Skinner’s round

Thirty-one

The clubhouse dining room was situated directly above the bar and boardroom. Its panoramic view stretched out over the ninth and eighteenth greens, and beyond, across the rest of the undulating course, across the Truth Loch and across Witches' Hill itself, as it cast its great evening shadow across the land.

Places were set for thirty-six, but there was still ample floor space for the guests of the Professional Golfers' Association to mingle. Sarah and Skinner were welcomed formally by Andres Cortes, the PGA Chairman, and by Arthur Highfield.

As they took drinks from the tray offered by a striped-waistcoated waiter, Darren Atkinson, called across. 'Bob, over here!' The golfer was standing with a group which included Norton Wales and Hideo Murano, and five others, among whom Skinner recognised Ewan Urquhart and Deacon Weekes, the US Masters Champion. He took Sarah's arm and led her across.

`Hi, Captain, you sound in good form. Got over that rotten second shot at the eighteenth?'

Atkinson laughed. 'Yes, the putt helped me to forget!'

`Darren, Norton, Hideo, this is my wife, Sarah.' Atkinson shook Sarah's hand, Hideo Murano bowed and smiled, and Norton Wales gave her a twinkling wave. The golfer was about to complete the introductions when Susan Kinture flowed into the room.

`My dear,' she called out, advancing on the group, `so glad you could come.' She gathered Sarah in one arm and Atkinson in the other, her primrose trouser suit in contrast to, but not clashing with, Sarah's square-shouldered black dress… only slightly tighter around the hips and bust after the birth of Jazz… or with the golfer's pale blue tuxedo. 'I've fiddled the table plan, my dear. Darren's got me on one side and you on the other. Now come on and let's circulate.' She swept them away towards. another group.

As they moved off, the Marquis of Kinture rolled up in his wheelchair. 'Evening all,' he barked. He glowered at Atkinson. `Hear you took the piss out of my golf course this afternoon!'

The golfer smiled softly. 'Perfect conditions, Hector, just perfect.'

The Marquis glowered again. 'If you even whisper "I told you so", I shall arise from this chariot and smite you!'

I wouldn't do that old chap… whatever I was thinking.' There was an air of tension between the two which puzzled Skinner, but before he could dwell on it Deacon Weekes moved alongside him, introducing himself. 'I hear you're the top cop in these parts,' said the Masters winner.

`Second top, in fact.'

`That'll do for me, sir. Has your being here got anything to do with that thing on Sunday?'

Indirectly. I'm taking Michael White's place in Darren's team.'

Ah said Weekes. 'Were you out with him this afternoon?' Skinner nodded.

`How was he?'

In two words? Bloody awesome!'

I heard he shot sixty-three.'

‘You heard the truth. Nine birdies. It was like playing with God.' He paused. 'How about you, did you play a full round today?'

`Yeah, three of us played together,' said Weekes. 'I got it round in sixty-seven. So did Ewan.

We were both pretty pleased with that, till we heard what Mr Merciless had done. The poor kid Oliver, though, he was really off. That thing with his pop has really shaken him up.'

`Mmm; said Skinner. 'You didn't play with your teams, then?'

`Nah! That's Darren's scene. Nothing left to chance. It'll be like Christmas in Georgia for me, if I win the Million. But Darren won't be happy unless he wins the team prize as well. What's your handicap, Bob?'

`Seven.'

`Better be sure you play to it! How many shots did he give you today?'

`Ten. I thought he was being generous, till I found I'd shot a gross seventy-five and hadn't won a hole.'

Weekes shook his head. 'Tell you something. If he'd given you eleven shots, he'd have shot sixty-two and you still wouldn't have won a hole. Darren hates to lose to people he thinks he

should beat… and he thinks he should beat everybody. When he finished second in the US PGA, I knew the rest of us were in for a lean time through to the end of the season.'

Even you pros rate him that highly?'

`Hate to say it, but yeah, we do. The kid Oliver might have the talent to give him a game, but he doesn't have the steel. It isn't just golf with Darren. Sure he wants to win first prize every time he tees off, and he hates it when he doesn't, but he thinks that way in everything he does.

He doesn't only want to be Number One in golf, he wants to be Number One in the game of life!'

Skinner looked across the room. Atkinson stood in a circle with Susan Kinture, who was still holding his arm, Sarah, Mike Morton, a solemn Oliver M'tebe, Frankie Holloway, the actress and another man whom he did not recognise. The golfer, on the eve of a million-pound event, was as relaxed as anyone he had ever seen.

`He's got no nerves, has he?' he said to Weekes.

`You guessed it. I was in a play-off with him once, at Augusta. I was so nervous and so hot I was hyper-goddamn-ventilating. I'll swear his heart-rate was about fifty! What a guy.'

`Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,' the head waiter called from the doorway. Skinner and Weekes strolled across to check their places on the table plan. Atkinson was indeed between Sarah and Susan Kinture, but Bob was seated at his wife's right hand. The Marquis was across the room, between Highfield and Cortes.

They took their places and Skinner found himself opposite Oliver M'tebe, who sat between Bill Masur and Hideo Murano, who was alongside Tiger Nakamura, and the golfer's unofficial interpreter for the evening.

The starters were served, a spoon rapped on the central table, and Andres Cortes rose to recite a brief grace in Spanish. The wine waiters circulated with Chablis and Strathmore, and the meal began. The sight and smell of the cockaleekie soup made Skinner realise suddenly how hungry he was. He set to without a word, even to Sarah.

In the lull as the waiters served the fish, he glanced across to M'tebe and caught the young man's eye. 'Have you been in contact with South Africa today?'

He nodded. 'Yes sir, but there is no good news. My father is still missing.'

I know, and it's a pity, but at least there's been no more bad news. I asked one of my people to check with the South African police. They're doing everything they can, Oliver. They say that they're convinced, like you, that it's not political. It may be a kidnapping for ransom, in which case there may be no contact at all for a few days.

`The police do have one small lead. They've found that two men stayed overnight in the hotel nearest your father's home, and checked out just before the kidnap.' He paused. 'The names in the register are John Mallett and Steve May, and the addresses are Sydney, New South Wales.' He kept his voice casual, and glanced at Masur as he spoke. There was the briefest flicker of an eyebrow, in instantly suppressed surprise, but otherwise the Australian's expression was unchanged. The Australian police have been asked if the names mean anything to them. I know it's pretty tenuous… I mean for all we know these guys could be Jehovah's Witnesses… but at least it gives you something to hang on to.

`How about you, Mr Masur?' he said suddenly. 'Do those names mean anything?'

The Australian shrugged his shoulders, impassively. `There's Malletts and Mays all over bloody Sydney, mate.'

He tapped the young South African on the arm. 'Don't you worry, Olly son. It'll be OK. You win the Million for your old man.' M'tebe smiled weakly.

Dinner continued in a welter of small talk, about the day's rounds, or recent golf tournaments, or the newest endorsement and sponsorship deals. Eventually, with coffee and liqueurs on the table, Andres Cortes rose again. 'I should like to say some words about this competition. I am pleased that we are all here to open this fine new course, and naturally, I am pleased also that we are here to play for so much money.

`But I am very sad about the terrible thing that happen on Sunday, and that Mr White will not be with us tomorrow. Whoever wins this week, we should all think of him.' He sat down in silence.

`True indeed,' said Masur, across the table. He stood up. `Still, even in sadness life and golf go on, and I have a happier announcement to make. Today, Tiger Nakamura's contract with SSC expired. Tomorrow he signs a contract appointing Greenfields as his global manager, in all of his golf and business dealings. The times they are a-changing, my friends.' He sat down.

There was dead silence across the room. It was broken, almost bizarrely, by the trilling of a mobile telephone. Around the table a dozen hands reached automatically into pockets, but it was Darren Atkinson who produced the intrusive instrument. He switched it off, apologetically.

As the buzz of conversation resumed, Skinner looked across the room towards Morton. His face seemed bright red, and suffused with rage. 'Tell me, Masur,' said the ACC, 'when you went to Charm School, why did you skip the diplomacy classes?'

The Australian followed the direction of the policeman's gaze and laughed. 'Don't waste your sympathy on that guy, Skinner. He's had it coming. Tomorrow will be a great day. It will mean that we've got a million-pound field without a single SSC player in it.' He drained his brandy.

Skinner shook his head in disgust, but his retort was cut off by Sarah's tug on his sleeve. 'Bob, over there. It's our taxi-driver. I'd say he's just in time.'