Skinner’s round bs-4

by Quintin Jardine

  Shaking hands with the Tiger, he nodded to the man. `Hello, Mr Balliol. I'm Bob Skinner.

  Good luck today!'

  The man looked back at him, unsmiling, with a stare of such intensity that it was startling. I know who you are,' he said quietly. `Life has nothing to do with luck, mister. It's about doing it right, or doing it wrong.'

  Skinner recovered his composure in a second. In that case,' he replied, evenly, 'I hope you do fewer things wrong than you did yesterday. Me, I'll just ride my luck, as usual.' With a final wave to the Tiger, and a brief farewell to Maggie Rose he turned and walked away, his assistant's tweed jacket slung over his shoulder.

  He made his way around the front of the clubhouse, and round to the mobile police headquarters. As he expected Alison Higgins was there before him. She was seated at the table reading a sheaf of papers. Martin, as uncomfortable as ever in uniform, and Neil Mcllhenney stood at the other end of the big van, nursing mugs of coffee.

  Skinner nodded to them and took a seat across the table from Higgins. `Mornin', Ali. What have you got there?'

  She glanced up, surprised, from her reading, noticing him for the first time. 'Oh, sorry sir. I didn't hear you come in.' She waved the papers which she had been reading. 'This just arrived. It's the lab report on Morton's clothing.'

  She passed it across the table. Skinner took it from her and read it through, line by line, his expression darkening by the minute.

  When he had finished he looked up and across at Higgins once more. 'Sod it! This means that I'm going to have to make a call I didn't want to make. I could delegate it to you, but I don't think that would be fair.' He took out his diary and checked a number, then picked up the telephone on the table and dialled a number, beginning '0181'.

  `Yes?' The voice on the other end of the line was deep and brusque.

  `Mr Salter? It's ACC Skinner here. I've just seen our lab report on the samples which were taken from your client's shoes and clothing.'

  And?' said Salter, aggressively.

  `Well, it runs to several pages, but I won't bore you with it all. It confirms that the mud on Morton's shoes was impregnated with fertiliser. We took mud samples from the gardens at Bracklands and from the scene of Masur's murder. Both were laced with fertiliser, but they were completely different types. The mud on Morton's shoes came from the gardens. The grass from the hem of his trousers showed traces of the same compound. That would seem to confirm his story of going for a walk outside. There is nothing on his clothing that puts him at the murder scene.'

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. `Skinner, I told you yesterday that I took the greatest exception to your conduct. Now, on behalf of my client, I demand a written apology, not from you but from your Chief Constable.'

  Martin, watching from across the room, saw the ACC's shoulders stiffen. Mcllhenney followed his gaze. A silence fell across the room.

  Skinner's tone was even and icy. 'Salter,' he said, 'I told you yesterday that you were pushing your luck. Now get this. Neither my Chief Constable nor I apologise to suspects, and that's what your client remains, whatever that lab report says. His right-hand man, Richard Andrews, was unaccounted for at the time of each of the two murders, and he still is. Until we can eliminate him as a suspect, then your client — who I remind you, has been crossed in business by both victims — is still very much in our thoughts, and under our observation.

  `You can tell him that when you speak to him. Morton denies involvement in either murder.

  He insists, too, that he doesn't have a clue where cousin Richard is. The best advice you can give him is to find out… damn quick! Good morning.'

  He replaced the phone and glanced up at Higgins. 'Thank Christ we don't have to deal with that character every day of the week. Our criminal lawyers may be a pain in the bum at times, but at least they remember their manners.'

  He looked across at Martin. 'Andy, boy. How did your witch hunt get on last night?'

  A slow smile spread across the younger man's face. 'I've been bursting for you to ask. We caught some. Videoed them too, with an infra-red camera.'

  Skinner was taken aback. 'What the hell…'

  It was kids right enough, four boys and seven girls. We were well hidden and they never saw us. They lit a fire, then they all stripped off and started dancing round it, chanting mumbo jumbo.

  ‘But then an older couple arrived, man and a woman. They burst into the circle, wearing masks… and that was all. They did some more dancing, then the woman picked out one of the boys, and the man one of the girls. We put a stop to it at that point, before any naughties happened. Just as well; the girl who'd been picked turned out to be only fifteen.'

  `Bloody hell!' said Skinner. 'Who were the couple?'

  A pair of nutters named Golspie, from just outside Dunbar. He's a teacher. Some of the kids are his pupils. He filled their minds full of nonsense about communing with the Devil. Sure enough, some of the gullible ones took it seriously and started scuddy dancing round the fire in the quarry. Then Golspie and his equally kinky missus included themselves in, and the thing turned into a weekly orgy.'

  `How long has this been going on?'

  All through the summer.'

  Is it an isolated group? There aren't cells anywhere else, are there?'

  `Not in East Lothian, but the two of them moved up here from Derbyshire. The guy confessed that they had a similar operation there.'

  Evil bastards. What are you going to charge them with?'

  Martin shrugged his shoulders. 'I'm going to leave that to the Fiscal. They haven't admitted to having sex with the kids on other occasions, and we stopped them short of that last night.

  Chances are, all we can get them for is indecent exposure. But if we charge them with that, the local Fiscal might feel the need to prosecute the youngsters as well.'

  Skinner shook his head. 'No. I'll talk to his boss if that happens. You charge that pair with everything you can think of. Flashing, wearing false-faces out of season, the lot. We can convict on that with your evidence alone, and keep the youngsters out of it. If the whole story comes out Haddington will be crawling with tabloid reporters, and we don't want that.'

  I'll have to tell the parents though.’

  `Sure, and send a report to the Education Department at once. If the mums and dads can be sure that the man's taught his last class, I doubt if any of them will cause a public row.'

  The ACC paused. 'Did you question the Golspies about the Scotsman letter?'

  Of course. They denied any knowledge, and I don't think they were lying. They're not interested in witchcraft, just nooky.'

  Skinner smiled and stood up from the table. 'Quite a night you've had, Andy. Make sure that you keep the video locked up tight. I don't want any copies turning up in CID offices.'

  He looked across to McIlhenney. 'I'll be on the practice ground at twelve, caddy. Until then, well it's Saturday, so I'm off to do some shopping.'

  Fifty-five

  The exhibition tent was smaller than Skinner recalled from his last visit to an Open Championship, but nonetheless, an impressive number of clothing and equipment manufacturers and dealers had been gathered together by the SSC team who had organised the event.

  The policeman wandered from stand to stand, testing the balance and weight of the high-tech clubs on show, continuing his impossible quest to find the ideal putter, and judging the effectiveness of the rainproof garments which make year-round golf possible in Scotland.

  Eventually, just after 11.30 a.m., he settled on a pullover-style garment which proclaimed itself `Made in Scotland' and 'Guaranteed Weatherproof.

  He had just paid for his purchase and stepped off the manufacturer's stand when he was hailed from the other side of the tent. 'Bob, hello!' He turned to see Henry Wills making his way through the crowd.

  `Henry. What are you doing here? I thought that you were detecting this morning in New Register House.'

  `Yes, I was. I made an early start, and I wa
s completely successful.' Henry Wills, in a grey three-piece business suit, looked completely out of place among the garish colours which were normal dress in the big tent. 'I was looking for Miss Rose, but since you're here, I'll tell you all about it.'

  Skinner put up a hand to stop him. `No, don't do that. I need all my concentration for golf, and anyway, Maggie's been making the running on this. If you've got good news for her it's only right that she hears it first.'

  Wills looked only slightly crestfallen. `Can you tell me where she is?'

  The ACC glanced at his watch. `Probably well into the back nine by now. She's walking round with the Nakamura team.'

  `Back nine? Nakamura? I'm terribly sorry, Bob, but all this is virgin territory to me. I know nothing about golf, I've never been to one of these events in my life before, and the only player I could name is Young Tom Morris, because I saw his grave once in St Andrews Cathedral and read his sad story. You couldn't just tell me a place where I might find Maggie?'

  Skinner laughed. `See you city folk! OK Henry, the best thing you can do is to go and sit in the big stand beside the eighteenth green. That's the one to the right, looking from the clubhouse. If you find a place there, then in around an hour she'll be..

  `Reginald!' Wills's start and his sudden shout, took Skinner completely by surprise. He turned to follow his friend's gaze, but saw no answering reaction from anyone in the milling crowd.

  The only familiar figures were Sandro Gregory and Darren Atkinson, twenty yards away and deep in conversation as they stepped down from the Shark's Fin golf equipment stand, to disappear among the throng.

  `Bob, how rude of me to interrupt you,' said Wills. I'm terribly sorry; it's just that for a second I was certain that I saw an old student of mine across there. I must have been wrong though, he didn't react at all. It has been around fifteen years since I taught the chap. But I was so certain; it was just an instinctive thing. That's why I shouted; I couldn't help myself.'

  Skinner smiled. 'There can't be too many Reginalds around, my friend. If it had been the right bloke, he would surely have reacted.'

  Wills nodded. 'I suppose so. But come to think of it…' he raised a finger in an almost theatrical gesture… I recall now that he hated the name. It would annoy him terribly whenever I used it.'

  `So, should you have called "Reg", or "Reggie"?'

  `No, that wouldn't do either. He went by one of these awful modern pop-star corruptions, but it quite escapes me. I refused to use it, any more than I would have allowed anyone to call me

  "Hank", or the like.

  Anyway, back to Miss Rose. Be in the stand in around an hour, you say?'

  `Yes. Wait for the first match coming in and look among the gallery. You should find her there.'

  Wills looked perplexed once more. I'm sorry Bob, but which gallery is this? Is it beside the stand?'

  Skinner shook his head. 'Tell you what, Henry. You just stand high up on the grandstand gangway wearing that suit. That way Maggie'll find you!'

  Fifty-six

  The third-day matches were going out in leader-board order, at half-hour intervals, and so it was 1 p.m. when Darren Atkinson led his team on to the first tee, before a gallery which had swelled into the thousands.

  The day was as hot and humid as the morning had threatened, gasping for want of a breeze.

  As Skinner looked down the first fairway, he saw wisps of steam rising from the trees on Witches' Hill, and from the patches of thick, rough grass around its base. He was wearing his lightest slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, but already he could feel sweat trickling down his spine.

  Atkinson grinned at him. 'Couldn't ask for better conditions than this, Bob. The course will still play two shots longer than on Thursday, but for us pros, there'll be no excuses today.' He glanced across at the nearest scoreboard. Skinner followed his gaze and saw that M'tebe had moved from four under to seven under par after six holes, cutting his captain's lead to five shots. 'Oliver seems to be the main threat. That's what I'd expected. 'Too bad he had that upset over the first couple of days.'

  You're not worried, are you?' asked Skinner.

  `No. My game's in good nick, and the boy's too far back. Still he should be second. A tasty percentage for DRA Golf 'Management. My dear brother will be pleased with us both.

  All I have to do now is to play the golf. Of course the same goes for you, with the amateur prizes to shoot for.'

  Skinner marvelled that Atkinson could be so relaxed, after the events of the week, and under the pressure of playing for a million pounds. His thoughts were interrupted by the announcer, who introduced Norton Wales. He eased himself backwards as the singer took his applause and prepared to drive, and found himself standing between two familiar figures, McGuire, in a white caddy's bib, and Mcllhenney. `Had a good look around the crowd, lads?'

  `Yes, sir,' McGuire muttered. 'I don't see any cause for concern.'

  `Neither did Bravo, or Masur, or White,' said Skinner. 'Just remember, the pair of you, the real reason why you're out here. Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. If you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary, then give me a shout… as long as I'm not at the top of my back-swing at the time.'

  Fifty-seven

  As Skinner had forecast in jest, Rose spotted Henry Wills, a man apart from the rest in his sombre suit, before he picked out her red hair among the pack who had followed the first match home to the eighteenth green.

  But eventually his searching eyes found hers. He waved and she nodded, signalling him to be quiet as Tiger Nakamura prepared what he hoped would be the final shot of a frustrating day.

  Oblivious to the golf, Wills made his way down from the stand and through the spectators, apologising as he went to those he disturbed. He reached her just as Nakamura holed out for his last bogey in a 76, tossed his putter towards his caddy and led his team from the green.

  Afternoon, Mr Wills,' she said. 'You're looking pleased with yourself.'

  `Good afternoon to you, Miss Rose,' he replied, unfailingly courteous. 'I hope that your day has been as productive as mine.'

  She laughed. 'Our days are a mixture of hard slog and achievement. So far, this has been a slogging day, watching a guy play bad golf and looking for another guy who might just show up in the crowd to make contact with him. This is day three now, and still he hasn't.'

  She turned to a tall young man standing behind her. `Kevin, you're on your own from here for a bit. Andrews would have been stopped by our people if he'd tried to get into the clubhouse, so once Morton gets in there he's isolated. Keep him in your sight all the way up to the door.

  Wait for him to come out then follow him. Ken Rodgers will be on duty at the main entrance by now, so you two can team up. The chances are that Morton will go straight back to Bracklands, but wherever he heads for, I want him in your sight all the time. Once he does get back to the house, you can stand down. We've got Detective Constables more or less in residence there, and we'll have others at the Marine tonight for the dinner that Murano are hosting.'

  She looked across the green. Morton stood beside his caddy, checking his scorecard. 'OK, on you go. I have to speak to Mr Wills. Just remember, we know all about Morton, but Andrews is the man we really need to find. You've got the photos. If he does show up, make sure you spot him.'

  She turned once more and took the older man by the arm. `Come and let's find the caterers.

  Coffee's on me, then you can tell me what's put the smile on your face and the smug look in your eyes!'

  As is usually the case with on-course refreshments at golf tournaments, the coffee which she and Wills were served in the catering marquee was expensive. Sucking her teeth at the meagre change which she received from her five-pound note, she carried the plastic mugs in their holders across to a table near the entrance which Wills had commandeered. The University Registrar looked like a fish out of water, down to the smooth leather soles of his shiny black shoes, but the satisfied smile had never left his face from the mom
ent that he had joined the Inspector at the side of the green.

  Maggie Rose sipped her expensive coffee. 'OK, Henry. Out with it. What's made your day?'

  The smile widened, and the man seemed to swell almost to bursting point.

  I know who Elizabeth Carr was… and a lot more besides!' he blurted out, breathlessly.

  `That's great. Those are the headlines, now what's the full story?'

  Wills drank most of his coffee in a single gulp, making Rose wince inwardly.

  `Well, remember where we left it yesterday, with the marriage of the mysterious Elizabeth?

  `Today I was able to look at the Longniddry parish records for the sixteenth century. It didn't take me long. It was an odd entry, different from the rest. It said that in September 1596, a newborn female child was brought to the parish by its mother alone. Nothing unusual about that. People died young in those days, and widowed births were not the tragedy they are now.

  Except that this was no widowed birth. The child was baptised Elizabeth, and was given the family name of her father. The baptism was witnessed by two women.

  `The father was named as James Carr, Baron of Haddington. That was the courtesy title borne by the son and heir of the Earl of Kinture.' Wills shot Rose the same look that she was used to seeing on Mario McGuire's face whenever Lazio scored a goal on Football Italia. 'Oh, I should have known, Margaret. Carr was, as it is today, the family name of the Earls of Kinture. No one else in the parish would have borne it. In 1596, the only males in the Kinture line were William Carr, the Earl, and James Carr, born 1577, Baron of Haddington.

  The mother of the child?' he said, smiling theatrically and pausing for sheer effect. 'The mother was Agnes Tod! And I can assure you, Margaret, my dear policelady, that there is no record of a marriage between the two proud parents.'