Skinner’s round

Eight

Detective Chief Inspector Brian Mackie sat hunched over his desk as Skinner entered his office at the rear of the Special Branch suite. His jacket hung over the back of his chair, and his tight-cut shirt emphasised his bony shoulders, making him look even thinner than he was.

Mackie was serious — bordering on the mournful at times, in Skinner's private view — but his manner flowed from the tightness of his self-control. He looked up as the ACC entered, a shaft of stray light reflecting from his shiny bald head and making his sudden surprising smile even brighter.

`Morning, sir.'

`Christ, Brian, but you look cheerful. Did you win the Lottery or something?'

As a matter of fact I did. A tenner to be exact, and the Hearts won as well, so my cup of joy runneth over.'

`Come on, Hearts winning just makes you less miserable, that's all!'

Not when they beat Hibs!'

Skinner laughed. His disrupted weekend had made him forget all about Edinburgh's soccer derby. His predecessor as the Chief Constable's deputy had regarded attendance at a football match as a regular Saturday duty. He might have followed that precedent but for the greater attraction of spending all his available time with his wife and his baby son. `So when Superintendent Higgins called you yesterday it didn't spoil your Sunday?'

‘Not a bit, boss. The truth is I really enjoy international enquiries. Contact with other forces broadens the mind.'

Brian Mackie had been moved into Special Branch as commander in the wake of Andy Martin's promotion to head the drugs and vice squad. Like Martin he had acted for a spell as Skinner's personal assistant. Recognising that changes in the world's political structure would have implications for the internal security work of Special Branch, the ACC had given Mackie added responsibility for international liaison, making him the officer through whom enquiries were extended, when necessary, into other countries. He had taken to his new job to such an extent that he had made himself an authority on the structure of police forces in most Western Hemisphere countries.

`How are you doing with Morton?' Skinner asked, seating himself on a table facing Mackie's desk. 'I want you to report to Superintendent Higgins as requested… it's her investigation.. but, what the hell, I'm here and I'm curious!'

The DCI's face lit up once more. 'I've just had feedback from the States on that, sir. Sports Stars Corporation… that's Morton's company,' Skinner nodded `… is based in Miami. Since the early eighties it's been the dominant company in its field, and Mike Morton has been one of the most important figures in world sports. Its strength lies in the number of sportsmen and women they have under contract, and the muscle that gives them.

`They're involved in far more than just golf.'

Skinner raised an eyebrow. 'What d'ye mean JUST golf?'

Mackie looked discomfited for a second, but, deciding to ignore Skinner's jibe, he went on.

'Golf is a very important part of the company's business, certainly — in fact that's where it started — but really, sir, now SSC gets everywhere. It's a major promoter as well as manager.

It has a boxing division, with a string of world champions, recognised by an organisation of which Morton's son-in-law is president. It owns an American football franchise, an ice hockey team, and a basketball side. Morton has a baseball team of his own. Then there's tennis. The company has agreements with most of the leading players.'

OK,' Skinner interrupted. 'That's all a matter of record, but what sort of a business is it, and what sort of a bloke is Morton?'

The message I'm getting, boss, is that they're both squeaky clean. I spoke to my opposite number in Miami. He said he knows Morton and reckons that if he ran for Mayor out there, he'd win hands down. He put me on to a contact in the State Attorney's Office and she told me the same thing. Mike Morton is a very respected businessman without a blemish to his name.'

Skinner pushed himself off the table. 'No, Brian, I don't buy that. He's got one blemish that I know of, for a start. He tells lies to the police.' He took a small address book from the pocket of his jacket, and looked up a number. Then he picked up Mackie's telephone and dialled.

The call was answered before the third ring. 'FBI.' `Christ, Joe, don't you have a secretary yet!'

There was a laugh on the other end of the line. 'No chance, my friend, I couldn't keep one busy. Anyway, there's a view in the Bureau that secretaries are a security risk.

`So how're you doin', you Scottish SOB. It's been a year now, since you made my phone ring.'

Skinner had known Joe Doherty, the permanent UK representative of the FBI, since he was posted in the late eighties. The two men had an informal friendship which had proved valuable on more than one occasion, yet in the main it was conducted by telephone. Doherty was in a high-risk post, and was careful about going out in public.

'Cuts both ways, Joseph. As for how I'm doing, you and I are almost related. I've got a half-American son, now. Didn't you know?'

Doherty laughed again, but there was something behind it this time 'Yes, I knew. There's very little happens to an American citizen resident in the UK that I don't find out about eventually.

Listen,' he went on, 'I've been planning to come up to Scotland to surprise you and meet your new Special Branch guy.'

'Great idea,' said Skinner. 'Tell you what, I'll even give you an excuse. I'd like you to do me a favour. I'm looking for all available information, known or suspected, on one of your lot. He was sat in the next room to a very bloody murder yesterday, a real cool job. The victim was Scottish, and I know that he had crossed your man, seriously, on at least two occasions. Yet when I interviewed the guy, he told me that he and the victim were bosom pals.

Our international man checked this guy out in his home state, Florida, and they gave him a character reference that makes him sound like Mickey effing Mouse. I'd like to know what your chums think of him. Can you find out?'

There was silence for a second. 'What makes you think we'd know him?'

Ah, I don't know. There's just something makes me think you will. He's a very big wheel.

His name's Mike Morton.'

`Morton!' Doherty exploded. 'Then I know the murder you're talkin' about. All over last night's news and today's paper. The golf club. Mike Morton was there?'

Uhuh.'

`Well, I'll be..

`Look, Bob, I do remember being briefed about this fella, way before I came here. I'll need to update. Leave it with me and I'll be in touch soon as I can.'