`Your scenario is correct, Superintendent, but only up to a point. I did think about going out and catching the sonofabitch in the dark. But eventually I gave up the idea. I was steamed, though, so I decided to take a walk in the gardens to cool off. I'd been humiliated at that dinner, and I didn't want to see anyone else last night, so I went out down the back stairs.
`That's where my clothes got damp, in the garden, and that's where I must have picked up the mud, although I didn't realise till now that it was there. One of the gardeners must have left a sprinkler on. I didn't see it, so I walked right into it. I just stood there, laughing like a dummy, and thinking, "What the hell else can go wrong tonight?" Then I found out. The moon went behind a cloud. All of a sudden it was black as the Devil's waistcoat, and I walked right into a flower-bed. That was enough. I gave up, came back into the house, and went to bed.'
He looked up at the two policemen. 'And that is the truth. Happy as I am that that asshole Masur is dead, I swear to God I did not kill him.' Skinner stared at him hard, until the man dropped his gaze.
I'll need a formal statement to that effect, Mr Morton. You're a lawyer, you can draft it yourself and sign it. However, I have to take these clothes, and your shoes, for forensic examination. I'm not going to detain you, for the moment at least, but I should warn you that you'll be under constant police scrutiny, at least until we get the results of the lab tests.
Understand?'
Morton nodded, his face no longer florid, but pale. Skinner picked up the blazer and slacks on their hanger, and Martin took the shoes, carefully.
They made to leave, until Skinner turned in the doorway. `By the way Morton, where's Rocco Andrade?'
The American looked up with a start, and shook, visibly. `Richard! You mean Richard Andrews. He ain't been Rocco since we were kids.
I don't know where Richard is. He told me he was checking out from the tournament early last week, 'cause he had personal business to attend to. I don't know. where he is or what he's doin'.'
Skinner stared at him. 'Come on! He's your right-hand man. You're kidding us!'
Morton shook his head, solemnly. 'No sir, I ain't. No one ever asks Richard where he's going, or what he's doing. No one at all!'
Thirty-seven
‘I know you said I wasn't to, but I've been worrying ever since you called me, Miss Rose. If you've come a' the way to Germany to see me, it must be serious. It's got nothing to do with poor Davie, has it?'
The Inspector smiled and shook her head. 'No, not at all. Sergeant Soutar's fine. I saw him the day before yesterday in fact.'
Lisa Davies, nee Soutar, was as far removed as it was possible to be from the adult that Maggie Rose had imagined. On the flight to Hanover, and on the drive to her overnight hotel, she had formed a mind picture of a fey, folksy lady, bejewelled, in long skirts and open-toed sandals, holding court amid the scent of joss-sticks. The reality was a small, nervous person, with dull sunken eyes, and streaks of grey in her hair which made her look well past her thirtieth birthday, even though she was still a year or so short of that milestone. Her child, who squatted in the middle of the floor playing with a doll, was scrubbed shiny and neatly dressed, but the mother, still in slippers and housecoat at 9.45 a.m., had the air of a woman who long since, had given up caring about herself. As Maggie looked at her, and around the severe, soulless living room, she recalled Davie Soutar's vehement dislike of his brother-in-law and wondered about life with Corporal Davies.
`Sit down, please,' said Lisa. 'I'll make us a cup. D'you take sugar?' Rose shook her head as she sat on the mock-leather couch; her hostess disappeared into the kitchen, directly off the living room, to return a few minutes later carrying a tray, with two steaming white mugs and a plate of cream biscuits. She handed the policewoman a mug, and sat down opposite her.
`So what's it about, then?' she said, trying to be matter-of-fact.
Maggie smiled again. 'You might say it's a voice from the past. I'd like you to listen to this.'
She produced the tape cassette from her handbag, and reached across the back of the couch to an expensive music centre, positioned in the centre of a cheap sideboard. She dropped the tape into one of its two drives and pressed the play button.
As Lisa Davies listened to the recording from her childhood, an incredible thing happened.
She became Lisa Soutar once more A smile of wonder grew on her lips, her dull eyes brightened, and colour came to her pale face. 'Oh my God,' she whispered, as it ended.
Suddenly tears welled up and spilled down her face.
‘D'ye ken, I'd almost forgotten. But not quite, not quite. Oh aye, I remember telling that story in the class, and I remember poor Mrs Skinner. She was a smashin' teacher, and she was married to a great-lookin' young fella. I remember once he came to the school, wi' their wee girl, to collect her. Ma pal and I were just going out the gate. Mrs Skinner waved tae us and he smiled. We just stood there and stared at him!' She laughed, suddenly, a strange wistful sound like small bells tinkling. 'My first love, he was. I used to wonder what happened to him, after she was killed.'
`He survived. He's my boss now. Their wee girl, she's twenty-one.'
Lisa wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. 'My, but that tape gave me a turn. Can I keep it?'
`Course you can. It's a copy. The boss would want me to leave it with you.'
She smiled once more. 'See the trouble I got into over that!' `What d'you mean?'
`Well I got back from school that day, and I told my nana all about the history project, and how I had told our story. My God, but she went mental. I never saw her like that before. My dad always said she was a witch, and right then I thought she was goin' to turn me into a fly and squash me!
`She said that the story of the curse was ours, the Soutars' alone, and shouldn't be told to strangers, only to family, or to the Queen if she came to ask about it.'
`She said that? What did she mean, d'you think?'
`That's part of the story, but I don't know what it means. The only people allowed to hear the curse are the sovereign and Lord Kinture. I didn't think she meant it when she told me that at first. I was just ten, and I thought, "What's the point of a story if you canna tell it to everyone?" But she meant it all right. She hit me wi' her stick to prove it! That story's ours and ours alone.'
`Did Mrs Skinner ever tell you why it didn't appear in the book?'
`No, she never did. But I remember ma nana saying she'd have to speak to the Marquis about it. The whole Jubilee Project was his idea. He paid for the books to be printed.'
Rose delved into her handbag once again, and produced a folded A4 photocopy of the Scotsman story. 'Lisa,' she asked, `have you heard of a new golf course being built just outside Aberlady? It's called Witches' Hill.'
Aye, they were talking about it at Easter-time, when we were home last. When I heard the name it gave me a turn.'
OK. Well, on Sunday one of the developers of the course was murdered, in his bath, in the changing room. His throat was cut. Next day, this was handed in to the Scotsman newspaper, addressed to the editor.' She handed over the cutting.
The woman-child read it in silence, and her face grew grim. 'That's awful. Who'd have written that?'
`That's what I was hoping you could tell me,' said Rose. Did anyone else in your family know the story?'
`No, no one at all. That's not the way it works.'
Did you ever tell it to anyone else, a school pal for example?'
After the row ma nana gave me ah never even spoke it out loud, in case someone would hear me.'
`What did you mean when you said "That's not the way it works"?'
Lisa sat forward on her chair and pulled her knees up to her chin. Ah don't know if I should tell you even that.'
Rose looked at her earnestly. 'Lisa, it's important. I promise you that no one will ever know more than they need.'
Eventually the woman loosened her grip of her knees. She nodded. 'All right. I trust you.' She sat back in h
er chair and took a deep breath. 'Remember I said that it was our family's story?'
Maggie nodded.
`Well it was even closer than that. Even within the family, very few of us knew about the curse. It was passed on through the women, but only through those women who were blood kin, There were no females in the blood line between ma nana and me. She passed the tale on to me when I was nine. She said I was far too young, really, but that she was so old that she couldna' take the chance of waiting any longer. So she told me the curse and the story of it, and made me swear to tell my daughter in turn, or my granddaughter, or if it came to it, my great-granddaughter, like she was doing.' She nodded towards the child on the floor. tell wee Cherry there, in good time, when she's old enough. She'll think I'm daft, no doubt, clinging on to a four-hundred-year-old family tradition, but apart from her, it's all I've got.’
‘Do you understand that?' There was a sad, plaintive tone in her voice. 'The story of the curse is the only thing I've ever had that makes me feel I'm worth anything. Now I see a bit of it in a paper, it's like a part of me's been cut off and put on public show.'
`Maybe it's the best thing that could happen,' said Rose, 'if it makes you value yourself again.
You're worth a hell of a lot more than the story, you know.'
`You should tell that to my fine husband. Useful for cooking and the other, he says to me, but not very good at either.'
The Inspector looked at her sadly, appalled that a man could voice such a thought. She forced herself back to business.
`Through all this time, Lisa, was the story handed down simply by word of mouth?'
'Aye.'
And it's not written down anywhere.'
The woman hesitated, as if weighing a heavy question in her mind. Suddenly she jumped to her feet. 'Hold on.' She rushed from the room. Rose heard her footsteps on the stair, case, then a noise, as if something heavy was being dragged across the floor above. A few seconds later she descended the stairs, slowly and steadily, and reappeared in the living room, carrying a massive black-bound book. She placed it carefully on the laminated table.
`This is where it began,' she said softly, 'and this is where the line is kept.'
Maggie looked at the book's leather binding. It bore no title. It's the old family Bible,' said Lisa Soutar. 'It's earlier than the King James version, so it must be very rare. God himself alone knows where it came from. My nana gave it to me, with the curse. Her grandmother gave it to her, and so on and so on. Look here.'
Gently, she opened the book, holding the cover carefully, lest she break the spine. Maggie leaned past her. She gasped in amazement, her mouth dropping open, as she saw, written in the fly-leaf, thin and spidery but still legible, the story of Aggie Tod's curse, virtually word for word as Lisa had recited it on the tape. There was a scrawled signature at its end.
She peered at it and read aloud. "Matilda Tod, sister. A witness in the year of Our Lord 1598." Good God!'
Lisa smiled. Now look at this.' She set the book on its face and opened the back cover. There on the back leaf, in many hands, some thin, some strong, some clear, some barely legible, and in many shades of ink, a family tree grew.
`See how it goes. Here am I, Lisa Soutar, born 1967.' Her finger traced down the page. 'Go back and here's Rosemary Baird… that was my nana's maiden name… born 1883, the last in the female line before me. Back again, and there's her grandmother, Lorna Grieve, born 1815. Her mother, Mary Brown, born 1787, and hers, Anne Ross, born 1760. Then back two more generations to Mary Aitken, born 1689. We're getting close to the beginning now.
Mary's grandmother, Frances Tullis was born in 1623. Her mother, there,' she pointed to the foot of the tree, 'was Elizabeth Carr. It doesn't say when she was born, but she was given the tale, and the Bible, by Matilda Tod. That's where the tale began, and where it came into my family's keeping.
`You'll see from that that our menfolk havena' been very good at siring women, but that those they have produced have tended to live for a long time… long enough for the female line to have passed on the tale, and its beginnings, through almost four hundred years.
She closed the book. 'All these women were the Tellers of the Tale. We've kept it, secret but still alive, and guarded the Bible where it's written down, for all that time. Ever since Matilda Tod, Aggie's sister, wrote down the curse in 1598.'
Rose, normally phlegmatic and practical, was awestruck. `Lisa,' she whispered. 'Do you have any idea of the value of all this? The historical value of the story, and the potential worth of that Bible?'
The woman smiled, grimly. 'Aye, of course I have. But it's worth more to me to keep the secret. My nana thrashed that into me. There are bits of the story that aren't written down; the bit about revealing the curse only to a Kinture or to the King or Queen, and most of all, the bit about what Aggie Tod's Master will do to any Teller who betrays the tale.
After that article in the paper, I feel like putting an advert saying "To whom it may concern: honest, it wisnae me!" in tomorrow's Scotsman!'
`Do you know who Elizabeth Carr was?'
Only that she was my blood relative, and the second witness, the second bearer of the tale.
I'm the ninth. But I don't know why Matilda Tod chose her, and us, to keep the curse, and the secret.'
She paused. 'Come into the kitchen, and I'll make us some more tea.' Maggie followed her into a small room which was as poorly furnished as the other. Lisa refilled the stainless steel kettle and switched it on. 'How does all that help you, Miss Rose?'
`Call me Maggie, please. To be honest, I haven't a clue. We've got a body, and we've got an anonymous letter which claims that Aggie Tod's curse is being fulfilled. There was a hint of the existence of the curse over a hundred years ago, but it's been forgotten by everyone bar a few historians. So, given what you've told me and since you didn't do it yourself, I'm all the more anxious to know who wrote that Scotsman letter.
The idea of a connection may be far-fetched. But then so is the idea that a story can be kept alive in secret by the women of a single family for four hundred years. It gets more confusing by the minute, but more fascinating too.
`Lisa, is it all right if I copy out that family tree, and take some photos of it and the Bible?
We'll keep the secret for as long as we can, but I'd like to do some research into the origins of the story, and there's a man who can help me. I know that he'll be as amazed as me at the idea of the Devil riding out on a golf course in East Lothian.'
Thirty-eight
‘Miss Higgins, why didn't you cancel the tournament because of this incident?'
The questioner held a microphone across the table in the mobile police office, which had been parked on the edge of the tented village. The limited space was packed tight with journalists and cameramen. Alison Higgins sat, flanked by Andy Martin and Alan Royston, at a narrow table against the wall closest to the single entrance door.
I'll answer that, if I may,' said Martin. 'That decision was taken only after all the circumstances had been considered. The body was removed by eight o'clock, and the scientific team were finished their work by nine-thirty, so our work here is complete for the minute. The only practical reason for cancellation would have been public safety, and we're satisfied that there's no general risk. Postponement of the start for twenty-four hours was an option, but it was decided that since thousands of people would be on their way here already, it would be fairer all round to let play begin as soon as possible.'
`Who took the decision?' asked the journalist with the microphone.
I'm the area commander here,' said Martin, brusquely. John Hunter laughed, hoarsely. 'We know, that, Andy. I think the boy here's just a wee bit shy of asking if Big Bob didn't relish missing a day's golf!'
I'll treat that as a joke, you old scoundrel. The ACC's on leave this week, and for those of you who don't know, he's playing in the pro-am in Mr Michael White's place, at the request of Michael White's widow. As for what Mr Skinner did or did no
t fancy, I didn't fancy turning five thousand motorists away from the gate.
I believe that the PGA intend to stop play at one o'clock, when everyone's out on the course, for two minutes' silence, in memory of Mr White, and now of Mr Masur.'
`Have you established a link between the two deaths, Superintendent?' asked a young Sunday newspaper reporter, in a light Irish brogue.
`That's one for Miss Higgins,' said Martin.
Alison Higgins leaned forward with a brief nod of thanks. The answer is no. We are pursuing specific lines of enquiry in each case, but as yet they don't converge.'
Are you considering a connection with the kidnapping of Oliver M'tebe's father?'
`That's a separate investigation, being carried out by the South African police. So far they haven't established any connection with events here. And I can tell you that there has been no contact made by the kidnappers with Oliver or his management.'
`What about the letter to the Scotsman? Given the letter's allusion to witchcraft are you looking into the possibility that there might be a coven active today in East Lothian?' asked Julian Finney, of Scottish Television, a little bulldog of a man.
The Superintendent paused for a moment, considering her reply. When she did speak, she looked straight into the television cameras. 'Frankly we're following up every line of enquiry, however bizarre it might seem.'
`Your statement says that Mr Masur's body was found in the Truth Loch early this morning,'
Finney went on. 'Can you give us any more detail than that?'
'No.'
`Nothing on his injuries? May we take it that drowning was the cause of death?'
`That will be determined by the post-mortem, and will be part of our report to the Procurator Fiscal.'
`Were any extra security measures put in place following Mr White's murder?'
`There's been a police presence here throughout the day since Sunday, and private security in the exhibition area at night.'
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