Who is Jeff Walker?

By Sanjeev Shetty

Jeff Walker is one of the best golfers in the world. But all of a sudden, he seems at a crossroads. Controversial posts on social media and alleged death threats lead to Team Walker hiring extra security. Enter Sam Langford, a West London based security expert who follows Walker around, finds nothing suspicious but does find time to fall in love with the golfer’s agent.

Meanwhile, in the Midlands, police officer Catherine Horvill’s search for a missing man sees her uncover a drug cartel who threaten her life. And it leads her to London and Langford.

Full of suspense, mystery and murder, Who is Jeff Walker? will keep you guessing until the final page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398489745

Sanjeev Shetty

Sanjeev Shetty is the author of the critically acclaimed boxing book No Middle Ground as well as a biography of Lionel Messi. In a career that has spanned four decades, he has worked in journalism and politics. He lives in Cheshire with his wife, Laura, and their two sons.

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About the Author

Sanjeev Shetty is the author of the critically acclaimed boxing book No Middle Ground as well as a biography of Lionel Messi. In a career that has spanned four decades, he has worked in journalism and politics. He lives in Cheshire with his wife, Laura, and their two sons.

Dedication

For Laura and those other two wonderful miscreants, Raf and Rub, it means nothing without you.

Copyright Information ©

Sanjeev Shetty 2022

The right of Sanjeev Shetty to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398489738 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398489745 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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20230119

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Alison Anderson for the support, encouragement, reassurance and just being a good friend. And a special thanks to Andy Padmore for helping to fill in the blanks. I am indebted to several people, as always. But the person who deserves most of the credit is my youngest son, Ruben, for no other reason than the fact that, a while ago, he decided to answer all my questions with two words ‘Jeff Walker’.

Chapter 1

Unemployment wasn’t a new experience for me. It was all part of being freelance/self-employed. There were upsides: never doing what I was told and rarely working for dickheads. The downsides were rent, I seldom made it, and the fact I’d to do bar work from time to time. And that’s when my no dickhead policy was tested. I often wondered whether having served in a military capacity had made me less tolerant towards my fellow man but I think it was just the way I was made. And as both my parents were now dead, there was no one I could verbally blame.

In recent weeks, the emptiness of my pockets forced me into the one thing I hoped to avoid: social media. My best friend, and some would say only, Alex Kouris, recommended I become a presence on the information super-highway as a last resort to bring in new business. I offered a variety of services in the investigation/security industry. I wish I could say I was fielding enquiries on an hourly basis but the truth was the most frequent message I received told me how I could ‘grow my followers’. As I had two and knew them both, ‘growing followers’ wasn’t what I was in it for.

I was considering closing my accounts when I received what they call a ‘DM’. It came from someone claiming to be ‘therealSarahhenderson’ which begged the question, who was her imposter? Her message was brief but direct. She said her firm represented some popular sporting people and would I meet in Soho to discuss some security arrangements? A quick look at my schedule told me I was free for a meeting. Then, now, later or tomorrow. But I remembered some advice from my deceased parents about never seeming too keen and answered Sarah’s request by typing ‘When? I’m pretty busy’.

Chapter 2

Constable Catherine Horvill shook the rain off her coat, hung it neatly, said hello to her colleagues and then sat by her desk. A smattering of water dripped slowly from her head onto her desk. She thought that given she had just walked in and was still one of the new kids on the block, now was not the time to go to the toilet and check how she looked. Being a new kid meant she generally did jobs that other, more established members of the unit didn’t need or want to do.

Catherine had been working for West Midlands Police for about a year. This was not a job she fell into, since she was not very big, but since the first time her parents made her watch police dramas on TV, this is what she wanted to do. She’d gone to university, at her parent’s insistence, despite knowing she already had enough qualifications to be a police officer. She’d read what she needed to do to become a police officer and what she should avoid. The one thing that had caught her eye was to not have any tattoos on her hand. It was a small sacrifice, as she had plenty of tattoos elsewhere, but none that were visible when she put the uniform on.

She was 25, had never had another job, a boyfriend or girlfriend and had only recently left home. Home was a small, two-bedroom house in Wolverhampton, which her mother and father helped her buy. Their help meant she had a manageable mortgage, which they knew she could pay because she’d always been responsible with her money and more importantly, her life. They were as proud of her as they could be and in turn, Catherine wasn’t too embarrassed by them.

Catherine’s computer fired up and she checked the missing person’s log, as that was one of her jobs to do. There was a new entry, Walid Mahmood.

Chapter 3

When I had the opportunity, I liked to walk to places. For instance, I lived somewhere in West London and my appointment to meet the real Sarah Henderson was in Soho. If you knew London, you’d appreciate that was a trek of around six miles. So, with my date being at 4, I set off at two. The walk served a number of purposes. It saved money for a start, it allowed me to miss out on a tube journey as rush hour limbered up and it also gave me time to enter ‘game mode’.

Game mode was how I’d present myself to a prospective new employer. At my age (somewhere between 40 and 50) you’d think I’d know how to do it. But I had a smart mouth. If a receptionist asked me whether they could help me, I’d say ‘could you?’ It was a tendency that others had tried to persuade me to ditch. They had been unsuccessful.

Thinking about temporarily changing my personality was too dull for a glorious walk so I decided to take in my surroundings. I breezed past Holland Park and tip-toed through Lancaster Gate. It was mid-April and the season was mild, so I was wearing a light coat, shirt and slacks. I liked to think I was dressed for all eventualities. I was appropriate for a meeting or could start work today if they needed me to. Which was really wishful thinking.

I had read up on the firm I was meeting. They represented footballers, tennis players and golfers. I’d heard of some and there were some household names. If I had a preference, I’d like to run security on a boxer because I figured we’d bond on our love of the sweet science. But they had no boxers on their resume. If I had a dread, it would be to stand behind a golfer, but as I had empty pockets, I didn’t really have the option of being fussy.

My inner discourse had taken me through Marble Arch and I was now drifting through the backstreets of Oxford Circus and through to Soho. I found the office I was meeting the real Sarah Henderson pretty quickly, realised I was 20 minutes early and grabbed a cup of coffee and something sweet. There were still things I had to work out and naming my hourly rate was one of those. I didn’t want to come too cheap, even despite the nature of my bank balance. And security work was pretty dull so I liked to add a boredom tax whenever I could.

Coffee and cake eaten, I walked back to the office.

I’m here to meet Sarah Henderson, I told the man at reception.

And what is your name sir and will she know what it is regarding?

Sam Langford and yes she will.

He turned away from me and dialled a number. I was too busy admiring how professional I had been to notice anything else. The man behind the reception asked me to sit down and said someone would be down to collect me shortly.

Within 10 minutes, I was on the second floor of the building, sat in a private office, having met the real Sarah Henderson but now waiting to meet the ‘big cheese’. That was Angela Cross, who was apparently the chief account officer, responsible for all ‘premier’ athletes. She walked in, said my name, offered her hand and told me that she was grateful to me for coming.

People in business have a few stock phrases they say without ever thinking about their meaning. It’s all part of the act and I was prepared to let Angela say them without questioning. She spoke with a deep voice that had obviously been subject to some kind of training. I was no expert, but I would not be surprised if she originally hailed from Yorkshire. In London, everyone is expected to sound the same in the end.

So, Sam, we are in a position where we just need to increase the security of one of our top clients. Do you know who Jeff Walker is? she asked.

Jeff Walker was one of the best at what he did. Admired by men, loved by women and incredibly successful domestically and internationally. Good-looking, athletic and young, the sky seemed to be the limit. An injury had recently derailed him slightly but his brand was on the rise.

The problem was, he was a golfer. On the flipside, those bills weren’t going away.

I don’t know whether you have read on twitter but Jeff has recently been getting more threats to his life via social media. There are always some people who are resentful of his incredible success and we can discount those as extremists but those threats have multiplied in recent weeks and we thought it best to act now, said Angela.

She was dressed without affectation. She wore a dark suit with a light top underneath and simple but elegant black shoes. She had a single wedding ring on her hand and a thin silver necklace. When I put my natural diffidence about the corporate world to one side, I could acknowledge that she radiated intelligence and intimidated me. But only slightly. She had finished speaking and nodded towards Sarah who said her bit.

So, what we want from you Sam is to perform a dual role. Four days a week, you’ll be part of Jeff’s entourage, going from place to place as he does corporate events and meet and greets. And the other day, we’d like you to investigate these threats and see whether you could put a stop to the recent ones.

Sarah then outlined how much I would be paid and I agreed to do the work, on one proviso.

I’d like to meet Mr Walker first.

Chapter 4

Walid Mahmood was 27. He worked part-time in a coffee house in Wolverhampton and was also studying for a degree in media and communications at Worcester University. He lived with his mother who’d raised Walid on her own. There were few details about the father. Catherine’s initial fear was that Walid may have been radicalised by IS as had happened to many British Asians who’d gone missing during the past few years. The nature of this missing person enquiry meant that senior officers had looked at it quite a few months earlier to make sure it was low risk before handing it back to Catherine. Now it was back with her and she did what a lot of police do when there is little evidence to go on, stare at his picture.

Walid Mahmood was a good-looking man. He had dark eyes and black hair. His picture suggested that he was of average build and maybe six feet tall. According to what little detail the police had on him, he was educated to only basic standard and had worked since he was 16 to help his mother, who’d been unable to work at the same time because of health issues. When Walid got to 25, he applied to university to get the qualifications he believed he needed to have a professional career.

He had been missing for a year and four weeks. It is was time for Catherine to meet his mother.

Ladywood was the area where the Mahmood’s lived. It had been referred to as the poorest area in the UK. There’d been reports that it was now subject to a boom, although it was hard to tell that when Catherine parked her police car neatly on Anderton Street. Mrs Mahmood lived in a run down, two-bedroom terrace. Catherine knocked on the door and after a pronounced wait, she was let in.

According to the file, Mrs Mahmood was 45, having had Walid when she was still a teenager. She’d never had any other children and her life had been plagued by poor health. Catherine had spoken to other officers before arranging the meeting with the missing person’s mother. No one had any insights to share.

Mrs Mahmood, we are still trying very hard to find your son. Could I ask you, when was the last time you saw him?

It was on the day he never came home. I fed him breakfast, kissed him goodbye and that was it, said Mrs Mahmood. Her voice and eyes were clear. Her general physical appearance was strong. She was maybe five foot seven, which meant she was a few inches shorter than Catherine and she was pretty, if it a little worn looking. She had small dimples on both cheeks which flashed whenever she spoke about her son.

I will tell you the same things I told your colleagues. He has never been a moment’s trouble to me. When he was a teenager, he didn’t slam his bedroom door, never swore at me, and never resented me when I was ill. He is the perfect son.

According to his mother, Walid had no enemies, had worked so hard from 16 through to 25 that they’d no mortgage on their home and he was doing well at university. He’d never had any girlfriends, or certainly had never brought anyone home. He had a handful of friends that Mrs Mahmood would put Catherine in touch with. They’d all known him since school.

Had anything happened in the weeks leading up to his disappearance that was unusual? Catherine asked.

I have played that last week back in my mind and I cannot think of anything. We have always lived a simple life here she answered. It was then Catherine noticed that the mum spoke with a mixture of three accents, a little Brum, a little Pakistani and a little ‘posh’.

Do you have any children? Mrs Mahmood asked. Catherine shook her head.

Then you will not understand the pain I am in and have been in for the last 56 weeks. This is much worse than physical pain. He was my rock, my pride and joy. He made me proud every day. I know every mother thinks their children are the best and I am no different.

There were tears forming in Mrs Mahmood’s eyes.

May I see his room? Catherine asked.

Mrs Mahmood nodded and Catherine went upstairs on her own. It was a small, tidy room. The bed was made. There were a selection of aftershaves and deodorants as well as some skin products, and there was a modest selection of clothes hanging outside the closet. She glanced inside and there were seven pairs of shoes and two uniform tee shirts that presumably he would wear at the coffee house where he worked. There were a few posters on the wall of the football team Walsall FC and a calendar. Catherine looked through it and found only that Christmas was on a Tuesday that year. She hoped they would find Walid by then.

Catherine spent a few more minutes in the room, hoping to get a sense of Walid and his state of mind. She was sure his friends would be able to steer her in the direction of what he really was like. At the moment, the best his mother could do was retain a semblance of calm.

Will you find my son?

Catherine knew it was best not to make promises she could not keep.

We’ll do our best.

Chapter 5

I was in my office. Which was my flat. Keeping the overheads down was important when you were as broke as I was.

I had a meeting with Walker set up. I was of the opinion that I should approach it with an open mind and not let other people’s opinions influence it. Well, mostly. There were over a hundred editorials on the internet about Jeff Walker. And that was just from this year. There was a 50/50 split in terms of people praising his golfing prowess and criticising his demeanour off the fairways. He might have had a reputation for straight hitting on the course, but his love life was a little wayward.

There was one journalist in particular who seemed to dislike him. Alistair Burford was apparently a freelance hack who blogged a bit, wrote the odd piece for the nationals and also appeared on the radio or TV if the editor was looking for some trashing of people like Walker. He seemed quite a presence on twitter as well, with over one hundred thousand followers.

I knew someone who had worked around sports journalism for quite a few years. I said I’d buy her dinner if she managed to get me Burford’s number. I also needed no one to know that a private detective was after his number because no good could come out of that information. She promised me she would do that, as long as she could book the restaurant. After she hung up on me, there was a ten-minute wait before I got two text messages. The first one said I was buying her dinner, the second was Burford’s number.

My phone was set to withhold caller ID so I dialled. He picked up on the fourth ring. I was going to pretend to be another journalist who was keen to profile another journalist.

Is that Mr Burford?

Speaking.

Oh, hello sir, my name is James Gunny. I write profiles of other writers for a new website. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.

Burford agreed, but only after asking me a few questions based on my validity. Fortunately, they weren’t the toughest. Once I’d answered and gave him compliments to satisfy his ego, I asked him to talk about Walker.

Amazing athlete, yeah, may go on to be the greatest ever. I don’t know how bad this injury is, but he should be able to come back in about six to eight months.

I asked if he’d ever met Walker.

Seen him play, seen the entourage he walks around with. Surrounds himself with a lot of yes men and women. And I’m sure you know about the women?

Sort of. I’d read enough gossip columns to know that Walker was a regular feature. There had never been a golfer whose name made the front and back of the papers as often as our Jeff. And a lot of headlines suggested he was rarely around anywhere long enough for breakfast. Before I even had the chance to ask Burford about them, he voluntary gave me this piece of information.

I know plenty of golf journalists that have met him, interviewed him. They all say the same thing. They all use a four-letter word that begins with c and ends with t.

I take it you don’t want that in your profile?

If you could leave that out, I’d appreciate it.

Any reason why they say that?

They say he’s rude, doesn’t engage at all when they speak to him and treats everyone around him with contempt. His staff live in fear of his mood swings.

And, do they know about his affairs?

Only what you know. He’s paid off quite a few women and I’ve heard rumours that there may have been an abortion or two. But those are rumours.

The rest of our chat was about how he became a sportswriter. I told him he’d see a profile in a day or so and thanked him for his time.

So apparently, Jeff Walker wasn’t the nice guy you saw on TV.

Chapter 6

When she needed a little optimism, a bit of banter and everything else, Catherine liked a drink, or maybe a few, with her best friend Melissa. They’d been mates since school and even though they argued frequently, their bond was unshakeable. Melissa was training to be a solicitor so the pair had a pretty good understanding of what the other person did, as their professions could intersect. They both lived in the same part of the midlands and decided to meet in a pub. After the usual chit-chat about their outfits and the lack of sex in both of their lives, the conversation, reluctantly turned to work. In general, they were both happy where they were.

What are you working on? Melissa asked. She was 25, the same age as Catherine, had lived in the midlands all her live but secretly hankered after a life in London. Once she was qualified as a solicitor, she was sure she’d apply for work down south. She was tall, like Catherine, had dark hair, olive skin deep brown eyes and worked out most days.

Usual grunt stuff, really. They’ve got me on missing persons at the moment, you know, the ones where they’ve reached a dead end and can’t find the body.

Catherine told her about Walid, about going to his mother’s house and how depressing it all was. They talked about how sad life was for young men in the midlands, in Manchester and other regions in the country. The chat was long and by the time it had finished, they’d both drunk five bottles of lager, had gone outside for a couple of cigarettes (they only smoked when they were drinking) and decided to end the evening with a couple of gin and tonics. And a little more chat about Walid.

Do you think he’s dead? asked Melissa.

Catherine thought about the question. Her head had been fluid a couple of drinks ago, now it was more contemplative. Her dark hair now a mess, as opposed to the carefully curled mane that she arrived with. The make-up around her green eyes seemed to be fading away. She was drunk. But there was still some lucidity there.

No, I don’t. If he was, there’d be a more obvious trail. I’ve got coffee scheduled with his friends next week. I think they’ll be able to help me know more.

Melissa had known her friend long enough to have her own hunch. That Catherine was determined enough and so stubborn she would leave no stone unturned to find Walid. There was a steeliness to her that few people truly understood. It’s why she became a police officer as soon as she finished university. Because she also knew where she was headed in her professional life and why she was the best person to solve of the mystery of where Walid Mahmood disappeared to.

Chapter 7

The big day had arrived. I was going to meet Jeff Walker. Currently injured and unable to participate in his chosen profession but until recently, considered maybe the best golfer in the world. Winner of six golf major titles, a millionaire many times over.

And apparently, not very nice.

Not my words but those who’d tracked his career and watched him turn from good golfer to megastar.

I was to meet him at the same office where I’d agreed to be his bodyguard and also part-time sleuth investigating the threats against his life. The meeting was at 10 am and as before, I walked in. Having done it a week earlier, my competitive nature saw me complete it at a brisker pace than last time. So again, I waited patiently in the lobby for Sarah Henderson or whoever, to usher me upstairs. As I sat, videos played of the company’s top clients. Of which Walker certainly was. I don’t know if I was nervous about the meeting but I was aware of my heart beating a little faster. I had met the late Henry Cooper once and it was definitely a time when I had been a little star struck. And not just because when we shook hands, I realised those mitts had once conspired to put Muhammad Ali on the floor.

As I contemplated how uncool I could be in the company of the rich and famous, Sarah Henderson appeared in front of me. I followed her to a different conference room. At the back of it, dressed in a dark suit and a white shirt open at the throat, was Jeff Walker. He was seated when I walked in but had risen to his feet when we shook hands and were introduced.

Jeff… he said clearly.

I got in on the first name act before we sat down.

And he spoke first.

So, Sam, I understand you are to be part of my team.

I had been expecting the green eyed monster given what I’d heard and read about Walker, so I’d been blown away by what I’d seen in the first few minutes. He spoke clearly, with an accent that belonged from the south. But perhaps more importantly, given the fragile nature of my ego, he was shorter than me. I was six four, he was maybe just six. If I was taller than him, I compared less favourably to him in other areas. In short, he was a handsome bugger. Dark eyes, the chiselled features you would expect from a top athlete and thick black hair, freshly cut. The colour in his skin suggested his parentage might be more exotic than his name. And he wore a permanent smile. So would I if I had as much money as he did.

So, what do you see the nature of my role being?

I could see Sarah was keen to answer, but before she could, Walker had spoken.

I think it would be nice if you could travel with us for a few weeks and make sure no one tries to hurt me or any of the team. Some of the threats I’ve been getting on social media have been very threatening. Some of them have been quite specific about where and how they will do me harm. That’s it for now. Because I’m in rehab at the moment, I’m obviously not playing so my weekends are quite light. We only need you Monday to Friday.

I looked at his features when he said those words. He didn’t seem scared or concerned, as if threats against his life were things that came with the territory. If anything, there was more emphasis when he mentioned the team, as if he did actually value the input of Sarah and anyone else involved in team Walker. If you took away my negative predisposition to people who earned their money from hitting a pimpled white ball, I was really struggling to dislike him. There was, of course, plenty of time. Given that we were going to spend five days out of seven together, one of us would crack and I would bet it would be me. I preferred the company of just one person if I had to spend time with someone for such an extended period.

Me.

Chapter 8

Wally was literally the nicest person you would ever meet.

Catherine was having a coffee with two of Walid Mahmood’s friends in a Starbucks near Wolverhampton. The one who’d just spoken was called Jared, he’d befriended Walid at university. The other was a woman called Justine who’d known him since primary school. They were both in the same age range as Walid, which put them at around twenty-seven, older than Catherine.

She asked Justine when the last time she’d seen her mate was.

It must have been a fortnight before he disappeared. We tried to meet up every month. Wally wasn’t much of a drinker and he’d worry about his mum so much our evenings would only last two or three hours. But there didn’t seem anything unusual about him that night. I mean, nothing at all.

You’ve known him longer than anyone, apart from his mum. Was there anything irregular about his behaviour in the months leading up to his disappearance? Catherine asked.

Justine was quiet for a time. As