Skinner’s round bs-4

by Quintin Jardine

  `That's great. Now I really do feel like a lemon!'

  Susan turned to the elderly woman. 'Bob, Sarah, I'd like you to meet my mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Kinture. Mother, this is Assistant Chief Constable Skinner and his wife.'

  The matron's expression unfroze very slightly. 'How do you do?' she said, extending a hand to Skinner, and contriving to ignore Sarah. Bob guessed that she must approve of policemen, but of little else.

  `Hector insisted that Mother join us tonight. She lives in a house on the estate now, but every so often she comes up to Bracklands, for an event.' Lady Kinture the elder frowned at her daughter-in-law down her long patrician nose.

  `This week must be exciting for you, ma'am,' said Skinner, making an effort.

  Her face iced over once more. 'Exciting is not the word I would use, young man,' she said, in a voice like the edge of a fine blade, then turned towards the next arrivals.

  Bob led Sarah into the ballroom, into the heart of the throng of guests. 'Cheerful soul, isn't she?' he whispered. `Hector must really have looked forward to going away to boarding school. I liked the "Young Man" bit though.'

  He accepted two glasses of red wine from a liveried attendant. Handing one to his wife, he took a sip, nodding with approval as he recognised a Rioja, from a particularly good year.

  `Mmm, nice. They must have known we were coming.

  `Sarah love, why don't you go across and talk to Jimmy and Chrissie, and Mrs White? I'm going to seek out young Oliver. I'll be with you as soon as I've broken the news.'

  OK.' She reached up on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the cheek. He looked at her in surprise. 'What was that for?'

  I should need an excuse? See you later.'

  Skinner looked around the long room. He spotted Atkinson a little way off, with Wales, Murano and Arnie Harding, the retired baseball player turned film star. Tiger Nakamura, bizarre in a gold tuxedo, stood beyond them, ogling Frankie Holloway, and nodding sagely, although he did not understand a single word that Toby Bethune MP, the Sports Minister, was saying. At last he spotted the slim figure of Oliver M'tebe standing alone, looking up at a portrait of a Kinture ancestor hung over the empty fireplace. Casually, he strolled over to join him. 'Hello young man. That was a fine seventy you shot today, all things considered.'

  The slim African smiled politely. 'Thank you. All the way around I thought of my father. It helped.'

  `That's good. Oliver, I've got some news for you on that front. We had a message this evening, from Durban. Your father has been found. He's safe.'

  The young golfer's smile spread so wide that Skinner thought it would light up the room.

  Skinner took him by the arm. 'Come through here.' He led him into an ante-room.

  `How was he released?' said M'tebe, as soon as the door closed behind them.

  `We don't know. He stumbled into the road on the outskirts of the city, just a few hours ago.

  He was hit by a car…' The golfer's smile vanished instantly and was replaced by a look of panic. 'Hold your horses, he's OK. It was only a glancing blow but he was taken to hospital.

  He was dazed and confused, and it wasn't until he was recognised by a nurse at the hospital that anyone knew who he was.

  `The doctor who treated him said that he was sure he'd been drugged, probably with a very heavy sedative. They've given him some more, to put him to sleep overnight. In the morning, once he's rested, the police will talk to him, to find out what happened.

  `Your mother is at the hospital now, but the message as far as you're concerned is to stop worrying. When you tee off tomorrow, the chances are your dad will be sat up in bed, watching you on telly! That should knock two or three shots off your score.

  Now, this is a damn fine party. I suggest you get on out there and enjoy it!'

  He held the door open for the young man, whose smile had returned, and followed him back into the ballroom. Darren Atkinson saw them return. 'Good news?' he called across. Skinner nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign. 'Marvellous. Come on over here, Oliver, and get outside some of this wine!'

  Skinner looked around the room once more until he caught sight of Sarah, listening intently to Susan Kinture. He started towards them, until the faintest shake of his wife's head caused him to pull up short. Puzzled, he seized another glass of Rioja from a nearby tray and headed in the direction of Sir James Proud, who stood, with his back to him, resplendent in his Highland dress, his head nodding in conversation. Lady Proud saw Skinner approach and touched her husband on the sleeve. He turned, revealing the third member of their group.

  Ah Bob,' he cried. 'Come and join us. Have you had a chance to meet Mr Mike Morton?'

  Saturday

  Fifty-two

  Skinner shortened his stride as he slogged his way up the sheer, narrow path from the beach car park to the top of Gullane Hill. The rain had stopped but the rough grass was still sodden, and the ground still muddy, from the downpour of the day before.

  It was still well short of 8 a.m., but already there was a clamminess in the air which made him thankful that he had chosen to leave his tracksuit in the wardrobe, and to run in teeshirt and shorts. Occasionally as he ground his way up the slope a bird would flutter out from the undergrowth, and once a young rabbit darted out across his path, forcing him to check his stride.

  At last, chest heaving, he crested the hill and jogged out on to the golf course. He would have paused to enjoy the view from the seventh tee, but it was veiled by morning mist, and so instead he stretched his legs and loped easily down the middle of the fairway, allowing his breathing to return to normal after the effort of the steep climb.

  Skinner enjoyed his morning runs around the three golf courses which were laid out on the grassy Gullane hill. They allowed him to plan the day ahead, and to think through the challenges and decisions which awaited him. But now as he skirted the seventh green and headed out across the links towards the lower slopes he felt his brow knit.

  His week had become almost dreamlike. He felt himself uncomfortably out of control, being pulled along by events and reacting to them, rather than anticipating developments. He knew that he had been right to delegate command of the investigation of the two murders, and the apparent attack on Atkinson, but removed from the heart of the action, he felt isolated and slightly frustrated. He picked up his pace, punishing himself as he tried to piece the jigsaw together, to weigh the bizarre lead to the Witch's Curse alongside Mike Morton's twin grudges against Michael White, his very public hatred of Bill Masur, and even his potential antipathy to Darren Atkinson as a business threat. Morton was in the picture for all three crimes, and even, potentially for the kidnapping of the father of M'tebe, a client of Darren's company.

  `But is Atkinson a threat to SSC?' he asked himself aloud as he ran. 'Of course he is,' his mind answered. 'He's completely devoted to being number one in everything he does, on and off the course. He's already conquered America in one respect, and it isn't in his nature not to want to wrap up the management side there as well. And if his businessman brother's anything like him in attitude, you have to bet on them doing it.

  `That pitches them against SSC and Morton, and everything we know about him tells us that's a dangerous situation.

  But what about that bloody curse? A death by the blade. Another by water! How the goddamn would Morton or his minder Andrews know about that?'

  He stumbled briefly in a rabbit scrape. 'Shit!' he cried out. `Who'd be an effing copper!' He shook his head to clear the distracting thoughts, and looked around him as he ran through the misty morning, down on to the far reaches of Gullane's number two course. As if to remind him that he had reached the fringe of the nature reserve, a pair of late-breeding curlews swooped down towards him, their long beaks menacing, and their drawn-out cries warning him away from their nest. They swooped again, closer this time, almost within pecking distance. He looked ahead, and saw a line of four chicks, almost large enough for flight, waddling in single file across the path. He veered away,
heading up the hill once more, back towards the village, with the cries of the watchful parents growing fainter behind him, only to rise in intensity once more as two deer broke from their camouflage against a clump of dark bushes, and raced across the course in the direction from which he had come.

  He laughed to himself at the power of the place to lighten his mood, then set himself for the last punishing section of his run, back up and over the hill once more, at speed this time, along the roadside, into the village and across Goose Green to his cottage.

  Sarah was seated in the kitchen, in a pale blue robe, giving suck to her son, as Bob sprawled through the back door, steaming, streaming with sweat and holding his pulse to check his recovery rate.

  Woah, hoss,' she cried. 'Stay away from me.'

  He stripped off his running gear and stepped straight into the shower beside the kitchen, which he had installed when Alex was a child so that the sand from the beach could be washed off before being trailed into the house. Setting the valve to cool, he twisted the lever, arching his back and bunching his muscles as the powerful jet hit him.

  As he soaped himself he heard Sarah call from the kitchen. `Can't hear you,' he bellowed back. 'I'll be out in a minute.' It took longer than that for him to cool out completely, but eventually he stepped back out of the small shower compartment, drying himself with a fluffy white towel.

  She looked at him as he stood framed in the doorway, tall, lean and powerful, his golden tan emphasised by the white patches around his hips and around his wrist, where his watch was normally worn. 'Well, did that help?'

  He grinned at her. The older you get, the harder you have to work to stay in shape. You wait till you get to my age.'

  It was her turn to laugh. 'I can wait. I can wait. I find it hard enough being a thirty-something as it is. But that wasn't what I meant. I meant did you get your head together? All night you were tossing like a ship on the stormy ocean.'

  Was I? Sorry. Ach, it's just this whole week, and everything that's happened. It's bizarre. I feel as if we're missing something. I get frustrated when an inquiry isn't going as fast as I'd like it, and it's worse on this one, where I've made a point of putting someone else in command.

  `But it's OK, I've got myself sorted out now. Whenever I need a lesson in letting things take their course, a run through God's own country out there always does the trick.' He towelled his wet hair vigorously. 'By the way, what were you trying to say when I was in the shower?'

  Oh yes, Brian Mackie telephoned. He had a call from South Africa.'

  Skinner's eyebrows rose. 'Already?'

  `Yeah, he said they called him at seven-thirty. They've got more news on Oliver's father's disappearance.'

  `That was quick. Did they say how he is?'

  `He's fine, from the sound of things. He woke up early this morning wanting to talk. Brian would like you to give him a call.'

  `Sure, soon as I'm dressed.' She followed him from the kitchen, through the house to their bedroom, with Jazz, who had finished his first feed of the day, sprawled contented across her shoulder. Skinner dropped his towel into the laundry basket and stepped into their shower room. Standing naked before his shaving mirror, he wet his chin with hot water from the basin tap and rubbed gel, liberally, into his tough stubble. As he drew the razor in its first long sweep down the side of his face, a memory from the previous evening resurfaced suddenly in his mind. He called over his shoulder.

  `Hey, remember last night when you and Sue were deep in conversation and you waved me away? What was all that about?'

  Sarah stepped into the shower room to stand alongside him. `That..' she began, strangely hesitant. 'You might say that it was women's talk. Sue had something on her mind, and she's short of girlfriends to confide in.'

  `What's her problem, then? Physical or emotional?'

  `The latter.'

  Ah! Is Hector that tough to live with?'

  `No, he's very kind to her, under all that crustiness.'

  `But he can't attend to her physical needs, yes?'

  OK, so he can't, but that's got nothing to do with it, either.'

  Oh yes?'

  She stamped her foot lightly in mock exasperation. 'Damn you Skinner! You're going to go on and on, aren't you! Look, I'll tell you, but not a word or any sort of a hint to Sue… or anyone else, that you know about it.'

  As he shaved, she recounted Sue Kinture's story. By the time the last of the gel was cleared from Bob's face, his smile had gone with it.

  Fifty-three

  He had just driven away from the cottage when he remembered that he had not called Mackie. He switched on his earphone and dialled the Headquarters number, knowing, even though it was Saturday, and not yet 9 a.m., that he would find the early-rising, workaholic detective at his desk.

  `Mackie.' Skinner smiled at the cautious tone, and imagined his lugubrious colleague's brow wrinkling at such an early weekend call.

  `Mornin', Brian' He tilted his head up towards the hands-free microphone clipped to the car's sun visor. "S’ok, there's no new crisis. I'm just returning your call. Sarah said that there had been word from South Africa.'

  `Morning boss.' His voice boomed around the car. 'Yes, that's right. I asked them to keep us informed, in case it ties into our investigation. The Durban people called me early doors. Old man M'tebe woke up bright and breezy, and wondering where the hell he was.

  `He's pretty vague about most of what happened to him. It seems that his abductors stuck him full of dope as soon as they picked him up.'

  `Was he able to describe them?'

  `Yes, he said they were Maggie Thatcher and Ronald Reagan!'

  `What!'

  `They wore rubber joke shop masks when they snatched him, and every time they showed themselves to him. He heard their voices, though, and he's pretty certain they were Australians. After they kidnapped him off the street, they gave him a shot and took him to an abandoned two-room shack on the outskirts of the city.'

  Did they tell him why he had been taken?'

  `No, boss. He said that he doesn't remember them speaking to him directly at all. He was pretty well out of it by the time they got him to the shack, and they kept giving him shots all the time he was there.'

  `So how did he get away? Did they let him go?'

  `No, sir. He said that one time they must have given him less juice than they intended, or forgotten to top him up, because he came round from it. But he played it crafty. When they came in to check him, he pretended still to be semiconscious. They gave him some more, then went back into the other room. Once they had gone, he was able to climb out of a window and get clear of the place, before the stuff took effect. When he walked in front of that car he was legless again from the dope.'

  `What were they giving him?'

  `Just a strong sedative, according to the hospital; the sort of stuff you can buy over the counter in some countries.'

  And they didn't say anything to him? Nothing at all?'

  `They didn't say anything to him, boss, but he did hear something interesting. Before they gave him that last shot, when they thought he was still out of it, they were talking to each other, and Maggie Thatcher said to Reagan that maybe they shouldn't give him any more. He said, according to M'tebe, "RA only said to keep the fellow out of circulation for a few days, not to kill him." The police asked him if he was certain of the name they used, and he said he was. He said that to him all Aussies speak slowly, so he could make out every word they said.'

  And they spoke of someone called RA?'

  `That's right boss. As in..

  Skinner finished for him. 'As in Richard Andrews! Brian, we've got to find this character!'

  Fifty-four

  The weekend crowds were pouring into Witches' Hill as PC Pye, on duty at the main vehicle entrance, saluted Skinner through to the reserved area. The morning mist had lifted but the clouds still hung low and heavy over the course, and as he climbed out of his car the policeman felt unseasonal humidity growing in the air.


  He took a holdall containing his golfing clothing from the back seat and carried it into the changing room, in which he had been assigned a locker. Squeezing the bag into the confined space beside his clubs, he locked the cabinet and strolled back out into the corridor, stopping at the scoreboard to check the team totals. As he had expected, the Atkinson squad's 19 under-par total gave them a commanding lead of nine shots over their nearest challengers, but he was surprised to see that his 79 had left him three shots clear in the scratch amateur competition, the American Balliol having slumped in the rain to an 81. In the handicap competition he had gained a further shot on his Japanese pursuer.

  Smiling with satisfaction he made his way on to the course. Spectators were gathered around the first tee, where the members of Team Nakamura, at the tail of the field at the halfway mark, were preparing themselves for play. Skinner looked around until he caught sight of Maggie Rose, in jacket, jeans, and green wellingtons, leaning against the metal barrier which fenced off the teeing area, just where the players had gathered. He eased his way over and stood beside her. 'Hi, Mags,' he said in greeting. `You're dressed for the occasion.'

  She grimaced. 'Don't know that I am, sir. This jacket feels sticky already, and we haven't even started!'

  `Give it to me, if you want, and I'll take it back to the van.'

  `Would you?' She peeled off the heavy tweed jacket and handed it to him, replacing her small brown leather bag over her shoulder on its sling.

  `You know which one you're observing, do you?'

  Oh yes, it's the cheerful one!' Mike Morton stood at the back of the group of golfers and caddies, head bowed and shoulders hunched, staring morosely at the ground.

  Suddenly Tiger Nakamura looked up. Spotting Skinner, he reached across, smiling, to offer a handshake. Between them stood a taciturn, leather-faced man, whom the policeman recognised from the PGA dinner and from the cocktail party. He guessed that he was in his mid-forties, around his own age, but his weather-burned skin made it hard to be certain. He stood beside a caddy and a massive white golfbag, which bore the name Everard Balliol, Fort Worth'.