“Philippa Rhodes,” said Laura slowly. “Flipp. Yes. It has to be her, doesn’t it?” She scanned the article again. “Not such a lowlife as I thought. University student. And her daddy is a merchant banker, eh? Oh. Sorry. Was. He’s dead.”
Jeremy waited, as if expecting some conventional expression o
f sympathy for the bereaved young woman, but none came.
“So who we gonna call?” Laura turned to her cub reporter and smiled, showing off her expensive veneers. She put her hands up and waved them jauntily. “Flippbusters. There’s a number for the local police. Shall I call it now?”
She picked up the phone, but Jeremy shook his head.
“My reward? The police station will still be there tomorrow. But I need my treat right now.”
“Right now, you say?” Laura, giddy with triumph, stroked a finger beneath his chin, purring up at him. “Well, you have been a very good boy, so…”
He put out his tongue and panted.
“Do you remember that private club you told me about last week?”
He pricked up his ears. “The Alternative Golf Club?”
“That’s the one. Where members get to practise their…swing. I called their house earlier.”
“Did you?”
“And, would you believe, they are having a little get-together tonight. Just the owners and two other couples. And us.”
“Really?”
“I mentioned your name and they invited us straightaway.”
“I got Mr. Lewis a really good repeat advert deal for his tool hire business.”
“Well, that has paid off, Jeremy. You’re clearly very welcome there. And so am I. So freshen up and make yourself respectable, boy. We’re going swinging.”
Goldsands Alternative Golf Club had no fairway, no bunkers, no flags, but it did have a clubhouse. The clubhouse was the very comfortable detached chalet-style residence of Roger and Marie Lewis, a well-to-do and well-regarded local couple. He was a member of the Round Table, and a Freemason. She was a fundraiser for the hospice and a school governor. With such worthy credentials, they felt they deserved a little extracurricular fun now and again—and the friends they had made along the way would never begrudge them their little hobby.
“I never realised that all this was just around the corner,” Laura exclaimed, taking Jeremy’s gallantly offered hand and stepping out onto the gravel drive. “It looks almost like our house. Not even any pampas grass.”
Jeremy laughed. “I don’t think they swap car keys either. This isn’t the 1970s anymore.”
The side doorbell they had been instructed to ring was answered by a well-preserved blonde of fifty or so in a zebra print wrap dress, sky-high heels and plenty of chunky costume jewellery. She looked them up and down for a second then smiled warmly at Jeremy.
“Ah, I know this young man,” she said. “The lovely Jeremy. And you must be Laura.”
“Yes, that’s right. I love your dress.”
The smile relaxed from professional to genuine. “Thank you, dear. Last-chance bargain in the sales at John Lewis. Come on in and I’ll sort you out some drinks.”
They followed her up a spiral staircase to a vast and luxurious lounge area, where five other guests sat drinking aperitifs on the white leather sofas. Laura saw immediately that she and Jeremy were the only couple under forty, but this was not important. They all looked as if they put in the hours at the gym and, while she might demur at some of the ladies’ fashion choices, they dressed expensively. Standing in the middle of the room, Laura found herself in the centre of a cloud of competing perfumes and colognes, none managing to overpower any of the rest. A large photograph of a graduate on the wall jogged Laura’s memory and reminded her that she had been at school with the Lewises’ son, though he had been a couple of years above her. How strange it was, to be here, for this purpose, in the living room of a contemporary’s parents. Ah, life is an adventure, she thought, suppressing a grin of mischief.
“Some of you might know Jeremy,” Marie Lewis opened, heading over to a trolley containing decanters, glasses and an ice dispenser. “He wrote that marvellous piece about Roger’s half-marathon. Did you see it in the Gazette?”
There were murmurs of assent, while Roger himself complimented Jeremy once more on a great job.
“But,” he continued, squinting at Laura. “Aren’t you Trewin’s girl?”
“That’s right,” she said, taking a seat and a glass of too-sweet sherry. “Laura.”
She was aware of some furtive glances and a slightly uncomfortable pause.