Skinner’s round bs-4

by Quintin Jardine

  Twenty-six

  ‘How 's Alison Higgins shaping up, Bob?' The Chief leaned back in his chair as Skinner finished his account of progress in the White investigation.

  The ACC glanced at his watch; five minutes remained before the ever punctual Brian Mackie would arrive with Joe Doherty. The ACC knew that Proud Jimmy was not given to asking idle questions, and so he thought carefully before he answered. 'She's far from the finished article, but overall I'd say she's doing all right. I like people to exercise authority when they're given it. She's still a bit hesitant in that respect, but I'm working on that.

  `She gets on well with her junior officers, although she took a wee pop at Maggie at our briefing this morning.'

  `Brave woman!' said the Chief.

  `Maybe, but she learned from it. She had to apologise to her in front of the troops. I'll bet you she never puts herself in that position again. She's a quick learner, and she's capable of going higher.'

  `You mean she could become a chief officer?'

  `Yes, I'd say she has that potential. Whether she fulfils it, well, that's up to her. I'd say, though, that once she's gathered enough experience of high-level CID work, she'll be happiest, and most effective as a commander, in uniform.'

  `Like me, you mean,' said Sir James with a twinkle in his eye. Suddenly he scratched his chin, as if something had popped back into his mind. 'Talking about area commanders, Charlie Radcliffe called me this morning. He's making a fine recovery from his operation, and he expects to be fit to return in two months at the latest.

  `So that means… that I'm getting back my best detective officer,' said Skinner, emphatically.

  The Chief looked at him in pleased surprise. 'I was going to say that we'd have to find something for Charlie in this building.'

  'No, thank you very much. Charlie's a great field commander; Andy Martin's a great detective. We both know where each of them belongs.'

  `So you and Andy are on speaking terms again! Well, thank Christ for that. How about Alex?

  Has she been in touch?'

  Skinner shook his head. 'No, only with Sarah. I think Andy and I'll have to conduct separate peace negotiations with our Alexis. Ach, if I had just gone straight home that morning!'

  Proud Jimmy touched his sleeve. 'Water under the bridge, son. You two eedjits have taken the first step. The next ones'll happen by themselves, believe me.'

  Skinner's reply was cut off by the buzz of the intercom on the Chief's desk. He pressed a button. 'Yes, Gerry.'

  DCI Mackie and Mr Doherty are here, sir,' said the Chief's new civilian secretary.

  `Bang on time. Send them in, and bring in the coffee, please.'

  A few seconds later, the door opened, Brian Mackie holding it ajar and ushering Joe Doherty into the room. The Chief Constable, all silver braid in his full uniform, advanced on him, hand outstretched. 'Joe! Good to see you. The lads were right, I'd have been huffed if you'd been here and not said hello.'

  The four settled themselves into low leather chairs around the coffee table as the secretary set down a tray laden with cups, biscuits and two steaming cafetieres, with plungers depressed.

  'Thanks, Gerry,' said the Chief. 'We'll pour, once these settle.' The young man nodded and left the room.

  Proud turned back to Doherty. 'So, Joe, you're "helping us with our enquiries", are you?' he asked, with a smile.

  `So it seems, Sir James. I find an excuse to escape from London, and here I am stuck behind another desk!

  `Still it's in a good cause. My colleagues across the water are very excited even by the outside chance that we might be able to pin something on Morton, suppose if it is on your turf.'

  `They really think he's a bad 'un, do they?'

  The sallow-faced American nodded. 'They're certain of it, Chief. They've just never been able to get close enough to hang anything on him.'

  Skinner leaned across the table as Brian Mackie poured the coffee. 'Do your people think they'll be able to help us any further?'

  `Sure they will. We have a whole section on Morton's organisation. I've got guys researching it right now. One thing they told me right away. SSC doesn't run a branch office in Europe or anywhere else. Morton likes to keep everyone close. But they do go to every major golf event where their men are playing, and there were three or four in the field at last week's European tournament.'

  `Do you expect a report today?'

  `Shit, yes, Bob! I've fixed a meeting with the new Special Branch in Glasgow for 4 p.m. this afternoon. By that time I expect to have wrapped this thing up and taken the Chief to lunch, and you too Brian

  … if you're allowed to eat at the same table as your boss!'

  Sir James smiled. 'I think we could allow a dispensation, Joe, but I'll have to decline, I'm afraid. I'm lunching with the Chair of the Joint Police Board today, and since she's a new girl, I don't know her well enough to be sure that a short-notice cancellation wouldn't upset her.

  Don't let that hold you and Brian back though.'

  One thing might,' said Skinner. 'I've got another task for you, Brian, apart from checking out any SSC names that Joe can give us. I want you to call South Africa and ask them how they're doing in their investigation into M'tebe's father's abduction. Give them a nudge as well. Tell them that young M'tebe was made an offer by Greenfields, Bill Masur's group, but that he turned them down. He's going to sign instead with Darren Atkinson's company.'

  He glanced at Proud. 'Darren told me that yesterday, Chief. He seems to think that Masur is OK about it, but maybe he's being naive. From what I saw of the way he handled Morton, Masur isn't a guy to be put off easily. And if he's connected in the way Joe says, he may think he can persuade young M'tebe to think again about signing with Darren.'

  He stood up. 'So you throw that pebble of knowledge in the South Africans' pond, Brian.

  Then enjoy your lunch. You might introduce Joe to the Waterside in Haddington, especially if the FBI's paying. As for me, I'm off to uphold the honour of this constabulary on the golf course.'

  Twenty-seven

  Skinner pulled his car to a halt and looked out across the wide expanse towards the unladen supertanker, its stern pointing towards him. He had turned the corner at the very moment when the tide in Aberlady Bay had reached full ebb.

  The sand flats stretched away for more than a mile. From road level, the distant, calm sea showed only as a sun-speckled silver ribbon, tied across the bay's mouth, and the tanker, riding high as it waited for its summons to take on cargo from the oil terminal, looked for all the world as if it was grounded.

  In a county of quiet spectacle, it was one of Skinner's favourite sights. Always, when he encountered it, driving from the narrow village which had given its name to the bay, he stopped for a time to look and reflect. He remembered the first time that the mirage had ever caught his eye, the vanished sea with the ship cruising across the shimmering sand.

  Seventeen years before, summoned to the scene of a road accident, a fatal road accident, he had seen it and had stopped, to gather his thoughts and perhaps to wish away what he knew was waiting for him a little further on. And the thought had come to him that if this natural phenomenon had been in its full display around an hour earlier, then perhaps Myra would have stopped to look also, and perhaps she would not have been travelling so fast when eventually she had come to Luffness Corner, and perhaps…

  The thought crept back as it always did. He shook his head to throw aside impossible comparisons. He was still disturbed by the rediscovery of Myra's tape, and by the thoughts which it had stirred from their banishment to the deepest recesses of his mind. If his car had a time switch to take him back those seventeen years, to save Myra's life but to wipe out all else, would he press it?

  He squeezed his eyes shut and took his wallet from his jacket. Flipping it open, he opened his eyes at the same time, and looked intently at the photo of Sarah and Jazz behind its Perspex panel. As he did the clenched muscles of his face relaxed into a smile. Replacing the
wallet in his pocket, he slipped the car back into gear and drove on, into the present.

  He had reached the outskirts of Gullane and the brown brick facility which his golf club had provided for its visitors, when the carphone rang. He pushed the receive button and Joe Doherty's voice filled the car. The background noise indicated that he was on the road also.

  `My guys have come good, Bob. They've sent over a full list of the executive Vice-Presidents in SSC. As we thought, they're mostly lawyers, real Ivy-Leaguers in their early thirties.

  They're organised within the company on a divisional basis, each one concentrating on a different sport, or global sector. For example, there are three V-Ps looking after golf, each with his own group of clients.

  `But there's one of them who doesn't have any special interest. He reports straight to Mike Morton, and from what we've been able to figure out, all the other guys seem to defer to him.

  He's older than the rest, about Morton's age, in fact, and he ain't no law school guy. His name is Richard Andrews, at least it is now. If you trace him far enough back, you'll find that when he was given exemption from military service on compassionate grounds, his name was Rocco Andrade. If you look a little further you'll find that his request for exemption was countersigned by old man Morticelli. Dig even deeper and you'll find that young Andrade's mamma's given name was Angela Morticelli, and that she was the old man's sister.'

  `Tasty,' said Skinner, turning off Gullane Main Street. `What sort is Mr Andrews?'

  `He's a big, mean mother. A few years back, SSC had trouble with one of its fighters, a good champion with more smarts than were good for him. He wasn't happy with his end of the money for an up-coming fight, so he said he wouldn't sign. Andrews went to see him, and the guy signed on the dotted line. By the time the fight took place, SSC had the opponent under contract too. The champ took a swig from his water bottle after the first round, and was kayoed in the second. He never fought again.'

  Skinner drew the car to a halt outside the cottage. 'How do they describe Mr Andrews inside the organisation? He must have some sort of title.'

  Doherty laughed. 'Sure he has, and you'll like it. Morton calls him Vice-President in charge of special negotiations.'

  `You're right, I like it. Do we know where he was last weekend?'

  ‘Yup. Our informant inside SSC tells us that Andrews and one of the golf V-Ps, Bert Holliman, were in the UK for the PGA tournament last week. Holliman flew back on Sunday evening, but so far Andrews hasn't shown up back at the ranch.'

  `Fascinating. I wonder where he was on Sunday? Listen, where are you just now? Is Brian with you?'

  `Yeah, he's driving. We're heading out of town towards Fiaddington. We got a table booked at this Waterside place, then Brian's taking me to the station for the Glasgow train.'

  OK, don't bolt lunch, or break any speed limits, but tell Brian that as soon as he's done that, he should check out Mr Andrews. He should find out which hotel had him as a guest last week, and when he booked out. Tell him to try the car hire companies too.

  If this man can't account for himself on Sunday, I may want to have some "special negotiations" with him myself.'

  Twenty-eight

  ‘Honest to God, Skinner, look at you. Forty-five years old and nervous as a kitten. Where's the man I married? What happened to the father of this child?' She stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

  Jazz was curled in the crook of her arm, smiling. Approaching four months old, he held his head upright. His experiments with sound were growing more inventive by the day, and now he babbled out a string of sounds, as if mimicking his mother.

  Bob threw him a mock glare. 'You can wind your neck in for a start, boy. One piss-taker in this family's quite enough.

  And you madam, should be enough of a golfer to understand what it's like to be about to tee off with Darren Atkinson with people watching. Knocking a few balls down the practice range is one thing, but this is public play, on a nice day, with hundreds, maybe thousands of people in the gallery.

  `This isn't going to be like teeing off in the Friday evening bounce game in front of Craig, or Bobby, or Ken or Eric.' He slipped on his blazer, over a fresh white shirt.

  She laughed. 'Well, just imagine that's who is watching you. Look, what's the worst that could happen?'

  He pondered her question. 'I suppose the worst case would be if Norton Wales out-drove me.

  Mind you, I'd back Jazz to knock it further than Norton!' He took his son and raised him tip high towards the ceiling, tickling him with his thumbs. The baby grinned and chortled.

  `Careful, Bob, he's just had a feed.'

  `You wouldn't barf on your dad, would you, son? Any more than your sister did in her time.'

  All the same, he handed Jazz carefully back to his mother, smiling.

  `You know, my love, you've never looked more beautiful than you do now standing there, son on hip, all eyes, lips and suntan. Christ, if I wasn't going to golf.'

  She grinned back at him. 'Yeah, too bad. I'll tell you something, copper, just between the three of us. I'm happier now than I've ever been in my life, happier in fact than I've ever imagined being. Going back to work'll be a lot tougher than I'd thought.'

  `Then don't,' he said at once. 'Tell the University you've had second thoughts about the job. A lot of women need to work to sustain a lifestyle. You don't. We own all our properties, and I've got extra income from my legacy investments. And, you're right, we don't need both this house and the Edinburgh place. We want Jazz to go to school here anyway, don't we?

  `So tell the University "Sorry, I made a mistake." Stay at home and enjoy being a full-time mother, for a few years at least!'

  His sudden vehemence astonished her. 'Hey honey, is this Pre-match tension or something?

  What brought all this on?'

  He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. I suppose I've been going along with the University thing because I know that a Chair at your age is an honour, but most of all because I thought it was what you really wanted.

  `Now, if you say it isn't, then there's no question. Let it go, and stay here with Jazz. Nothing would make me happier.'

  She took his hand and looked him in the eye. 'Slow down, big Bob, and listen to what I said.

  Going back to work is going to be tougher than I thought, especially in the first few months, but it's still what I want to do. I'm your wife and Jazz's mother, but I'm more than that. I'm me as well.

  It was me you fell in love with, not Jazz's mom. You're right, I don't have to go back to work. But it's part of being me, and if I throw it away, a big part of me will go with it. I'll change, I'll become someone else, someone different from the woman you fell in love with.

  OK, you might love her too, but maybe not as much… or maybe not at all. I ain't going to take that chance.

  `Mellow motherhood may have its hooks in me for now, but they'd loosen sooner than you think.'

  He stared at her, with a strange, almost pleading expression that she had never seen before.

  'OK I hear that, but surely a year wouldn't hurt. Defer the job till next session. Do that at least for me, and for him!'

  She smiled gently. 'Darling, it's for both of you that I'm going back to work.

  The decision's made, I've given my word, and the students are enrolling. Now, put all this out of your mind. Get down to Witches' Hill and knock that first tee-shot way past Norton Wales!'

  Twenty-nine

  ‘Does the name Richard Andrews mean anything to you, Darren?' Skinner asked as he finished tying the laces of his brown golf shoes.

  Atkinson looked at him in surprise. 'Mr Nice? Oh yes, I know him well enough.'

  `Why d'you call him that?'

  `That's what everyone calls him. You might say that he's the unacceptable face of Mike Morton… if you can handle that as a concept! He's been around Morton for as long as I've known him, and if you thought that Mike behaved like a shit with Masur yesterday, you should see Andrews in action
. I've heard him talk to world-class golfers like I wouldn't talk to a dog. And the amazing thing is that they take it. I mean, these guys are effectively his employers, his and Morton's, yet they're told where to play, where to live, what deals to sign.

  They just surrender themselves to SSC, completely.'

  `Did SSC ever try to recruit you?'

  The golfer nodded. 'Sure, just over ten years ago, just before I won my first tournament on the US tour, I had a call from Morton. He made me an offer, said that if I signed with him, I'd get access to invitation events that would be closed to me otherwise, that I'd make a guaranteed million dollars a year in endorsements.

  I told him I was earning that much already, and that didn't have a problem filling my schedule. Next day I had a visit from Mr Nice, in my hotel room. He said to me that if I didn't sign with SSC then maybe I would start to have schedule problems. I said to him that I was very happy with the way that my brother Rick was managing my affairs, and that I wasn't about to change things.

  `Then Mr Nice said… and I'll never forget the way he said it

  … "Yeah, but anyone can have an accident. Suppose something was to happen to your brother?" He came straight out with it.' Atkinson pulled on his sweater, and headed towards the changing-room door.

  `So how did you react?' said Skinner, following.

  I told him that if Rick as much as caught a cold I'd go straight to the FBI. Then I threw him out.'

  Was there any follow-up?'

  Atkinson opened the door at the end of the corridor and stepped out into the daylight. He shook his head. 'Not from them. It got me steamed up though. I went out and won the tournament that week. Paul Wyman was SSC's top dog then, and I beat him in a play-off. A few weeks later I won my first Masters, and all of a sudden I was big news, and even bigger box-office. Whether they liked it or not, SSC needed me at their events. So Morton and I reached an agreement, that I'd give their tournaments preference and they'd pay me appearance money.'