to rub together.’
‘And how do you get the younger ones in?’
‘I’ve got relationships with a couple of the local schools, do regular coaching sessions with them. Then I’ve been round the local state schools with Lady Budgen — we’ve got a good little double act going there, you know, talking about the game. We’ve had a bit of interest from that area. Have you met Tonya Grace?’
‘Not exactly met, but I saw her when Piers was partnering her in the Sec’s Cup.’
‘Of course he was, yes. Well, she’s a very promising young player, and just from a comprehensive in Brighton. Felicity’s sort of taken Tonya under her wing and been encouraging her. I think she and Don may even be helping her financially, subscription, court fees, travel expenses, that kind of stuff. . But please don’t mention to anyone that I told you that. So the game really is moving away from its elitist image.’
Jude grinned. ‘It certainly will be if I start playing.’
‘Well, we must see to it that you do. Give me a call. There are lots of people round your standard you could have a really good knock with. You have to remember, Jude, real tennis has this extremely cunning handicap system, which means you can have a competitive game, whatever your standard.’
‘Yes.’ While she still had George Hazlitt on his own, Jude wondered how she could possibly get the conversation round to the identity of the real-tennis-playing woman with whom Oenone Playfair suspected her husband had had an affair. But before she could embark on that rather tricky manoeuvre, a voice from the walkway called out, ‘Morning, George. Morning, Jude.’
It was Jonty Westmacott. Of course, thought Jude, the Old Boys’ regular Wednesday eleven thirty doubles. A fixture on the calendar so important that Oenone Playfair had even postponed her husband’s funeral to accommodate it.
When Jonty had passed through into the club room, Jude said, ‘His gout must’ve got better.’
‘Oh?’
‘I saw Tom Ruthven over the weekend. He was trying to get a fourth for today because Jonty was a doubtful starter.’
George Hazlitt grinned knowingly. ‘Gout this time, was it?’
Jude was puzzled. ‘Oh?’
‘I’m afraid Jonty is one of those players who’s not above a bit of gamesmanship. If he plays badly, there’s always a reason other than his own incompetence.’
‘Actually, last week he was complaining of a tweaked tendon in his knee.’
‘Yes, there’s always something with Jonty. Injury, or of course something wrong with the equipment. I’ve strung his racket too tight or. . the balls.’ George Hazlitt raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I probably get more complaints about the balls than anything else in this club. They’re not completely spherical, the bounce isn’t true, they’re too soft. . I’ve heard them all. And because Ned and I make the balls by hand — a new set of sixty every fortnight — well, the members know who to complain to, don’t they?’
The pro looked at his watch. ‘I must go, got some calls to make. But I’ll guarantee you one thing. .’
‘What?’ asked Jude.
‘That sometime during the next hour and a quarter Jonty Westmacott will summon me out of the pro’s office because there’s something wrong with the court.’
‘And will there be something wrong with the court?’
George Hazlitt shook his head wryly. ‘Will there hell? But I will have to take the complaint seriously because I’m afraid that’s part of what the job of being a pro is about. And also. . I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for old Jonty. I mean, he was a really good player. Handicap down in the twenties in his prime. Even then he wasn’t above a bit of gamesmanship. But now. . it’s frustration because he can’t play like he used to, that’s what makes him do all this stuff. Age, the dreaded age. Heigh-ho, it’ll come to us all.’ He moved towards the walkway. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you, Jude.’
‘Yes. Just one thing, George. .’
But Wally Edgington-Bewley, Tom Ruthven and Rod Farrar had just arrived. The window during which Jude might have pursued her enquiry had closed.
She was glowing with health after she had showered and changed, but she also knew that the following day she would feel all the bending and stretching she had done. Particularly in her knees and the back of her calves. She hoped, though, that this wouldn’t be her last time on a real tennis court. The bug had begun to bite.
Remembering the etiquette of the game, she waited in the dedans until such time as the players had to change ends. She watched Rod Farrar serve to Jonty Westmacott, who hit his return into the net. ‘Thirty-love,’ said Tom Ruthven.
Rod Farrar served again, with exactly the same result. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ spluttered Jonty Westmacott.
‘What’s the trouble this time?’ asked his partner, a very patient Wally Edgington-Bewley.
‘Well, it’s the height of the net, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t normally put that many into the top of it.’
‘The rest of us seem to be getting the balls over all right,’ observed Tom Ruthven.
‘Yes, but you’ve always tended to sky them rather,’ said Jonty. ‘My game’s always depended on my returns going very low over the net.’
‘So what do you want to do about it?’ Wally looked resigned. This ritual — or something very similar to it — had been carried out every Wednesday morning for eleven years.
‘I’ll have to have a word with George,’ replied Jonty Westmacott and bustled off the court towards the pros’ office. The three men left on court sighed and raised their eyes to the heavens.
Because there was a break in play Jude could have left straight away, but she lingered to see how this little scene would play itself out. George Hazlitt, looking suitably serious, came out of his office, carrying a marked stick. Jonty Westmacott followed.
The pro solemnly set the stick upright against the lowest point of the net’s sag. Even from the dedans Jude could see that the height was perfectly correct. Three foot. But rather than pointing that out, George Hazlitt went to the side of the court, reached into one of the galleries nearest the net and pulled out a metal bar. It was about a foot long with a square hole in one end. He fitted this over a metal nub sticking out of the pillar supporting the net and cranked it up a couple of notches. ‘Oh, I’ve done it a bit too far,’ he announced, and then cranked back the other way exactly the same number of turns.
Ceremoniously, he went back to the centre of the net and checked its height against his measuring stick. ‘There, I think you’ll find that better, Jonty.’
‘Thank you so much, George. Sorry to be a bother, but that kind of thing can make quite a big difference to my kind of game.’
‘Of course. No problem.’
George Hazlitt turned on his way back to the office just as Jude was passing along the walkway. Catching her eye, he winked. And she realized that being a real tennis pro was as much about public relations as it was about sport.
TWENTY-TWO
Carole Seddon had an email back from Iain Holland around five on the Wednesday afternoon, with text at the bottom reading: ‘Sent from my iPad.’
The message read: ‘I don’t know who you are and since my daughter disappeared I’ve been contacted by a lot of cranks. But if you genuinely do have information about Marina’s whereabouts, then we should meet and talk about it.’ There was a mobile phone number.
Carole was shocked by the speed of the response. Not expecting it, she hadn’t prepared her next step in the investigation. She felt a little frightened, too. Iain Holland had interpreted her message to mean that she actually had information about his daughter. How would he react when he discovered she knew nothing?
For a moment she was tempted to put the whole thing on hold. It had been a stupid idea to become involved in the Lady in the Lake mystery, and she was getting out of her depth. Better to pull the plug on the whole operation.
