Authors: Quintin Jardine
`Just spare a thought for Andy Martin as the catalyst for an explosion between you two.
There he was feeling guilty about saying nothing to you, yet leaned on by Alex to keep his
mouth shut. Now his friendship with you is damaged, and Alex has buggered off and left him.'
Skinner leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the Chief Constable's office window. It
steamed over as he spoke. `You're right, of course. Something came to me the other night. I
once said that Andy was the one man I'd trust with the lives of my family. When I think about
it, that's still true.'
He turned, smiling ironically. 'Best of it is, Jimmy, now that I've had a chance to think about
it, they're probably dead right for each other. The boy Andy's relationships have been short-term because he's never found anyone who's interested him more than the job. It was Florida
that made me realise it. Florida for a fortnight! I don't remember him ever taking a woman
further than Portobello Funfair . . . and even then it was a quick whirl on the Waltzer and
back up the road!
`Chief, what you have explained to me in your usual tactful way is dead right. I've been a
stupid arse! I'll go and see Andy, and sort it out.'
But the Chief shook his head. 'Careful about that, Bob. You don't realise the effect all this has
had on him. He might not be ready to sort anything out yet, and when he is, it might be Alex
he wants to see first, not you.
`Transferring him is the right thing to do in the circumstances. And there are good man-management reasons for it too. It's time Andy stepped out of your shadow. He's a young
Superintendent, on the fast track, and he needs to broaden his experience. So a spell as an
area commander, reporting to Jim Elder, will do him good.'
Six
‘If you thought Morton and Masur were. high-powered, Alison, wait till you take a look at this lot.'
He brandished the list of celebrity pro-am competitors which Arthur Highfield had given him, as promised, a few minutes before.
`Listen to these. Manuel Ortiz, the Spanish Ambassador, Toby Bethune, the Sports Minister, Frankie Holloway, the movie actress, Norton Wales, the singer, Emerich Neumann, a German car-maker, Everard Balliol, an American billionaire, Arnie Harding, an ex-baseball player turned actor . . . and that's only half the list.
`The rest are the great and the good from the European business community, all from big organisations with the potential to make a lot of use of this place. Andy Martin's going to have his work cut out looking after that lot.'
He leaned back in the big chair at the head of the board table and looked around him. 'So what have we got? Alison, you go first.'
'I don't have very much, I'm afraid, sir. I interviewed four of the five who were waiting in the bar, Morton, Masur, Cortes and Wyman. Nakamura's English consists of three words, so Morton said . . . dollars, whisky and jig-a-jig. What's jig-a-jig, sir?'
Across the table, McIlhenney bit his bottom lip. Mario McGuire spluttered and broke into a coughing fit. Skinner threw them a look.
`Don't ask, Superintendent. So what did you find out?'
Higgins glowered at the two Sergeants, then turned back to face Skinner. 'Well, sir. All five of them, plus White, played this morning. They went out in pairs, White and Cortes first, Masur and Wyman second, and finally Morton and Nakamura. They were playing something called Stableford, whatever that is, and they all had caddies with them. Cortes was still in the main shower room when Masur and Wyman came in. That was just before one o'clock. He told them that White had gone to take his usual Jacuzzi, and that he would meet them all in the bar for a pre-lunch drink. They were due to eat at Bracklands at two, and Lady Kinture was to pick them up at one-forty-five.'
She paused. 'There doesn't seem to have been much conversation in the bar, sir. The way they all described it, Masur and Wyman sat at one table, Morton and Nakamura at another, and Cortes practised his putting on the carpet. Eventually, just after one-thirty, Morton said,
"Mickey must have drowned in that bath", and sent Williamson the steward, to find out what was keeping him.'
Ànd that's how Williamson came to find the body, poor wee bugger.' Skinner shook his head slightly, as if in sympathy. `Sarah said she had to give him a sedative. D'you know what sort of a shape he's in now?'
`He's steadied up a bit, sir.'
McGuire leaned across to look up the table at Skinner. Èxcuse me, sir, but is there a chance that Williamson might be our man. I mean he's the steward. He probably set the Jacuzzi room up. Could the shock all be an act?'
The ACC smiled grimly back at him. 'You obviously haven't seen Tommy Williamson. I have. He used to be cocktail barman in the big hotel in North Berwick. He's a skinny wee bloke, about five feet two on his tip-toes, and he must be nearly seventy. He'd have trouble picking up my new son, let alone heaving a dead weight into a bathtub.'
He turned back to Higgins. The Famous Five are still waiting for me in the bar, yes?' She nodded. 'You still haven't told them that White was murdered?'
`No, sir, as you ordered.
`That's good. I want to look in their eyes when they find out.'
`You suspect one of them?' asked McIlhenney .
Òf being involved? We have to. They knew that White would be here this morning. That Jacuzzi was his private fiefdom. It was the one place you'd be sure to find him alone.'
He switched his attention to the two Sergeants. 'What did you get out of the caddy-shed?'
`Nothing, sir,' said Mcllhenney. The professional and his assistants were all together in the shop, pricing stock for sale during the week. The three greenkeepers Webb were working on various parts of the course this morning. They knocked off at half-twelve and met up with the scaffolders and joiners in the caddy-shed. The steel-workers had brought a load of beer in.
They were all out on the piss in Aberlady last night, and they needed a wee pick-me-up, like.
The caddies joined them too, when they came in. They can sniff out drink anywhere.'
`So they were all there when White died?'
'Apart from anyone who went for a slash in the main building, boss.'
Skinner glanced up in surprise. 'What about clubhouse security?'
`Security, boss?' said McGuire. 'Insecurity more like. The place was wide open. The temporary urinals on the course aren't available yet, so the scaffolders and joiners have been allowed to use the clubhouse toilets.'
`So there have been guys coming and going all day along the corridor leading to the course?'
Mario McGuire nodded his head. 'That's right, gaffer. Any bugger dressed like a workman could have walked in there.' `How many men were working today?'
`We didn't count them, but I'd say around a dozen steelworkers, and four joiners. That right, Neil?'
McIlhenney grunted his agreement. Ùhuh. The joiners are all local guys, but the steelworkers are specialists. They work full-time with the contractor, and travel around. Fearsome characters, they are.'
Àre they still there?'
Àye, sir. We left the DCs to finish taking names and statements, and them to finish their beer.'
`Right. You two get back over there, and find out if any of them were away from the caddy-shed, for any reason, between one and one thirty-five. And find out if anyone saw anyone who shouldn't have been there, or anyone they didn't recognise or who looked out of place.
Meantime, Superintendent, you come with me.' He rose abruptly from the table and led Alison Higgins from the room and through to the bar.
Two of the five men rose to their feet as they entered, but not out of courtesy. 'Christ, another one!' said the taller of the two, in a broad Australian accent.
Skinner looked at him, unsmiling. 'You'll be Mr Masur, then?' The man nodded. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Skinner cut him off.
Ì'm sorry to have kept you all waiting, but there's been a lot to do. I'm Bob Skinner, Assistant Chief Constable. I'm here because we are not dealing with sudden death or suicide, but with murder. Just after he left you, Senor Cortes, Michael White was attacked. His throat was cut and he died almost instantly.'
The colour drained from Maser's tanned face. The other man who had stood as the two police officers entered sank back into his chair. He was a few years older than the rest. The ACC
recognised him as Morton from newspaper photographs.
Skinner looked at all five, making eye contact with each, weighing them up. 'You've all spoken to Superintendent Higgins earlier, but there are just one or two things I'd like to ask.'
He glanced towards the swarthy Spaniard. `Senor Cortes, how did Mr White seem as you played. What was his mood?'
Cortes thought for a few seconds. 'He was good. He was very pleasant, very polite. He was very happy with his golf, too. After that finish at the eighteenth, he was . . . how you say . . .
pleased as Paunch.'
`He didn't seem worried about anything?'
Not at all.
`Thanks.' He looked once more around the room. 'How many of you had met Michael White before this morning?'
Only one man raised a hand. 'I had. I'm Mike Morton. My company is running this event, so I've had some dealings with Mickey.'
`How did you get on together?'
`Like a house on fire. Mickey was a most charming man.
He and I hit it off from day one. Christ, this is terrible. Poor guy!'
`Did he say anything to you about a problem that he might have had?'
Morton shook his brown-toupeed head. 'No. Mickey was filthy rich and happy about it. He didn't have any problems.'
Skinner grunted. 'That seems to be the general view. One other thing, gentlemen. Did any of you see anyone today who looked out of place. Mr Morton, can you translate for Nakamura-San; tell him what's happened?'
Morton nodded, then spoke quietly to the Japanese. A bewildered look spread across his broad brown face, then he shook his head vigorously. In turn, Masur and the other two golfers did the same.
`Tiger says "no", Mr Skinner,' said Morton, 'and I guess that goes for the rest of us, as well.
Other than the course staff and the steel riggers, there was no one around here. Tomorrow is set-up day for the exhibitors in the tented village, and for television. It'll be crazy then, but today, peaceful. That's why we played our little Stableford.
`God, and poor Mickey never knew he won the money.'
Morton stared out of the window for a second or two, then turned back to Skinner. 'Say, what will this mean for the Murano Million?'
`Put the gate up, I should think,' said Skinner.
`You're not gonna tell us to cancel?'
Ì don't think that's practical or necessary. It'd cause chaos. We can keep the key area sealed off. No, Mr Morton, you can have your tournament.'
He looked up again. 'Well, gentlemen, I thank you again for your patience. You may all go now, but if anything does occur to any of you, anything at all odd or out of the ordinary, please get in touch.'
He led Alison Higgins back out into the foyer. A well-dressed, slightly-built man in his early thirties stood there alone. He turned as they entered. 'Hi, Alan,' said Skinner. `What have we got outside, then?' Through the smoked glass of the entrance doors he could see a crowd of people. Two of them carried television cameras on their shoulders.
Alan Royston, the force press officer, nodded a greeting. Àfternoon, sir. Afternoon, Alison.
The tip-off industry's done its work. They all arrived, mob-handed, around ten minutes ago. I have a statement ready for them.'
He handed Skinner a sheet of A4 paper. The ACC scanned it and nodded. 'That's fine, Alan.
Tells them what they need to know. You call Edinburgh and have it issued on our press distribution network. I'll see the people outside.'
Royston looked up at him. 'Are you sure, sir? I could do that.'
`That's OK. I'm off to salvage my family Sunday, and I'm sneaking out the back way for no one. I'll deal with them as I leave.'
He turned back to Superintendent Higgins. 'Alison, you get things tidied up here. You can set up your Inquiry HQ here, or in Haddington, wherever you think best. As far as this place is concerned, I want the technicians to go over every inch of that dressing room and the Jacuzzi cubicle, then I want them sealed off and guarded round the clock by a uniformed officer. If our killer has left any trace of himself, that's where it is.'
He stopped short. Suddenly he remembered his own time as a rising CID officer, and his frustration when his ACC would arrive at the scene of one of his investigations. Skinner had christened the man 'Seagull'. 'Why's that?' Andy Martin, then a Detective Constable, had asked him. 'Because he flies in from far away, makes a lot of noise, shits on you, then flies away again.' For the first time in his short career at Chief Officer rank, he saw himself spreading his wings, and realised how difficult it was not to become a seagull.
His smile took Superintendent Higgins by surprise. 'Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to put my big feet all over this investigation, but there's going to be pressure on us to solve this thing and I don't want to expose you unfairly. So I'll keep a personal involvement, and I'll carry the can if we don't get a result. You're the supervising officer, same as usual with a crime in your area, but on this one you report to me at every stage. Right, any thoughts on how we should go ahead?'
Higgins' cheeks were flushed with what Skinner hoped was pleasure. 'Well, sir. It seems to me that the only avenue we've got for the moment is the known antipathy felt by Morton towards White. I thought of asking Brian Mackie to make enquiries in the US about Morton's background, to see if there are any other skeletons in his business dealings.'
`Good idea. You do that; I'll be in the office tomorrow. Look in sometime and give me a progress report. Unless, that is, you get lucky and make an arrest. Mind you on the basis of what we have so far, that'll take a lot of luck.