Authors: Quintin Jardine
He nodded a brief acknowledgement. 'What are you two doing? Crowd control? You should know better, Sergeant Boyd. That lad shouldn't be on his own out there, however keen and smart he is. Get outside and keep him company. And you, Constable Roe, you take yourself off to the end of the driveway, and stop every car turning in off the road. Tell the press as they turn up to report to Sergeant Boyd.
'Sage, until Royston or someone from his office arrives to take charge of them, you make sure that any camera people that arrive are kept together in the car park. I don't want them running all over the place taking snaps of the Marquis, or any of the players that are here.
Now, where is everyone?'
`Miss Higgins and Neil McIlhenney are through in the changing area, sir,' said Sergeant Boyd. 'The Marquis, two of his guests and some players are together in the big bar. The caddies, green-keepers and the men working on the stands are all in the caddy shed. There's a uniformed officer with each group.
`My gaffer's gone out to walk the course with the man from the PGA. He left me in charge.'
Ìs that so? Well next time he leaves you in charge of anything, don't let him down. Make sure you're out front where you can be effective, not hidden in a quiet corner talking about yesterday's football. Get on with it, both of you.'
He jerked a thumb towards the main entrance and strode off towards the changing area.
The dressing room door was open. Alison Higgins was seated on a bench, and stood up as he entered. Mcllhenney, his back to the door, identified the newcomer from the Superintendent's expression, and turned with a smile.
`Jesus Christ,' barked Skinner. 'Is everyone here just standing around?'
Higgins was flustered, momentarily. 'I didn't want to begin till you got here, sir. The Marquis looks like the type who needs careful handling, and some of the others gathered in the bar seem pretty high-powered too.'
He looked back at her. 'When will you get it through your head, lady, that you're high-powered too? You're a Superintendent of Police, and in the new structure that's one grade below me.
`That said, all I can see here are chiefs and warrant officers. Where are the CID foot-soldiers?'
Òn their way, boss,' said Mcllhenney. `Mario's on his way out, and Alan Royston's bringing three Detective Constables with him. We'll have a right few statements to take.
`Has anyone been told what's happened?'
`Williamson, the steward, found the body. He ran into the manager's office, blurted it out, then collapsed in a faint. Mr Bryan, the manager, used to be one of us. He verified Williamson's story, then he phoned us. But other than that, he's kept the detail to himself.
`He told the people waiting in the bar that Mr White had been taken ill. When we got here, Mr Martin told them that he had died, but that's all they know.'
`How about the Marquis?'
`Mr Martin told him the same when he called him.'
`We'd better not keep them waiting much longer then.'
He glanced at the door of the Jacuzzi cubicle. 'I saw an ambulance outside. That means the body's still here?'
Higgins nodded. 'Yes sir. We thought you'd want to see it.'
Skinner shook his head. 'Thanks, but no thanks. I've seen enough stiffs to last me a lifetime, and I knew this one. Sarah described the scene, and I'll see the pictures. So if the photographer and the scientists are finished, you can take him off to the morgue.'
He looked across at Mcllhenney. 'See to it, Neil, will you. Then tell everyone in the bar that we're nearly ready to speak to them: We'll need at least two separate rooms for interviews, so set that up with the club manager. Once that's done, let us know. We'll be outside.' He paused, then an afterthought struck him. 'Oh yes, ask Sergeant Boyd to contact Mr Martin on the radio and tell him that I want to see the PGA man when he's finished with him.'
`Sir.' The bulky Sergeant moved towards the door.
Skinner motioned to Higgins, and followed him out of the room, but instead of returning to the foyer, he turned to the left and followed the corridor until he came to another door, he opened it and stepped out into the open air.
The afternoon was sunny and warm, but the Witches' Hill golf course was still scented by the last mowing of its greens and fairways, dampened by overnight rain. They were facing the wide first tee, and beyond it, a beautifully manicured green, which sloped away to the right.
From the rough on the far side of the first fairway, a conical hill rose sharply. Its flanks were wooded but the summit was clear, giving it a strange, tonsured look. Skinner pointed towards it. 'That's it, Ali,' he said. 'Witches' Hill; it gave the Marquis his idea and the course its name.
The local legend has it that the witches were burned at the bit on the top, and that nothing's grown there since. If you go up there, on top you'll find the vestiges of some tree-stumps and bugger-all else.'
`Had you heard of it before it was made into a golf course, sir?'
Skinner nodded, a soft smile flicking the corners of his mouth. 'Yes, years ago. Myra, my first wife, was a teacher. When we moved here she researched the local history for her class work, and she came upon the story of Aggie Tod, Witches' Hill and the Truth Loch.
Ì'd forgotten all about it until the Marquis announced his project.' He looked down at Higgins. 'It's not an everyday topic out here, you see. The tourist people are happy to sell this county on the back of its golf, beaches and sailing, but they keep quiet about the bloodshed and persecution for which it was famous before that.
Òn the whole the locals take a dim view of the Marquis's venture. And the golfers tend to look down their noses at his course. It's parkland, y'see, not links, so they look on it as a bit of an Ugly Duckling. But I've played it, and I can tell them, it's a swan all right; I found it a really good course, very mature and ready for play.'
The Superintendent looked up in surprise. 'I thought it wasn't open yet?'
Ìt isn't, officially, but the Murano people have played here, and Michael White took a few of us out one Sunday last month.'
`So you knew White, sir.'
`Sure. Not that well, not as well as the Chief, but we knocked into each other every so often.
He was a member of the New Club, and a real man about town.'
`How did you find him? What sort of a man was he?' Skinner smiled. 'Are you interviewing me, Superintendent?' Higgins flushed.
`That's OK. You should be. I knew the man, I have insight. Michael White was a very successful man. He made his money in the retail trade, with a chain of mid-price, good quality clothing stores, for Cl, C2, customers and he got it exactly right. Sold out around ten years ago, in his early forties, for a right few million quid. He invested successfully in sure-thing property developments until the slump started, but he's done nothing much since then . .
. other than play golf.
`When the Marquis came up with his project, he didn't have the cash to fund it himself, so he gave Michael first refusal. Golf was his great passion, so, probably for the only time in his life, he took a business decision on emotional grounds and said "yes".
Às a man, Michael White was friendly, generous, ethical, honest, in love with his wife, and well-respected; and no, I cannot think of a single reason why anyone would want to lie in wait for him and cut his throat. Any other questions, officer?'
Higgins hesitated. 'Couldn't theft have been the motive, sir?'
`Sarah says that's unlikely, the way it was done, and I'm with her. The watch and wallet were nicked as a red herring. Christ, his golf clubs were worth more, and they'd have been a hell of a lot easier to steal!'
He shook his head. 'No, Alison. Michael White was assassinated, executed, killed out of malice; choose your description, but it was premeditated murder.'
He slapped his hands together. 'Now, do we know who we've got in the bar?'
`Yes sir, Mr Bryan, the manager, gave me a list.' She produced two pieces of A4 paper from the right-hand pocket of her jacket, unfolded them, and scanned them quickly. She held one up for Skinner's inspection.
Six of them, including the Marquis. According to this the other five are all his guests.' She read quickly from the list.
`Bill Masur, Chief Executive Officer, Greenfields Management, Mike Morton, President, Sports Stars Corporation, Andres Cortes, Tiger . . . that's what it says here . . . Nakamura, Paul Wyman, and the Marquis himself. Mr Highfield from the PGA is here too, but Andy Martin took him off to discuss policing for the tournament.'
`He's assuming it's still on,' Skinner muttered. Alison Higgins looked at him in sudden surprise. 'Well . .' he said and shrugged his shoulders. 'We may have to consider that. But let's cross that bridge later.
`That's quite a list. SSC is the biggest sports and entertainment management company in the world. It's American based, but it goes everywhere. Until fairly recently it had no challengers, but Greenfields has been making big strides in the last few years. Masur's an Aussie, and typically aggressive, by reputation.
`The other three are all golfers. Cortes is Spanish. He's the leading money-winner in Europe, just as Tiger Nakamura is on the Far East circuit. Paul Wyman's a Yank. He's been their top money-winner for the last two years. They'll all be playing this week.
`Did Bryan give you a list of staff present?' Higgins nodded, and waved her second piece of paper.
`Yes, sir. Three of them in the clubhouse. Joe Bryan himself, Tommy Williamson, the steward, and Laurence Bennett, bookings and reception. There's a fourth member of the permanent staff, Iris McKenna. Mr Bryan described her as his assistant. She does the book-keeping. She's off today.
`The other full-time staff here are Jimmy Robertson, the club professional, Archie McCubbin, the caddy-master, and three greenkeepers, all named Webb. Brothers, presumably.'
Skinner grinned. 'Not necessarily, half the greenkeepers around here are Webbs. I take it that they're all over in the caddy-shed, with the scaffolders and the caddies.'
Higgins nodded.
Ìn that case,' he said, 'let's hope there's no booze over there, or we'll have to wait a while to get sense out of some of them.'
`Sir!' Mcllhenney's voice sounded from behind them. Èveryone's here now, including this one.' Skinner and Higgins turned. The Sergeant was standing just outside the doorway.
Beside him was another man, as powerfully built as Mcllhenney, but narrower in the waist.
His black hair and fine features lent him a slightly Latin appearance, which was accentuated by his pearly smile.
`That's it,' said Skinner. 'I know we've got trouble now. McGuire's here.'
Detective Sergeant Mario McGuire's grin widened still more. 'I can't speak for you, sir, but I know Miss Higgins and I are in the shit all right. DI Rose and I had an appointment with my parish priest this afternoon. Now she's having to go on her own. You can imagine how pleased she is.'
Skinner laughed. Detective Inspector Maggie Rose, McGuire's fiancee, was his personal assistant. She was a redhead, with a temper to match. Their wedding was thirteen days away.
`Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll write you a note. Good to see you anyway, Mario. Neil's briefed you, I take it.'
McGuire nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
`Right, let's get to work. You three take one of the DCs each, to take notes and write up witness statements. I want individual interviews to establish the exact location of everyone here at the time Michael White went into his dressing room. Most of all I want to know whether anyone else was seen going in there. At this stage, I don't want any mention of murder. All that you say is that Michael White has been found dead. The natural assumptions are heart attack or suicide. Let's see whether anyone assumes otherwise.
`Mario and Neil, you two get across to the caddy-shed and interview everyone there. Alison, you and I will give the common folk in the bar the kid glove treatment . . . I'll start with the Marquis.
`Right, let's get this investigation on course.'
Àll I'm saying, Alex, is that maybe Bob has a point.'
`What! About us, you mean?'
`No ... well, yes . . . well, no, not in that way. He can't expect to pick your partner for you, but
he's got a right to disapprove, if that's the way he feels. I'd hoped that he would be
happy about you and me, and I'm disappointed by the way he acted, but you know how he
thinks somet . . .'
`Just hold on a minute. If we're talking about rights, I've got a right to expect his support,
come what may. Yes, and I've had it in the past, even when he guessed I was way in the
wrong. Yet now, when any reasonable person should see this as something that we've both
taken a long time to come to, and should be happy for us, he throws a hundred-megaton
wobbly.
Ànd you can stand there and take his side! He's supposed to be your friend. D'you know
what he said about you?'
`Yes, I was coming up the stairs then. It hurt but it's the truth, and you know it. Since I've
been on the force I've had upwards of a dozen girlfriends, none of them long-term. He's seen
that. Christ, he used to get their names mixed up! Isn't he entitled to be worried about that, as
your father?'
`No, he bloody well isn't!' She hissed the words. 'I suppose he was right about this dressing-gown too.'
Ì suppose he was!' he barked back. 'But what the hell's that got to do with it?' It was as close
as she had ever seen him come to losing his temper.
She glared at him, then, slowly and deliberately, untied the sash, peeled off the blue robe and
threw it at him, across the bedroom. He caught it in mid-air, and there was a sudden,
pleading look in his eyes. 'Look, honey, I'm sorry. I just reckon he's got a point about being
kept in the dark, that's all.'
She stood naked before him, and he could see the tension gripping her body. 'Rubbish!' Her
stomach muscles bunched as she shouted at him. 'How many times did we by to get to see
him? God knows! But he never could make the time for us, tearing around everywhere
chasing all those bad people!'