Aye, sir. Ten-hour shifts like always… not counting Sundays, of course.'
`Don't remind me. I've got some DIY to finish when I get home tonight. You'd better trot on too. Maggie made a point of telling me about those Festival Theatre Tickets. Seven o'clock start she said.'
McGuire nodded. 'Yes, and she bought the tickets, too! They're a wedding present. I've never seen Turandot before.'
`That's the one with that tune, isn't it? "No one sleeps while I'm singing" or something?'
"S right, boss. And tonight it's the man himself who's singing it. It'll bring the Italian out in me, I tell you. I'll have trouble stopping myself from joining in.'
`Christ, don't do that! I've heard you sing remember.' He moved towards the door. 'On your way then, Mario. Superintendent Higgins inside?'
`Yes sir. She's using the boardroom.'
Skinner entered the building, nodding to Laurence Bennett, the bookings manager, who sat behind his counter in the foyer. He took the door to the right then turned again, sharply, into the boardroom. Alison Higgins was seated at the end of the table closest to the door. She looked over her shoulder, then stood up, as he entered.
`Sit down, Ali, sit down. How're you doing? What're you doing?'
She glanced down at the papers strewn across the table. The usual routine, sir. Lots and lots of interviews. First interviews with Mr Bennett, old Williamson the steward, and Iris McKenna, Joe Bryan's assistant, and with other people who weren't here yesterday, but who knew Michael White. Second interviews with the people we spoke to yesterday, just to see if they recalled anything else that might be significant.'
Anything?' Skinner asked, guessing the answer from Higgins' expression.
Not a scrap, sir. All we've got is friction between Morton and White, which Morton didn't mention. But we know for sure that the man was never alone yesterday. Masur and Weekes finished their game first. They waited for Morton and Nakamura, then all four went into the clubhouse together. To add to that, Brian Mackie reported that his Florida people gave Morton a good write-up. I suppose it's understandable that if you have a private tiff with someone and that someone is murdered, you're not going to mention your disagreement.'
`Maybe so,' Skinner conceded.
`There is one thing, sir,' said Higgins. 'Andy Martin dropped by with something very odd.
Have a look.' She reached for a paper on her desk.
In a minute,' said Skinner. 'Come with me first. I had a thought this afternoon.' He swept from the room and she followed him, across the foyer, down the changing-room corridor, past PC Pye, who was guarding the door to the murder scene… and who returned Skinner's nod with a smart salute… and out on to the course.
He looked across the first tee. 'Our main theory, with no likely killer on the premises, is that somebody walked in, zapped the victim in his Jacuzzi, then walked out again without anyone seeing him. That, incidentally, does not rule out Morton. You know the old saying, "If a job's worth doing, it's worth getting a man to do it well."
`But if that happened, there's no way that the murderer just casually walked into the clubhouse and did the business. Unless this was a random thing, with someone prepared to kill for a few quid and a watch, he watched White and he waited.
White's Jacuzzi routine was well known. It was a fair certainty that he would take his ritual tub after the match.
`So let's assume that our killer is well planned. He knows about the Sunday bounce game. He watches them arrive. He sees that White, who is the only one who hasn't stayed overnight at Bracklands, is the only one who isn't changed and ready to play. He waits and from a safe distance he watches them tee off. Then he moves closer. He doesn't want to wait in the Jacuzzi for three hours. Too risky. So he hides somewhere else, somewhere close to the clubhouse. Somewhere that won't be in use.'
As he spoke he began to walk, down the teeing ground, to the brick-built, white-clad, starter's hut which was positioned on the left of the big square area of tight-mown grass. 'Like here, for example. The course isn't open for general play yet. There are only three pros here, and no more golf after they and the VIPs have gone out.'
He looked down at Higgins. 'You agree so far?'
`Yes sir.' Excitement gripped her voice.
`Right. Then suppose, once the three games are well in play, our man slips into the hut. He waits here until he sees the first game finish. It's White and Cortes. Our man picks his moment and slips inside, to wait behind the door of White's Jacuzzi and to drop him the moment he walks in.'
He led Higgins round to the door of the hut, which was out of sight of the clubhouse. It had only one lock, a Yale, and an L-shaped brass handle. He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, and very carefully, holding it by its tip, turned it downwards. The door swung open. Not even locked,' he muttered. 'Ali, from the look of it, the technicians haven't touched this place. I suggest that you get on to Edinburgh and get them back down here now. By 9 a.m. tomorrow, you'll need to have every last inch of it covered, and every fingerprint lifted. It's an official practice day for the pros tomorrow, and the public will be allowed in, so this thing will be in use.
She looked up at him. 'I should have worked all that out sir, shouldn't I?'
He smiled. 'Don't think that, Superintendent. I've been at this game longer than you. Anyway, it's probably just another wild Skinner theory!
`Here. Use this to call in.' He handed her his mobile phone.
'When I'm running an investigation, Ali, I always try to get a grasp of the whole picture as early as I can. Sometimes, if the picture's a bit grey, I have to colour it in myself. I only learned to do that through experience… which is what I'm giving you on this enquiry.'
He waited as she made her call. 'Right, what about this paper of Andy's?'
Higgins led the way back through to the boardroom. She picked up the paper for which she had reached earlier, and handed it to Skinner. It was enclosed in a clear plastic slip.
It was a single piece of blue A5 writing paper. It bore that day's date, but no address. Its message was scrawled in black fountain ink. Skinner read aloud: Dear Editor,
`By the blade…' said Agnes.
Thus it was.
`What the hell's this?' he muttered.
`Local loonies, probably,' said Higgins. 'Or it may not be connected at all.'
Skinner shook his head. 'Funny. It rings a bell somewhere. Alison, have someone make me a copy of this, before you send it off to forensics. I want to give it some thought, and maybe the bell'll ring a little louder.'
Twelve
They crested the rise and looked westwards down the Forth estuary. The mild September evening was cloudless, and across the wide bay they could see Edinburgh and Leith bathed in sunshine. Further on, the two contrasting bridges stood out clearly, although they were around twenty miles distant.
`Beautiful, isn't it?' said Sarah. 'At times like this I wonder whether we were right to bother with the Edinburgh house at all.'
`Sure,' said Bob, laughing, 'then you go for a run one morning, maybe in a couple of months, or even days, and the weather's turned full circle, and the hailstones are whistling at you with a gale behind them. What d'you wonder then?'
They trudged along the dune path, Bob walking more slowly than usual, because of his burden, three-month-old Jazz, secured in the carry-frame which was strapped to his chest.
The baby had been lively when they had left the cottage a quarter of an hour before, but the movement and the fresh air had soon taken effect. Now he was asleep, with Bob holding him steady and picking his steps carefully. Jazz was growing at an alarming rate. The dark birth hair had gone, to be replaced by blond, wispy strands which flicked down towards his forehead. His father smiled as he made a burbling sound in his sleep. 'Dreaming of his next feed already, the wee bugger!'
`Don't remind me,' said Sarah, with genuine feeling. That boy is going to be huge, I can tell it already!'
`Must be the Yank half. When're you going
to try him with his first Big Mac?'
`Never! Our child will have a proper diet. Junk food will be banned! And you'll have to set him an example. Fruit, fibre, fish, some lean meat on occasion, but not to excess. Sarah's F-plan.'
`But I like Big Macs and Burger Kings… and I know what that "F" stands for!'
`Skinner! I don't do that… not out loud anyway.'
`Not awake, maybe, but in your sleep, Christ!'
`Bob!'
`See when you were pregnant? When you were asleep you could raise the quilt three inches off the bed! It's difficult to make double-glazed window units rattle, but honey, you managed it!'
Her cheeks were flushed from more than the exertion of the walk. 'That's not true!'
Oh no? Well next time you get up the duff you can stay awake and listen!'
Enough,' she shouted, suppressing her laugh, 'of the police station talk!'
`Shh!' He held a finger to his lips. 'You'll wake the bairn. But here, how did you know we talked about you in the nick?'
`Bob!!' She gasped, and then the laughter exploded from them both, only to be silenced by an extra loud burble from Jazz.
They left the dune path and turned to walk along the beach, heading eastwards back towards Gullane. The tide was going out, so they chose to take the firm wet sand. The evening was still as well as clear. 'Can you hear that throbbing noise?' Sarah asked.
Bob pointed out across the Forth, towards a distant tanker which was making its way up the estuary, empty and riding high in the water. 'See that? You're hearing its engines.'
`From this far away?'
`Sure. The sound carries for ever across the water.'
Eventually they headed away from the sea, back through the dunes and up the steep path which led towards the tourists' car park. Sarah noticed that Bob had fallen silent. 'Hey, are you both asleep?'
`What? Oh sorry, love, I was miles away. Thinking about something I brought home. It may relate to the investigation. Andy phoned me about it.'
Andy! He called you?'
`Yes.'
He sensed her expectancy. 'Don't worry, it was OK. We're going to have a man-to-man session, sort things out.'
`That's great!' Then her tone changed. She sounded hurt. `You might have said earlier. You make me feel left out.'
He grinned awkwardly. 'Sorry, love. But you went on so strong about taking Rover here for a walk that I didn't have a chance. Anyway, I wondered whether you had talked him into finding an excuse to call me when you saw him yesterday.'
`Not me. Not consciously anyway. You really were OK, the two of you?'
He nodded. 'Yes. I feel such a prat about the whole thing now.'
She punched his arm gently as they walked along the tarmac road. 'I'll let you into a secret.
So does Andy.'
`Yeah,' said Bob, suddenly sombre. 'That just leaves Alex. I wonder how she feels?'
She took his hand. 'Time will tell, my love. Only, when it does, I think you'll both have to accept the answer… whatever it is. She may be your daughter, she may — or may not — be Andy's girl, but sure as hell, she's her own woman.'
Eventually they emerged from the narrow lane which led from the beach road to their cottage.
Jazz was snickering and smiling in his sleep, as if he knew that his bathtime and evening feed were imminent. As soon as Bob stepped through the front door he woke, bright and alert. He beamed as his father undid his fastenings, and lifted him out of the carry-frame, to hand him over to Sarah.
OK, young man, let's attend to your needs.'
While Sarah bathed and fed the cheerful child, Bob busied himself in the kitchen with drill, hammer and rawlplugs, fixing, securely at last, the shaky shelf which had been a talking point for years. Then he began to prepare their evening meal, slicing the vegetables and fresh white fish which were to be the ingredients of their stir-fry. As he worked, he heard a sound outside the back door; looking over his shoulder he saw a familiar visitor: a huge cat, with black coat, white chest and paw, and right ear torn by many territorial disputes. They had christened him Rag, although they knew from his sleek, healthy coat, and his red collar, with its green magnetic key attached, that somewhere he had another name, and another family.
Bob trimmed the skin from a piece of fish and put it on a plate with some scraps. He opened the door and laid it in front of the purring cat. 'There, fella. I'll bet you smelled that from the other side of the Green. That's your lot for tonight, though. Maybe there'll be fish at home as well.'
When he closed the door behind him Sarah was in the kitchen, at work with the wok.
They ate at the glass table in their conservatory, enjoying the last warmth of the evening sun, and washing down their stir-fry and noodles with a bottle of Frascati, complementary to the lemon grass which was an essential ingredient of the dish. Jazz was on the floor between them strapped, nappy-less, into a plastic chair, and gnawing happily on a teething ring. In the garden outside, the black-and-white cat watched them reproachfully through the glass. When they were finished, Bob cleared away the dishes and brought a steaming cafetiere. While Sarah depressed the plunger, Bob left the room once more, returning with the plastic enclosed letter to the editor of the Scotsman.
`This is Andy's note,' he said, handing it across the table. Sarah took it, and as she read, her forehead wrinkled and a puzzled look came into her eyes.
`Cranks,' she said, as Jazz began to signal his readiness for his last feed of the day. She handed the letter back across the table, then took the baby from his chair. Cradling him in her right arm, she pulled up her sweatshirt and presented him with the object of his earnest desire.
Bob looked again at the letter. 'You're probably right. It's just that there's something about it that won't go away.'
` By the blade…' said Sarah. 'Sounds sort of witchy, doesn't it?'
He stared out of the window at the red sunset sky. 'Wait a minute,' he said, but to himself.
When he turned back to face her, the look on his face was one that she had seen before, a look of recollection, but mixed with something else, something which, in anyone else, she would have taken for apprehension. `Back in a minute.'
When he emerged from the hall Sarah had carried Jazz into the living room. They were seated in a corner of the long sofa, the child still feeding, but cradled now in his mother's left arm. Bob sat down beside them. His expression had changed. It was wistful. Sarah glanced at the dusty folder which he carried and knew the reason at once.
The cover bore the title, hand-printed, 'East Lothian Project,' and the name, 'Myra Skinner, Primary VI, Longniddry Primary School.'
Not long before Myra was killed,' he said, softly, 'the school researched a history of East Lothian. It was a project for the Queen's Silver Jubilee, I think. The teachers and kids all pitched in and each class did a different period. Myra's lot drew the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Eventually the whole thing was typed up and published, but these are Myra's notes and tapes. I found them in a cupboard after she died. I was going to give them to the school, but I never got round to it. They've been up in the attic for the last fifteen years.
I remember one tape she played me at the time. It was a wee girl telling a family story, and it was something else. Let me see if I can find it.' He opened the folder. There were two tape cassettes inside in plastic boxes, labelled 'Children's Stories', in a firm hand.
Bob carried them across to the mini hi-fi unit which had replaced the equipment moved up to the Edinburgh house. He used his headphone, cutting off the sound from the speakers as, head bowed and hunched over the machine with his back to Sarah, he reviewed the tapes.
After ten minutes, on the second tape, he found the section for which he had been listening.
He straightened up and unplugged the headphones. `This is it.'
He pressed the play button. There was a hiss for a second or two, then a woman's firm, clear voice filled the room. Her accent was as Sarah imagined Bob's might have been two decade
s earlier, before Edinburgh had begun to knock the hard edges from his Lanarkshire tones.
` OK, the red light's on, so we're recording. I'm in the staff-room, alone with Lisa Soutar, who's going to tell me a story for the Jubilee history project. Let me get this right, Lisa. You were told this story by your great-grandma?'
The child's voice was faint. 'Yes miss, by ma Nana Soutar.'
Are you ready to begin?'
`Yes, miss.'
`Right, just step a wee bit closer and speak into the mike. On you go now.'
There was a pause, and then the child spoke again, her thin reedy voice much clearer than before.
`Well miss, in the olden days, there were these witches in Longniddry, and they worshipped the Devil, and did harm to people, and cast spells, and put a curse on the King's ship and he wis nearly drowned.' She paused for breath.
`Well one day, the minister and the laird, they rounded up a' the witches, ken. And they took them a' to Witchy Hill..
`Do you know where that is?'
Aye miss, it's up by Aberlady… they took them a' tae Witchy Hill and they tied them tae trees, and they piled wood a' around, ken. Well, the head witch was called Aggie. They were just goin' tae light the fires when Aggie said… '
The child's voice rose and changed. It became shrill and strangely menacing. Sarah, listening almost twenty years later, felt a shudder go through her.
"This is oor master's place, not yours. This is the Devil's kirk, not God's. What you are doing is des-ec-ra-shun!"
It was as if the child's voice was no longer hers. It had risen to a shriek.
" You can burn my body but you will not dissolve my spirit. I will always be here. I curse you all and all others who desecrate this place. Here is your doom: by the blade, by water, by fire and by lightning shall the desecrators be destroyed."'
A silence filled the living room, broken only by the background hiss of the tape. And then the adult spoke again, breathlessly.
And what happened then?'
Oh they lit the fires, miss, and a' the witches wis burned tae ashes!'
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