Skinner’s round

Nineteen

‘I have to call in here on the way home, Joe. Come in with me, if you like. Who knows, you might catch a glimpse of your pal Morton.'

With some difficulty, he found a space in the car park in front of the Witches' Hill clubhouse.

He stepped out of the BMW and gazed across to the practice ground, where five brightly dressed figures were ranged in a line, surrounded by coaches and caddies. They were too far off for him to make out faces, or even skin tone, but each swung his club in a way that was almost a personal signature. Between the languid action which could belong only to Cortes, and the bludgeoning style which Skinner knew to be Tiger Nakamura's trademark, there was a swing full of the grace, touch and suppleness of youth. 'A swing of beauty is a joy for ever,' he said.

`You're suddenly poetic, Bob,' said Doherty, closing the passenger door.

`Golf is poetry, my friend, and the boy I'm looking at will be its Laureate one day. Come on.'

He led the way around the corner of the clubhouse and down the tarmac cart path at the left side of the first fairway. A single rope ran on their right, erected during the day to enclose spectators.

Ever go to golf tournaments, Joe?'

`Gawd no!' said the lean American, vehemently. 'Grosvenor Square is the wide open spaces as far as I'm concerned. I'm a city bird; I get dizzy in this much acreage.'

`Pity,' said Skinner. 'Golf is one of the few mass sports you can follow where you know that the crowds will be well-behaved. When either of the big Glasgow football teams come to play in Edinburgh, our officers, in strength, escort them from the railway stations and bus parks down to the ground, then back again when the game's over. You work in London, so you know what I mean.

At this event we'll maintain a presence, as required, but we're here to assist, or to deter any thieves who might see this as easy pickings. We're not here to guarantee crowd behaviour.'

He looked around. 'It's so peaceful that it's bizarre to think of being here on Sunday to investigate a murder.'

The practice area was set a little off the fairway. It was around 100 yards wide, and 350 long, with marker flags set in the ground at different distances, so that the players could test their accuracy with the different clubs in their bags. Skinner looked along the line of five, and confirmed his earlier guess, that Darren Atkinson was not among them. He recognised Ewan Urquhart, closest to him, and Deacon Weekes furthest away. Each had a swing which was carefully designed to allow as little room for error as possible, upright and without the suggestion of a loop in the hitting action. In the centre of the group stood a tall, slender black man; still, in fact, a youth. Oliver M'tebe seemed almost frail, and yet as Skinner and Doherty watched, they saw that he hit the ball prodigious distances. His swing was more full than the rest, with an almost exaggerated cocking of the wrists at the completion of the backswing which laid the club parallel with the ground, Pointing in the exact direction of the eventual flight of the shot.

The downswing relied on perfect co-ordination rather than on force, the graphite head of the driver making a beautifully sweet sound as it struck, then carrying the hands on to a high finish. The ball, in its perfect flight, moved very slightly off the straight, from left to right.

Skinner would have described the process as effortless, had he not known of the days, months, and years which had to be spent in practice and of the thousands of golf balls which had to be hit to achieve such perfection. 'I think I may give up this game,' he whispered to Doherty.

They watched for several minutes, not wanting to interrupt the practice session. Eventually, M'tebe's caddy placed another hundred-ball basket in front of his client, and handed him a mid-range iron. Changing his method only by shortening his stance, the young African began to pepper the 200-yard marker flag. Eventually the caddy wandered towards Skinner and Doherty.

`Just call in on your way home, gents?' he asked, in his bag-carrier's whisper. He smiled, proudly. 'Worth watching, in't he? I've caddied for all the big names in my time, for Chuck, for the Eagle, for Cortes over there, even for Darren when 'e was a youngster, but this lad…

You mark my words, gents, this could turn out to be the best golfer ever. If we can get 'is short game about three-quarters as good as what you're watching now, there'll be no stopping

him.

The caddy gave his charge one more admiring smile, then lit a cigarette. He was around the same height as Doherty, but twice the width, with skin the colour of a walnut. It had been more than a day since his last shave, and everything about him was shabby, with two exceptions. He wore tan leather golf shoes which looked as if they might have been hand-made, and as he raised his cigarette to his lips, the sleeve of his sweater fell back, revealing a gold Rolex. 'Nice watch,' said Skinner.

The walnut face creased into a smile of pride. 'Yeah, in'it. Darren gave it me on Sunday. He had an 'ole in one on the last round, and that was the prize. We were playing with 'im. 'E's got a Rolex, so's Bravo… that's 'is caddy… and so's Oliver, so after the presentation, he gave it to me. "I'd feel a prat, wearing two watches," 'e said. Some bloke, is Darren.'

He fell silent, looking back at M'tebe with an appraising eye.

Skinner tapped him on the shoulder. 'Listen, don't make a fuss, but we're not just here to watch. We're police officers. We need to talk to Oliver, about something that's happened at home. When he's ready to take a break, could you ask him to join us.'

The caddy frowned, then glanced again at M'tebe. 'Should be ready to change clubs now. 'Old on.' He sauntered across to the golfer as he was setting up yet another ball and, putting a hand on his arm, muttered in his ear. The young African looked across in sudden alarm, handed his club to the caddy and walked over.

`What is this you have to tell me?' His voice was raised slightly. Tiger Nakamura paused at the top of his backswing and glared over his shoulder in annoyance.

`Let's move further away from the rest of them,' said Skinner. He introduced himself, and Doherty, describing the American simply as a colleague. Together they led the young man about thirty yards away from the practice range.

`Mr M'tebe, please be calm,' said the ACC, slowly and gently. I'm afraid that we have some unpleasant news for you.

It concerns your father. It appears that he was kidnapped this morning, in Durban. He was bundled into a vehicle by two men. That's all that the South African police know. There's been no communication since, no ransom demand from anyone, nothing at all.' He paused, to let his words sink in. 'We have been asked by the South African authorities to find out whether you know anything about your father's work that might help your police? He's a clergyman, a minister of the Church, yes?'

Oliver M'tebe was shocked speechless. His eyes were moist. He nodded his head.

`There's a history of political violence in your home city, I understand. Did your father involve himself in politics at all that you know of?'

With an obvious effort, the young golfer regained his composure. 'No. My father would never come down on the side of either faction. He sees his role as helping to bring the two sides together to solve problems, and he has often succeeded in doing that. He has never expressed a political view, not even to my mother or to my brothers or me.'

`Has he ever been threatened? Say by extremists on either side who might not want compromise?'

`Not that I know of. My father never becomes involved publicly.'

Skinner paused. 'In the old days, before the new government, did your father make enemies on either side?'

Young M'tebe shook his head. 'No sir. My father is a man of God. No one could be his enemy.' Without warning he began to sob. Skinner and Doherty watched him, helplessly for a minute or two, as he stood with a hand over his face, his shoulders shaking very slightly.

Eventually he wiped his eyes and straightened himself. 'I must go home, to help.'

Why don't you phone first?' said Skinner, gently. 'Call your mother and ask her what you should do. Come back to the clubhouse with us. Maybe she'll tell you how you can help best.'