Dormie 5, page 1
G R Jordan
Dormie Five
A Highlands and Islands Detective Thriller
First published by Carpetless Publishing 2023
Copyright © 2023 by G R Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
G R Jordan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
G R Jordan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-915562-27-2
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To find a man’s true character, play golf with him.
P.G. Wodehouse
Contents
Foreword
Acknowledgement
Novels by G R Jordan
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Read on to discover the Patrick Smythe series!
About the Author
Also by G R Jordan
Foreword
The events of this book, while based on golf courses in the Inverness area, are entirely fictional and all characters do not represent any living or deceased person.
Acknowledgement
To Ken, Jean, Colin, Evelyn, John and Rosemary for your work in bringing this novel to completion, your time and effort is deeply appreciated.
Novels by G R Jordan
The Highlands and Islands Detective series (Crime)
Water’s Edge
The Bothy
The Horror Weekend
The Small Ferry
Dead at Third Man
The Pirate Club
A Personal Agenda
A Just Punishment
The Numerous Deaths of Santa Claus
Our Gated Community
The Satchel
Culhwch Alpha
Fair Market Value
The Coach Bomber
The Culling at Singing Sands
Where Justice Fails
The Cortado Club
Cleared to Die
Man Overboard!
Antisocial Behaviour
Rogues’ Gallery
The Death of Macleod - Inferno Book 1
A Common Man - Inferno Book 2
A Sweeping Darkness - Inferno Book 3
Dormie 5
The First Minister - Past Mistakes Book 1
The Guilty Parties - Past Mistakes Book 2
Vengeance is Mine - Past Mistakes Book 3
Kirsten Stewart Thrillers (Thriller)
A Shot at Democracy
The Hunted Child
The Express Wishes of Mr MacIver
The Nationalist Express
The Hunt for ‘Red Anna’
The Execution of Celebrity
The Man Everyone Wanted
Busman’s Holiday
A Personal Favour
Infiltrator
The Contessa Munroe Mysteries (Cozy Mystery)
Corpse Reviver
Frostbite
Cobra’s Fang
The Patrick Smythe Series (Crime)
The Disappearance of Russell Hadleigh
The Graves of Calgary Bay
The Fairy Pools Gathering
Austerley & Kirkgordon Series (Fantasy)
Crescendo!
The Darkness at Dillingham
Dagon’s Revenge
Ship of Doom
Supernatural and Elder Threat Assessment Agency (SETAA) Series (Fantasy)
Scarlett O’Meara: Beastmaster
Island Adventures Series (Cosy Fantasy Adventure)
Surface Tensions
Dark Wen Series (Horror Fantasy)
The Blasphemous Welcome
The Demon’s Chalice
Chapter 01
Jenny Maggert half leant on her putter at the edge of the green, staring across at the diminutive Sandra Wu, her opponent in today’s match. Sandra stood only five feet tall, but there was power in that compact shape and when she swung a golf club, she opened her shoulders like no one else. Jenny was almost a foot taller than she. A completely different build, having been lanky from secondary school, and now she hoped, having reached the grand age of forty, she was elegant, no longer a pale beanpole.
The fourteenth hole at Newtonmoray’s new parkland course was a long par five and yet both women had managed to reach the green in three. Jenny was on the edge of the green and had putted up close, but Sandra, with a nifty seven iron had left herself an eight-foot putt. It was still reasonably early in the morning, probably just after eleven and the two ball had raced out in an effort to get ahead of any other golfers.
This was a match in the ladies’ shield, a match-play competition competed for every year and which Jenny had previously won three times. She was by no means a scratch golfer, but in single figures, impressive considering they usually played on the links course which had been the mainstay of Newtonmoray for over one hundred years. Sandra Wu, arriving at the club less than three years ago, had achieved in the space of those three years, a reduction of over twenty in her handicap. Maybe she had been getting lessons from the pro. Jenny wasn’t sure, but there was plenty in Sandra’s game that said she’d had plenty of instruction.
Although they were in the middle of a parkland course with its young but large trees, specifically brought in and added to what forest had been there before, they were also close to the sea. You could still hear the seagulls from the other course, but there were also birds now nesting around them that you never heard on the other course. The twitters and the warbles from those that preferred a branch to the sand of the beach.
Jenny sniffed the air as she waited for Sandra to line up the putt. It was fresh, woody, like mulch, which was not surprising considering the amount of work that had been done on the course and the amount of added bark suppressing various growing weeds and mosses.
She watched Sandra roll the putt forward and for a moment Jenny held her breath. At the last second the ball rolled to the left, missing the cup by what could only be called millimetres, and settling a foot beyond it. Sandra gave a shake of her head, walked over, and tapped the ball in before picking it out and then finding the flag to replace it into the hole.
‘Half in five,’ said Jenny, and Sandra nodded before they both removed their scorecards noting down each other’s scores as well as their own. The match was still tied with four holes to go. Jenny had taken an early lead but Sandra pulled her back, and now, as the two women pushed their trolleys up the hill to the fifteenth there was a tense air between them. Everything was polite, of course; after all, you couldn’t get angry at your opponent. But amidst the woodland that was resplendent in a cold and crisp but beautiful morning, Jenny could feel the tension running through her veins. Her hands weren’t quite shaking but they were starting to. These next four holes would decide it. These next four holes would say if Jenny was heading to the semi-final.
The next hole up was the picturesque fifteenth, Sandy’s Folly. Jenny thought of the name given by the chairman of the club in a little bit of angst towards the secretary of the club, Sandy Mackintosh. They’d seen Sandy teeing off before them when they were in the car park getting ready. He was on his own and had moved a few holes ahead for Jenny and Sandra were taking their time; after all, this was a competition. Sandy was only out for his morning round, as he often did, and they could see him occasionally knocking two balls along instead of one or he’d pull a shot back to hit it again. He’d be well ahead now, probably finished, Jenny thought, and then tried to bring herself back to thinking about the match.
The fifteenth had a tee box that dropped down over a lake onto a green with surrounding bunkers. Just at the edge of the green was a stone structure, a little folly. It had no history. It hadn’t been there before the course was built, but the Club Chairman had decided that it was worth the expense to put it in. Mainly because Sandy Mackintosh had ve
Devoid of trees and by the sea, affected by coastal breezes and variable weather, links courses were seen as proper golf, as it should be played. The new parkland course was more in the modern style, set up for target golf, lacking the intricacies of the more traditional form. Or so critics argued.
The club wanted to step out from just being one of many in the local circuit and had hired a smart new publicity officer. Over the last number of years, they’d gone hook, line, and sinker to sell this new course they’d built. It was certainly challenging and with some modifications, it could probably be brought up to a standard that would challenge the true pro. But to do that, they needed to know that the tour was going to come because then they’d have the ticket sales, and could plan the investment. From what Jenny heard, it was hotly debated in the club’s boardroom whether this was the right course for the club.
Mackintosh had objected to all that. He was one of the seven board members, a club secretary for so very long, and a man who liked tradition. She found it funny he was even on the parkland course today, but she’d heard they had closed some of the greens on the links due to a heavy rainfall the previous day. A few of them weren’t draining properly and Sandy probably thought he was doing his bit by playing on the ‘other course’ as he described it.
As they climbed the hill, Sandra Wu suddenly stopped. Jenny thought she winced.
‘You okay?’ asked Jenny politely.
‘The knee,’ said Sandra. ‘It’s just the knee; it’s a touch sore. Just give me a minute.’
She sat down on the ground, pulled up her beige trousers, and began to rub at her leg. Jenny found it hard not to get smug at this, her opponent having an injury. She reminded herself she needed to concentrate on her own game. Besides, she was too sporting to try and push Sandra on and instead stood and waited.
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Sandra. But once she had stood up, Jenny noticed how she continued to limp up the hill. The woman was nothing if not a battler and Jenny wondered just how the injury would affect her game. The path up to the fifteenth was one of the steepest on the course, which was reasonably flat, its complexity being in how the holes were shaped. At times, it was skirting along rock land, other times, bending around tall trees that often overhung the fairway.
Because of her opponent’s injury, Jenny was looking more at Sandra and less ahead at the path, and it came as a surprise when they arrived at the crest of the path that someone was still on the fifteenth tee. There was a golf bag still inside its trolley sitting just off the tee. Someone seemed to be hunched over a driving club in a rather awkward fashion, the handle of the club seemed thrust in towards their belly. Yet they were perfectly still.
The two women stopped immediately, kept silent, and waited for the player to strike the ball. Jenny assumed there was a ball on the tee thinking it was obscured by the head of the driver.
Driver’s a strange choice of club thought Jenny. She didn’t know of anybody who really hit a driver here. The hole was a par three one hundred and sixty-odd yards, and for Jenny, it was maybe a good six iron, but to hit a driver at one hundred and sixty yards, you’d need to be a three-year-old, or someone who got so old that there was no power in their limbs at all.
Jenny stood patiently. After ten seconds of the player not moving, she glanced over at Sandra. Sandra looked back with a slight concern on her face. The pair stood perfectly still for another ten seconds then Jenny gave a polite cough. Again, no movement from the player. He was male but because of the low sun coming at them, he was very much in silhouette. There had only been Sandy Mackintosh ahead of them, but Sandy would be finished by now, surely.
Jenny looked at Sandra again and the Asian woman began to walk forward with her trolley. She gave a cough and announced, ‘Excuse me, are you okay? Hello.’
Jenny immediately followed suit and the two women approached the tee box, realising that the person was neither answering nor moving. Their golf trolleys were left behind and they approached slowly, aware that something wasn’t quite right.
As they reached the tee box, the sun was low behind the trees and the silhouette changed as colour flooded the scene. It was Sandy Mackintosh; Jenny recognised him immediately.
The top of his body seemed to be hanging impossibly, like something was wrong with him. She saw that the driver was pressing into the ground, meaning it didn’t slip and Sandy’s body was toppled against it, supported just above the waist. Propped up in this fashion, the top half of his body should have collapsed over, but another club had been put down his back. An iron, of which she could see the head beside his neck.
‘Dear God,’ said Jenny. ‘What’s . . . is he all right? Is he . . .’
Sandra Wu rushed forward and then stepped back, repulsed.
‘He’s been knifed, or he’s been cut somehow. He’s been . . .’
‘Is he still alive?’ shouted Jenny. Suddenly the blood was racing through her veins. Terror was racing up her back. Somebody dead on a golf course, cut with a knife, slashed?
‘Help me,’ said Sandra. The smaller woman was pushing Sandy up off the driver club, which then fell to the floor. As Jenny got close, she could see the slash wounds and the blood across Sandy Mackintosh’s chest. More than that, there was copious blood and most of it seemed to emanate from around the neck area. However, with the head flopped over now, Jenny couldn’t see what cut had been made.
Sandra was having difficulty supporting the man and Jenny raced in pushing upward as well, but she made too much of an effort, and Sandy rocked back on his heels, the body toppling backwards, collapsing over the top of the little tee box marker that was behind him.
Sandra dropped to her knees, wincing as she did so, but checked the man’s neck before listening for any breathing.
‘I’ll start CPR,’ said Sandra.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Jenny. ‘Is he dead?’ she shrieked.
‘Get a hold of yourself,’ said Sandra. ‘I’m a nurse, I’ll get on this. Get help.’
The words seem to fly past Jenny as she stared at Sandy Mackintosh’s neck. It had been sliced, blood splashed all around it. She saw Sandra’s hands, now red, even the glove she was wearing, and her white golf shoes were now splattered in crimson.
‘I said get help. Get your phone. Ring. Get me some help.’
Jenny didn’t move. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t right. She was . . .
Sandra got up from Sandy Mackintosh and physically shook Jenny. ‘I know it’s scary, I know. I know. What you need to do is get help, get your phone. If the phone’s not working, run for the club. Get me help.’
Jenny turned, reached down into her golf bag, unzipped a pocket, and fumbled with her phone. No bloody signal. No bloody signal. She turned and began to run. The fifteenth wasn’t that far from the clubhouse. The sixteenth went up one way, the seventeenth returned. If she was sensible, she could cut across, past those two, and straight up the eighteenth.
She tore off down a path that bypassed the two holes and found herself coming out at the tee box on the eighteenth. One of the ground staff was there with a grass-cutting machine, mowing back and forward across the tee box. This wasn’t unusual for they kept them nice and trim. Jenny waved at the man frantically. He had his head down, ear protectors on, and was happily cutting the grass until he suddenly looked up and saw her standing in front of him.
‘What the hell?’ he shouted.
It was one of the younger lads. Jeff? Ian? She couldn’t remember.
‘I need help, I need help. Sandy Mackintosh, he’s . . . he’s been stabbed!’
‘Stabbed, what do you mean?’ asked the man on the lawnmower.
‘I mean somebody stabbed him. Sandra’s with him. Sandra’s working on him. I need an ambulance. I need help.’
The man’s face went white and then he pointed back the way Jenny had come.
