Skinner’s round

Eleven

Witches' Hill Golf and Country Club seemed to have exploded into life, after the unnatural quiet of the previous day.

The car park was almost full. As he stood at the entrance to the clubhouse, Skinner could see, through a thin copse of trees, scores of brightly branded vans drawn up around the tented village as exhibitors, caterers and brewers unloaded their goods. In the middle distance to his left, five golfers were on the practice range. He shaded his eyes from the sun which shone over his shoulder and watched them. Soon he identified among the quintet of contrasting styles, the classic, disciplined swing of Darren Atkinson, the more fluid, expressive style of Andres Cortes, and the three-quarter thrash of the squat Tiger Nakamura.

He was still there, smiling in envy as he watched the straight flight of the shots, when the clubhouse doors slid open. Mario McGuire emerged from the building, pulling on his sports jacket as he walked. He pulled up short when he saw Skinner. Evening, sir.'

The ACC laughed. It was just after 5 p.m. 'What d'ye mean evening, man? It's still afternoon in my book. Are you setting your own hours these days?'

Aye, sir. Ten-hour shifts like always… not counting Sundays, of course.'

`Don't remind me. I've got some DIY to finish when I get home tonight. You'd better trot on too. Maggie made a point of telling me about those Festival Theatre Tickets. Seven o'clock start she said.'

McGuire nodded. 'Yes, and she bought the tickets, too! They're a wedding present. I've never seen Turandot before.'

`That's the one with that tune, isn't it? "No one sleeps while I'm singing" or something?'

"S right, boss. And tonight it's the man himself who's singing it. It'll bring the Italian out in me, I tell you. I'll have trouble stopping myself from joining in.'

`Christ, don't do that! I've heard you sing remember.' He moved towards the door. 'On your way then, Mario. Superintendent Higgins inside?'

`Yes sir. She's using the boardroom.'

Skinner entered the building, nodding to Laurence Bennett, the bookings manager, who sat behind his counter in the foyer. He took the door to the right then turned again, sharply, into the boardroom. Alison Higgins was seated at the end of the table closest to the door. She looked over her shoulder, then stood up, as he entered.

`Sit down, Ali, sit down. How're you doing? What're you doing?'

She glanced down at the papers strewn across the table. The usual routine, sir. Lots and lots of interviews. First interviews with Mr Bennett, old Williamson the steward, and Iris McKenna, Joe Bryan's assistant, and with other people who weren't here yesterday, but who knew Michael White. Second interviews with the people we spoke to yesterday, just to see if they recalled anything else that might be significant.'

Anything?' Skinner asked, guessing the answer from Higgins' expression.

Not a scrap, sir. All we've got is friction between Morton and White, which Morton didn't mention. But we know for sure that the man was never alone yesterday. Masur and Weekes finished their game first. They waited for Morton and Nakamura, then all four went into the clubhouse together. To add to that, Brian Mackie reported that his Florida people gave Morton a good write-up. I suppose it's understandable that if you have a private tiff with someone and that someone is murdered, you're not going to mention your disagreement.'

`Maybe so,' Skinner conceded.

`There is one thing, sir,' said Higgins. 'Andy Martin dropped by with something very odd.

Have a look.' She reached for a paper on her desk.

In a minute,' said Skinner. 'Come with me first. I had a thought this afternoon.' He swept from the room and she followed him, across the foyer, down the changing-room corridor, past PC Pye, who was guarding the door to the murder scene… and who returned Skinner's nod with a smart salute… and out on to the course.

He looked across the first tee. 'Our main theory, with no likely killer on the premises, is that somebody walked in, zapped the victim in his Jacuzzi, then walked out again without anyone seeing him. That, incidentally, does not rule out Morton. You know the old saying, "If a job's worth doing, it's worth getting a man to do it well."

`But if that happened, there's no way that the murderer just casually walked into the clubhouse and did the business. Unless this was a random thing, with someone prepared to kill for a few quid and a watch, he watched White and he waited.

White's Jacuzzi routine was well known. It was a fair certainty that he would take his ritual tub after the match.

`So let's assume that our killer is well planned. He knows about the Sunday bounce game. He watches them arrive. He sees that White, who is the only one who hasn't stayed overnight at Bracklands, is the only one who isn't changed and ready to play. He waits and from a safe distance he watches them tee off. Then he moves closer. He doesn't want to wait in the Jacuzzi for three hours. Too risky. So he hides somewhere else, somewhere close to the clubhouse. Somewhere that won't be in use.'

As he spoke he began to walk, down the teeing ground, to the brick-built, white-clad, starter's hut which was positioned on the left of the big square area of tight-mown grass. 'Like here, for example. The course isn't open for general play yet. There are only three pros here, and no more golf after they and the VIPs have gone out.'

He looked down at Higgins. 'You agree so far?'

`Yes sir.' Excitement gripped her voice.

`Right. Then suppose, once the three games are well in play, our man slips into the hut. He waits here until he sees the first game finish. It's White and Cortes. Our man picks his moment and slips inside, to wait behind the door of White's Jacuzzi and to drop him the moment he walks in.'

He led Higgins round to the door of the hut, which was out of sight of the clubhouse. It had only one lock, a Yale, and an L-shaped brass handle. He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, and very carefully, holding it by its tip, turned it downwards. The door swung open. Not even locked,' he muttered. 'Ali, from the look of it, the technicians haven't touched this place. I suggest that you get on to Edinburgh and get them back down here now. By 9 a.m. tomorrow, you'll need to have every last inch of it covered, and every fingerprint lifted. It's an official practice day for the pros tomorrow, and the public will be allowed in, so this thing will be in use.

She looked up at him. 'I should have worked all that out sir, shouldn't I?'

He smiled. 'Don't think that, Superintendent. I've been at this game longer than you. Anyway, it's probably just another wild Skinner theory!

`Here. Use this to call in.' He handed her his mobile phone.

'When I'm running an investigation, Ali, I always try to get a grasp of the whole picture as early as I can. Sometimes, if the picture's a bit grey, I have to colour it in myself. I only learned to do that through experience… which is what I'm giving you on this enquiry.'

He waited as she made her call. 'Right, what about this paper of Andy's?'

Higgins led the way back through to the boardroom. She picked up the paper for which she had reached earlier, and handed it to Skinner. It was enclosed in a clear plastic slip.

It was a single piece of blue A5 writing paper. It bore that day's date, but no address. Its message was scrawled in black fountain ink. Skinner read aloud: Dear Editor,

`By the blade…' said Agnes.

Thus it was.

`What the hell's this?' he muttered.

`Local loonies, probably,' said Higgins. 'Or it may not be connected at all.'

Skinner shook his head. 'Funny. It rings a bell somewhere. Alison, have someone make me a copy of this, before you send it off to forensics. I want to give it some thought, and maybe the bell'll ring a little louder.'