Authors: Quintin Jardine
Ì have done before now, on the odd occasion you've been away.' She grinned. 'I think it might be a bit tight for three, though.' She lifted the child from the tub, still kicking and wriggling, and wrapped him in a towel. 'I'll take him to the nursery to dry him off and package him up. Meantime, you can get into the shower.'
`Yes, ma'am.' Bob gave a mock salute and wandered into their bedroom unbuttoning his shirt.
He enjoyed a long, leisurely shower in the en-suite bathroom, easing his tightening muscles in the pulsing of the strong jets, and kneading the Paul Mitchell shampoo through his thick, greying mane.
A momentary dip in the air temperature told him that the cubicle door had been opened, even though his eyes were squeezed shut. Then Sarah's body moulded itself against his, and they opened with a start. She reached up and drew his mouth to hers. She kissed him, in earnest this time, not in fun, and he felt her salty tongue in his mouth, flicking, probing. Her fingers wound through his wet chest hair then down, down, until he felt himself throbbing as she held him, there in the pulsing water of the shower. He lifted her up, effortlessly, with his massive strength, bracing her back against the shower's tiled wall, and entered her unerringly. She gasped and shuddered, gripping his hips with the inside of her strong thighs and binding her legs together behind him. He moved inside her barely at all, clenching muscles rather than thrusting, but it was enough to send her into a writhing frenzy. Her hair whipped against his face as she shook her head from side to side, crying out aloud. And at last he felt the tremors of impending orgasm; in his legs at first, then rushing up through his entire body as he pushed himself as deep inside her as he would go, drawing one last hoarse shout of pleasure from her, in unison with his own.
They stood there in that position as they recovered, kissing and nuzzling, breathing heavily together, wearing the secret smiles of total intimacy. Eventually he raised her from him, then lowered her carefully, supporting her until he was sure that she would not slip on the cubicle floor. He kissed her once more, then took a foaming sponge and began to rub her body, as she smoothed soap over him. When they were finished he twisted the wheel of the shower control, stopping the flow, and held the door open as she stepped out. She turned and looked up at him, something in her eyes, one of those perfectly timed punchlines, waiting to come out. 'And I only came in to tell you that Brian Mackie phoned earlier!' she said. He laughed out loud and threw a big, pink bath towel over her. 'Just as well I had water in my ears, then, and couldn't hear you!'
They dried off together, filling the small bathroom, and went back together naked into the bedroom. They began to dress, then Bob paused and touched her gently on the shoulder.
'Hey, honey.' It was almost a whisper.
She looked round, her eyes still soft from her climax. `What?'
Ì'm sorry I was so daft earlier on. About going back to work. You're not a plant to be kept in a greenhouse, or a nanny in a nursery.'
She reached up and touched his cheek, gently. 'It's OK. I understand. Maybe even better than you do.'
`How d'you mean?'
She looked at him, hesitating for a second. 'Well, I think it's that tape. It's hearing Myra's voice again, after all these years. It's stirred up all sorts of things in your mind. Most of all, it's reminded you that Myra was a working mother, and that she was coming home from school when she was killed. And something in you, way below the surface is saying, "Don't take that chance, that lightning could strike twice."
`But it won't, honey, it won't.'
He looked at her with complete and utter love. He opened his mouth, but could find no words. Instead he simply drew her to him and kissed her. After a few seconds, she put her hands on his chest, and drew back, smiling. 'Enough, Skinner! We got places to go, people to meet.' He nodded and picked up a clean shirt.
Òh, by the way,' she said. 'I really meant it when I said that Brian had called. It was around five. He asked if you could get in touch, when you've a minute.'
He pulled the shirt over his head and reached for his tie. ÒK. I'll get it over with now, while you're feeding Number One through there. I can hear him calling for supper.' He sat on the bed, picked up the telephone and dialled Mackie's mobile number.
`Hi Brian. ACC here. You called earlier.'
`Yes sir, thanks for getting back. I thought you'd want to hear this. There are two developments. First, we've discovered that Richard Andrews checked out of his hotel at last week's tournament on the Saturday . . . the day before it finished. We're looking all over the Edinburgh area to see if he's checked in somewhere else, but so far there's nothing.'
`Mmm,' said Skinner. 'From what Darren Atkinson told me, I'd guessed the first part of that.
As for the rest, if he came up here to bump off Michael White, in revenge for crossing his boss, he isn't the sort of guy who'd leave a calling card. What's the second thing?'
`That's from South Africa, sir,' said Mackie. 'I passed on your suggestion to Durban. They rang back late this afternoon. They'd done a hotel check earlier, and had come up with the names of two Australian guys who signed in on Monday, the day before M'tebe's old man was lifted, and checked out yesterday morning. The South Africans checked the register details with Oz, and they match two guys who are regular caddies on the Australian golf circuit, often for players who are clients of Greenfields.'
Skinner whistled. 'Well, did you ever! What a swell party this could be tonight! Give me those names, quick. I might bounce them off friend Masur, just to see if I can crack that smug Aussie smile of his!'
Thirty-one
The clubhouse dining room was situated directly above the bar and boardroom. Its panoramic view stretched out over the ninth and eighteenth greens, and beyond, across the rest of the undulating course, across the Truth Loch and across Witches' Hill itself, as it cast its great evening shadow across the land.
Places were set for thirty-six, but there was still ample floor space for the guests of the Professional Golfers' Association to mingle. Sarah and Skinner were welcomed formally by Andres Cortes, the PGA Chairman, and by Arthur Highfield.
As they took drinks from the tray offered by a striped-waistcoated waiter, Darren Atkinson, called across. 'Bob, over here!' The golfer was standing with a group which included Norton Wales and Hideo Murano, and five others, among whom Skinner recognised Ewan Urquhart and Deacon Weekes, the US Masters Champion. He took Sarah's arm and led her across.
`Hi, Captain, you sound in good form. Got over that rotten second shot at the eighteenth?'
Atkinson laughed. 'Yes, the putt helped me to forget!'
`Darren, Norton, Hideo, this is my wife, Sarah.' Atkinson shook Sarah's hand, Hideo Murano bowed and smiled, and Norton Wales gave her a twinkling wave. The golfer was about to complete the introductions when Susan Kinture flowed into the room.
`My dear,' she called out, advancing on the group, `so glad you could come.' She gathered Sarah in one arm and Atkinson in the other, her primrose trouser suit in contrast to, but not clashing with, Sarah's square-shouldered black dress ... only slightly tighter around the hips and bust after the birth of Jazz . . . or with the golfer's pale blue tuxedo. 'I've fiddled the table plan, my dear. Darren's got me on one side and you on the other. Now come on and let's circulate.' She swept them away towards.another group.
As they moved off, the Marquis of Kinture rolled up in his wheelchair. 'Evening all,' he barked. He glowered at Atkinson. `Hear you took the piss out of my golf course this afternoon!'
The golfer smiled softly. 'Perfect conditions, Hector, just perfect.'
The Marquis glowered again. 'If you even whisper "I told you so", I shall arise from this chariot and smite you!'
Ì wouldn't do that old chap . . . whatever I was thinking.' There was an air of tension between the two which puzzled Skinner, but before he could dwell on it Deacon Weekes moved alongside him, introducing himself. 'I hear you're the top cop in these parts,' said the Masters winner.
`Second top, in fact.'
`That'll do for me, sir. Has your being here got anything to do with that thing on Sunday?'
Ìndirectly. I'm taking Michael White's place in Darren's team.'
Àh said Weekes. 'Were you out with him this afternoon?' Skinner nodded.
`How was he?'
Ìn two words? Bloody awesome!'
Ì heard he shot sixty-three.'
‘You heard the truth. Nine birdies. It was like playing with God.' He paused. 'How about you, did you play a full round today?'
`Yeah, three of us played together,' said Weekes. 'I got it round in sixty-seven. So did Ewan.
We were both pretty pleased with that, till we heard what Mr Merciless had done. The poor kid Oliver, though, he was really off. That thing with his pop has really shaken him up.'
`Mmm; said Skinner. 'You didn't play with your teams, then?'
`Nah! That's Darren's scene. Nothing left to chance. It'll be like Christmas in Georgia for me, if I win the Million. But Darren won't be happy unless he wins the team prize as well. What's your handicap, Bob?'
`Seven.'
`Better be sure you play to it! How many shots did he give you today?'
`Ten. I thought he was being generous, till I found I'd shot a gross seventy-five and hadn't won a hole.'
Weekes shook his head. 'Tell you something. If he'd given you eleven shots, he'd have shot sixty-two and you still wouldn't have won a hole. Darren hates to lose to people he thinks he should beat . . . and he thinks he should beat everybody. When he finished second in the US
PGA, I knew the rest of us were in for a lean time through to the end of the season.'
Èven you pros rate him that highly?'
`Hate to say it, but yeah, we do. The kid Oliver might have the talent to give him a game, but he doesn't have the steel. It isn't just golf with Darren. Sure he wants to win first prize every time he tees off, and he hates it when he doesn't, but he thinks that way in everything he does.
He doesn't only want to be Number One in golf, he wants to be Number One in the game of life!'
Skinner looked across the room. Atkinson stood in a circle with Susan Kinture, who was still holding his arm, Sarah, Mike Morton, a solemn Oliver M'tebe, Frankie Holloway, the actress and another man whom he did not recognise. The golfer, on the eve of a million-pound event, was as relaxed as anyone he had ever seen.
`He's got no nerves, has he?' he said to Weekes.
`You guessed it. I was in a play-off with him once, at Augusta. I was so nervous and so hot I was hyper-goddamn-ventilating. I'll swear his heart-rate was about fifty! What a guy.'
`Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,' the head waiter called from the doorway. Skinner and Weekes strolled across to check their places on the table plan. Atkinson was indeed between Sarah and Susan Kinture, but Bob was seated at his wife's right hand. The Marquis was across the room, between Highfield and Cortes.
They took their places and Skinner found himself opposite Oliver M'tebe, who sat between Bill Masur and Hideo Murano, who was alongside Tiger Nakamura, and the golfer's unofficial interpreter for the evening.
The starters were served, a spoon rapped on the central table, and Andres Cortes rose to recite a brief grace in Spanish. The wine waiters circulated with Chablis and Strathmore, and the meal began. The sight and smell of the cockaleekie soup made Skinner realise suddenly how hungry he was. He set to without a word, even to Sarah.
In the lull as the waiters served the fish, he glanced across to M'tebe and caught the young man's eye. 'Have you been in contact with South Africa today?'
He nodded. 'Yes sir, but there is no good news. My father is still missing.'
Ì know, and it's a pity, but at least there's been no more bad news. I asked one of my people to check with the South African police. They're doing everything they can, Oliver. They say that they're convinced, like you, that it's not political. It may be a kidnapping for ransom, in which case there may be no contact at all for a few days.
`The police do have one small lead. They've found that two men stayed overnight in the hotel nearest your father's home, and checked out just before the kidnap.' He paused. 'The names in the register are John Mallett and Steve May, and the addresses are Sydney, New South Wales.' He kept his voice casual, and glanced at Masur as he spoke. There was the briefest flicker of an eyebrow, in instantly suppressed surprise, but otherwise the Australian's expression was unchanged. The Australian police have been asked if the names mean anything to them. I know it's pretty tenuous . . . I mean for all we know these guys could be Jehovah's Witnesses . . . but at least it gives you something to hang on to.
`How about you, Mr Masur?' he said suddenly. 'Do those names mean anything?'
The Australian shrugged his shoulders, impassively. `There's Malletts and Mays all over bloody Sydney, mate.'
He tapped the young South African on the arm. 'Don't you worry, Olly son. It'll be OK. You win the Million for your old man.' M'tebe smiled weakly.
Dinner continued in a welter of small talk, about the day's rounds, or recent golf tournaments, or the newest endorsement and sponsorship deals. Eventually, with coffee and liqueurs on the table, Andres Cortes rose again. 'I should like to say some words about this competition. I am pleased that we are all here to open this fine new course, and naturally, I am pleased also that we are here to play for so much money.
`But I am very sad about the terrible thing that happen on Sunday, and that Mr White will not be with us tomorrow. Whoever wins this week, we should all think of him.' He sat down in silence.
`True indeed,' said Masur, across the table. He stood up. `Still, even in sadness life and golf go on, and I have a happier announcement to make. Today, Tiger Nakamura's contract with SSC expired. Tomorrow he signs a contract appointing Greenfields as his global manager, in all of his golf and business dealings. The times they are a-changing, my friends.' He sat down.