His name's Mike Morton.'
`Morton!' Doherty exploded. 'Then I know the murder you're talkin' about. All over last night's news and today's paper. The golf club. Mike Morton was there?'
Uhuh.'
`Well, I'll be..
`Look, Bob, I do remember being briefed about this fella, way before I came here. I'll need to update. Leave it with me and I'll be in touch soon as I can.'
Nine
Proud Jimmy stood, nervously, behind the big cream sofa, head bowed and hands clasped together, almost like a worshipper at prayer.
In complete contrast, Myrtle White sat stiff-backed and upright. She was as pale as a ghost, and her eyes were noticeably bloodshot, yet as she looked across at Skinner, seated opposite her in an armchair, she was calm and fully in control of herself. As Detective Inspector Maggie Rose handed her a cup of tea, Skinner noticed that it was his assistant's hand which trembled slightly, not that of the widow.
They were seated in the main drawing room of the White villa in Whitehouse Loan. It was a big, bay-windowed apartment, expensively decorated and furnished, with heavy curtains and a thick Axminster carpet, not fitted but surrounded by varnished wood. There was no television set or hi-fi anywhere in sight. It was a reception room in the most traditional sense, presented as it might have been when the big grey sandstone house was built and first occupied. Outside the sun shone on a garden which was equally conservative in its design, with rose-beds set around and in the centre of a carefully cut lawn which stretched out from the red stone-chip pathway in front of the house to the high privet hedge which maintained its privacy.
Skinner leaned forward in his chair. I'm sorry that we have to intrude, Mrs White, but there are matters which we have to discuss with you, so that the investigation into your husband's death can proceed.
The widow nodded and sipped her tea. 'Please don't be so formal, Bob. It's Myrtle, remember.
We have been introduced socially, after all.' She smiled gently, and he was touched by the realisation that she, the bereaved, was putting him at his ease.
She went on. 'Before you begin, can you answer two questions for me?' Skinner nodded.
'First, are you certain that Michael did not commit suicide?'
Absolutely. For one thing, we haven't found the weapon.'
I understand. My second question is, how quickly did he die? Jimmy told me how he was killed, but I need to know as many details as possible. I need to imagine that I was with him; it's a peace of mind thing, you see. Michael and I sometimes talked about death, and we both always assumed that when one of us went, the other would be there, to say farewell. Not goodbye: we're both Christians, you see. We believe in the concept of death as a gateway.'
Skinner looked into her eyes as he answered. 'I put that question to Sarah. She said that he would have become unconscious from his wound very quickly and died very shortly after that. But she believes that he was knocked out before he was killed, by a heavy blow to the head. The way she described it to me, he wouldn't have known a thing. You can regard his death as instantaneous.'
He waited, as she considered his answer. Eventually she nodded. 'Right. Now your questions.'
`Can I just take a step back? You asked about suicide. Did you have any reason to think that Michael might have taken his own life?'
She shook her head vigorously. 'No, none at all. It's just that.. As I said, we were very close. We've been married for almost thirty years. I couldn't imagine him having a worry so great that he'd conceal it from me, far less choose to die as an escape. That's been my great fear since yesterday. But now you've confirmed that it wasn't the case, and I'm relieved.
Bizarre as it might seem to you, I can cope with the idea of murder more easily. It's strange, how the mind works.'
Skinner shook his head. 'No, not strange. You can't prepare the mind to cope with the sudden, unexpected loss of a loved one. When it happens, everyone reacts in a different way, but it all comes back to the same question.' Memories of the past came flooding back. 'I remember how I was when my first wife was killed. My great fear — no, more than that, my immediate assumption — was that the accident had been caused by a fault in the car that I should have seen and corrected. When sudden death happens, the survivor feels reflex guilt. That has to be dealt with, and put away.'
And afterwards?' she asked. 'Tell me, how long does it take for the pain to stop?'
He looked into her eyes. 'My loss happened almost twenty years ago. Now I'm married again, to a woman I love as deeply as I can imagine, and I have a baby son. Yet still, there isn't a day goes by when I don't think of Myra. But the memories are warm, not painful. As I see it, each life is a book. It's a series of interconnecting chapters, and some will have different characters. You were in Michael's book, and he in yours. His was closed yesterday, much of yours still has to be written. As for the epilogue, well, that's a matter of faith.'
Myrtle White touched the policeman's arm. 'Thank you, Bob. I'll try to keep that concept in my head.' She smiled at him, then blinked and sipped her coffee.
`Tell me, do you think that the murderer was a thief?'
`His wallet and watch were stolen, but we're not making assumptions from that.
`You and Michael discussed everything, Myrtle, yes?' `That was our way.'
`Did he mention any problems recently, any difficult deals, anyone with whom he might have been in dispute?'
`None that I can think of. After he sold the company, Michael did things purely for fun. If someone brought a development to him, he asked himself, "Do I like this person?" and, "Will I enjoy an association with this project?" It was only after that he'd look at the numbers involved. That's how it was with the golf club, more or less, although he admitted that he'd probably have done that even if the figures hadn't been so good.'
Was there anyone, anyone at all whom he regarded as an opponent or an enemy?'
`No. Michael didn't have an enemy in the world.'
I'm sorry Myrtle, but he had one. And my job is to find who that was.'
She looked at him, almost in a sly fashion. 'I don't think I want to know.'
`What d'you mean?'
`Well I can cope, the way things are just now. Michael's been murdered, I know, but it's surreal; I have no one to associate with it. If you catch the person who did it, I'll be forced to look at him. I'll be forced to hate him, and hatred is something I've never experienced. I'm not sure how I'd cope with that.'
`You will, though. You'll take comfort from the thought that he's paying for what he did.'
He glanced at the fine carved fireplace which dominated the White's high-ceilinged sitting room. A row of photographs in silver frames stood on the mantelpiece. He pointed towards two on the left, of a young man and young woman. 'Are those your children?'
`Yes. Sheila and David. Sheila and Gavin live in Edinburgh, in Dean Village, but David's working in Australia just now. He's in advertising. Gay phoned him last night. He's flying back on the first plane available.'
`What does Gavin do?'
`He's a surveyor. Lovely boy. He can be a bit wild, but he's devoted to Sheila, and he was wonderful yesterday.'
`Will Michael's death give you Inheritance Tax problems?'
She smiled at him again. 'I shouldn't think so. We have a very good tax planner. Most of the money is in trusts, from which we draw income. So do the children, and they each have capital of their own. The rest is what Michael called our "play money". It's a sort of private investment pool that he used to fund projects and to do daft personal things. For example, a couple of winters ago we were watching Test cricket from Australia on television. I just happened to say that I wished I was there, and two days later I was.
Oh I'm sure there'll be some tax to pay, but it'll be manageable. Our accountant will make sure of that.'
Skinner grinned. 'Worth their weight in gold.'
‘But would you want your daughter to marry one?' said Myrtle White, with a smile.
He winc
ed. He shot a quick glance at Sir James Proud, then looked back at the woman. 'My daughter's given up doing what I want, Myrtle.'
She smiled again. 'Don't be daft. They all go through that stage. If she's giving you problems, she'll come round.'
`Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, one more question. Did Michael ever mention someone called Mike Morton?'
Suddenly the smile faded from her face. 'Yes, he did. On a few occasions. He was supposed to be playing golf with him yesterday, wasn't he?'
`Yes, that's right. What else do you recall about him?'
`Well, Michael did say that he'd been difficult over the tournament. Hard to deal with. He mentioned a couple of times that he was having trouble with him, but I think that he had sorted it all out.
I remember he said once that he'd met a few people like Morton in business, and that mostly they'd been shady. "Shady" was probably Michael's strongest term of disapproval.'
‘Hmm,' Sir James Proud grunted. He still stood behind the woman, as if protecting her. 'He was a very generous man, your husband, in his view of his fellow beings. Many of us could learn from his example.' Skinner looked up at the Chief, and was astonished to see a moistness in his eyes. He sensed that it was time to go, before grief could force its way through the calmness of the room.
Unless there's anything else you can recall that might help us, Myrtle, we'll be off. I'm sorry that we had to intrude at all.'
Not at all, Bob. I welcome your presence, yours Jimmy, and yours too, Miss Rose.' She nodded to the Detective Inspector, who was seated at the other end of the long sofa. 'I was glad of the chance to be involved. I've never been good at sitting around. In fact, I had been thinking of phoning Lady Proud and inviting myself round for coffee'
`You do that very thing, my dear,' said the big, bluff Chief Constable, his composure fully recovered in the relief of knowing that the interview was over.
One thing, gentlemen,' said Myrtle White. 'When can I plan on having the funeral? I mean when will you release…'
Skinner interrupted quickly. 'Strictly speaking, that's for the Fiscal to say, but in the circumstances, I'd say the beginning of next week would be OK. Monday or Tuesday. I'll speak to Davie Pettigrew myself, and let him know that's your intention.'
`Thanks, Bob. That's good of you. There'll be a lot to arrange. I'd imagine that we might have quite a turn-out.' For the first time that morning, there was a catch in her voice, but almost instantly, her shoulders squared and she recovered herself. She stood up and the others followed suit.
Proud Jimmy led the way out to the hall, and to the front door, where Myrtle White reached up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. She shook hands with Skinner and Rose.
`Thank you again for your help,' said the ACC. 'I'll keep you informed of any progress that we make.'
She shook her head as she opened the glass-panelled door. `No, Bob. Don't do that. I really don't want to know. I can't allow myself to be taken over by thoughts of revenge or retribution. The punishment end of it, that's your business, and I'm happy to let you get on with it.
`Michael's dead, and as you say, that chapter of my book is over. I'll give him a damn good send-off and after that I want to get on with the rest of my life, without looking back in anger.' She waved a farewell as she closed the door behind them.
`Some woman,' muttered Sir James Proud, as the three police officers crunched their way down the red gravel path.
Aye,' said Skinner. 'It sums up police work, what Myrtle said. Michael deserves retribution.
And she's right: it's down to us to see he gets it.' He looked down at Rose, as he opened the garden gate. 'Those are the clients of our detecting profession, Maggie, the victims and their families, first and foremost. That's where our duty lies. We're their avenging angels.'
Ten
It was the silent hour when the rest of the force were at lunch. Skinner sat at his desk, checking the note of the interview with Myrtle White which Maggie Rose had dictated on their return to the Fettes Avenue headquarters building. The Detective Inspector sat facing him, like a schoolgirl awaiting an exam result.
He grinned at her. Ten out of ten, Maggie. Have two copies made, one for the Chief, and the other for Alison Higgins.' There was a knock on the door, which lay ajar. 'Yes,' Skinner called, and Ruth McConnell stepped into the room. 'All lips, legs and self-assurance,' was Andy Martin's classic description of the ACC's confident, capable secretary, but now she wore an air of uncertainty which Skinner had never seen before. He could tell that she had something to say, but she was hesitant, as if she was fearful of his reaction.
Aye, aye, Ruthie,' he said. 'Who's rattled your cage, then?' She tried to look puzzled by his banter, but failed, and gave up the attempt.
It's Superintendent Martin, sir. He's on the phone.'
Skinner's eyebrows rose. He felt an involuntary tug in the pit of his stomach. see.' He smiled at her, to put her at her ease. 'What does he want?'
`He said that it has to do with the Witches' Hill investigation. I told him that you were with Inspector Rose, but he said he'd hang on.'
She looked at him, enquiring, but with the apprehension gone from her eyes. Skinner leaned back in his chair and stared out of the window. Five people in the world knew the truth of the explosion between the two men, and Martin's transfer had been presented as routine police business, but he knew full well that rumours of a rift were circulating and being accepted as fact.
He assessed his options for what seemed like an eternity to the two women as they watched him. He had made it clear that Alison Higgins was in charge of the Witches' Hill investigation. If he took the call it could be seen as undermining her authority, yet if he referred it to her it could be seen by Martin as a snub.
Eventually he swung back to face Ruth. 'OK, put him through.' The secretary left the room, and Maggie Rose, without being asked, stood up and followed her. Skinner thought that both were suppressing smiles.
A few seconds later the white phone on his desk buzzed, once. He picked it up. 'Mr Martin, sir,' said Ruth. There was a click. 'Andy, what can I do for you?' He held his breath, ready to read every inflection in Martin's voice.
The reply was cool and controlled. 'I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you'd want to hear this. I had a call this morning from Kay Wilson, the editor of the Scotsman. She's had a very odd letter, and she thinks it might have some connection to the White murder. It's handwritten, and it was left on the counter of their front office. Their receptionists were both away from their desks, so they didn't see who left it.
`Legally, she can run it tomorrow, and she's going to, but she's taken a copy and had the original delivered here. Want me to read it?'
Skinner considered his reply for a moment or two. 'Don't you take this the wrong way, Andy, but I don't. I've told Alison that this is her investigation. I've got myself involved in it once already today, so on this one I've got to give her her place. Whatever you've got there you should show to her. She's based at the club just now. Sarah and Jazz are out at the cottage in Gullane all this week, so I'll be calling in on Alison on my way home. She can show your letter to me then… if she chooses.'
`Very good, sir. I'll do that. I'm sorry to have bothered you.'
Skinner sighed. 'Andy… Andy, my friend, this stops now. I've been keeping clear of you to let you cool down, but the time has come. We've been mates for far too long. I admit it, I made an absolute arse of myself that morning. My mouth overrode my brain completely, and it all got out of control. I said and did some wild things, and I'm sorry for them.'
`So did Alex, Bob, but she isn't.'
'Hah, don't I know that! If it's any consolation, I'm in the doghouse too. Look, I don't know what happened between you two after I made my theatrical exit. But I guess that when I upset her, she took it out on you.'
`Something like that. I lost it a bit, too.'
`Yeah, well, as I said, I'm sorry, as sorry as I can be. It's all down to me.'
`No it isn't, n
ot all of it. You were right about one thing. I should have spoken to you a lot earlier. At first, you weren't around, then when you were back and I was going to say something, I let Alex talk me out of it… even though I knew she was wrong. The trouble is, she's proud of being a nineties woman, but you and I, we're eighties men.'
There was an edge of relief to Skinner's laugh. 'Speak for yourself, boy. I'm pure seventies!'
And then the laugh turned into a sigh. 'Listen to me, pal. You and I are going to approach this thing in a manner appropriate to our ages and gender. In other words, we'll go somewhere discreet and we'll get rat-arsed. In the process we'll talk through you and Alex, and you can convince me that you're a proper suitor for my only daughter. That's if you're still brave enough or daft enough to want her. Agreed?'
Aye, Bob, you're on. But one thing!'
`What's that?'
`Wherever we go, they'd better have a hell of a lot of beer!'
Eleven
Witches' Hill Golf and Country Club seemed to have exploded into life, after the unnatural quiet of the previous day.
The car park was almost full. As he stood at the entrance to the clubhouse, Skinner could see, through a thin copse of trees, scores of brightly branded vans drawn up around the tented village as exhibitors, caterers and brewers unloaded their goods. In the middle distance to his left, five golfers were on the practice range. He shaded his eyes from the sun which shone over his shoulder and watched them. Soon he identified among the quintet of contrasting styles, the classic, disciplined swing of Darren Atkinson, the more fluid, expressive style of Andres Cortes, and the three-quarter thrash of the squat Tiger Nakamura.
He was still there, smiling in envy as he watched the straight flight of the shots, when the clubhouse doors slid open. Mario McGuire emerged from the building, pulling on his sports jacket as he walked. He pulled up short when he saw Skinner. Evening, sir.'
The ACC laughed. It was just after 5 p.m. 'What d'ye mean evening, man? It's still afternoon in my book. Are you setting your own hours these days?'
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