Authors: Quintin Jardine
His expression changed to one of concern. 'I heard he got quite badly hurt. Any after-effects?'
Maggie shook her head. 'None that I've been able to see. Physically he's fine, and there don't seem to be any psychological scars.
Ànyway, to business.' They were seated in a small interview room in the Lasswade station.
The architecture of police buildings in the Edinburgh area is of inconsistent quality. At best, Lasswade drew mixed critical reviews.
Àye,' said Soutar. 'A family matter, but nothing to do with my kids, you said. What is it then?'
Rose put the cassette player on the table. 'How long has your family lived in Longniddry, Davie?'
He smiled. 'Since God was a boy, they say.'
`Do you have a relative named Lisa Soutar? A cousin, sister, niece even?'
Àye. I've got a sister called Lisa. She's a couple of years younger than me.'
`Right. I'd like you to listen to this tape for me.' She pushed the Walkman across the desk.
The sergeant put on the headphones and pressed the play button. He listened with an expression of growing interest and surprise. By the end his mouth was hanging open slightly.
`That's amazin', Inspector. Can ah have a copy of that?'
Ì'll need to ask Mr Skinner, but I'm sure it'll be all right. So, that was your sister?'
Òh aye, that was oor Lisa OK. A heid full o' fairies, we used to say. She was a weird lassie right enough. She and ma nana were as thick as thieves. Nana hardly spoke to the rest of us.
What age would Lisa be then, ah wonder?' He searched his memory. 'Let's see, if she was in Mrs Skinner's class, she'd have been ten or eleven.' A sudden thought struck him. 'Here, I mind that that Mrs Skinner was killed. Was she . . . ?'
`The boss's first wife?' Maggie finished his question and nodded. There were a few seconds of solemn silence.
`Now, about your nana,' said Rose, dragging Soutar back to the subject of their meeting.
'How old would she have been then?'
`Let's see. She died in 1982, and she was ninety-nine then, so she'd have been ninety-three or thereabouts.'
`What about Lisa, where's she now? Is she married?'
Sergeant Soutar nodded. 'Aye, she's married on tae a soldier called Roy Davies. He's in the Royal Engineers. They're stationed in Germany just now. Dinna like the man much. He's far too strict wi' Lisa, and wi' their wee lass.'
`How about your parents. Are they still . . . ?'
`Ma mother's dead, but ma father's still around.'
`Would he know anything of your family history?'
Soutar laughed. 'What, ma da'? He'll tell you who won the Cup in 1952, or what won the three-thirty at Carlisle last Thursday, but he knows bugger all about his own family. He thought ma nana was as daft as a brush, and so did his father before him. The auld witch, they used to call her. No, Inspector, if you want to know anything about the Soutar family history, you'll need tae ask oor Lisa. Nana Soutar passed it all on to her, and that's where it is tae this day, in her head.'
He handed the tape player back to Rose. 'Do you have a number where I can contact your sister?' she asked.
Àye, sure.' He took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled on it, tore out the page and passed it across the desk. 'That's her home number in Germany.
`There's one thing you havens' told me, though. What's a' this about?'
The inspector took from her bag a cutting from that morning's Scotsman, and handed it, without a word, to Davie Soutar. He read it in silence, astonishment returning to his broad features. What? D'you think our Lisa might have written that?'
Rose shook her head. Not if she's in Germany, no. But as far as I can gather, the story on that tape has never been written down in full. I need to find out whether it's been passed down through any other family, and right now, your sister seems to be the only lead I've got.'
`But so what? It's just a crank letter, isn't it?'
Maggie shrugged her shoulders. 'Maybe yes, maybe no. A lot of people believe in UFOs, and a lot believe in witches. And — leaving your sister out of this — just suppose some believe that they're witches themselves?'
Twenty-one
‘If you don't mind me asking, Bob,' said Darren Atkinson, his voice betraying the faintest trace of his Midlands upbringing, `where did you get those scars on your leg?'
Skinner glanced down at the small, round, blue scar at the front of his tanned right thigh, and at the big ragged rip towards the rear. 'I fell on to a spiked railing,' he lied.
Atkinson winced. Ow! It hurts even to think of something like that.'
They were in the main locker room for gentlemen at Witches' Hill, changing from their formal clothes into golfing kit. The golfer squared the shoulders of his blazer on its hanger and muttered, almost to himself. 'When I have my own club, it will have a sensible dress code. The gear that we're wearing now probably costs more, piece for piece, than the stuff we're hanging up, yet we can't wear it in the bar. That was the first thing that the Marquis told me when I arrived. I was astonished, and a bit annoyed too.' He grinned wryly. 'After all, I get paid a right few quid to wear this stuff.'
Skinner laughed. 'Yes, I know. And indirectly I'm one of the punters who pays you!' He pulled his sweater over his head, and tapped the manufacturer's logo on the sleeve. 'But to be fair to the Marquis,' he said, 'his dress code is the norm around here. The difference seems to be that Witches' Hill doesn't have a Dirty Bar, where you can go in your golfing gear. I suppose it shows the sort of clients they're looking to attract.' `Yeah,' drawled Atkinson. 'In their dreams.'
`You don't think this place will succeed?'
Not if they stick to the toffee-nosed approach. A lot of Americans and Japanese just don't understand it. It'll alienate them, and they'll tell their chums. If the course was good enough, it wouldn't matter, but frankly it isn't.'
Skinner was surprised. 'You don't think so?'
Atkinson shook his head. 'No, for us pros there's just that bit of severity missing. I'm afraid I don't rate O'Malley as highly as most people seem to, or as he rates himself for that matter.
I'll be disappointed if I don't shoot well under two hundred and seventy this week, and I think one or two others might as well. I reckon that on a perfect day, I could break sixty out there.
That's not bragging. I played it properly for the first time today, and I had a sixty-five. Young Urquhart had a sixty-seven. Scores like that send out the wrong message about a course.
Ìt's a bit of a Hollywood tart, is Witches' Hill. Looks beautiful, but when you get into it, the performance is disappointing!'
Skinner, tying his shoelaces, laughed. 'Are you speaking from experience?'
The golfer grinned. 'Sadly, no. I'm only good at one game.'
`You surprise me. My old dad used to say that there are two things which no man will ever own up to doing badly . . . and the other one is driving!'
`Hah! Well come on and I'll show you my speciality.' He led the way from the locker room and out towards the practice Putting green. Skinner hefted his clubs on to his shoulder and followed. 'We're a bit early, so let's have a look at your putting stroke. Mind you,' he cautioned, 'like most pros, I'm no use as a putting coach. If I was I'd make more money than I do playing. It's the most difficult thing of all to teach.'
Skinner took from his bag his flat-headed Ram Zebra putter and two golf balls. He lined up on a flag twenty feet away and stroked smoothly through the ball. It finished four feet short.
`Bugger,' he muttered. 'Every time, I'm either short or past by that much' He putted the second ball. It missed on the left and rolled at least a yard past the hole.
`Show me again,' said Atkinson. He crouched down as Skinner hit two more putts, with the same results. 'This one's easy,' he said, straightening. 'You're almost grounding the club-head, and so you're hitting underneath the ball, chipping it very slightly instead of putting. That's affecting both weight and line. Concentrate on keeping the head half an inch clear of the ground. That way you'll hit through the middle of the ball. Try it.'
Skinner tried a few practice strokes as Atkinson instructed, then hit two more practice putts.
The first missed on the right and stopped six inches past, and the second rolled smoothly into the hole. Five minutes later, the policeman was beaming all over his face. 'Right,' said Atkinson. 'Now let's see if you can hit the bloody thing. I see Norton and Hideo Murano heading out to the range. Let's get after them.'
Skinner shouldered his bag once more, and the two headed off down the side of the first fairway.
Ì heard about Oliver's dad,' said Atkinson. 'He told me you'd been to see him. That's a bloody awful thing, isn't it? The lad says he can't think of a single reason why anyone should want to harm him.'
Did he call his mother?'
Atkinson nodded. 'Yes. She persuaded him to stay here. I'd have understood if he went home, but he's going to play. His mother said that was the best way for him to sustain his father.'
`You manage him, don't you?'
`Well, my company will do. Oliver was quite a catch. Masur made him an offer, but he approached me. He hasn't signed formally yet, but we've reached agreement, and we're acting for him.'
`How did Masur feel about that?'
`He grumbled, but not too hard. I don't think he's too interested in black African golfers. The white guys, Aussies and Japs are his main strengths, although he's making inroads into America. Morton hates that.'
He paused. 'Mind you, he'll hate it even more if the Tiger leaves SSC.'
Skinner looked at him in surprise. 'Is that likely?'
Atkinson nodded. 'His contract's almost up, and Masur's made him an offer. Greenfields has strong Japanese connections, and they feel that the Tiger should be with them. Morton's pulling out all the stops, since the Tiger's his star attraction in the Far East, but that's the way it'll go, I think.'
`That's interesting,' said Skinner. 'How do Morton and Masur get along generally?'
`They don't.'
`How do they feel about your company?'
`They're polite to me, but I've made it clear that I'm sticking to golf, and to European tour players.'
`Will it always be that way?'
`Shrewd question, Bob. No it won't, but I'm not going to let them in on that secret.' They were approaching the practice ground, and had almost caught up with their teammates, each of whom was pulling a caddy-car. Atkinson called out to them, ÒK, guys, let's get together.
That's my caddy over there with the practice buckets.' He pointed towards a tall red-haired figure who stood with one hand on a huge golfbag, on which Atkinson's name was emblazoned. Beyond him, still swinging powerfully, was the colourfully clad figure of Tiger Nakamura. Skinner noticed that Bill Masur was watching him practise, a contented smile on his face.
As the four came together, Atkinson introduced Skinner to his playing companions. He was struck by the difference between Norton Wales in the flesh and on television. He knew that the singer was over fifty, but for the first time he realised that he looked every day of his age.
Hard living had carved deep traces which were normally covered up by stage make-up.
Alongside him, Hideo Murano, the thirty-year-old heir to the car-building fortune, looked almost cherubic. 'And this is Bravo,' said Atkinson, introducing his caddy. 'To answer the obvious question, his real name's Charlie, and I've no idea why he's called Bravo. Neither has he. Most of the older caddies go by nicknames, and Bravo's been around for longer than me.
ÒK, let's grab a bucket of balls each, and let's see you swing. Murano-San, you first, please.'
The Japanese nodded, teed up a ball and hit it competently, to just short of the 200-yard marker. 'That's good,' said Atkinson. 'You keep that up and I won't need to do much for this team. Norton, you next.' The tubby singer set himself up and took a tremendous thrash at his ball, knocking it no more than sixty yards along the ground. Atkinson shook his head and smiled. 'Look, man, there's no need to be in such a rush. The bloody ball isn't going anywhere until you send it. Swing at half that speed and you'll play twice as well. Right, Bob, let's see you'
Skinner had never felt so nervous on a golf course. But he steadied himself, thought only of the ball, concentrated on timing rather than power, and swung smoothly. The Titleist made a satisfying 'click' on the face of his graphite-headed driver, and soared away. It moved from right to left in flight, pitched just short of the 225-yard marker and ran on for another forty yards. Atkinson watched it until it came to rest, then turned towards him. 'You should be arrested for playing off seven,' he said with a grin. 'You've played this course before, haven't you?' Skinner nodded. 'What did you shoot?'
`Seventy-eight,' he said, adding quietly, 'with a ball in the water up the last.'
`See, I told you it wasn't testing enough! Right. You and Hideo concentrate on hitting targets.
Bravo, you keep an eye on them. I'm going to do some serious work with Norton.' As Atkinson set about one of the greatest challenges of his career, Skinner and Murano followed instructions, aiming at different targets with different clubs, working their way through their bags from long irons to the pitching clubs. Skinner had almost emptied his practice bucket when his concentration was shattered.
`Hey asshole, get your butt out of here. The Tiger's still my man, and if he knows what's best for him he's going to stay that way.' Mike Morton's raised voice cut through the stillness of the practice ground. His shoulders were back and his jaw thrust out as he approached Bill Masur and squared up to him.
The Australian looked coolly down at him. 'Face up to it Mike,' he said calmly. 'You've been assuming too much for far too long. It's time you took a tumble. Tiger belongs with Greenfields, and he knows it. Ain't nothing you SSC boys can do to change that.'
Without warning Morton shoved him violently in the chest. Masur took a pace back to steady himself, but stayed on his feet, still smiling. Skinner stepped across quickly. He put himself between the two and seized the American by the arms.