Skinner walked across towards the Superintendent, his eye following her pointing arm to the surface of the loch. 'Could one man have done it all, I wonder?' He strode across to the end of the boom and took hold of the rope with both hands. Winding it around his wrists for added purchase, he tugged downwards.
On the other end of the boom, the chair and Masur's dead Weight rose, dripping, into the air, with surprising ease. 'No problem. The length of the lever makes it relatively simple, if you've got the basic strength to get the bugger off the deck! Holding the body aloft, he stepped to his left, to the very edge of the bank, and lowered it, gently, on to flatter, drier ground, just beside the sectioned area. He unwound the rope from his wrists, and brushed the hemp strands from the sleeves of his jacket, then walked back, ducklike in his flapping wellingtons, to rejoin Higgins and McGuire.
`You can have the body removed now. PDQ in fact, just in case there are any long-range cameras on the scene already. Make sure the ambulance doesn't go out past the clubhouse, but along the buggy track and out through the Bracklands Estate road.
`Complete the sweep of the ground as fast as you can, then tape off the spot where the body was landed, and clear everyone out of here; by nine-thirty if you can manage it.'
McGuire looked at Skinner in surprise. 'Is the tournament going ahead, boss?'
I don't see why it shouldn't, unless I have to arrest all the players! The body'll be out of the way, and the public can't contaminate the site. Deacon Weekes's team will be one short, but I'm sure he'll manage.
OK, you two attend to all that stuff. I'm off to join Andy for a working breakfast at Bracklands!'
Thirty-six
Bracklands was a truly great house, a palace of yellow stone. It stood in the centre of a vast oval paddock, enclosed by a surround of high trees, planted over the centuries to shield its masters' eyes from the privations of their tenants, and to hide from theirs, in turn, the splendour which their toil helped to sustain.
`So what's new?' Skinner said aloud, as he steered Sarah's Frontera through the break in the trees and up the long drive which led to the Kintures' ancestral seat. 'The tenant farmers still pay him rent, and the Webbs, the Watts and the Hays still cut his grass, and mend his fences and fix his burst pipes. The difference is that now he has an international share portfolio, and that through it he'll own parts of companies whose wealth is founded on subsistence level wages in Third World countries:
Yet even as the thought spoke itself, he pondered on his own inherited comfort, his investment and his pension provision. The really big difference, though, is that today, so does a guy like you!'
A silver car stood on the red gravel concourse which lay between Bracklands and its lawn.
Two men leaned against it and from afar, he recognised them. He drew the Frontera up parallel to the new Mondeo, a few yards away, and stepped out.
He took the few paces to close the space between himself and Andy Martin, both literal and symbolic, with a smile spreading across his face and his hand stretched out in greeting.
Martin pushed himself off the Mondeo's rounded side and came to meet him halfway.
Normally, Skinner would have avoided such an obvious punch as it looped towards him.
Instead he stood his ground, motionless, as the fist smacked into his chin. He rocked back on his heels, but stayed on his feet… and the smile never left his face. Neil Mcllhenney started forward in confusion, until Martin, breathing slightly heavily, grasped the still-outstretched hand, and shook it.
Skinner nodded slightly, and the smile became a grin of delight. Martin looked at him and laughed. It was as if the fist had punched through the last barrier between them. They stood there, neither finding a word to say, just two old friends reunited after a long separation.
Eventually, Skinner released his handshake, and turned towards Mcllhenney. 'So there you are, Neil. Now you know about the family quarrel, and now you know it's over. You're family too, you and Brian, and Maggie and McGuire. The whole team's back together again, so the bad people can look out.'
He slapped his hands together. 'Right, gentlemen. What have we got inside?'
I did as you asked, boss,' said Martin. 'I told the Marquis, but no one else. He says that they're serving breakfast in the dining room from seven-forty-five this morning, and that all the house guests should be up by then.'
Skinner glanced at his watch. The time was 7.46 a.m. `Come on then,' he said, 'let's see if anyone doesn't choke on his corn flakes when we give them the news.'
The three strode towards the vast house and up the wide stone steps which led to its doorway.
Light shone through the morning gloom from several of the upper windows and all along the ground floor to the right of the entrance. Martin pointed in that direction. The Marquis's suite is along at the far end. It's been wheelchair-adapted. That's where I saw him. I don't know where Lady Kinture sleeps, but that was certainly not a woman's bedroom. Plenty of Paco Rabanne, but no Rive Gauche.'
The simple plastic bell-push was something of an anticlimax, but the echoing sound of its chime was impressive. The door was answered after a minute by a small middle-aged man in a dark suit. 'Hello again, Mr Burton,' said Martin to the butler. 'We are expected back. This is Assistant Chief Constable Skinner.'
`Yes, sir. The Marquis told me to show you to the dining room, and to serve you with breakfast. Please follow me.' He ushered them into the house, and into a wide entrance hall. It was floored in yellowish marble and a stairway of the same stone, its crimson carpet held in place by heavy brass runners, seemed to flow upwards out of its centre. Ancestral portraits lined its walls, and tall double mahogany doors led off in several directions. The policemen followed Mr Burton through the first doorway on the right, and down a corridor. Twenty paces on, he stopped and opened another set of double doors, then stood aside to allow the three policemen to enter the dining room.
Twelve people sat around the long dining table. 'Morning Skinner,' boomed the Marquis from his place at its head. 'So glad you and your chums could join us for breakfast.' The ACC saw a gleam in his eye; he was enjoying the grim game.
At his shout, ten heads swivelled round in surprise to stare at the trio framed in the doorway.
Arthur Highfield looked tense and nervous.
The butler showed Skinner to a chair at the end of the table directly opposite Kinture, seating Martin on his right, Mcllhenney on his left. Around them three maids bustled, serving breakfast to the party. 'Thank you, sir,' said Skinner, taking his place. 'Let's see, is everyone here?' He looked around the table, from left to right and from place to place. `Mr Gregory.
Nakamura-San. Mr Weekes. Mr Wyman. Mr Morton. Mr Highfield. Lord Kinture. Lady Kinture. Mr Atkinson. Mr M'tebe. Mr Urquhart. Senor Cortes. Yes, that seems to be everyone.' A maid placed a huge platter before him, piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding and mushrooms. Kylie, his baby-sitter of the previous evening, filled his cup with thick black coffee.
`What about Mr Masur?' said Susan Kinture, a puzzle-line creasing her forehead.
I hadn't forgotten him, Sue. He's been detained elsewhere. We've just left him in fact.' He stared down the table towards the Marquis, who was biting his lip with some vigour.
Darren Atkinson leaned forward and looked along. 'What's that, Bob? Detained? Are you saying that Masur killed Michael White?'
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'Whether he did or not, Darren, makes no odds now. I didn't say that we'd detained Mr Masur. No, he's been kept from his breakfast on account of being dead.'
Susan Kinture gave a small shriek. 'You're kidding,' said Atkinson. Highfield went even whiter. Gregory, Weekes, Wyman, M'tebe, Urquhart and Cortes all stared at him in blank astonishment. Tiger Nakamura looked simply bewildered. Skinner could not see Mike Morton at all. He had shrunk back into his seat.
`Sorry, Darren. I wish I was kidding. I don't like looking at bodies at any time of the day, but just before breakfast is absolutely my leas
t favourite time.'
`But he can't be dead,' said Atkinson. 'I mean, we all saw him just a few hours ago.'
`Believe me, my friend, if my wife says he's dead, then don't look forward to him buying you your next drink. And my wife isn't in any doubt.'
`What happened? Did he have a heart attack walking back?'
He snorted. 'It was a bloody weird one if he did. Look, I don't want to go into the details just now. What I need to know is where everyone in this room was at the time he died. That means between leaving the clubhouse and around two a.m.'
He glanced at McIlhenney, but the Sergeant had anticipated his request and had produced a notebook and pen.
`Let's begin at the clubhouse. After Sarah and I left in our taxi, what happened, and how did the party disperse? Lord Kinture, perhaps you could tell us?'
The Marquis nodded, and pulled himself a little closer to the table. let me think.' He scratched his eagle's-wing temple and gathered his thoughts. 'OK, the Murano party first. They're all based at North Berwick Marine. We couldn't put them all up here. They're hosting the celebrities too, all the politicians, singers and stuff. They went back to the hotel by bus, not long after you left. The others, the local people, all drifted off around then too.' He waved a languid hand at his table companions. 'That just left this lot.
`We all had another drink, while we waited for the estate bus and for my chauffeur with my battle-wagon. While we were doing that, Morton here and Masur had a shouting match.'
Skinner leaned to his right, forcing Morton to look back up the table towards him.
`To be fair to Morton,' said the Marquis, `Masur was rubbing his nose in it over the Tiger business. Man was bloody rude, being the sort of Aussie that gives Aussies a bad name.' He nodded down the table. `Savin' your presence, Sandro.'
`That's all right,' said the golfer. 'I was downright ashamed of him. In fact, I told him that if he didn't shut it he'd be losing a client while he was gaining one.'
Anyway,' the Marquis continued, 'the bus and the Range Rover arrived just then. I didn't want Morton and Masur to be going at it on the bus, so I insisted that Morton travel back to Bracklands with me. We loaded up and we left.'
Skinner nodded, caught with a mouthful of breakfast. 'OK,' he said at last. 'How did everyone else get back, and what happened to Masur? Mr Highfield?'
The PGA man jumped as Skinner addressed him, but gathered himself together quickly. 'It was all quite simple really. The rest of us were climbing aboard the bus, when Masur said that he fancied some fresh air. He said that he'd probably had too many sherbets, and that the walk back to Bracklands across the course would do him good. He set off, and the rest of us got on the bus.'
Immediately?'
Highfield thought for a moment. 'Couple of the chaps went off to the gents, but after that yes.'
`Very good. So we've established how everyone headed back to the house. Now, what did you all do when you got here? Lord Kinture?'
The Marquis waved his coffee cup at a maid. 'Can't speak for everyone of course, but Arthur here, Ewan and Andres had a nightcap with me in my study. The Tiger was with us too, watching some Japanese channel on satellite TV. I suppose that we packed it in around… what was it boys, quarter to one?' Urquhart and Cortes gave brief nods of agreement.
`Right, that's five accounted for. How about the rest of you?'
Sandro Gregory raised a hand. 'Oliver, Paul, the Deacon and me, we all were in the billiard room for a couple of hours. The snooker match of the decade: US versus the Rest of the World. We called it a tie eventually around one-thirty, and split to our rooms.'
Skinner looked down the table. 'Darren?'
Atkinson leaned forward. 'Lady Kinture and I sat for a while in the drawing room. You remember, don't you; we said we'd have a chat about the course after the dinner.' The Marquis looked round sharply. 'I suppose we must have talked until just after midnight.'
OK, that gives us one group in the study, one in the billiard room and you two in the drawing room. After that you all went straight to bed, yes?' An assortment of assenting grunts came from around the table.
And how about you, Mr Morton?' he asked, heavily. 'What did you do when you got back to Bracklands, after your argument with the late Masur?'
Fourteen people stared at the American in silence. Morton fidgeted in his chair. He stuck out his chin aggressively, and glared around the table. 'I went straight to my room, OK? I was still pissed by Masur's little speech at the dinner, and by the Tiger running out on SSC. I didn't want to see either of the bastards, so as soon as the Range Rover got back here, I said goodnight and hit the sack.'
‘Can you confirm that, Lord Kinture?'
Afraid not, Skinner old boy. The car drops me at my ramp at the rear of the house. Sue and I got out there. Morton was still in the back seat last time I saw him, waiting for the chauffeur to drive him round to the front door. It's quite a long walk, y'see.'
`Yes, I see,' said Skinner. He looked at Martin. 'Superintendent, any thoughts?'
The blond policeman straightened up in his chair. His striking green eyes gazed steadily across the table, at the red-faced American. 'With everyone else accounted for, and in company, only one scenario can't be discounted; that Mr Morton, having had two recent run-ins with Masur and having suffered a painful business loss to him, watched the estate bus return, thinking that he would be on board, and that he could renew the earlier confrontation.
When he saw that the man hadn't returned with the rest, he guessed that he would be walking back across the course, and headed out into the night to confront him.'
`Hey, wait a minute!' Morton sat bolt upright in his chair, redder than ever, with the beginnings of panic in his eyes. 'This is a stitch-up!'
Skinner looked at him evenly. 'Relax, Mr Morton. As the Superintendent says, that's only a scenario. You have to face it. You have had violent disputes with Masur, in public. He has damaged your business. Alongside that, the fact is that from the moment you got out of the Range Rover there's no one to vouch for your movements.
`We're not saying positively that's what happened, and if we were it'd be up to us to prove it.
So don't get excited, unless you have something to be excited about.'
He paused and glanced back down the table. 'Lord Kinture, this is a bit awkward. There is something that I should do, to progress our investigation. Now the last thing I want to do is to go to the Sheriff in Haddington and ask him for a warrant to search Bracklands. It would be a great help if you would allow me to look around informally.'
`For my part, Skinner, I have no objection. Only thing is, I do have an obligation to my guests.'
Of course. But I know exactly what I'm looking for, and I'd be happy to have any search witnessed by those whose rooms we go into. I'm sorry about this, but it is necessary, and I really don't want to do it the hard way. Any objections?' There was something in his expression which made the question rhetorical.
`Good. In that case, since you're the man with the whereabouts problem, Mr Morton, we'll start with your room. If you'll come with the Superintendent and me…' He rose from the table, and Andy Martin followed his lead. On impulse, he looked back down the table. 'Susan, just to give Mr Morton added comfort, perhaps you'd like to come along as an independent witness.'
`Yes, if it'll help.' She left her seat, resplendent in the bright sweater and slacks which Skinner guessed were to be the day's caddying uniform and walked round the table to join them. He held the door open for her, then for Morton.
The American's suite was front-facing, directly over the main entrance. 'I have to say, you couldn't have had a better view of the bus when it got back, Mr Morton,' said Skinner, idly.
`Let's keep this simple, shall we, sir? Show us the clothes you I wore last night, please, and all the shoes you have with you.'
The American hesitated, and the look of panic intensified. Skinner nodded towards the room's tall wardrobe, catching his reflection in its central mirror. 'In th
ere, I think. Andy.' Martin stepped up and opened the right-hand door. A dozen hangers RI were occupied by a variety of suits, slacks and jackets. Eventually, Morton walked across, reluctantly, and removed the one bearing the blazer and slacks which the ACC recognised as his dress of a few hours before. 'Susan?'
Lady Kinture took the hanger and held it up. She peered at the clothes, then felt their fabric with her left hand. 'They're damp.' She looked even more closely at the slacks. 'And I think that's mud, just there.'
`Now the shoes, please,' said Skinner.
Morton's panic had been replaced by a look of resignation. He delved into the wardrobe and produced a pair of black leather moccasins, which lie handed again to Susan Kinture. Their uppers were dull and lustreless. She turned them over and saw black mud wedged into the angle between sole and heel.
Skinner hid his surprise. 'This doesn't look too good, Mr Morton. At this point I have to give you a formal caution that you do not have to answer our questions, but that anything you do say will be noted, and could be used against you. Now, on that basis, would you like to tell us now how this happened, or would you rather go to a police office and be interviewed formally?'
The American sat down hard on the bed. 'No, I'll tell you right now. It's dead simple, but like you said, there ain't no witnesses.
I did come straight up here when I got out of the car. And yes, I did look out and see the bus get back, and I saw that Masur wasn't on it. I was still as hot as a stove, and if he had been there, I was ready to go down and take a swing at him, or challenge him to pistols at dawn, anything to wipe that grin off his face.
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