I made a lunge for the rubber bung – pull, or twist? Pull…
Solid as a rock, it didn’t budge an inch. I twisted desperately at the bung. Another twist, my sweaty fingers slipping…
‘What the f—?’ Al put a foot on my back, grabbed a handful of my hair and wrenched my head backwards. The knife in his hand slashed down at my fingers.
I felt a searing pain and a spurt of wet against my throat. But a cold, not warm, wetness. Before I could analyse the implication, the boat rocked violently, and my face fell forward into water. I was drowning, my nose full of water, mouth stuffed with foul oily rag, air supply abruptly cut off. Fuelled by panic, I tensed my right arm, drew my knees under me and with superhuman strength, heaved my head and shoulders upward.
I was dimly aware of a splash and Spinks shouting. I half spat, half clawed the evil-tasting rag from my mouth and flung myself sideways, throwing up an arm to ward off Al’s follow-up attack.
It didn’t come. No slashing knife. Indeed, no Al. Only Spinks, backlit by a powerful searchlight, clutching the engine cowling and staring at me open-mouthed.
A shout of ‘Revenue and Customs’. Under cover of all those Scottish reels the cutter had approached unheard.
The dance music shut off abruptly. In the sudden silence, Al splashed and threshed frenziedly on the other side of the rubber gunwale. Suddenly, he rose from the deep, arm flailing, knife still clutched in his hand. The blade flashed in the beam of light. Descended. Razor edge sliced down.
Whuuush. A section of the inflatable collapsed like a soufflé that had caught a chill. Al’s contorted face appeared, only to sink out of sight. The knife glinted and fell again. Whuuush. Like some frightful monster of the deep, or a rerun of a Hitchcock film, Al reared in the gap. Drowning. His eyes locked onto mine. In them I read death, his death – and mine. He wasn’t going to go quietly into the dark. He intended to take me with him.
Pwhit. The knife slashed into the floor a couple of inches from my outstretched hand. As the knife rose for the fourth time, I scrabbled onto hands and knees and flung myself backwards over the side. I caught a glimpse of Spinks’s arm outstretched, frozen into immobility, then the cold waters closed over my head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Al’s dark eyes stared at me, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. Even in death he had the power to chill. I let the sheet fall back over his face. I wondered if Macleod had noticed the tremor in my hand.
‘That’s him.’ With a nonchalance that didn’t fool Macleod for one moment, I turned away.
He nodded to the mortuary attendant. The man pushed back the sheet. Looped round Al’s wrist was a white plastic tag.
Macleod flicked a finger at the label. ‘Alberto Pettrini, a nasty piece of work. We took his prints and got an ID on him from the lads in New York. There’s a Mafia connection. He’s one of their heavy mob.’
I’ve never found it easy to stand in a mortuary and look at a dead body. But by concentrating on the clinically impersonal stainless steel and harsh shadowless lighting, I can control the nausea welling up in me. No, it’s not the body itself, or the mark of violence on it that brings the rush of bile to my throat. It’s the little reminders that the lifeless flesh on the metal table had once been an individual like myself, with vanities, hopes and fears like my own – the dark undyed roots of blonde hair, the painted toenails, the plaster on the finger. In Al’s case it was the black crescent-shaped mark on a fingernail. A toe on my right foot bore a similar mark where it had intercepted a tin from Gorgonzola’s larder.
‘Lucky for you he never learnt to swim.’ Macleod’s voice reached me from a distance.
His comment steadied me. Al had been a killer, cold and ruthless. He would have dispatched his victims with just about as much emotion as… I searched for an apt comparison…a mortuary attendant tagging a corpse.
I turned away from the sheeted body. ‘Even luckier that the inflatable broke down where it did.’
Macleod shot me a quick glance. ‘It wasn’t a question of luck. When they heard you were heading their way, the RRF boys laid out a plastic line at propeller level between The Maid and a buoy.’
My recollection of the episode was disjointed, hazy, chaotic – the heart-stopping shock of sudden immersion in cold water, lungs bursting, then the sweet inhalation of night air. I remember screwing my eyes shut against blinding lights playing over an inky sea, swimming desperately for the nearest boat, water closing over my head again, fighting for breath…choking…then smooth grey metal blotting out the stars, rough hands pulling at my arms, the bone-jarring impact on the metal deck…retching, gasping…hands rolling me over onto my side.
Al hadn’t been so lucky. One last Excalibur-like appearance of his knife glinting in the beam of the searchlight, and with this virtuoso re-enactment of Morte d’Arthur, it was all over. By the time they’d picked me up there was no sign of him.
There was no sign of Spinks either. Out of the range of the cutter’s searchlight, the few hundred yards to the shore would have been a relatively easy swim. I had a gut feeling that in the darkness and confusion he had made good his escape.
Macleod seemed to be able to read my thoughts. ‘We’re still searching for the body of the Spinks fellow. He might just have managed to get away, of course.’ From his tone he didn’t seem to think it likely.
‘Mmm,’ I said non-committally.
‘Not convinced?’ Macleod raised an eyebrow. ‘Though we fished this one out after six hours, it can take some time for a body to surface – depends on what they’ve had for their last meal. I believe curry’s a good resurrectionist.’
‘Er…?’ I said.
‘For raising the dead. Gases, you know. Maybe he hadn’t eaten for some time.’
As the doors of the mortuary closed behind us, I caught my last glimpse of the Silent One. Silent for all time, his sheeted form was being filed away in a refrigerated drawer.
After tidying up a few loose ends for those obsessive form-fillers in Records, and filing my report on the case for Head Office, that was that. Operation Scotch Mist wound up. They expected me back at my desk on Monday. I thought about claiming injury time, pleading incapacity for wounds received in the course of duty, but aching arms, multiple bruising and a couple of taped-up fingers from Al’s knife would be greeted with derisive grins. I had to admit that after a quick rasp of the tongue and curious sniff, even Gorgonzola had appeared to show little concern, her way of underlining her displeasure that I’d once again abandoned her overnight.
One person gratifyingly took note of my delicate condition – Jim Ewing. He gave me a hand down the stairs with the Yours and Mine holdalls and stowed them in the boot. Once again, he was the soul of discretion and refrained from commenting on my battered appearance.
I turned my attention to Gorgonzola, who had already taken up position on the back seat. ‘An artist has to take care of her paws, G,’ I said as I clipped her into the special harness. If I had to brake sharply, there would be no repetition of that nose-dive when we had first arrived at the White Heather Hotel.
‘Come back any time. B&B free of charge on production of a Cat Art masterpiece.’ He slammed down the boot lid and stood on the doorstep waving. Through the open door behind him, hanging in pride of place on the wall, was G’s red, blue and white oeuvre, Sun Sinking in the Forests of Siberia.
So, here I was with some free time on my hands. We’ll give you a whole weekend, they had said generously, but that would be barely enough time to drive the four hundred miles back to London without blowing the head-gasket of my old banger. I might as well go by the tourist route, see the sights, wind down. I’d leave Edinburgh by the A1, drive past the White Heather Hotel for old times’ sake, and make for Newcastle. Then I planned a detour to squint at the Roman Wall before heading for Durham and its cathedral. I’d spend the night in York and…well, after that it would depend on the weather…
A few fluffy clouds dotted the brilliant blue sky. A warm breeze
blew in the open sun-roof and ruffled my hair as we bowled along the southern shore of the Firth of Forth. There was no sign today of that clammy haar I’d come to associate with this part of the east coast. I drove, and Gorgonzola lounged in the sun, eyes tightly shut and tail twitching gently.
I jabbed at the radio button in search of some soothing mood music.
‘…a light onshore breeze with a high of 20 degrees.’ The local radio station’s short jingle followed, then, ‘Looks like it’s going to be perfect for the first day of the Scottish Golf Championship at Muirfield.’ The background music swelled into a discordant heavy beat. Hastily, I jabbed at another button. That was more like it – smooth, classical, tuneful. I screwed up my eyes against the glare from the road. Even with the visor down, the sun was really bright. The traffic was heavier than I expected, most of it going in the same direction as me. It was the weekend, of course, and a sunny day. They’d be making for the long stretches of beach between North Berwick and Longniddry. The sand dunes at Longniddry… I hadn’t enjoyed my visit there, but on a day like today and with no one stalking me and intent on murder…
The car in front slowed to a halt behind a long line of queuing traffic. There was no point in getting stressed, drumming the fingers on the wheel, that sort of thing. This was much more pleasant than being stuck in a London traffic jam. I hummed along to the music on the radio and thought about Spinks… If he had escaped, where would he go to ground? I’d no clue at all. He probably had drowned, after all. Why let it niggle at me? Better to draw a line under it and move on.
I peered ahead at an AA notice, the black lettering stark against the yellow background. SCOTTISH GOLF CHAMPIONSHIP MUIRFIELD. Below that, an angled arrow pointed off left, 1 MILE. What if Spinks was still alive? He’d feel safe, wouldn’t he, with everybody thinking he was dead? And a golf fanatic would be drawn to this championship like a moth to a candle flame. I felt the excitement building up in me. Then, like a drench of cold water, came the depressing thought that to take a detour to Muirfield would just be a wild goose chase, three or four hours wasted. And if I wanted to visit York, I’d have to miss out on the Roman Wall, and probably Durham Cathedral too. The marker for the junction crept slowly nearer. The car in front turned off left. I’d have to decide. Should I? Shouldn’t I? I signalled left.
Within five minutes I was regretting my decision. Trapped in a nose-to-tail line of cars, progress was now a series of long stops and short starts, making my previous snail’s pace rocket-propelled in comparison. The sun beat down on the roof. I lowered the window and drew in a lungful of carbon monoxide. Hastily, I pressed the window-up button. My fingers drummed a tattoo on the steering wheel. Bad sign.
I became aware of a petulant scratching on the back of my seat. Another bad sign. Fur coats and high temperatures don’t make for happy owners. Gorgonzola had lost her cool in more ways than one, and was indicating that she wanted out of this oven now.
‘Not long, G,’ I said soothingly.
We crept round the next sharp bend. Smooth stretches of grass with strategically placed sandy bunkers swept down to the road on either side. Red and yellow flags fluttered in the stiff sea breeze on billiard-like greens. All this naturally led me to believe the end to the slow crawl was…well, just round the corner.
Wrong. The line of cars stretched interminably ahead. What on earth had possessed me to act on that crack-brained impulse to check for Spinks? I could have been walking on the Roman Wall by now, taking my ease, drink in hand, at some country pub…
Fifteen frustrating minutes later, I made it slowly into Gullane, a small town of grey stone houses. I found myself opposite another yellow AA notice indicating a route to an official car park. The vehicles in front veered sharply left and I swung after them. Houses of elaborate Thirties design sporting white-painted wooden verandas peeped over high walls and hedges, exclusive and excluding. In the distance the sea sparkled and glinted, in the foreground, a vast expanse of short-cropped grass served as a giant car park. Deliverance was in sight.
Well, it was and it wasn’t. Ten cars ahead, a sweating red-faced marshal was orchestrating the parking. With exaggerated sweeping motions, like a portly businessman misplaced in an aerobics class, he directed cars to their designated positions. Suddenly, he slapped a hand down on the bonnet of the car four places ahead of me. His arm shot out dramatically, pointing off to the right. The word ‘overflow’ drifted towards me on the breeze. The thwarted red 4x4 roared off down a bumpy sandy track between head-high prickly bushes. The rest of us crawled meekly after him, nursing our suspension over the bumps and potholes.
Exactly one hour after my mad decision to go in search of a dead man, the car came to rest at Muirfield, the home of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers. I released Gorgonzola from her harness, and, with doors and windows open, sat there letting the breeze waft over me. G trickled over the sill like marmalade spilling out of a jar and flopped, a hot and sticky orange blob, under the nearest bush. All around, car doors slammed, voices called. I levered myself stiffly out and stood flexing my leg muscles. Now that I was here, I might as well get on with it. I reached back into the car and rummaged in my bag for a mug shot of Spinks that Macleod had managed to winkle out of the NYPD. Leaving Gorgonzola to look after herself in the shrubbery, I locked up the car and followed the crowd.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Perhaps an imposing wrought-iron gateway with golf clubs rampant or passant, picked out in gold leaf. The entrance to the Honourable Company’s grounds looked nothing like that. Beneath the banner advertising the Championship was a rather insignificant gate adorned with a brief notice, plain and plainspoken, This is a private golf club. No admittance. A bit of a disappointment, really. I had more than enough time to study its non-existent finer points as I queued with a couple of thousand others to hand over a fortune in return for my ticket. I wouldn’t be able to claim this on expenses, unless a miracle happened and a resurrected Hiram J Spinks rose from his watery grave.
Never having been to a Championship Match before, I had no idea what to do next. Maybe I’d get some help from the fat booklet that came with the ticket. History of Muirfield… 1744…oldest golf club in the world… Rules of the Club… Ladies are permitted to play provided they are accompanied in play by a gentleman… How was that for political correctness! I thumbed on through the glossy pages… Open Championships held at Muirfield have been the Ryder Cup, Walker Cup, Curtis Cup…all very impressive.
The map of the course looked a bit like a microscope slide of some deadly virus – the greens were pale green squiggles on a darker green background, the bunkers picked out in sandy beige. I skimmed through the accompanying description. Hole 1. The most difficult opening hole in Scotland… Hole 2. Innocent looking but treacherous… Hole 4. Short hole but uphill…menacing bunkers… Hole 5. Elevated position. Magnificent views to Edinburgh and Fife… 16 bunkers… If I found the golf boring, I suppose I could view the scenery. Maybe from that hole I’d even spot the yellow-checked cap of Hiram J Spinks!
From where I was standing in front of the rambling stone clubhouse – Victorian pavilion-style, all white wood and red-tiled roof – I could see the whole course laid out before me, as in the booklet’s double spread map, and round each green, a small horseshoe of people. The loud speaker behind me boomed, ‘Players 7 and 8 will be teeing off in five minutes.’ That’s where I’d start. Hole 1.
I paid no attention to the man beside me at first. I was too busy scanning the crowd.
‘Security are you, then?’ the words were muttered in my ear.
Startled, I glanced sideways. He stood there at my elbow, ginger-headed, angular, a huge blue and green golfing umbrella hooked over one arm. Just one of two hundred others clustered round the hole.
‘I couldn’t help noticing the way you’re looking at the crowd. You didn’t even see that bit of action there, did you?’ His Adam’s apple moved up and down his throat like a yo-yo on its string.
I watched fa
scinated. It was huge, as if, when his mouth was open, a golf ball had flown through the air and lodged in his throat.
‘There’s a lot of famous names here today. And a lot of weirdos about. I suppose you’ve memorised all their faces from their mug shots? Well, am I right?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Have you a—’ he paused and lowered his voice furtively, ‘—a name?’
‘Smith,’ I said out of the corner of my mouth.
A shadow of disappointment crossed his face.
I couldn’t resist it. ‘Well,’ I whispered, looking theatrically around to make sure nobody was listening, ‘I’m also known as S.’
He tapped the side of his nose knowingly and winked. ‘’Nuff said! Mum’s the word!’
I stared at him, fascinated. He not only looked like a character from a television comedy, he talked like one too.
The two players, their caddies and most of the crowd, had melted away. My turn to ask a question. ‘Where’s everyone gone?’
The blue and green umbrella was raised to the horizontal position till its tip pointed along the fairway. ‘The ball landed in the left-hand bunker. They’re all off to see the fun. We might be in time to catch some of it.’ He loped off towards the distant knot of people.
I hesitated. I’d pictured myself going from hole to hole scanning the faces – maybe an hour’s work. I hadn’t realised the crowd would change so much, some remaining at a particular hole, some following their favourites round the course. I would have to enlist my odd companion’s help. Two legs good, four legs definitely better.
I caught up with him at the bunker. Somehow he’d managed to infiltrate to the front row of onlookers, but when I tried to join him, backs, shoulders, elbows and craning heads formed an impenetrable barrier. When brute force fails, guile has to take its place.
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