Authors: Quintin Jardine
‘Whassat?'
`To take this guy from off my chest and get a nappy on his ass . . . without waking him up and having me start all over again!'
Ànd after that?' It was a loaded question.
She smiled. 'Yeah, OK. I'll let you watch News At Ten!'
Tuesday
Thirteen
‘You, re an early bird, Skinner. Trying to catch your people on the hop?'
.
The Marquis of Kinture sat stiffly upright in a green leather captain's chair, which had been positioned in the bay window of the boardroom to provide a clear view of the eighteenth green. The morning sun shone strongly into the room, glinting off the metal frame of the wheelchair which sat empty alongside the newly installed throne. He was dressed immaculately, in a tailored pale blue blazer and grey slacks with knife-edge creases. There was a badge on the blazer's breast pocket, a heraldic crest which Skinner guessed was the emblem of the new club. The Marquis seemed in high humour, and the policeman noted that on this occasion at least he had chosen to recognise him without preamble.
He returned the smile. 'I'd need to be up earlier than this, sir, to surprise my troops in a murder investigation.' He walked slowly down the room. 'No, I called in to make sure that our technicians had finished their work in the starter's hut.'
The twin crests of wiry grey hair above Kinture's temples rose with surprise, like wings on an ancient helmet. 'The hut? What the devil would they want there?'
Ìt's just something we needed to cover. It's possible that the man we're after hid in there until Michael had finished his round, so we've had our forensic people lifting fingerprints and other traces . . . fibres and fag-ends, that sort of thing.'
Ànd have they finished?'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes, the starter can have his hut back. We'll take his prints when he turns up, for elimination purposes. We're looking for matches between prints found in the hut and those which we've lifted from the Jacuzzi cubicle. If we're really lucky they'll tie up quickly with criminal records, and we'll have ourselves a suspect.'
`What'll you have to do if you're unlucky?' asked the Marquis.
`Then we'll have to put a name to every set of prints, in the hut and in the changing room and bathroom. That'll mean interviewing and fingerprinting builders, joiners, plumbers and painters, every bugger who worked on the clubhouse contract, just to rule them out.
Eventually we should be left with just one unidentified set . . . if our man was in the hut, that is. It'll be a tedious job, but that's police work for you. Endless preoccupation with detail.'
Kinture used his upper body to swivel the chair towards the window. 'Know what you mean.
When I was a youngster, I was a merchant banker. I used to dream of the day when my pa would snuff it, and I could escape from that refined form of boredom to run this place.'
Skinner looked at him in surprise.
`Shock you does it,' said Kinture, 'anticipating one's old man's demise? Fact is, I couldn't stand him when I was young. Felt he ignored me, except when he was making all my decisions for me. Where I'd work, whom I'd marry . . . my first marriage, that was.'
`You've been married twice?'
`Mmm. Susan came on the scene after my divorce. She and I met at a golf tournament, and we were happy as Larry until Pa finally snuffed it and I inherited the estate, and found out about the work and worries that go with it. No wonder the poor old bugger seemed remote. I was just getting to grips with everything when I had the accident. I inherited this thing as well
.. he tapped the wheelchair, `. . and became the cantankerous bastard I am today. Poor Sue, I really do give her a hard time sometimes, and do sod all to make amends . . .' His voice tailed off, and for a time, he stared out of the window in silence.
Then suddenly he swivelled the chair round once more, awkwardly, to face Skinner. 'But enough of this whingeing,' he said loudly.
`What d'you think of the new togs, then? This is my President's blazer. That's what I am, you know, as if I didn't have enough bloody titles. His Excellency the President of the Witches'
Hill Golf and Country Club. Complete with uniform, just like you.'
`Rather yours than mine,' said Skinner with a grin.
'Mickey's idea, that we should have blazers,' said the Marquis. 'He would have been wearing his today, too. He decided we should pinch the idea from Augusta. The winner of the Murano Million will be presented with one of these, immediately after the tournament, and he'll be the first honorary member of the club.'
`Who chose the colour?' asked Skinner.
`Susan picked it. Quite nice, don't you think?'
`Sure. Very tasteful.'
Ì know what you're thinking, Skinner. "Pretentious bastards!" And you're probably right. But it's just a bit of rich men's fun.'
The policeman laughed. 'Sir, I wouldn't think that badly of you. I think it's a nice idea, and I'm sure that this week's winner will wear it well.
For an instant, the Marquis looked embarrassed by the compliment. 'Let's hope so.' He smiled hesitantly.
`Talking about winners, indirectly; I'm glad you dropped in, saved me a phone call. Look, the thing is, Mickey's death has left a hole in this week's field. I called Myrtle White last night, and asked her if she would nominate a substitute. She suggested you; said that Mickey had mentioned that he had enjoyed his game with you.
`So, how about it. Would you like to join our pro-am field?'
Skinner was taken completely by surprise. 'It'd be an honour. I have no unbreakable engagements this week, so I'd be very pleased. Thank you, sir, very much. I must call Myrtle, to thank her too.'
`Good, that's settled. I've got you a caddy too, if you'll have her. Susan was going to caddy for Mickey, and she's desperate to do the same for you.'
Àgain, sir, that'll be an honour!'
`Fine, I'll tell her. What's your club, by the way?'
Ì'm a member of Gullane, and of Pals, in Spain.'
`Damn fine courses. O'Malley said that he tried to make Witches' Hill reminiscent of Pals.'
Ìn that case, he succeeded. Those holes around the turn with the tight tree-lined fairways are bloody good likenesses.
The Marquis looked wistful. 'Yes, aren't they. Oh, if only . . .' He slapped the wheelchair in frustration. 'What's your handicap?'
`Seven at Gullane. I've been five, but I've been putting like a gorilla for the last couple of years.'
`You'll be a bandit round Pals, off a Gullane seven handicap.'
Skinner grinned. 'That has been suggested!'
`Need to be on your game this week, though. You're in Darren's team.'
`Jesus! Then I'd better get some time in on the practice ground.'
‘Hmm. And on the putting green, from what you say. Tell you what, let's check outside and see if Darren's about. Might as well introduce you, if there's a chance.'
The Marquis swivelled the captain's chair slightly, until it lay virtually parallel to the wheelchair, and reached under to operate a locking lever. He reached sideways and grasped both arms of the wheelchair. Automatically, Skinner stepped forward to help. 'No, no!'
Kinture barked. 'Thank you, but I can manage.' With the tremendous upper-body strength of the paraplegic he raised himself up at an odd angle on his forearms, and swung himself across. 'Got to be able to do that y'see, otherwise I'd feel really helpless. Come on.'
He rolled out of the boardroom, with Skinner following behind, noticing for the first time that the doors of Witches' Hill were all slightly wider than normal. He wondered idly to himself whether he was in the world's first barrier-free golf clubhouse.
They made their way along the corridor leading to the ourse. Halfway along, the Marquis pushed open the door of the main changing room. 'Atkinson!' he bellowed. `Not here,' came a muffled voice from inside. They made their way outside. A group of three men was gathered on the edge of the practice putting green, around a huge white golf bag standing upright. The trio were in earnest conversation. ,
Àh, there he is. Atkinson, hello there.' All three looked across, two in surprise. The third showed a trace of annoyance in his expression, but it vanished at once as he recognised the Marquis. He walked across towards them with a smile. 'Good morning, sir. Good to see you here. You've done a magnificent job with the course, by the looks of it.'
Skinner felt as if he was renewing an old acquaintance, since, like millions he knew Atkinson vicariously from countless press and TV stories, from the occasional visit to an Open Championship, and most recently from the satellite coverage of the US Open, which he had won by four shots.
The Marquis was pleased by the champion's compliment. `Thanks, old chap. High praise, from you. Let's see how tough you find it, though.'
He looked up at Skinner. 'Darren, let me introduce your new team member. Assistant Chief Constable Skinner, our local crime-buster. A seven handicap.'
`Welcome to the team, Mr Skinner.'
The name's Bob.'
The world's top golfer was just over six feet tall, perhaps an inch shorter than Skinner, but his huge hand seemed to swallow the policeman's as they shook. He had wide shoulders and blacksmith forearms, but the tight cut of his designer shirt emphasised the slimness of his waist, while comfortably cut trousers hid the thickness of his thighs. He had weather bleached hair and the yellowish tan of a man who plied his trade in summer conditions all year round.
Inevitably, his eyes were wrinkled from peering down a thousand sun-baked fairways. In his mid-thirties, Darren Atkinson looked supremely fit, and supremely confident, a human being at the height of his powers.
He eyed Skinner up and down, appraising him. 'Seven, eh. Any pro-am experience?'
`Never played one in my life. And I'm seven and climbing, I'm afraid.
Atkinson smiled. ‘Lets see if we can do something about that before Thursday morning. I'm having a team meeting on the practice range at six-thirty this evening. Then we're on the tee tomorrow at one-thirty for a public practice round. Can you make those times?'
‘ I’ll make a point of it. Who are the other guys in the team?'
`There's one of the Murano guys — the son and heir, I think — and Norton Wales, the little singer chap. You'll be the leading amateur in that group. I've played with Norton at Wentworth. He said he was off twenty-two, but he was kidding himself.'
`What's the format?'
'Best-ball medal play. Amateurs get full handicap allowance.'
`With four of us, the rounds could be fairly long.'
Atkinson shook his head. 'Shouldn't be too bad. The high handicappers pick up if they're out of contention on any hole.' He laughed. 'Don't see old Norton having too many putts, unless he's improved a lot since last time.
Skinner winced. 'You could see me having quite a few, way I've been putting lately!'
'Hah! That's why it's seven and climbing, is it? Well that's what you'll practice most for the next two days.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Must go, I'm on the tee. I'm taking some money off young Mr Urquhart this morning. I'll see you tonight then, Bob. And bring that putter!'
Fourteen
‘Where's today's Scotsman, Maggie?' Skinner peered over the pile of correspondence on his desk.
Ìt's in Ruth's office, sir.' Without being asked she rose from her seat and left the room to fetch the newspaper.
`That's an odd story about the murder on the front page, sir,' she said, returning to hand the broadsheet across the desk. 'It's unusual for the Scotsman to give credence to an anonymous letter.'
He glanced at the front page. 'Yes, but look how they're reporting it.
"
Police were studying a mysterious unsigned letter handed in to the Scotsman office
yesterday, to establish whether it might be linked to Sunday's murder of Edinburgh
millionaire Michael White, at the luxury Witches' Hill Golf Club, where the world's richest
golf event begins on Thursday
."
Ìt goes on to say that the phrase may have connotations in witchcraft, but that no one yesterday could pin it down. Based on that they leap to the conclusion that there may be a coven active in the area today.'
Rose looked at him, puzzled. 'All a bit tenuous, isn't it, sir?'
He grinned. 'So you might say, but it lets the editor put an "exclusive" tag on her story, and it's colourful enough to tempt every other newspaper in the land into following it up. And with the Scotsman holding the only copy of the letter in circulation, apart from the original, it's a real feather in their cap.'
The grin widened still further. 'Anyway, it isn't as tenuous as you think!'
The Inspector was intrigued. 'What d'you mean?'
Skinner reached behind him, into the pocket of his jacket, which was hung over the back of his chair, and took out a tape cassette, in its clear plastic box. 'Wait till you hear this,' he said.
Ìt's a copy of something that's been lying in my attic for nearly twenty years.' He explained the origins of the cassette, then reached into his briefcase, and took out the original of the Scotsman letter.
Ì'd like to know more about this story. The child on this tape says that the story was told to her by her great-grandmother. But where did she get it from? Is it commonplace? Is it documented at all? Is it just a local legend, or does it have any historical basis?
`You see, Mags, while it's probable that this letter is just the work of a crank,' he waved the single sheet in the air as he spoke, 'there is just an outside chance that it's a confession of murder.
`So here's your chance to do some real detective work. The Scotsman experts couldn't come up with anything, but they didn't have this tape. Let's see if you can do better. I want you to make an appointment at Edinburgh University to see Henry Wills, the Registrar. He's a good friend of ours, and a historian into the bargain. When he was teaching, his speciality was Scottish History. You play that tape to Henry, and see if it excites him.
Ànd once you've done that, perhaps you'd better check on the present whereabouts of the grown-up Lisa Soutar.'
Fifteen