Skinner's Round (15 page)

`You're confirming something else for me too, Joe; that one of them might have had Michael White killed!'

Eighteen

'Oh yes, I remember the Jubilee Project. I was in Aberlady Primary then, and my class was involved too. We did the farming section. I never taught with Myra Skinner, but I knew her.

`Later on, after I moved to Gullane Primary, I taught Alex. A very clever child, she was, with a father who doted on her. That was a one-parent family with absolutely no problems!'

`You should see them now,' thought Maggie Rose.

Anne McQueen, the head teacher of Longniddry Primary, was a formidably fit woman, dressed predominantly in serviceable black; mid to late forties, Rose guessed. Hers was a large school, with a non-teaching head, and so she had been available to meet the Inspector at short notice.

`What's all this about?' she asked. 'You said on the phone that you were looking for help: with what?'

Ìt's something that's cropped up as a line of investigation in one of our enquiries. I'd like you to listen to this tape. Myra Skinner made it as part of her research for the Jubilee Project.' She handed over the Walkman, with the cassette in place.

Mrs McQueen listened to the tape in an emotionless silence, but when it was over she looked as astonished as Henry Wills. 'That's a new one on me, and I've taught in this county for over twenty years. I've heard a few children spin stories in my time, but I've never heard a delivery like that. Nana Soutar must have been some character!'

`There's no chance that she could still be alive, is there?' asked Rose.

Mrs McQueen looked doubtful. 'A great-granny, twenty years on? Not much, I wouldn't have thought. Mind you, there are Soutars in Longniddry Primary today. One of them in Primary Seven, that's Edward, and his wee brother Gareth's in Primary Five. Their father, Davie, he was here too. He could well be a brother or cousin of the child — woman now — on that tape.'

`But the name Lisa Soutar, that means nothing to you today?'

`No. Nothing at all. She could be Lisa anything by now, of course, and that really widens the field. It was a popular girl's name in the sixties; still is for that matter.' Suddenly she stopped, and looked at the policewoman, appraisingly. 'OK, I've heard the tape. Now how can I help you?' She smiled. 'I don't imagine you're investigating the murder of poor old Aggie Tod, four hundred years on.'

Maggie Rose put the player, and the tape, back in her jacket pocket. 'No ... at least I don't think I am. I understand,' she said, 'that the project was published as a very limited edition book, and that the schools each kept a copy.'

Anne McQueen nodded. 'Yes, that's right. Ours is kept right here in my office. Would you like to see it?'

`Yes please. Just to confirm something I was told earlier.'

`Hang on just a minute then.' The head teacher rose and opened a glass-fronted bookcase, from which she took a thick volume, expensively bound in red leather. The title
East
Lothian, A Jubilee History
was picked out in gold leaf on the cover. She placed it on her desk in front of Maggie Rose.

The book was still stiff. She could tell that it had been used very little. She found an index, and turned to the chapter headed 'Witchcraft and Superstitions' on page 78. Slowly, she read through it. There was a single brief mention of the burning of Agnes Tod and her coven, but she could find no mention of the doomed witch's curse. 'So,' she muttered to herself, 'Henry Wills was right.'

She made to close the volume, but as she did, her eye was caught by the title page.

She read aloud. "A Chronicle of the County of Haddington, now East Lothian, compiled by the children of its schools, and edited by the Marquis of Kinture."

Ìs that the present Marquis?'

`No,' said Mrs McQueen. 'That would be his father, the old Marquis. He died about ten years ago. He was very good to the schools in the area, was old Lord Kinture. His son's very generous too, but things have changed since then. The parents like to do more for their children's schools today, and that old-fashioned patronage isn't needed so much.'

She picked up the red book. 'Right, I've heard the tape, and you've read the book. I also remember something I glanced over in the Scotsman earlier. That gives me a clearer idea of why you're here. So how else can I help?'

`You've helped plenty already, Mrs McQueen. But you couldn't give me an address for Mr Soutar, could you?'

Ì could, but you won't need to go to his home. Davie's a police Sergeant. He's stationed at Dalkeith, as I remember, but I imagine that you can have him come to you!'

Nineteen

‘I have to call in here on the way home, Joe. Come in with me, if you like. Who knows, you might catch a glimpse of your pal Morton.'

With some difficulty, he found a space in the car park in front of the Witches' Hill clubhouse.

He stepped out of the BMW and gazed across to the practice ground, where five brightly dressed figures were ranged in a line, surrounded by coaches and caddies. They were too far off for him to make out faces, or even skin tone, but each swung his club in a way that was almost a personal signature. Between the languid action which could belong only to Cortes, and the bludgeoning style which Skinner knew to be Tiger Nakamura's trademark, there was a swing full of the grace, touch and suppleness of youth. 'A swing of beauty is a joy for ever,'

he said.

`You're suddenly poetic, Bob,' said Doherty, closing the passenger door.

`Golf is poetry, my friend, and the boy I'm looking at will be its Laureate one day. Come on.'

He led the way around the corner of the clubhouse and down the tarmac cart path at the left side of the first fairway. A single rope ran on their right, erected during the day to enclose spectators.

Èver go to golf tournaments, Joe?'

`Gawd no!' said the lean American, vehemently. 'Grosvenor Square is the wide open spaces as far as I'm concerned. I'm a city bird; I get dizzy in this much acreage.'

`Pity,' said Skinner. 'Golf is one of the few mass sports you can follow where you know that the crowds will be well-behaved. When either of the big Glasgow football teams come to play in Edinburgh, our officers, in strength, escort them from the railway stations and bus parks down to the ground, then back again when the game's over. You work in London, so you know what I mean.

Àt this event we'll maintain a presence, as required, but we're here to assist, or to deter any thieves who might see this as easy pickings. We're not here to guarantee crowd behaviour.'

He looked around. 'It's so peaceful that it's bizarre to think of being here on Sunday to investigate a murder.'

The practice area was set a little off the fairway. It was around 100 yards wide, and 350 long, with marker flags set in the ground at different distances, so that the players could test their accuracy with the different clubs in their bags. Skinner looked along the line of five, and confirmed his earlier guess, that Darren Atkinson was not among them. He recognised Ewan Urquhart, closest to him, and Deacon Weekes furthest away. Each had a swing which was carefully designed to allow as little room for error as possible, upright and without the suggestion of a loop in the hitting action. In the centre of the group stood a tall, slender black man; still, in fact, a youth. Oliver M'tebe seemed almost frail, and yet as Skinner and Doherty watched, they saw that he hit the ball prodigious distances. His swing was more full than the rest, with an almost exaggerated cocking of the wrists at the completion of the backswing which laid the club parallel with the ground, Pointing in the exact direction of the eventual flight of the shot.

The downswing relied on perfect co-ordination rather than on force, the graphite head of the driver making a beautifully sweet sound as it struck, then carrying the hands on to a high finish. The ball, in its perfect flight, moved very slightly off the straight, from left to right.

Skinner would have described the process as effortless, had he not known of the days, months, and years which had to be spent in practice and of the thousands of golf balls which had to be hit to achieve such perfection. 'I think I may give up this game,' he whispered to Doherty.

They watched for several minutes, not wanting to interrupt the practice session. Eventually, M'tebe's caddy placed another hundred-ball basket in front of his client, and handed him a mid-range iron. Changing his method only by shortening his stance, the young African began to pepper the 200-yard marker flag. Eventually the caddy wandered towards Skinner and Doherty.

`Just call in on your way home, gents?' he asked, in his bag-carrier's whisper. He smiled, proudly. 'Worth watching, in't he? I've caddied for all the big names in my time, for Chuck, for the Eagle, for Cortes over there, even for Darren when 'e was a youngster, but this lad . . .

You mark my words, gents, this could turn out to be the best golfer ever. If we can get 'is short game about three-quarters as good as what you're watching now, there'll be no stopping

'im.

The caddy gave his charge one more admiring smile, then lit a cigarette. He was around the same height as Doherty, but twice the width, with skin the colour of a walnut. It had been more than a day since his last shave, and everything about him was shabby, with two exceptions. He wore tan leather golf shoes which looked as if they might have been hand-made, and as he raised his cigarette to his lips, the sleeve of his sweater fell back, revealing a gold Rolex. 'Nice watch,' said Skinner.

The walnut face creased into a smile of pride. 'Yeah, in'it. Darren gave it me on Sunday. He had an 'ole in one on the last round, and that was the prize. We were playing with 'im. 'E's got a Rolex, so's Bravo . . . that's 'is caddy . . . and so's Oliver, so after the presentation, he gave it to me. "I'd feel a prat, wearing two watches," 'e said. Some bloke, is Darren.'

He fell silent, looking back at M'tebe with an appraising eye.

Skinner tapped him on the shoulder. 'Listen, don't make a fuss, but we're not just here to watch. We're police officers. We need to talk to Oliver, about something that's happened at home. When he's ready to take a break, could you ask him to join us.'

The caddy frowned, then glanced again at M'tebe. 'Should be ready to change clubs now. 'Old on.' He sauntered across to the golfer as he was setting up yet another ball and, putting a hand on his arm, muttered in his ear. The young African looked across in sudden alarm, handed his club to the caddy and walked over.

`What is this you have to tell me?' His voice was raised slightly. Tiger Nakamura paused at the top of his backswing and glared over his shoulder in annoyance.

`Let's move further away from the rest of them,' said Skinner. He introduced himself, and Doherty, describing the American simply as a colleague. Together they led the young man about thirty yards away from the practice range.

`Mr M'tebe, please be calm,' said the ACC, slowly and gently. Ì'm afraid that we have some unpleasant news for you.

It concerns your father. It appears that he was kidnapped this morning, in Durban. He was bundled into a vehicle by two men. That's all that the South African police know. There's been no communication since, no ransom demand from anyone, nothing at all.' He paused, to let his words sink in. 'We have been asked by the South African authorities to find out whether you know anything about your father's work that might help your police? He's a clergyman, a minister of the Church, yes?'

Oliver M'tebe was shocked speechless. His eyes were moist. He nodded his head.

`There's a history of political violence in your home city, I understand. Did your father involve himself in politics at all that you know of?'

With an obvious effort, the young golfer regained his composure. 'No. My father would never come down on the side of either faction. He sees his role as helping to bring the two sides together to solve problems, and he has often succeeded in doing that. He has never expressed a political view, not even to my mother or to my brothers or me.'

`Has he ever been threatened? Say by extremists on either side who might not want compromise?'

`Not that I know of. My father never becomes involved publicly.'

Skinner paused. 'In the old days, before the new government, did your father make enemies on either side?'

Young M'tebe shook his head. 'No sir. My father is a man of God. No one could be his enemy.' Without warning he began to sob. Skinner and Doherty watched him, helplessly for a minute or two, as he stood with a hand over his face, his shoulders shaking very slightly.

Eventually he wiped his eyes and straightened himself. 'I must go home, to help.'

Why don't you phone first?' said Skinner, gently. 'Call your mother and ask her what you should do. Come back to the clubhouse with us. Maybe she'll tell you how you can help best.'

Twenty

‘Are you normally on day shift, Sergeant?'

Davie Soutar nodded his large head. 'Yes, ma'am. Admin. might be a bore, but at least the hours are regular and there's less stress on the wife. She disna' have to sit at home worrying about armed robbers, or demented junkies, or anything like that.'

He hunched the shoulders of his white uniform shirt as he reflected for a few seconds. 'I always say that far too few polismen think about the effect that their job has on their wives.

They go home and they expect everything to be just so, weans quiet, house neat and tidy, washing done, tea on the table. A lot of police marriages break down because of it.'

Maggie smiled, grimly. 'I'll bear that in mind, Davie. My fiancé's a Detective Sergeant. But I think that if I tried to persuade him to take a desk job, my marriage would break down before it started. Mario thinks that being shot in the line of duty makes you statistically bullet-proof.'

Soutar looked at her in surprise. 'You're engaged to big McGuire?' He laughed. 'I heard that the Big Eyetie had been tamed. Now I can see how! Mario and me shared a panda for a while when we were a bit younger. I mind one night we were checking shops in Dalry Road, and I got set upon by three casuals. I was getting a right doin', ken, till the boy Mario arrived. One of them threatened him wi' a knife; he went face first into a wall. The second one, oh my, but he just wrecked him. The third one put his hands up!'