Skinner’s round bs-4

by Quintin Jardine

  Martin shook his head. 'No, Bob. I'm not. And neither is Alex. And neither are you. But you have had a bang on the head, and you have been up all night. So why don't you cool it and go back to Sarah; get some sleep and do some thinking.'

  Skinner snarled. 'Thinking! If I really start..

  Martin put the flat of his free hand on his chest. 'Look, man. If you were going to take a pop at me you'd have done it by now. But you're too much of a straight arrow polisman for that.

  So do what I say. Head off home and rest up. Unless you want to come in and talk this through over breakfast.

  It's the last chance you'll have for a fortnight, for we're off to Florida in about three hours.

  What's it to be?'

  Skinner stood there for a second, staring at him: then he released his grasp and pushed himself backwards, away from Martin, but without blinking or breaking eye contact. 'Breakfast, Andy? You can stick your bacon rolls up your arse, boy.

  `No, I'll head off and do my thinking. And while you two are off in your holiday paradise, you can do some too, about your career path. For that's what I'll be mulling over.

  `You've betrayed my trust, Detective Superintendent. And if you think you can do that and stay on my team, then… No, no one could be that naive!'

  Two

  Detective Superintendent Alison Higgins looked around the impressive area. 'As plush as any five-star hotel,' she murmured to herself. The hexagonal foyer of the Witches' Hill Golf and Country Club was carpeted throughout in a dark brown wilton, matched by the light flock pattern of the wallpaper. Portraits hung on two of the walls. One depicted a middle-aged man in Highland dress, sitting ramrod straight in a high-backed red leather chair. The face was strong, with a piercing gaze above a prominent, sharp nose, and iron-grey hair which seemed to rise from the temples like wings on a Viking helmet. The other showed an altogether more conventional figure, standing beside a desk. He was dark-haired, and wore a double-breasted business suit. Higgins had difficulty in coming to terms with the fact that this assured, smiling figure was the man she had just seen, waxy-hued and grotesque, in the Jacuzzi tub, newly emptied on Sarah's instruction.

  A tartan-blazered receptionist was seated behind a mahogany counter, near the smoked-glass entrance. The young man wore a slightly stunned expression. Every so often he would glance fearfully across at the three police officers, his eyes lingering on Alison Higgins, blonde and trim in her dark jacket and skirt, with authority in her bearing.

  She was one of the highest-ranking woman police officers in Scotland, in day-to-day charge of criminal investigation in a sector which took in East Edinburgh, and a rural area which stretched through East Lothian and down to the border at Berwick.

  She looked up at the two men. 'Sailing's my sport, lads, not golf, so humour me by explaining exactly what this place is, and what the rich man in the bathtub had to do with it?'

  Martin glanced at his watch. 'No point in asking Neil. He wouldn't know a golf club from a walking stick. Briefly, you are standing in the clubhouse of the newest, swankiest golf course in Scotland; no, scratch that, in Europe. Witches' Hill is a championship-standard eighteen-hole course, built to attract the highest of the high rollers. Golf is an international game now, with huge money involved — dollars, yen, Deutschmarks, you name it — and Scotland is still recognised universally as its ancestral home.

  `The land on which the course is built belongs, like much of the rest of this area, to the Marquis of Kinture. That's him on the wall over there.' He nodded towards the portrait of the man in the chair. 'By the way, the reason he's sitting is because he's wheelchair-bound. A few years back he landed a light aircraft rather harder than he had intended, and broke his back.

  Before his accident the Marquis was a scratch golfer — that means he was very good, Alison.

  Since then he's been involved in golf administration, as a member of the R. and A. Committee.'

  Eh?' said Alison Higgins.

  `The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews, the ruling body of world golf.'

  He paused, glancing at his watch again. 'Anyway, in his wheelchair the Marquis began to take a closer interest in his estates than before. One of the first things he found was that, in common with many other landed interests, his liquidity wasn't what it used to be. To succeed in farming today it takes foresight, good crop selection, and substantial investment, plus a good slice of luck.

  `So he looked at all of his assets and tried to figure out how to make them work harder for him. Eventually, he focused on the triangle of land where we are now. It's never been much use for agriculture apparently. It's all bumps, hollows and ponds. But looking at it on the map one day, inspiration hit him. The biggest of the bumps has a name — Witches' Hill — and one of the ponds has too. It's called the Truth Loch.

  The Marquis knew that in medieval times East Lothian was a notorious centre for witchcraft and the black arts. Not only that but Witches' Hill was right at its heart. In the sixteenth century, it was said that the biggest of the covens met there, a gathering of crones from all around — from Longniddry, North Berwick, Dirleton, all around here — and that they held their ceremonies on its top, casting spells, calling down curses, and sacrificing livestock to the Devil.'

  He paused. Higgins and Mcllhenney were staring keenly at him. Even the young man behind the reception desk was listening. He grinned.

  `The tales were all just rumour and folklore, and no one took them too seriously, until something happened near the village of Longniddry. I can't remember what it was, but suddenly every sudden death, every epileptic fit, every deformed baby was blamed on witches, until the whole county was up in arms. No one knew for sure who these people were, but as usual, there were plenty of fingers to point.

  Eventually the craze found its victims. A woman called Agnes Tod was accused and, so it was said, put to the torture. Names were named; two other local women, her friends. Agnes's confession was enough. The Earl of Kinture, the present Marquis's ancestor, pronounced the three women guilty. They were rounded up… and can you guess what happened?'

  Martin chuckled at his colleagues' rapt expressions. 'Better than bloody Jackanory, this bit, isn't it!

  OK, time's up. The good Christian folk took the three of them off to Witches' Hill. They tied each one to a tree on the top, doused them with grease, and piled kindling around them. Then they were all strangled, and the pyres set alight. It was said that the whole county turned out for the burning of Witches' Hill.'

  McIlhenney snorted. Ah'll bet it did! What about the other place, the Truth Loch?'

  I was coming to that. After Witches' Hill, persecution really took hold. A ducking stool was set up at the Truth Loch. If some old body was accused, they'd bring her along to the loch and tie her into a chair on the end of a long shaft. Then it was lowered into the water, and the suspect was immersed, completely. After a while, they brought her up. If she had drowned, she was innocent. But if she was still alive.. let me guess,' said Alison Higgins. 'They dried her off and burnt her!'

  `Got it in one, Ali. That's why you're an ace detective, and I'm just a humble uniform!'

  `So that's what the Marquis had on his estate.'

  ‘Yup, and with that knowledge came a great idea. He decided to take his useless, lumpy land and to turn it into a brand-new, high-class golf course, with the very best of facilities, with Witches' Hill and the Truth Loch as its highlights. It would cash in on Scotland's position as the home of golf by targeting wealthy players from all around the world.'

  Higgins raised an eyebrow. 'But that's what Gleneagles does. Isn't it a bit of a risk?'

  `Yes, but the Marquis reckons he's got an edge, even over them. His stately pile's just up the road. Bracklands, it's called, and as part of the top package on offer to visitors, they're put up there. Four-posters, servants, deer and pheasants in the grounds, the whole works. The business plan must have been solid enough, for Michael White put up most of the development capital, and one of the top-dog
course architects came in as the third man in the consortium.'

  `How are the bookings going so far?'

  Martin glanced at his watch for a third time. 'I don't know. The next couple of weeks will tell.

  Did you notice the stands behind the clubhouse as you came in, and that big tented area away over on the right?' Superintendent Higgins nodded.

  `Well, you being a non-golfer — which, incidentally, in East Lothian is another word for

  "atheist" — you won't have heard of the invitation tournament that begins here on Thursday.

  It marks the opening of the course. The Murano Million, it's called… backed by the Japanese car company, hence the name. The world's top eight golfers, playing four rounds' medal play for a prize of one million pounds sterling. They go round in a pro-am format, each pro with three invited guests.

  `That's what the stands are for, and the tented exhibition village. The consortium's gamble is that the event will get so much cover worldwide as a result that it'll get Witches' Hill off to a flying start. I doubt if this morning's event will be a help to them, though. A murder inquiry in the middle of a million-pound golf festival.'

  He put a hand on Higgins's shoulder. 'So that's the background to your investigation, Ali. I don't envy you. Now I must go. I'm responsible for policing the event, and I've got a meeting with the PGA Secretary in about thirty seconds.'

  `Thanks a lot, Andy!' She grinned at him. 'But you don't really think this is going to be my investigation, do you? It's right on the ACC's doorstep. Do you think he'll just let me get on with it?'

  Did you call him?'

  D'you mean you didn't? Christ, I knew you two'd had a bust-up, but I didn't think it was that serious.'

  Suddenly Martin glared at her, uncharacteristically, and she was startled. 'ACC Ops is my line commander, not Bob Skinner. And if he's out of touch, then I call the Chief. That's what I did this afternoon.'

  `Don't tell me Sir James is coming down too!'

  He shook his head. 'No. He's doing something useful instead. In fact he's got the worst job of all. He's going to see Michael White's wife. She and Lady Proud are good friends.

  `So you've called ACC Skinner?'

  `Don't be daft, Andy. Of course I did. He's coming down as soon as he can.'

  Martin shrugged his shoulders. 'Good luck to him. I'm off to my meeting. See you later. Let me know if you need any back-up from my people.' With a nod of farewell he turned on his heel and disappeared through a door, marked 'Changing Rooms and Course', at the rear of the foyer.

  Alison Higgins glanced up at her sergeant. 'What's the real story, Neil?'

  `What d'you mean ma'am?' Mcllhenney's gaze was angelic in its innocence.

  `Gaucheness doesn't suit you, man. You know what I mean. The bust-up between Andy and Bob Skinner. I know that the official story is that Andy's move out here is a temporary thing that the Chief decided on, to help prepare him for an ACC post. And I've heard the grapevine version that it's disciplinary, because Andy piled up his car on the way to a crime scene and left the Boss exposed.

  I don't believe either of those. Only Bob Skinner moves people into or out of CID, everyone knows that. As for the accident version, he's walloped people for sloppy work or stupidity — remember those two guys from Gayfield — but never for an honest mistake or an accident.

  And Andy was his protege, too.

  `There's more to it. You were in that car with Andy. What do you know?'

  Mcllhenney looked at her with complete candour, and with none of the irony of which he was an acknowledged master. 'Superintendent, I know that I never doubt the word of my Chief Constable. And I know that caught in the middle of a battle between Bob Skinner and Andy Martin would be absolutely the last place where I'd want to find myself.

  And if you'll take the advice of a humble flatfoot, that's all you'll want to know too.'

  ` You can wind your neck in right now, Bob, unless you want another battle on your hands!

  Yes, I knew about Alex and Andy, and no I didn't say anything to you. I didn't because Alex asked me not to, she wanted to tell you all about it herself Remember that couple who were coming to dinner the other night, before you cancelled it?'

  Skinner nodded, thunderclouds still gathered on his furrowed brow.

  `They were our mystery dinner guests, and that's when Alex was going to tell you.'

  ` Then it's just as well we had to cancel, otherwise there'd have been chicken bloody chasseur all over the walls!'

  Sarah smiled at him. 'No, I was going to do a nice green salad, just in case.'

  For once her humour was lost on him. 'Did Alex ask you what you thought?'

  `No, and why should she?'

  `Suppose she had asked you, what would you have said?'

  I'd have asked her how serious it was, and if she'd said that it was only a fling, I'd have advised her to put a stop to it.' As she spoke she poured two mugs of coffee from the filter machine, and handed one to her husband.

  `When Alex told me they were together I wasn't too surprised. It occurred to me round about the time that Jazz was born that they were getting, not intimate… how do I put it… comfortable with each other in a way they'd never been before. But I didn't pay too much attention. I had other things on my mind just then, and for a while afterwards!'

  Skinner grunted and stared into his mug. 'And I, of course, didn't see a bloody thing. My best mate takes my daughter into his bed, and I, the great detective, I hadn't a clue.'

  `Bob, you have got to get this in proportion! If it works for them, you should be happy!'

  And if it doesn't, I should be understanding. When Andy says "Thanks for the memory," like he always has in the past.. Sarah looked at him sharply.

  He held up his hands, splashing coffee on the kitchen floor. OK, save that one time. But when it breaks up, when Alex finds out it isn't all sunshine, who picks up the pieces for her?'

  `But why should it break up? They've known each other for long enough.'

  `Don't remind me! No. It'll break up for the same reason Andy's other flings broke up; because sooner or later, usually sooner, he lets his women see where they stand in relation to the job. That's his mistress, and as long as she's around he won't have room for a wife.. especially one as demanding as my, sorry, our daughter!' He took a sip from his mug, and Sarah, looking into his eyes, saw for the first time the concern behind his anger.

  `Look, Bob, I know you think that Alex lights up the ground behind her as she walks, but she's a big girl now. She's got big girl rights, and that includes the right to make her own mistakes

  … which I don't think this is.'

  `What about father's rights, Sarah? I'll tell you what they include: the right to be told when something like this happens within the family. That's why I'm steamed up.'

  Did it ever occur to you that Alex might have made Andy promise not to tell you before she could?'

  `Doesn't count. I'm old-fashioned that way. Andy was family, almost as much as Alex. When their relationship changed, even when it began to change, he had a duty to speak to me before things went.. ' he paused… too far. He abused his position.'

  `What, falling for Alex is an abuse?'

  `No. Forming a relationship with my daughter and passing up on every one of the many opportunities he had to tell me about it: that is. You're family, you play by its rules. Andy didn't, so he's put himself outside the wigwam.'

  And Alex?'

  Even now, they'll be packing to catch their holiday flight. Alex has made her choice.'

  Three

  I’m sorry, sir, but the clubhouse is closed.'

  `What's your name, Constable?' The man was tall, around two inches over six feet, wide-shouldered, lean and powerful. His steel-grey hair, which matched the colour of his slacks, seemed, in a strange way, to emphasise his vitality. There was a look of authority in his blue eyes which made the young officer gulp involuntarily as he answered.

  `PC Pye, sir.'

  `Well, mi
ne is Assistant Chief Constable Skinner.'

  The young man sagged so suddenly that his smart new uniform almost seemed to lose its creases. Then, a second later, he snapped to attention, red-faced. 'I'm sorry, sir, I didna' recognise you..

  Out of uniform?' said Skinner, reassuring the boy with a quick smile. There was a strange sadness about it. Something about PC Pye reminded him of another young officer from a few years before. 'That's all right, son. I didn't recognise you either. How long have you been with us?'

  `Since May, sir. I'm stationed at Haddington. I really am sorry, sir.'

  `Don't be. The way I'm dressed, I look more golfer than polis.. and I'm sure there are those who'll say that's always the case. You've reminded me to wear this.' He took his photographic warrant card from his pocket and clipped it to the open pocket of his shirt, above the Gullane Golf Club crest.

  He nodded towards the impressive cream-clad clubhouse building. There were no windows on either side of the wide entrance. Instead the doors were flanked to the left by a huge brass coat of arms, and to the right by the legend, 'Witches' Hill Golf and Country Club', spelled out in tall letters. `Superintendent Martin inside?'

  `No sir, Mr Martin came out a few minutes ago, with another gentleman. They went off down there.' PC Pye pointed vaguely to his right.

  `Probably walking the course,' said Skinner.

  `Sergeant McIlhenney's inside though, sir, and a lady superintendent.'

  `Thanks, Constable. You haven't seen a gentleman in a wheelchair, have you?'

  The Marquis, sir? Yes, sir. He arrived just after Mr Martin left. He told me to say that anyone who wanted him would find him watering his Iron Horse. Those were his exact words, sir,'

  PC Pye added.

  `How did he look?'

  `He seemed really upset, sir. A lady brought him, in a Range Rover with a tail-lift thing, and as she was lowering it down he kept swearing at her.'

  Skinner grunted. 'Sounds about right.' He was aware that the Marquis of Kinture had accepted his paraplegic condition with an ill grace.