He said, ‘That’s very good of you. But not now. Perhaps later today, or tomorrow morning. I’ll give you a ring about it.’
    Julie Wharton stood on the steps and watched them go with her hands at her sides, smooth and immutable as an Inca goddess. Hook would have given a great deal to know what happened to that face once the door