Authors: Quintin Jardine
`What the hell's this?' he barked, in mock anger. 'There's a murder investigation on here.'
Higgins took him seriously, and looked flustered. She switched off the TV. 'We've gone as far as we can go on the enquiry, sir. We've got Morton more or less under open arrest, we've got all the other players and celebrities under very discreet police guard, and we've interviewed everyone relevant. There have been a couple of developments, though sir.'
ÒK Ali, calm down and tell me what they are. No, let me guess one of them. There's been another letter to the Scotsman.'
The detective looked up sharply. 'Not quite, sir. This one was shoved through the letterbox of the Herald office in York Place. They called us and faxed a copy down here.' She picked up a sheet of curling A4 paper, sliced from a fax roll, and handed it to him.
Skinner looked at it and frowned. 'I was afraid this would happen. Typed this time,' he muttered. 'Wonder why that should be?'
He read aloud, "Dear Editor, By water . . . so goes another."
`Brief and to the point. Right, I want the original, not a fax. I want publication stopped too.
The Herald might not like it, but enough's enough. I let the first one go because I thought it was a crank, to see if we could smoke him out. But now, with a second murder I'm beginning to get a chilly feeling. Do we know when this was received?'
`Mario's been to the Herald to check that out, sir. It was found in the hallway at York Place around ten, behind the door, but it had been there since the receptionist got in at nine. It was in a dirty envelope, with footprints all over, and the girl thought it was rubbish that the cleaner had missed. A delivery rider picked it up eventually and handed it to her. She tore it open, saw the 'Dear Editor', and stuck it, as usual, in the newsdesk in-tray. They get lots of punter stuff handed in like that. It didn't come to the top till twelve-thirty. The Herald contacted us just before one. The editor called me, personally.'
`When did you hold your press conference?'
`We began at nine-forty-five, and finished about ten past ten.'
And no details of the death were reported before then?'
'No, sir. The first report of a second incident at Witches' Hill was on Radio Forth at nine o'clock, and that said only that the start of play had been delayed by a police operation on the course. No one said anything about a death, before we issued our statement at the press conference.'
`Therefore...' he paused `...whoever dropped that note off at the Herald, knew about the murder, and the detail of it, before it was made public. Apart from us, Jimmy Robertson, the club pro, who's been in shock since he found the body, and the ambulance drivers — who are all tight-lipped — only twelve people at Bracklands knew about this. They have all been under police guard since Masur's death, so none of them could have slipped up to Edinburgh to stick this through the Herald's door.'
`Could one of them have been playing silly buggers, sir, phoning an accomplice in town?'
`Nice thought, but no way. Andy, Neil and I were with the house party until around quarter to nine. The envelope was through the Herald letterbox by nine. I'd say that possibility is ruled out.
`That just leaves the killer in a position to drop that note, or have it dropped. We were entitled to be sceptical about the first letter. The second makes it deadly serious. Do we know how Maggie got on in Germany with the Soutar girl?'
`She called in from Amsterdam Airport, sir. She's coming here to report at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.'
`Good, I want to hear what she's got to say.'
He paused. 'Right, what else do we have? Post-mortem results, forensics on Morton's kit?'
Òn the P-M results, yes, sir. Sarah was right as usual. Blow to the head, then death by drowning. The lungs were full of water. There's nothing from the lab about Morton yet though. That could take a couple of days. They're having to take mud samples from the garden, from the banks of the loch, and from the fairway to see if they're different. They've found grass traces on the trousers, and they're having to take samples of that as well.'
`Bugger!' snapped Skinner, impatiently.
`Yes, boss, but here's some good news. The manufacturers of those cigarettes called. They're sending up a full report, but what they're saying is that the stub we sent down is special. The company is about to launch a new brand of luxury fag, and last week they handed out some samples . . . last Saturday morning in fact, at the European Golf Tour event in England. They won't be on sale anywhere for another month, and they've never been distributed anywhere else. So whoever smoked that cigarette in the starter's hut brought it all the way from last week's golf event, and he was there on Saturday.'
Skinner beamed with pleasure. 'Ali; he said, 'you may have made an unusual day even more memorable. Keep the pressure on our colleagues to find Richard Andrews, and let me know when they do. Now I must go. There's someone I have to see.'
He paused at the door, jerking a thumb towards the television set. 'What were you watching, by the way?'
Martin smiled. 'I had the TV people give us a monitor and a live feed in here. This event's going out worldwide. You were very impressive, boss. But what I want to know is, who taught you to putt like that?'
Ònly the best, my boy. And now I must go and talk to him.'
He jogged back to the clubhouse, and changed, after the briefest of showers, into his formal wear. Sarah and Jazz were the centre of attention when he reached the dining room. The baby was holding a golf glove, twisting it in his strong little hands. Skinner gave Sarah a quick kiss, as Darren Atkinson handed him a pint of McEwan's 80 Shilling ale. 'Cheers, skipper, I need this.' The policeman took a generous mouthful of beer, savouring its smoothness.
'Whose is the glove, Jazz?' he said.
The baby looked up at him, and gurgled.
Ì thought I'd try to interest him in the game early,' said Atkinson.
`That's nice of you. I'll see that it's preserved. He can hand it on to his firstborn. The way you played today you could still be Number One then.'
`Keep your eye on me. I haven't peaked yet. You wait till Sunday.'
Hector Kinture’s going to hate you do any worse damage to his course!'
Atkinson smiled and shrugged. 'He should have got himself a decent bloody architect then, shouldn't he, instead of Wild Colonial Boy.'
Skinner glanced across at the Marquis, but he gave no slign of having heard. He stepped to one side, and motioned Atkinson to follow. 'Darren,' he said, quietly. 'Remember that bloke Andrews, the one I didn't ask you about the other day?'
The golfer nodded. 'Mr Nice, yeah.'
`Can you remember if he's a smoker?'
Atkinson looked at him blankly. ‘Eh? Let me think. Yes, of course he is. I remember the first time I met him he was a chain-smoker. He's cut it down a lot since then, but, yes, he still smokes. How come you're concerned about his health, I wonder?'
`Like before,' said Skinner, 'don't wonder too hard. You just concentrate on the golf. Leave the detecting to me.'
Forty-two
‘He really is a nice guy, that Darren, isn't he?'
‘You're just chuffed because he made a fuss of your wean,' Skinner grunted.
‘Don't be silly. He's charming, and you know it’
`He's God's own golfer, I know that much. I've played two rounds with him now. In all that time he's hit one bad shot, and when he did that it just made him sharpen up even more.
Apparently today was his fourteenth successive round under seventy.'
`You didn't do too badly yourself today, honey.'
`That was the effect that playing with him had on me. Hideo and Norton reacted the other way. I was sorry for them.'
He put his arm around her as they sat on the bench, watching a group of children as they attacked the apparatus of the Goose Green playground. Jazz was dozing in his cradle, strapped to his father's chest.
`Tell you one thing, babe. You're right about Sue. She is smitten with the man. You should have seen the way she looked at him this afternoon. I hope she doesn't do anything daft.'
I shouldn't think she will. She likes being Lady of the Manor.'
Àye, but in golf, Darren's bigger-time nobility than a mere Marquis. He's King of the World.'
He squeezed her arm. `Come on, let's go home. It's getting near supper time for Bonzo here . .
. and I'm bloody starving too.'
They left their bench and walked back up the sloping village green towards their cottage.
`What was the autopsy finding on Masur?' Sarah asked, facing him as she stepped backwards up a grassy ridge. ‘You said we'd talk about it later.'
`Banged on the head, then drowned. Just like you thought.'
She nodded, with a look of professional satisfaction. 'I've been thinking some more too,' she said. 'About how it was done.'
`What d'you mean?'
`Try to picture it. There's Bill Masur walking back to Bracklands, across the golf course. He's full of the joys of victory. He's rubbed his arch enemy's nose in the dirt, in public. He's had a few drinks, but he isn't drunk. It's a pleasant moonlit night and he's as wide awake as he's ever been in his life.'
They had reached the cottage. Bob stepped aside as she opened the door with her Yale key.
'OK,' he said, 'so?'
`Well, for openers, it would not be easy to sneak up on this man. There are no trees around there. The fairway's wide open. No place to lie in wait.'
Skinner lifted Jazz from his cradle, handed him to Sarah, then headed off to prepare the baby's bath. 'Who says he was there?' he said, over his shoulder as she followed him.
`Couldn't he have been walking along the cart track close to the trees?'
`What happens to the buggies at night?'
`They're all locked up.'
'Did your people find any tyre marks on the fairway?'
'No.'
`Did they find any marks as if someone had been dragged across the fairway?'
`No.'
ÒK, Masur was a big, heavy guy. He could have been slugged on the path and carried across to the stool, but it would have taken more than one person to do that. A reasonable conclusion, yes?'
`Yes,' he said, hesitantly, as he filled the bath.
`Were there lots of footprints around the stool's mooring point, or around the place where Masur was loaded and tied to it?'
`No.'
ÒK. Now lets go back to where he's walking along enjoying the moonlight. He's walking towards Bracklands, remember. So what happens?'
`Someone softshoe's up behind him and banjoes him, yes?'
Ì doubt it. He'd have to be very quiet about it. It was a still night as well as a bright one. And the angle of the head injury was wrong.'
`What d'you mean?'
She smiled, and Skinner could sense her triumph to come. `Well if it happened like that, even if the guy had come up behind him like Marcel Marceau, he'd have been hit a downwards blow to the top of the head. He wasn't. He was knocked out by a sideways blow to the base of the skull.' She peeled off Jazz's ripe disposable nappy and wiped him clean, then lowered him carefully into the bath, trying in vain to keep clear of the splashes from his kicking legs.
Ì think,' she said, soaping the chortling child, 'and I'd stand in the witness box and say this, that someone walked right up to Masur . . . someone he knew. Someone with whom he was relaxed, and off-guard.
`This person walks right up to him, coming, not necessarily from Bracklands, but from the direction of Bracklands, and says something like, "Hi Bill, you out for a stroll too?" They strike up a conversation. They walk side by side in the moonlight. The newcomer falls just a pace or two behind. Masur doesn't suspect a thing . . . until the man whips out a cosh, or some such, and drops him where he stands.
`He's chosen his moment, so he doesn't have to carry him far to the stool. Or maybe he means to finish him off with the club, then sees the stool in the moonlight and indulges a sense of the theatrical.' She squeezed a sponge over Jazz's round tummy, triggering a new round of squeals.
`That's my story, copper, and I'm sticking to it.'
Skinner leaned against a wall and looked at her thoughtfully. 'He couldn't just have been overcome by a couple of guys?'
`Come on Bob, you don't believe that a mean sonofabitch like him could have been tackled straight on, even by two guys, without a battle. The head knock was the only injury, remember. This man would have got a few licks off himself. He'd have had scraped knuckles, and facial bruising. But the only marks on him were caused by the fishes.'
He sighed. 'Yes, you're right, as bloody usual. I'll buy it. it doesn't make things easy, though.
The only guy in the house party who isn't accounted for is Morton, and the way those two went at it, I hardly see him — or his fixer Richard Andrews —walking up in the moonlight and saying, "Hiya Bill, how's it goin'?" So if Masur did meet someone in the middle of the eighteenth fairway, I have no tiny idea of who it was . . . unless one of Aggie Tod's witches flew in on a broomstick and zapped him!'
Friday
Forty-three
'So what's she like now, Myra's magic child? What did she turn into?' There was a strange sadness in his tone.
Maggie Rose put down her notes, her account of her German interview completed. She looked at Skinner, through the eyes of someone who knew him well, and saw, written on his face, the depth of the old memories which the rediscovery of his dead wife's tape had stirred in him.
`She's grown into a kind of pathetic wee woman, sir. She's married to a man who obviously treats her like a skivvy, but that's not all. She's borne down by possession of that bloody curse. It took me a while to realise what it is about her. She's possibly the loneliest person I've ever met.'
`Why's that, Mags? She's got her kid, hasn't she? And she must have friends around her, living in married quarters. Are you telling me she's homesick for Longniddry!'
Rose smiled and shook her head. 'No, sir. It's not that. It's Aggie Tod's curse. I've told you how Nana Soutar reacted when she found out that Lisa had made that tape for Myra.