Net Cord

E Dimmer Michael

Description

When a man is shot dead during a tennis match at the exclusive Oakside Tennis Club, the local community is thrown into turmoil. The victim is a newcomer to the club, a relative stranger, and, it appears, the murder has been committed by a hitman. But who could have made the order, and why?Detective Inspector Robert Frazer is called to investigate this curious case, bringing with him his sidekick, Detective Sergeant Dobson. The policemen's enquiries bring them up against the handsome Sebastian Goddard, the highly respected South African tennis coach whose interests include not only tennis but also attractive women, horse racing and gambling.As the detectives uncover details of Goddard's sinister past, this story of murder, violence and intrigue approaches its thrilling conclusion.Michael E Dimmer has written a fast-paced tale of murder and mystery that will keep you gripped to the very end.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Hornbeam Press
• Date de parution: 07 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780992814007
• Langue: English

Extrait

Table of Contents
Copyright
Foreword
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Other work by Michael E. Dimmer
Copyright
Copyright © 2014 by Michael E. Dimmer
Michael E. Dimmer has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work
ISBN: 978-0-9928140-0-7
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
License Notes
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Foreword
This novel is dedicated to the memory of my late brother Peter, who died in 2011. Peter was unassuming, very successful in his career, and a true gentleman. When it came to sport he was a great competitor, excelling in athletics, cricket, football, and in our shared passion for tennis.
During memorable summer days at Bath in the 1960’s and 1970’s, the mornings were devoted to tennis, and the afternoons would draw me to Bath racecourse to indulge in my other passion.
Bath holds many treasured memories, and the friendly high altitude racecourse brought one close to the action, and produced many exciting finishes. One day during a walk around the scenic racecourse, with the beautiful Spa City stretching across the valley below, I was inspired to write this novel.
In those halcyon days long past, I also have fond recollections of the grass courts of Alverstoke, and the clay-type courts of Lee-on-the-Solent - two great tennis clubs, where I enjoyed playing for many years.
Net Cord is a mystery thriller, merging the two sports which have given me so much pleasure, excitement, and interest in my life.

Michael E Dimmer
About the Author
Michael Dimmer was born in Gosport in 1941. After being educated in his home town, he entered the Civil Service in 1957. He then joined the Post Office (GPO) as a counter clerk, to begin a career that spanned 34 years. During this time Michael was involved in most aspects of the Post Office and Royal Mail business, and retired from his management position in 1991.
Michael met his wife Brenda in 1968, sharing similar careers, before she acquired her own Sub-Post Office. They retired to West Sussex in 1992 and are both enjoying village life. Since retiring Michael has played a vital role in building, and helping to organise a highly successful village Tennis Club; he still participates in the sport. Brenda and he were also involved in greyhound racing for many years, and several dogs have had happy retirements with them.
Michael came from a sporting family of three elder brothers, two of them, like him, were very sports motivated. His sole surviving brother Derek was a professional footballer, having spells with Portsmouth and Wolverhampton in the 1950’s. In later years he was known at Wimbledon as Mr Tennis Ball where he managed distribution of the match balls for 30 years, until he retired in 2011. Late brother Peter, who was the academic one, excelled in his Civil Service career, and was also a keen all round sportsman. Their shared love of tennis brought about many no-quarter-given on-court battles, and was to influence Michael into writing Net Cord .
Chapter One
It was a hot cloudless day in late July and, after the dry spell, the green turf of the tennis court was tinged with shades of brown. A colourful Virginia creeper shimmered on the walls of the attractive clubhouse, which was set well back. On temporary terracing, enclosing the court on all four sides, some two hundred spectators sat in their summer clothes totally enthralled by the contest before them.
Andrew Webster was leading by four games to two in the final set. He was a comparative newcomer to the Oakside Club, having arrived on the scene just six months previously. Tall and fair-haired, little was known about him except that he performed more than usefully with a tennis racquet.
Sebastian Goddard, his opponent, a burly, handsome six-footer of South African origin, was superficially more familiar to the members. He was, after all, club coach, with a small bungalow in a secluded part of the grounds, and he had held the Singles Title for the past three seasons - no mean feat for a man approaching forty. If pressed, he might refer to his participation, many years before, in top-class tennis tournaments but, truth to tell, his past was something of a mystery, and he owed his present position as much to his charm and an undeniable streak of ruthlessness.
But the game was going against him. After ninety minutes of toiling in the heat, some of his customary precision was missing. The younger man looked cool still, and fleet of foot, while Goddard seemed to be tiring and sat slumped in his chair at the change-over. But he had a surprising fund of resilience and energy and moving to the clubhouse end to receive service, he winked reassuringly at Christina Rothman, the ladies’ captain, who leaned forward watching tensely. She was young, blonde and attractive, but though known to be besotted with her hero, could only manage a weak smile in response. A thin-faced man sat rigidly alongside her, his cold eyes staring ahead without a flicker of emotion.
Goddard turned to face his opponent, pushing strands of unruly black hair from his forehead and raising his bushy eyebrows in a gesture of defiance. Webster was well known to be a talented exponent of the touch game, and the older man would need all his reserves of stamina and experience.
Another long game ensued before Webster’s concentration lapsed. A mis-hit lob allowed the senior player to power his way to advantage point. Once again the resolute South African was able to raise his game. He produced a blistering forehand against the service, which kicked up chalk as it flashed across the sideline. The match was all square at 4-4.
The big man’s confidence came surging back as he swung into action. His first service sped down the centre line and Webster could only scramble a return. But as Goddard moved forward to punish the weak response, he was a shade too eager and his heavily struck forehand flashed inches deep of the baseline. He stared in disbelief, then turned to Mark Frobisher in the umpire’s chair.
‘Love fifteen.’
Goddard turned away. He respected Frobisher and trusted his judgement. The successful stockbroker was one of the mainstays at Oakside and had sat on the interview board that selected Goddard from a dozen applicants. He was probably as close to the tennis coach as anyone was likely to be. But Mark Frobisher had long ago discovered that Goddard held no welcome for profound relationships. Even the more inquisitive females found their explorations restricted to his physical attributes.
The South African’s next service was a clean ace which brought only a ripple of applause. And yet, the reluctance of the majority to acknowledge his skills only served to spur him on. There followed a long, agonizing rally, with Goddard scurrying four times to the baseline to retrieve accurately placed lobs. Only the rear netting prevented him from ultimately spread-eagling among the spectators, whilst Webster’s winning drop-shot drew shouts and cheers.
The hot sun was relentless as Goddard stood again to serve, streaking the ball wide of the receiver’s backhand. But Webster moved fast and in a flash had driven a low scorching return past the champion’s outstretched racquet as he came forward.
Goddard’s powerful chest heaved as he drew in gasps of warm air. He gritted his teeth and wound up his muscular shoulders with game point against him. The silent expectancy that hung over the court was shattered by a whiplash crack like a gunshot; the lightning first service had cannoned against the net cord, but stayed in the server’s court. His second was a nervous uncharacteristic stroke which sailed aimlessly to one side; the big man had double faulted! Webster gave a little leap of delight and strode purposefully for the changeover. There was a look of dejection about Goddard as he left the court with head bowed.
Mark Frobisher announced the score: ‘Webster leads by five games to four, final set.’
Webster, sensing the championship was his, was eagerly back in position waiting to serve for the match. Goddard was more behindhand, lingering to glance towards Christina, with his left arm momentarily raised. Then he dragged his tired frame onto court to face a jubilant opponent.
Goddard’s attention seemed to be wandering. His gaze was fixed over his rival’s shoulder, on the two seats which Christina and the thin man had just vacated, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face.
Webster served, and there ensued a six-shot rally, which ended with a feeble response into the net from Goddard. The champion seemed near to exhaustion and yet strangely aloof and composed.
Once again Web