Skinner’s round

Four

‘About bloody time too. Skinner, isn't it?'

`That's right, My Lord; Assistant Chief Constable, Edinburgh.'

He walked down the room, past the polished board table, towards the man in the powered wheelchair, his hand extended. The Marquis of Kinture reached up and shook it, with the affected ill grace which Skinner knew was his frequent manner. They had met on several occasions, and on each one the crippled nobleman had greeted the policeman in exactly the same way.

The wheelchair, and its occupant, sat in the bay window of the Witches' Hill boardroom, which faced out over the wide eighteenth green looking down the fairway and across the Truth Loch. 'Had enough of those Johnnies in the bar. Nothing but business talk, even from the golfers. Decided to withdraw in here.

"S all right, isn't it?'

Of course, sir. I wanted to speak to you in private anyway.'

The Marquis shook his head. 'Poor old Mickey gone to meet his Maker and all those buggers can talk about are rights and bloody royalties. No sensibilities, these people, none at all.' He looked up at Skinner, with a faint, surprising grin.

`He finished with a par, so Cortes told me. Safe drive to the middle landing area, good three wood to the green, two putts. Spaniard put his tee shot in the water.' The Marquis chuckled.

`Teach the bugger! Damn good hole that. The pros'll think they can carry the corner of the loch, but they'll find that it's nearly always into the wind… even, sometimes, when you wouldn't think there was a wind blowing!'

Skinner nodded. 'You're right. And not only the pros. Your loch owes me a Top Flite.'

`You've played the course?'

Indeed. Michael invited me a few weeks back. The poor bloke had a par up the last then too.'

`So you knew Mickey. Real shocker, this, eh. Seemed so fit, too. Talk about life's bloody ironies. Here's me stuck here in this damnable thing, and there was he playing three or four rounds a week. Yet which one of us is floating in the bloody Jacuzzi?

What'd they reckon it was? Heart attack? Stroke? Bryan just said he'd been found dead in the tub.'

Skinner sat down in a red leather chair and looked across at the Marquis. 'None of those, sir, I'm afraid. I've got some even worse news for you. Michael bled to death. His throat was cut.'

The Marquis shook his head violently. He swung his chair, first left, then right, then turned to face Skinner. 'You mean he committed..

`No, sir. Not that. I'm sorry, but he was murdered.'

Oh by Christ, how awful! Murdered! Right here in the club. Who the hell would…' He glared across at Skinner. `Well, who the hell would? Do you have a suspect?'

It's early days yet, sir. My officers are just beginning interviews with everyone who was here when Michael was killed. Once they're complete we'll see if anything leaps out at us. Just for the record, sir, when was the last time you saw him?'

The Marquis raised an eyebrow. 'This morning. We had some stuff to go over, to do with the tournament. He came out to Bracklands early; ate breakfast with Sue and me.'

I take it that Sue is Lady Kinture?'

"S- right.'

`How did he seem?'

`Full of beans. He was very excited about playing with Cortes. Went on about it just a little too much, in fact. Most difficult thing about all this for me is having to watch all these damn fellas playing my course. I helped design it, you know. Gave O'Malley the architect some ideas. Insisted that he use all the existing features, but create nothing new, except bunkers.

My baby, but I'll never hit a shot on her.'

Skinner looked at him, touched by the sadness which had broken through the crusty exterior.

'There's no movement in your legs at all, then?'

`Not a bloody twitch. Been everywhere, tried everything. When something like this happens, they're never quite sure how it'll work out. Sometimes a little movement can come back after a couple of years. Not with me, though. On my arse for the rest of my life.'

`So Michael was a bit insensitive. Did you quarrel over it?'

This time both noble eyebrows shot upwards. 'God no! Chap didn't mean anything by it.

Frankly, even if he had, I couldn't afford to fall out with him. Needed his dough in the venture. I'd be in the shit if he pulled out. Have to go into business with the banks, God forbid. So no, officer, we did not have words. Mind you, I was grumpy all morning. Took it out on poor Sue, I'm afraid.'

`You needed White's money, you say. Mind if I ask how the venture is structured.'

`No point in my minding. It's a matter of record. We're incorporated as Witchhill plc. The company has three shareholders; the Kinture Family Trust has forty-five per cent, White Holdings has another forty-five and Ryan O'Malley, the course architect, was given the balance as part of his fee, with the proviso that if he ever wants to sell he has to offer Michael and me five per cent each.'

`No one else with any form of interest?'

`Nobody. Had plenty of approaches from people wanting in on the action. Everybody and his brother — in one case quite literally — were keen to have a part of what's going to be the finest golf development on the planet. Mickey and I turned them all down. We were pretty certain that we didn't need anyone's cash or reputation to make Witches' Hill a success.'

The policeman nodded. 'What's the effect of the death of a shareholder?'

The Marquis smiled. 'Good question, Skinner. In the event of my death or that of O'Malley, there's no effect. But as far as Michael is — or was — concerned, the company has a term policy on his life which will put it in funds to buy out his share. So, as Mr Morton is fond of putting it, how do you like them apples, Assistant Chief Constable?'

It was Skinner's turn to smile. 'They look very tasty, sir, for you and Mr O'Malley. Your respective holdings should double, virtually, as a result of Michael's death. Gives you each a prime motive.'

The Marquis glanced down at his captive legs. 'Don't think I'm up to cashing in on it,' he grunted.

Ah, but you must know, sir,' said Skinner, leaning back in his chair, fixing the Marquis with his easy grin. 'You don't have to do the killing to do the crime. I investigated a case a few months ago in which a man was responsible for a murder even though it was committed after he was dead.

`But on balance I think you're a bit too obvious a suspect actually to be a suspect… even if we ignore the fact that whoever killed White didn't do it from a wheelchair.' He paused. 'Still, we must cover all the angles. Where's Mr O'Malley right now, d'you know?'

I rather do. Nowhere around here, I'm glad to say. Fella's in the pokey in Australia.'

In jail!'

"Fraid so. Wild bugger, O'Malley. Got into a fight in a bar in Sydney two weeks ago and broke a fella's jaw. Wasn't the first time, so the judge gave him sixty days to cool off. So that's your Theory Number Two down the Swanney.'

Skinner pushed himself from the chair and looked out of the window, across green, fairway and loch. 'And there were no problems between Michael and O'Malley as far as you know?'

`None at all. Nor, I say again, between Michael and me. Been friends for years, since long before this business.'

`Right, but do you know of anyone who might have had a down on him?'

The Marquis looked blankly at Skinner for a few seconds, then shook his head. 'None at all.

If you knew him you'll know that he wasn't the sort of bloke to go around collecting enemies.'

Skinner nodded. 'That's what makes this so odd. The man was impeccable. Christ, the New Club'll be in turmoil. A murder victim among the membership!'

The Marquis grunted in agreement, so loudly that Skinner hardly heard the knock on the door. It opened, slowly. A woman's head appeared, blonde and tanned. The Marquis looked round. 'Susan.'

I'm sorry, are you still busy?'

The Marquis looked up at the policeman, inviting him to answer. He shook his head. 'No, Lady Kinture, we're done.' The heavy oak door swung open wide, and she stepped into the room; suddenly it seemed smaller. Susan Kinture was tall indeed, at least six feet, with a handsome oval face, crested by a mass of perfectly arranged blonde hair. Skinner guessed her to be in her early forties, perhaps a year or two younger than him. The slimness of her build, allied to her height, made it easy to accept that before her marriage she had been one of Europe's top models, and she carried herself with a confidence which made her even more striking. She was dressed casually, but in style, in a beautifully cut golden trouser suit.

Probably silk, the policeman thought to himself.

She stared at him as recognition dawned. 'You're Bob Skinner, aren't you? Yes, of course you are. You have that brilliant American wife. I met her a few months ago at an event for disabled charities. Hector and I have done our bit for them since the accident. We feel we have to give a lead.'

She paused, and her right hand went to her chin in a gesture of habit. 'I seem to remember she was pregnant. Has she…'

Skinner smiled. 'Yes, last May. We have a wee boy called Jazz. Getting bigger by the day… and louder. That's his American half, of course.'

Lady Kinture smiled. 'Give her my best, then. Sarah, wasn't it?'

`That's right.'

`This is terrible news about our friend Michael. I can hardly believe it. He had breakfast with us. What happened?'

Skinner hesitated. 'I'll let Lord Kinture explain, I think.'

She frowned at him, questioning. She might have pressed him, but they were interrupted by a loud knock on the window. Skinner looked down and saw the Marquis close to the glass, beckoning and nodding to someone outside. 'It's the PGA chap,' he said. 'I want a word with him.'

`Yes,' said Skinner. 'So do I, but if you don't mind I'd like to speak to him first.'

The Marquis frowned. 'Well, I suppose. Tell you what, when you're finished send him up to the house. Susan, let's go home, and I'll tell you all about poor Mickey.' He pushed a lever on the arm of the wheelchair. It hummed into life and swished its passenger towards the open doorway, with Lady Kinture following, like a golden outrider.

` Superintendent, if you think I'm going to let a family squabble deprive me of one of my very best officers, you're kidding yourself I will NOT approve your request for transfer to another force, AND I will make it clear to my brother Chief Constables that any one of them who takes you on will be on my shit list.'

I appreciate your confidence, Sir James, but I am really serious. ACC Skinner said I should consider my future career, and that's what I've done.'

`Look Andy, most of us say things in the heat of the moment, then back off from them when the temperature goes down. Bob spoke to me yesterday, after our Tuesday meeting with the Police Board. He told me that he'd surprised Alex at your place last Friday morning, first thing.

`He said that he'd exploded and that there'd been a huge barney on your doorstep.'

`That's a pretty accurate summary of our last meeting.' Martin's voice was heavy with irony.

Sir James Proud looked at him, kindly. He had seen the younger man through one or two bad times, but could not recall him ever being so downcast.

OK, but there's more. He said that when he got home, Sarah had given him a going over, and had made him calm down a bit. He sees now that maybe he did go over the top. I wouldn't say he's completely happy. He really feels you both let him down.

`But all the same, I think that if you went to see him and talked it through… Maybe, as a gesture, if you apologised, even.' He angled his great silver head, looking tentatively at Martin. The younger man's green eyes flashed.

Sir James went on quickly. 'What I don't understand is that you and Alex are supposed to be away on holiday. Bob told me you flew to Florida on Friday. So why are you sat here, now?'

Martin smiled for the first time, but without humour. 'That's the nub of it, sir. The ACC doesn't know the damage he's done. You tell me to talk it through with him. I tried to do that last Friday morning, and Alex accused me of taking his side, to protect my career! So I had an even bigger fight with her than the one with Bob, and she packed up and left. I went through to Glasgow after her, but she wasn't there. Eventually I cancelled the flights and told Henry Wills, up at the University, that we wouldn't be using his place after all. I called her number all weekend, but no reply. It wasn't till Monday, when her flatmate came back from a weekend at home that I found out where she'd gone. Remember that band she sang with last year, after the Festival show? Square Peg, they're called.'

`Vaguely. Square Pegs and the like are beyond me.'

`Well, Alex had told me that they're going on a tour of Europe and that they'd asked her if she would be one of their backing singers. She'd turned them down, but she called their manager last Friday morning and asked if the job was still open. It was. She left her flatmate a note telling her that we'd had a bust-up and that she was off, there and then, to join the band for rehearsals in Dublin.'

His jaw tightened. 'So, sir, I don't see me apologising to the ACC. I've spent the last two days thinking about this. He told me that I'd betrayed him. All I can see is that he's broken up the best relationship I've ever had in my life. You know, I was hoping that Alex would come back from Florida with a ring on her finger. Then Bob steps in and we don't even make it to the airport.

The last thing that he said to me was that I had no future under his command. So I've taken him at his word. I've considered my career path, and I've come to the conclusion that it has to lead me away from him, and right now.'

Sir James pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the window. He looked out across the playing field, seeming to be lost in thought, as a tense silence hung over the room. After almost a minute, he seemed to nod slightly. Then he turned back to face Martin. 'Look son, I'm not going to take anyone's part in this. You are all my friends and I will always be available to every one of you. All I'd say to you is that Bob and Alex have always been closer than any father and daughter I've ever known. Now they've blown up at each other, out of the blue. As for you and Bob, you've been the best of friends for years. This conflict between the three of you… it's so sudden and unexpected that none of you knows how to handle it.

`Maybe you never will sort it out. I don't know. But I do know that if, as I could, I were to phone Jock Govan and get you transferred into Willie Haggerty's job in Glasgow Special Branch — it hasn't been announced yet, but he's been made head of CID — I wouldn't have done any of us any favours.

`No Andy, this is what I'm going to do… and this is the Chief Constable speaking now.' He moved back to his chair and sat down again, facing Martin across the coffee table. 'I've got a problem in East Lothian. Charlie Radcliffe told me yesterday that he's going into hospital.

He's going to be off for at least four months, and that's only if everything works out OK.

That's too long for an area to be without its commander. You're equivalent rank, and a spell in the uniform branch will be good for your career development. The decision is made, Superintendent. You're going to Haddington, on a temporary basis, as area commander.

You'll report to ACC Operations, and through him to me. The only time Bob'll be in your chain of command is in my absence, when he deputises.'

`What about my job as Head of the Drugs and Vice Squad, sir?'

`That'll be Bob's problem. Serves him right in a way.

`No more discussion. Your leave's cancelled. Report to Haddington tomorrow. Charlie goes under the knife next Monday, so you won't have much time for a handover!'