Skinner’s round

Twenty-seven

Skinner pulled his car to a halt and looked out across the wide expanse towards the unladen supertanker, its stern pointing towards him. He had turned the corner at the very moment when the tide in Aberlady Bay had reached full ebb.

The sand flats stretched away for more than a mile. From road level, the distant, calm sea showed only as a sun-speckled silver ribbon, tied across the bay's mouth, and the tanker, riding high as it waited for its summons to take on cargo from the oil terminal, looked for all the world as if it was grounded.

In a county of quiet spectacle, it was one of Skinner's favourite sights. Always, when he encountered it, driving from the narrow village which had given its name to the bay, he stopped for a time to look and reflect. He remembered the first time that the mirage had ever caught his eye, the vanished sea with the ship cruising across the shimmering sand.

Seventeen years before, summoned to the scene of a road accident, a fatal road accident, he had seen it and had stopped, to gather his thoughts and perhaps to wish away what he knew was waiting for him a little further on. And the thought had come to him that if this natural phenomenon had been in its full display around an hour earlier, then perhaps Myra would have stopped to look also, and perhaps she would not have been travelling so fast when eventually she had come to Luffness Corner, and perhaps…

The thought crept back as it always did. He shook his head to throw aside impossible comparisons. He was still disturbed by the rediscovery of Myra's tape, and by the thoughts which it had stirred from their banishment to the deepest recesses of his mind. If his car had a time switch to take him back those seventeen years, to save Myra's life but to wipe out all else, would he press it?

He squeezed his eyes shut and took his wallet from his jacket. Flipping it open, he opened his eyes at the same time, and looked intently at the photo of Sarah and Jazz behind its Perspex panel. As he did the clenched muscles of his face relaxed into a smile. Replacing the wallet in his pocket, he slipped the car back into gear and drove on, into the present.

He had reached the outskirts of Gullane and the brown brick facility which his golf club had provided for its visitors, when the carphone rang. He pushed the receive button and Joe Doherty's voice filled the car. The background noise indicated that he was on the road also.

`My guys have come good, Bob. They've sent over a full list of the executive Vice-Presidents in SSC. As we thought, they're mostly lawyers, real Ivy-Leaguers in their early thirties.

They're organised within the company on a divisional basis, each one concentrating on a different sport, or global sector. For example, there are three V-Ps looking after golf, each with his own group of clients.

`But there's one of them who doesn't have any special interest. He reports straight to Mike Morton, and from what we've been able to figure out, all the other guys seem to defer to him.

He's older than the rest, about Morton's age, in fact, and he ain't no law school guy. His name is Richard Andrews, at least it is now. If you trace him far enough back, you'll find that when he was given exemption from military service on compassionate grounds, his name was Rocco Andrade. If you look a little further you'll find that his request for exemption was countersigned by old man Morticelli. Dig even deeper and you'll find that young Andrade's mamma's given name was Angela Morticelli, and that she was the old man's sister.'

`Tasty,' said Skinner, turning off Gullane Main Street. `What sort is Mr Andrews?'

`He's a big, mean mother. A few years back, SSC had trouble with one of its fighters, a good champion with more smarts than were good for him. He wasn't happy with his end of the money for an up-coming fight, so he said he wouldn't sign. Andrews went to see him, and the guy signed on the dotted line. By the time the fight took place, SSC had the opponent under contract too. The champ took a swig from his water bottle after the first round, and was kayoed in the second. He never fought again.'

Skinner drew the car to a halt outside the cottage. 'How do they describe Mr Andrews inside the organisation? He must have some sort of title.'

Doherty laughed. 'Sure he has, and you'll like it. Morton calls him Vice-President in charge of special negotiations.'

`You're right, I like it. Do we know where he was last weekend?'

‘Yup. Our informant inside SSC tells us that Andrews and one of the golf V-Ps, Bert Holliman, were in the UK for the PGA tournament last week. Holliman flew back on Sunday evening, but so far Andrews hasn't shown up back at the ranch.'

`Fascinating. I wonder where he was on Sunday? Listen, where are you just now? Is Brian with you?'

`Yeah, he's driving. We're heading out of town towards Fiaddington. We got a table booked at this Waterside place, then Brian's taking me to the station for the Glasgow train.'

OK, don't bolt lunch, or break any speed limits, but tell Brian that as soon as he's done that, he should check out Mr Andrews. He should find out which hotel had him as a guest last week, and when he booked out. Tell him to try the car hire companies too.

If this man can't account for himself on Sunday, I may want to have some "special negotiations" with him myself.'