Skinner’s round

Thirty-nine

Skinner was striding towards the first tee when the stocky figure of Julian Finney fell into step beside him.

`Yes Julian, what can I do for you?'

I know that officially you're on holiday, but I wondered if you could give me a quick interview.'

Officially and unofficially, son. No chance. Didn't Royston fix you up with Andy and Alison?'

`Yes, but Bob, I no more believe that you're not involved in this investigation than I believe your scratch score will beat Darren Atkinson.'

Skinner smiled. 'Thanks for your confidence! Look, there's nothing I can say to you that won't have been said already, and I can't step in over the heads of the officers in charge. You know that so let's cut the crap, I'm on the tee in five minutes. What do you really want?'

Finney looked diffidently at his feet. 'Oh, it's just that I heard a whisper that there had been a big argument between Masur and Mike Morton on the practice ground the other day, and that you were there. Is Mike Morton one of the lines of enquiry that Superintendent Higgins was talking about?'

Skinner stopped in his tracks, a few yards from the tee. `Julian, I've never lied to you, and I'm not going to start now. Yes, there was an argument between Morton and Masur the other night. In fact there was another disagreement between them last night, at the PGA dinner.

I'm not going to comment at all on our investigation. All I'll say to you — strictly off the record — is that if someone goes out and commits murder immediately after having a heated public argument with the victim, then he has to be either crazy or dumb. I know that Morton isn't dumb. Time will tell whether he's crazy.

`Now, go to the press office for any further information. I've got some golf to play, and I don't need distractions.'

Finney smiled. 'Thanks Bob.' He made to leave, then hesitated. 'Might as well hang around and watch you tee off.'

Skinner growled and stepped up on to the tee beside his team. He glanced around, tasting the tension which hung in the air. The crowds were much thicker than on practice day, the television cameramen were on their rostrums and in their fairway buggies, and already there were numbers on the leader-board.

Skinner peered at the board closest to the tee. Andres Cortes was the early leader, three under par after eight holes, a shot ahead of Deacon Weekes. The others were all level par, with the exception of Oliver M'tebe, who was two over after ten.

Darren Atkinson stood beside Bravo on the tee, arms folded across his chest, staring heavy-browed down the first fairway. The muscles at the base of his jaw were clenched tight, and he seemed to Skinner to be standing an inch or two taller.

`This is it, Bob,' he said softly. 'This is where the hard men come out to play. This isn't a matter of money, there's honour involved. No one but me is going to walk off with Murano's million quid, because only the best has the right.

As far as the team competition is concerned, remember that the best ball, mine included, on any hole registers the score. I'd be grateful if you'd look after Wales and the Jap. Make sure they pick up once they've had half a dozen whacks at any hole. I'll be concentrating so hard I won't even notice them.

`You're on seven shots against the course today, with your handicap. If you can pick up a nett birdie with each of them, you'll have done your part for the team. Your other eleven holes don't matter.'

Skinner smiled, but there was a hard edge to his expression also. 'You don't know me very well, yet, Darren. All eighteen matter to me. Game on, pal.'

The green-blazered announcer stepped forward, microphone in hand. 'Finally, ladies and gentlemen, we have team eight. Mr Norton Wales; Mr Hideo Murano; Mr Bob Skinner.' He paused, allowing modest applause after each introduction. And finally, the world's Number One golfer, the reigning US Open Champion, the King of the Majors, Mr Darren Atkinson.'

The stands erupted in applause which faded only when Atkinson stepped up to the tee. It renewed itself as lie crushed a three hundred and ten-yard drive down the centre of the fairway.

Skinner steered his tee shot well clear of the cross-bunker, keeping the ball as low as possible for accuracy, and gaining ground through a favourable bounce. Murano and Wales followed him, hitting conservative iron shots on to a fairway which seemed, thanks to the thick crowd on the left, to be much narrower than twenty-four hours earlier. Wales's shot was still in the air as Atkinson strode from the tee. The battle for the Murano Million had been joined in earnest.

As Skinner and Sue Kinture walked side by side down the first fairway, the policeman noticed that his noble caddy was more animated than ever. Did Darren give you any ideas on course improvements last night then, Susan?'

She laughed. 'Oh yes, he gave me lots of ideas.' She paused, looking across at the golfer as Norton Wales fluffed his third shot and picked up. 'He says that what he'd like to do is tweak Witches' Hill until it's tough enough for him to find it difficult. Then, he said he'd like to have a tournament here every year, just to sort out the men from the boys.'

They had reached Skinner's drive. Adrenaline had sent the ball ten yards further than in the practice round. He selected a four-iron and fired in a high shot aimed on the right-hand bunker, but drawing into the centre of the green. A buzz rang along the gallery behind him, followed by an intensely satisfying round of applause. 'Oh good shot, Bob,' cried Susan Kinture. Norton Wales, who had joined them, slapped him on the shoulder in encouragement.

The team captain acknowledged him with a wink and a brief wave and strode after his shot.

When they paused, as arranged, on the third tee for the two minutes' silence, Atkinson was one under par, having taken par at the first hole and birdied the par-four second. With Skinner's nett three at the first the team stood two under.

As they walked together down the par-five seventh following two good tee shots, Atkinson was three under, and ahead on the professionals' leader board. The team was five under par, thanks to a second nett birdie from Skinner at the fifth. Atkinson had settled into a groove of brilliant golf and was more relaxed than he had been at the start of the round.

I've been thinking, Bob,' he said. 'This course has a lot of potential, if someone other than O'Malley could get to grips with it. I said as much to Sue last night. So I've got an idea. I don't imagine that poor old White's widow really wants to be left with forty-five per cent of a golf course. I think I'll offer to take her share off her hands. I don't think I'll find a better investment opportunity. Certainly not in Europe.'

They stopped at Skinner's drive, which had carried just over 260 yards, leaving as much again and more to the guarded green. Three-wood, please, Sue.' She seemed not to hear him — at first as she looked, smiling, at Atkinson. As awareness dawned, she jumped, taken by surprise. 'Sorry Bob. Miles away. A three-iron?'

`No, three-wood. I'm not playing that safe.'

He cracked a long straight approach shot, which finished in the centre of the fairway thirty yards short of the green. They walked on, the gallery to the right of the hole keeping pace with them.

I like your idea, Darren,' said Skinner, as they approached the leader's drive. 'But there's just one problem. Maybe Sue didn't know about it. The company holds a substantial insurance policy on Michael White's life, to cover that situation. So Myrtle isn't looking for a buyer.

The Keyman arrangement means that she has one already. If you want to buy into Witches'

Hill you'll need to talk to Hector Kinture.'

Atkinson frowned, as he asked Bravo for his three-wood. He lined up more quickly than usual, and smashed into the ball. It soared away towards the green, but hooked left in flight and plunged into a thick copse of trees.

Bravo stood, head bowed against his white bib. 'Sorry boss. Should have given you a two-iron.'

Atkinson shook his head. 'No, Bray, it was me. Club was right, shot was crap. It was a concentration lapse, that's all.' The ball was unplayable, and the drop-out, with a one-shot penalty, still left a difficult approach. Despite a valiant effort, a fifteen-foot putt caught the lip of the hole and swung past, leaving the tournament leader to tap in for a six, and a dropped shot.

`Sorry lads,' said Atkinson to Wales and Murano.

`That's all right, skipper' said Skinner, mischievously, rolling in a six-foot putt. 'Mine was for a birdie. I told you that all eighteen holes matter to me. To the team too, it seems!'