Authors: Quintin Jardine
`What sort of sick bastard would do this?' whispered Andy Martin, as he looked down at the scene, struggling to control the heaving of his stomach.
Not sick, Andy,' said Skinner just as softly. 'Cruel, yes; sadistic, too and imaginative with it.
But very determined and working to a plan, with clear objectives, rational and in control of every single action.'
`You know who did this?' said Martin, astonished.
Ìf this poor sod was who I think he was, then yes, I know.'
Ànd who do you think it is?'
Skinner did not reply. Instead, he looked behind him. `Would you tell me what you can, please, Doctor.'
Shuddering in her Barbour jacket, Sarah stepped up. She swung her torch, slowly, around the remains for added light, then crouched down beside the truncated body, looking closely at what had been its face. Skinner and Martin heard her mutter softly to herself; they both knew that it was her way of keeping her mind on the job, and to stop it from dwelling on the human reality of her subject.
Eventually she stood up. 'I can't tell you much. You'll need a dental specialist to give you the definitive version. But this man . . . for it was male, the testes are charred, but still there . . .'
Andy Martin groaned `. . had some very expensive bridgework done, and he had it done in America.'
Was he conscious when the fire was lit, d'you think?' asked Skinner.
`He was certainly standing up, at first, and probably straining against the flames. Do you see the way the tree has burned? The bark and the wood are marginally less consumed up here, where the body would be pressed at first, before it sank to the squatting position in which it finished up.'
They heard rustling footsteps behind them, and a sudden choking. Skinner looked behind him and saw Alison Higgins on the edge of the circle, doubled over and retching as she saw what awaited her.
Ì wonder how he got up here?' said Skinner, aloud, but almost to himself.
`He must have come up to meet someone,' Martin answered. 'It would be bloody difficult even for two people to carry or drag a body up through the trees, and there's no way you'd get a vehicle up.'
`That's right. So our barbecued pal here has a message from someone saying "Meet me late at night, on top of Witches' Hill." And he goes. So like Masur, this man was killed by someone he knew, or knew of, and had no reason to fear.'
Suddenly Skinner smashed his right fist into his left palm, so violently that Sarah and Martin jumped. 'Oh, you stupid bastard! What have you done?' he snarled.
`What d'you mean, boss?' asked Martin.
Ì took the watchers off Mike Morton. I gave him twenty-four hours to himself, to turn up Richard Andrews.'
Èither that thing there is Andrews . . . and with him dead there's no case against Morton . . .
or, as I fear very much, this is Morton himself!' He called across the clearing. 'Alison, will you raise Joe Doherty and have dental records for Mike Morton and Richard Andrews faxed over here, right away. Get the technicians to work, fast. I want pictures taken, the mess cleaned up, and the area taped off, all before daybreak. I want no announcement made for now. In fact, if necessary, have a twenty-four-hour news blackout slapped on this affair.
`Sarah, you can go home to Alex and the baby. Andy, you and I are off to Bracklands, to find out whether Mike Morton is safely tucked up in bed, or burnt to a cinder on top of Witches'
Hill!'
`Won't you cancel today's round?' asked Higgins.
`No, goddamnit! If we call time now we may never solve the thing. This whole game has to be played out to a finish, to the eighteenth green on Sunday afternoon.'
Ì have a feeling that this investigation might even go to a play-off!'
Sixty-three
They guessed that the night bell must have rung in Mr Burton's bedroom, when the little butler appeared in the doorway, a minute or two after Skinner had pushed its button.
He wore an immaculate black silk dressing-gown tied, creaseless, over white pyjamas buttoned up to the neck. Even roused from bed at 1.50 a.m., his hair was neatly parted and combed. 'Yes?' he began, imperiously, then stood stiffly to attention as he recognised the two policemen outside the tall front door of Bracklands.
`Gentlemen? What may I do for you at this hour?' He moved aside, allowing them entrance to the great domed entrance hall.
`We'd be grateful,' said Skinner, 'if you could take us directly to Mr Morton's room.'
Mr Burton nodded. 'Certainly sir, but first shall I awaken the Marquis, or Lady Kinture?'
Skinner shook his head. 'No. I don't want anyone alerted at this stage. We have to check on something, that's all.'
For a few seconds, Mr Burton wrestled with the etiquette of the situation, until eventually, he nodded. 'Very well. If you believe there is no need to awaken them. Please follow me.' He led the way up the marble staircase which led to the upper floor, and towards the corridor to the right. He moved silently on black leather slippers until he reached the door of Morton's room.
He knocked softly, then waited. After perhaps twenty seconds, he knocked again, slightly louder. Still there was no answer. He put his hand on the doorknob, and looked up at Skinner for approval. 'Go ahead,' said the policeman, quietly. Mr Burton turned the handle, and, without looking into the room, opened the door and stood aside for the two visitors.
The bedroom was empty. The curtains were pulled shut, and a bedside lamp was switched on.
The bedspread was ruffled slightly as if someone had been sitting on it, beside the telephone, but otherwise the bed was undisturbed.
`Come in, please, Mr Burton,' said Skinner to the butler, who still stood in the corridor. The immaculate little man obeyed, closing the door behind him.
`When did you see Mr Morton last?'
Mr Burton put his hand to his chin and knitted his brows. Àt about two minutes past ten, sir, when he went out.'
`But wasn't he at the Murano dinner in North Berwick with the rest of them?'
`No sir. He informed Lord Kinture earlier in the evening that he had decided not to go.'
`Do you have any idea why?'
`No, sir. I do not believe he gave a reason. However he did have a telephone call, just before seven.'
`Who took the call?'
Ì did, sir. The caller, a gentleman, asked for Mr Morton by name, but would not give his. He said merely that it was a business call. I put the call through to Mr Morton's room.'
`Can you describe the caller's voice?'
`Not really, sir. It was a bad line, unusual in these days. It was a deep voice, but I could not determine the accent with any degree of certainty.'
`British, American?'
Ì could not say even that, sir.'
`Fair enough,' said Skinner. 'When Morton went out, what was he wearing?'
Mr Burton thought for a moment. 'A sports jacket, sir, grey slacks . . .' The butler paused and his mouth curled with distaste, `. . . and golf shoes. I remember hearing their sound as he crossed the hall.'
`He didn't say where he was going?'
`No, sir.'
Did you hear him come back in?'
`No sir, I did not, but I was watching television in my room from that time on until Lord Kinture summoned me, upon the party's return from North Berwick, to say that he could see a fire on the course, and asked me to call the head greenkeeper, and the Brigade.'
Skinner nodded. 'After that, what happened?'
`Nothing, sir. Lord Kinture said that the fire seemed to be isolated. Probably vandals, he thought. He was annoyed, but he refused to allow it to spoil his evening. He said that he intended to set an example to the rest by retiring for the night in spite of it, and he suggested that his guests did the same.
`To my knowledge sir, everyone did.'
Ànd after that, could Mr Morton have come in?'
`No, sir, not without my knowing of it. At that point I locked up for the night.'
ÒK.' Skinner glanced around the room. There was a notepad by the phone on the bedside table, with a faint scrawl on the top sheet. He picked it up looked at it and handed it to Martin. The Superintendent squinted at it through his green-tinted lenses, and read aloud.
'Witches' Hill. Ten-thirty.'
`That tears it, Andy.'
He turned back to the butler. 'Thank you, Mr Burton. We'll go for now, but I'll be back in the morning to see Lord Kinture. In the meantime I'd like you to keep our visit entirely to yourself.'
Mr Burton looked puzzled, but nodded. 'If that is your wish, sir.' He led them from the room, and back downstairs to the front door.
As he held it open for the two policemen to leave, he coughed quietly. 'Sir, if I may. Should Mr Morton, return, do you wish me to call you?'
Skinner grunted, grimly. 'I don't think that'll happen, Mr B. Cinders won't be back from this ball!'
Sixty-four
Alex was on the couch, where she had been when they had left. She was wearing cordless headphones, but the CD readout showed that the disc to which she had been listening had played itself out. Her dark curls had fallen across her face, and she was asleep.
Andy, still self-conscious in Bob's presence, leaned across and kissed her gently on the forehead. Her eyes opened wide and she jerked upright with a look of confusion, as she regained her mental bearings, and as the day's events flooded back.
She took Andy's outstretched hands and he drew her to her feet. Then he took off the headphones, about which she had forgotten, completely. Bob smiled. 'Look, you two, I'm off to bed. I need to catch what sleep I can, and you'll have things to, er, talk about, on your own.'
He reached out and touched his daughter's hair. 'I've missed you, lass. And believe me, now that the shock's worn off, I really am pleased for the two of you.'
She looked back at him and her eyes moistened. 'Thanks, Pops.'
As he turned to leave, she had a sudden recollection. 'Oh, I almost forgot. While you were out, dear old Henry called; Henry Wills. He said he was sorry about the hour, but that he'd just finished his research and he thought you'd like to hear at once. He left a message.' She picked up a notepad, and read from it.
`He said that he rechecked the accounts of the witches' trial. He said that they confirmed that the only crime of which they were accused was of raising the storm off Aberlady. He said too that in 1597, James Carr married Louise Meynel, the daughter of the Count of Bordeaux, and a Catholic. James succeeded to the Earldom of Kinture in January 1598. The storm was in September that year, as King James was sailing back to Leith from Arbroath, and the trial and burning were in October. He said that one of the ships escorting the King was sunk in the storm, and that he was landed in Port Seton and taken by coach to Edinburgh Castle. He said I should tell you that specifically. Edinburgh Castle, not Holyrood Palace.'
Skinner's eyebrows rose. 'Edinburgh Castle indeed. I think I see what he's getting at.' He grinned. 'I think I'm going to enjoy my next visit to Bracklands.
`Night, you two.' He closed the door behind him and left Andy and Alex alone, for the first time in three months. He drew her to him. She was tall and her head rested easily on his shoulder. 'Andy, I'm so sorry,' she whispered.
`Hush.' He stopped her mouth with a long slow kiss, which lingered, on and on. Their bodies moved hungrily against each other chest to chest, groin to groin. When they resurfaced, gasping, he looked into her eyes. 'Have the last three months been anything like as bad for you as they were for me, d'you think?'
Ì don't think. I know they have.'
'And in all that time, have you ever said to yourself, once even, "God, that was a lucky escape!"?'
She smiled and shook her head.
i
Ànd as we stand here now, are you thinking, as I am now, "Oh, how I want this person to be with me, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life"?'
Òh boy, I surely am.'
`Then we've won. We've been tested — not by Bob, but by circumstances, and by ourselves
— and we've survived. We've had our crisis and we've come through it stronger than we've ever been, as individuals and as a couple.'
He laughed softly, and she caught the hoppy scent of beer on his breath. 'Know what I've got back in my flat? A ticket for a crossing on the Channel Tunnel. For next Tuesday, the day after tomorrow. When you left I cancelled my leave. The other day I told Proud Jimmy I was taking three weeks. Come Wednesday, I'd have been heading down the Autoroute, in search of Square bloody Peg. And in search of you.
She beamed at him, and kissed him again, hard and with delight. 'In that case, let's use it.
Let's you and I get in that bufty car of yours and go away, like we were going to do before I made a bottom of myself! Pops'll give us the keys to the villa in L'Escala, and we can spend those three weeks lying in the sun, and walking in the rain, and whatever . . . especially whatever. Deal?'
`Deal. Don't even bother to unpack.'
`You don't have any work that'll suddenly stop you, do you?'
He smiled and shook his head. 'That's the one good thing about that bloody uniform. It lets you plan your life with certainty. I've got a feeling too that by the time we leave, Superintendent Higgins's first big investigation is going to be sorted, one way or another.
With just a wee bit of help from your old man!'
Alex laughed. 'Poor woman! Delegation's my dad's real weak point, isn't it?'
`Come on, he tries! But thank heaven you're right, because this one's beyond even Alison, good copper that she is. I'm standing on the sidelines, but I can see Bob's mind at work. God, I can almost hear it! Over the next twelve hours or so there are going to be one or two explosions, I reckon.'
`Could be one a lot sooner than that,' Alex murmured, pressing herself against him, even harder than before. They kissed again, and emerged gasping once more. This time an awkward silence hung between them, until Andy broke it. `How would you feel about, waiting . . . till we get away?'
`Very, very itchy!' She grinned. 'But I know what you mean. If we set about each other now, we'd wake the dead.'