Skinner scowled sideways as he turned right, heading across the North Bridge and into the Old Town. Okay, our crime figures are down, but that's because of my people's good work.'
Or because the nature of crime is changing,' Doherty interrupted. `Remember the old saw that you can steal more with a fountain pen than with a gun? Well, you can steal even more with a computer, or with financial products where the company takes so much out in management fees that the poor suckers who buy them would be far better just putting their dough in the bank.
Skinner shook his head. Not here you can't. Our money men are unimpeachable, and even if they weren't, this place is so much of a village that if anyone was up to naughties, word would get out soon enough.
Ah, don't listen to me. I know that Edinburgh is one of the great cities in the world. It's just that I grew up in an industrial society, where men made tangible things. That's where my core values lie, in every way. The twenty-first-century version isn't a natural state of affairs for me. As I said to another friend yesterday, I'm Seventies Man — and I guess I always will be.'
Suddenly he laughed. 'In fact, if you asked my daughter, she'd tell you I'm set further back than that. She'd say that I'm in the same mould as the old bigot who lived in there!' He jerked his left thumb sideways. Doherty followed its direction and saw that they were cruising past the house of John Knox, Scotland's Reformation firebrand.
Skinner drove in silence for a while, down the narrowest part of the Royal Mile, towards the Palace of Holyroodhouse. He skirted the grey stone residence and cruised through Holyrood Park, round the crumbling Salisbury Crags and the Radical Road, past the reed-encircled Dunsapie Loch and out through Duddingston Village. As they picked up the eastward route once more, Skinner nodded down towards Doherty's document case.
`What's the big secret, then, Joe? What've you got on Morton that the Florida people don't know about?'
Doherty's drawl broadened. 'Why nothin' at all, pardner.
They know all about Morton. They just choose to ignore it. You figure out why.'
He unzipped the document case and took out a manilla folder. 'This here's a summary of the FBI file on Mike Morton, CEO of Sports Stars Corporation. First thing it tells us that his real name is Luigi Morticelli. Mike Morton came into existence at Yale Law School. I guess he figured that an Italian surname could hamper his career opportunities. That's one explanation.
The other is that his father, Guiseppe Morticelli, is rumoured to be connected.'
`Rumoured,' said Skinner. 'Is that all?'
`Yeah. He's a very slippery customer. Officially, he owns a light engineering company, but once or twice his name's been mentioned by informants as being a man of influence… very great influence.
`Luigi graduated from High School in his own name but when he went to college it was as Mike Morton. He practised law for a while, with a corporate firm on Wall Street. They had great plans for him, but in his late twenties, he left and went to Florida to set up SSC. Within three years it was the top sports management company in the US. Within ten years it was the most influential promoter in world sports, and Mike Morton was the number one man.'
Skinner smiled. 'How'd it get so big so fast?'
‘Gtood question. That's why we took an interest in him in the first place. SSC seemed to attract top-name clients from the off. Morton targeted baseball first. Within a year he had signed up virtually all the top names. In most cases he didn't have too much difficulty. He was promising the earth, and in those days damn few of these guys had representation. When he did run into problems, they always seemed to have lucky solutions. One guy wanted too much money: he was busted for drug-dealing. One of the top pitchers refused him point blank. He had an accident at home, involving his pitching hand and his waste disposal. After that one, baseball was sewn up and SSC moved on to other sports.
`When it came to golf Morton's tactic was to leave the big names alone, and to concentrate on buying up the young guys as they came out of college. He just threw money at them and pretty soon all of the new generation were SSC clients.
`That gave him his chance to develop into golf promotion. He had so many guys signed up that he could stage his own events. It got so that if you wanted to make real money in golf you had to go with Morton. Non-Americans began to find that too. If they wanted to play the big-money invitation events in the US, they had to give SSC American management rights.
By the end of the seventies, Morton/Morticelli had international golf by the balls, you might say.'
Doherty grinned at Skinner as they swept on to the Al. Eventually SSC began to look for investments in sports-related enterprises all over the world. It had plenty of opportunities.
Along the way, one or two people said "no". There was an automobile accident. Another guy came home to find his wife dead. After that, everybody just seemed to say "yes".'
Except for Michael White and the Marquis of Kinture,' said Skinner, quietly.
`Yeah, interesting, isn't it? And it gets better. Because now, SSC isn't the only game in town any more.'
`You mean Greenfields? You got something on them too?'
`Sure have.' Doherty nodded, and took a second folder from his case. 'There was something of a power shift in world golf in the first half of the eighties. The Yanks stopped producing superstars, and the non-Americans sort of got their shit together. All of a sudden the US stopped winning the majors. At the same time, the Japanese started to pile serious money into Pacific and Australasian golf, and they had the sort of dough that could overcome even SSC's resources.
`Bill Masur and Greenfields rode in on that magic carpet. They began to sign up all the top Japanese, the way SSC had done ten years before with the American college kids. Pretty soon there were rival Pacific invitation events, to attract the top Southern Hemisphere players, and the Europeans.
`They made ground in boxing too. They set up a new organisation, with their own champions, and again, the Japanese money talked. SSC started to lose out on the biggest TV deals.'
Interesting,' said Skinner. 'So how is it now?'
`There seems to be a sort of truce in operation. SSC still dominates American golf, and baseball, of course. Greenfields runs Australia and the Far East. Europe is neutral territory.
Your event this week's a good example. The guys who own the course couldn't run it themselves, so they did the sensible thing. They hired SSC as promoters and managers, and they found the sponsor through Masur's Far East contacts.'
`What about Darren Atkinson's new organisation?'
`The big boys don't seem to mind it, for now. As long as he sticks to Europe, and doesn't try to muscle in on their territories, SSC and Greenfields will leave him alone, so my people reckon. They wondered if Masur might have been pissed when the young South African kid signed up with Atkinson, but so far there's no sign of it.'
I wonder,' said Skinner. He told Doherty of the mysterious kidnapping of M'tebe senior.
`That's interesting. If there's anything behind that, Darren could be in line for some burned fingers.'
`Let's hope not. He seems like a good guy.' He paused, slowing as he approached the Meadowmill junction.
`There's one thing I don't understand about your scenario, Joe. If Mike Morton's a son of the Mob, how come Masur was able to muscle in on him?'
Doherty's grin was infectious. 'The Mafia ain't the only outfit, my friend. I take it you've heard of the Yakuza!'
`Jesus Christ, you mean they're Masur's insurance policy?'
‘Yup.'
Skinner turned the car on to the North Berwick road and accelerated. 'You're telling me that I'm teeing up this week, in my own home county, alongside two bloody gangsters!'
`You might be taking an extreme view of the situation, my friend, but no one could really fault you for it. That's why I thought I'd better tell you about it in person.'
`You're confirming something else for me too, Joe; that one of them might have had Michael White killed!'
; Eighteen
'Oh yes, I remember the Jubilee Project. I was in Aberlady Primary then, and my class was involved too. We did the farming section. I never taught with Myra Skinner, but I knew her.
`Later on, after I moved to Gullane Primary, I taught Alex. A very clever child, she was, with a father who doted on her. That was a one-parent family with absolutely no problems!'
`You should see them now,' thought Maggie Rose.
Anne McQueen, the head teacher of Longniddry Primary, was a formidably fit woman, dressed predominantly in serviceable black; mid to late forties, Rose guessed. Hers was a large school, with a non-teaching head, and so she had been available to meet the Inspector at short notice.
`What's all this about?' she asked. 'You said on the phone that you were looking for help: with what?'
It's something that's cropped up as a line of investigation in one of our enquiries. I'd like you to listen to this tape. Myra Skinner made it as part of her research for the Jubilee Project.' She handed over the Walkman, with the cassette in place.
Mrs McQueen listened to the tape in an emotionless silence, but when it was over she looked as astonished as Henry Wills. 'That's a new one on me, and I've taught in this county for over twenty years. I've heard a few children spin stories in my time, but I've never heard a delivery like that. Nana Soutar must have been some character!'
`There's no chance that she could still be alive, is there?' asked Rose.
Mrs McQueen looked doubtful. 'A great-granny, twenty years on? Not much, I wouldn't have thought. Mind you, there are Soutars in Longniddry Primary today. One of them in Primary Seven, that's Edward, and his wee brother Gareth's in Primary Five. Their father, Davie, he was here too. He could well be a brother or cousin of the child — woman now — on that tape.'
`But the name Lisa Soutar, that means nothing to you today?'
`No. Nothing at all. She could be Lisa anything by now, of course, and that really widens the field. It was a popular girl's name in the sixties; still is for that matter.' Suddenly she stopped, and looked at the policewoman, appraisingly. 'OK, I've heard the tape. Now how can I help you?' She smiled. 'I don't imagine you're investigating the murder of poor old Aggie Tod, four hundred years on.'
Maggie Rose put the player, and the tape, back in her jacket pocket. 'No… at least I don't think I am. I understand,' she said, 'that the project was published as a very limited edition book, and that the schools each kept a copy.'
Anne McQueen nodded. 'Yes, that's right. Ours is kept right here in my office. Would you like to see it?'
`Yes please. Just to confirm something I was told earlier.'
`Hang on just a minute then.' The head teacher rose and opened a glass-fronted bookcase, from which she took a thick volume, expensively bound in red leather. The title East Lothian, A Jubilee History was picked out in gold leaf on the cover. She placed it on her desk in front of Maggie Rose.
The book was still stiff. She could tell that it had been used very little. She found an index, and turned to the chapter headed 'Witchcraft and Superstitions' on page 78. Slowly, she read through it. There was a single brief mention of the burning of Agnes Tod and her coven, but she could find no mention of the doomed witch's curse. 'So,' she muttered to herself, 'Henry Wills was right.'
She made to close the volume, but as she did, her eye was caught by the title page.
She read aloud. "A Chronicle of the County of Haddington, now East Lothian, compiled by the children of its schools, and edited by the Marquis of Kinture."
Is that the present Marquis?'
`No,' said Mrs McQueen. 'That would be his father, the old Marquis. He died about ten years ago. He was very good to the schools in the area, was old Lord Kinture. His son's very generous too, but things have changed since then. The parents like to do more for their children's schools today, and that old-fashioned patronage isn't needed so much.'
She picked up the red book. 'Right, I've heard the tape, and you've read the book. I also remember something I glanced over in the Scotsman earlier. That gives me a clearer idea of why you're here. So how else can I help?'
`You've helped plenty already, Mrs McQueen. But you couldn't give me an address for Mr Soutar, could you?'
I could, but you won't need to go to his home. Davie's a police Sergeant. He's stationed at Dalkeith, as I remember, but I imagine that you can have him come to you!'
Nineteen
‘I have to call in here on the way home, Joe. Come in with me, if you like. Who knows, you might catch a glimpse of your pal Morton.'
With some difficulty, he found a space in the car park in front of the Witches' Hill clubhouse.
He stepped out of the BMW and gazed across to the practice ground, where five brightly dressed figures were ranged in a line, surrounded by coaches and caddies. They were too far off for him to make out faces, or even skin tone, but each swung his club in a way that was almost a personal signature. Between the languid action which could belong only to Cortes, and the bludgeoning style which Skinner knew to be Tiger Nakamura's trademark, there was a swing full of the grace, touch and suppleness of youth. 'A swing of beauty is a joy for ever,' he said.
`You're suddenly poetic, Bob,' said Doherty, closing the passenger door.
`Golf is poetry, my friend, and the boy I'm looking at will be its Laureate one day. Come on.'
He led the way around the corner of the clubhouse and down the tarmac cart path at the left side of the first fairway. A single rope ran on their right, erected during the day to enclose spectators.
Ever go to golf tournaments, Joe?'
`Gawd no!' said the lean American, vehemently. 'Grosvenor Square is the wide open spaces as far as I'm concerned. I'm a city bird; I get dizzy in this much acreage.'
`Pity,' said Skinner. 'Golf is one of the few mass sports you can follow where you know that the crowds will be well-behaved. When either of the big Glasgow football teams come to play in Edinburgh, our officers, in strength, escort them from the railway stations and bus parks down to the ground, then back again when the game's over. You work in London, so you know what I mean.
At this event we'll maintain a presence, as required, but we're here to assist, or to deter any thieves who might see this as easy pickings. We're not here to guarantee crowd behaviour.'
He looked around. 'It's so peaceful that it's bizarre to think of being here on Sunday to investigate a murder.'
The practice area was set a little off the fairway. It was around 100 yards wide, and 350 long, with marker flags set in the ground at different distances, so that the players could test their accuracy with the different clubs in their bags. Skinner looked along the line of five, and confirmed his earlier guess, that Darren Atkinson was not among them. He recognised Ewan Urquhart, closest to him, and Deacon Weekes furthest away. Each had a swing which was carefully designed to allow as little room for error as possible, upright and without the suggestion of a loop in the hitting action. In the centre of the group stood a tall, slender black man; still, in fact, a youth. Oliver M'tebe seemed almost frail, and yet as Skinner and Doherty watched, they saw that he hit the ball prodigious distances. His swing was more full than the rest, with an almost exaggerated cocking of the wrists at the completion of the backswing which laid the club parallel with the ground, Pointing in the exact direction of the eventual flight of the shot.
The downswing relied on perfect co-ordination rather than on force, the graphite head of the driver making a beautifully sweet sound as it struck, then carrying the hands on to a high finish. The ball, in its perfect flight, moved very slightly off the straight, from left to right.
Skinner would have described the process as effortless, had he not known of the days, months, and years which had to be spent in practice and of the thousands of golf balls which had to be hit to achieve such perfection. 'I think I may give up this game,' he whispered to Doherty.
They watched for several minutes, not wanting to interrupt the practice session. Eventually, M'tebe's caddy
placed another hundred-ball basket in front of his client, and handed him a mid-range iron. Changing his method only by shortening his stance, the young African began to pepper the 200-yard marker flag. Eventually the caddy wandered towards Skinner and Doherty.
`Just call in on your way home, gents?' he asked, in his bag-carrier's whisper. He smiled, proudly. 'Worth watching, in't he? I've caddied for all the big names in my time, for Chuck, for the Eagle, for Cortes over there, even for Darren when 'e was a youngster, but this lad…
You mark my words, gents, this could turn out to be the best golfer ever. If we can get 'is short game about three-quarters as good as what you're watching now, there'll be no stopping
him.
The caddy gave his charge one more admiring smile, then lit a cigarette. He was around the same height as Doherty, but twice the width, with skin the colour of a walnut. It had been more than a day since his last shave, and everything about him was shabby, with two exceptions. He wore tan leather golf shoes which looked as if they might have been hand-made, and as he raised his cigarette to his lips, the sleeve of his sweater fell back, revealing a gold Rolex. 'Nice watch,' said Skinner.
The walnut face creased into a smile of pride. 'Yeah, in'it. Darren gave it me on Sunday. He had an 'ole in one on the last round, and that was the prize. We were playing with 'im. 'E's got a Rolex, so's Bravo… that's 'is caddy… and so's Oliver, so after the presentation, he gave it to me. "I'd feel a prat, wearing two watches," 'e said. Some bloke, is Darren.'
He fell silent, looking back at M'tebe with an appraising eye.
Skinner tapped him on the shoulder. 'Listen, don't make a fuss, but we're not just here to watch. We're police officers. We need to talk to Oliver, about something that's happened at home. When he's ready to take a break, could you ask him to join us.'
The caddy frowned, then glanced again at M'tebe. 'Should be ready to change clubs now. 'Old on.' He sauntered across to the golfer as he was setting up yet another ball and, putting a hand on his arm, muttered in his ear. The young African looked across in sudden alarm, handed his club to the caddy and walked over.
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