Murder in Rosslare by Kin Platt

Author:Kin Platt [Platt, Kin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-4043-1
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 1985-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight

Austin Kilty was the head professional at the Rosslare Golf Club. A burly, powerful man, he had been headed for a top tournament career when quite suddenly he was laid low by the affliction common to the game, dreaded by all who played, known as “My fucking sacro-iliac”. He dropped out of tournament play when the worn-through discs refused to mend, and had to settle for a less glamorous life as a club professional. The osteopaths and the medics could do nothing for him, the back continued to plague him, and if he hadn’t already been a drinking man, the condition would have driven him to it. He ran the pro shop and the course, and gave the obligatory lessons to the hackers and duffers who searched each day for the secret in vain. The secret for them, as Kilty well knew, was to get rid of the clubs, find another pursuit, but inasmuch as he was condemned to live his life as a suffering man, wracked by the spasms of nerve pain, he had decided to hold his tongue and let them all learn how to suffer, too.

This day had been a particularly trying one for him. Not so much for his chronic condition, but because the VIP tournament of international golfers had attracted a crowd, turning his normally quiet club into a carnival scene, and people he hadn’t seen for years approached him, asking one after the other, “Well, Austin, how goes it with the back?”

He was sick of telling them how it went with his fucking back, and stoic that he was, fixing his concentration on the completion of this tournament next day, and then he wouldn’t have to answer any more stupid questions. When a man has a bad back, everybody knows how it goes with it.

Now he saw he had more dumb questions to attend to. A group of policemen, headed by an officer in charge whose feet were obviously killing him, and good for him, thought Kilty, were holding a bloody golf club out to him, and asking if he had any idea who owned the bloody thing.

It took the merest glance for him to recognize the club, an Australian make of a top line, not common to the local golfers. He saw the grip immediately as one he had himself repaired for the man, and since the selfsame owner of the club had reported this particular 5-iron as missing from his bag, lost somewhere on the rotten course with its impenetrable clumps of high grass and attendant gorse, it was as easy as waking up stiff as a board and unable to tie his shoelaces for him to identify the golfer.

But Kilty had never been fond of coppers. As a youth, his first love tryst with Kathleen Hogarty in the back seat of an old Ford sedan had been interrupted by one with a flashlight. When the officer had passed on, after his ribald laugh and warning about speaking to Mr. Hogarty about this, the peak moment for love had sputtered out and gone.

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