Skinner's Round (32 page)

He looked across the desk at Rose. 'You're always thorough, Mags, but this time you've excelled yourself. Do you reckon that's it finished now?'

Òh no, sir. Henry's going back to the GRO tomorrow. He's determined to keep on digging.

We still need to know who Elizabeth Carr was, and whether Matilda Tod has connections with anyone else, and might have passed the same story on to another family.

`Remember the words on the first note, "So said Agnes." That identifies the writer as someone who knew the curse, and they didn't hear it from Lisa.'

`That's right,' Skinner mused. The first note.'

He swung himself back to the present. 'OK Inspector. A great day's work. You've unearthed a missing masterpiece, and from the sound of it you've made friend Knox's career in the process. Now, away home to your man.'

`Thank you, sir.' Rose nodded and stood up.

Ìncidentally,' said the ACC. 'Your man's had a rare day, as well. He wound up caddying for Darren Atkinson. He'll tell you all about it, but he did it so well that Darren wants him tomorrow and Sunday as well.' Maggie looked at him, bewildered. 'I've got a new caddy too: big Mcllhenney. That leaves me short of someone to keep an eye on Mike Morton. D'you fancy a couple of days at the golf?'

Ì've an appointment with Mario's parish priest tomorrow, sir.' The redheaded Inspector smiled slowly. `So if you'd make that an order, I'd be delighted!'

`So done. See you there at nine. Have a good evening.'

The door had barely closed behind her when the telephone rang. 'Call for you sir,' said Ruth.

'From a Mr Salter, calling from London. He says he's a solicitor and that it's very important.'

ÒK, let's find out whether it is. Put him through.'

There was a tiny click on the line. `Mr Skinner?' The voice was deep and brusque.

`Yes, what can I do for you?'

`You can listen carefully. My name is Jacob Salter, of Rusk and Dealli Solicitors, of London and Edinburgh. I do not normally become involved with criminal work, but on this occasion I have been retained to represent the interests of Mr Michael Morton, whom I think you know.'

`Mr Morton is known to me, yes.'

Ì am calling to advise you that there must be no further interviews with my client without my knowledge or presence. I consider that your behaviour yesterday, including your search and your removal of items of clothing, was improper, bordering on the illegal. I demand to know the purpose of the tests which you are carrying out, and to be kept informed of the outcome. I have given your secretary my office and home phone numbers.'

Skinner controlled himself with an effort. 'Mr Salter, some advice; watch your tongue and your tone when you speak to me, and don't ever presume to lecture me on the Criminal Justice Scotland Act or on the rights of the individual. My search yesterday was carried out, informally, with the full approval of the Marquis of Kinture, the owner of the premises, and, for the record, with your client's best interests in mind.

The purpose of our tests is to rule out or confirm the possibility of your client's presence at the scene of the murder of a man with whom he had had two arguments, both heated, one of them physical. He denies being involved, and was quite willing to co-operate with us.

`That's all I have to say, except for this. This evening I will be at a cocktail party to which your client has been invited. If you don't want me to speak to him again other than in your presence, then you'd better get yourself an invite damn quick, or tell him to stay out of my bloody way!

`Frankly, from all that I've seen and learned about him, and from what I've heard from you, it might be better for you if you took the second of those options!' He slammed the phone down in its cradle.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost 6 p.m. Slipping on his blazer, which he had hung over the back of his chair, he stepped out of his office and across to his secretary's small room. Ruthie, if that so-and-so ever calls again, pass him on to Roy Old or Alison Higgins. I want nowt to do with him if it can be avoided.

`Right, I'm off to a party. See you Monday.'

He was halfway to the door at the end of the corridor when Ruth called after him.

`Hold on, sir. There's something else. Mr Mackie wants to speak to you. There's been word from South Africa.'

Skinner groaned. 'OK, flower. I'll look in to see him on my way out. Sounds ominous. Having to break the bad news to young M'tebe will be just what I need to round off my day!'

Fifty-one

The Grand Ballroom of Bracklands lived up to its name. It was dominated by two magnificent glass chandeliers, hung from a gilded ceiling over a shining oak floor.

Skinner and Sarah were greeted formally in the doorway by Lord and Lady Kinture. Standing directly behind them was an elderly lady. She was tall and grey, with severely permed hair, and she wore a long evening dress. Her expression was on the glacial side of frosty.

The Marquis sat stiffly in his wheelchair, in a green tartan dinner jacket. Beside him, Susan was resplendent in a peacock-blue cocktail dress which drew an admiring whistle from Sarah as she shook hands. 'Sue, that's beautiful.'

`Why, thank you. I have this wonderful little designer. I'll give you her name. Not that you need her, that cream colour shows off the tan a treat. And what about your old man. I know we said formal, Bob, but I didn't think you'd take us that seriously.'

She looked at Skinner, their eyes almost level. He stood tall, the light from the chandeliers sparkling off the heavy silver braid of his dress uniform. 'Every so often,' he said, 'I like to remind people, and myself most of all, that I'm a policeman. Besides, I knew Jimmy was coming and he rarely wears anything else.'

`Tonight's the exception, then. He's over there with Lady Proud.' She chuckled softly, like a bell. 'You can't miss him. He's the one in the kilt!'

`That's great. Now I really do feel like a lemon!'

Susan turned to the elderly woman. 'Bob, Sarah, I'd like you to meet my mother-in-law, the Dowager Lady Kinture. Mother, this is Assistant Chief Constable Skinner and his wife.'

The matron's expression unfroze very slightly. 'How do you do?' she said, extending a hand to Skinner, and contriving to ignore Sarah. Bob guessed that she must approve of policemen, but of little else.

`Hector insisted that Mother join us tonight. She lives in a house on the estate now, but every so often she comes up to Bracklands, for an event.' Lady Kinture the elder frowned at her daughter-in-law down her long patrician nose.

`This week must be exciting for you, ma'am,' said Skinner, making an effort.

Her face iced over once more. 'Exciting is not the word I would use, young man,' she said, in a voice like the edge of a fine blade, then turned towards the next arrivals.

Bob led Sarah into the ballroom, into the heart of the throng of guests. 'Cheerful soul, isn't she?' he whispered. `Hector must really have looked forward to going away to boarding school. I liked the "Young Man" bit though.'

He accepted two glasses of red wine from a liveried attendant. Handing one to his wife, he took a sip, nodding with approval as he recognised a Rioja, from a particularly good year.

`Mmm, nice. They must have known we were coming.

`Sarah love, why don't you go across and talk to Jimmy and Chrissie, and Mrs White? I'm going to seek out young Oliver. I'll be with you as soon as I've broken the news.'

ÒK.' She reached up on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the cheek. He looked at her in surprise. 'What was that for?'

Ì should need an excuse? See you later.'

Skinner looked around the long room. He spotted Atkinson a little way off, with Wales, Murano and Arnie Harding, the retired baseball player turned film star. Tiger Nakamura, bizarre in a gold tuxedo, stood beyond them, ogling Frankie Holloway, and nodding sagely, although he did not understand a single word that Toby Bethune MP, the Sports Minister, was saying. At last he spotted the slim figure of Oliver M'tebe standing alone, looking up at a portrait of a Kinture ancestor hung over the empty fireplace. Casually, he strolled over to join him. 'Hello young man. That was a fine seventy you shot today, all things considered.'

The slim African smiled politely. 'Thank you. All the way around I thought of my father. It helped.'

`That's good. Oliver, I've got some news for you on that front. We had a message this evening, from Durban. Your father has been found. He's safe.'

The young golfer's smile spread so wide that Skinner thought it would light up the room.

Skinner took him by the arm. 'Come through here.' He led him into an ante-room.

`How was he released?' said M'tebe, as soon as the door closed behind them.

`We don't know. He stumbled into the road on the outskirts of the city, just a few hours ago.

He was hit by a car . . .' The golfer's smile vanished instantly and was replaced by a look of panic. 'Hold your horses, he's OK. It was only a glancing blow but he was taken to hospital.

He was dazed and confused, and it wasn't until he was recognised by a nurse at the hospital that anyone knew who he was.

`The doctor who treated him said that he was sure he'd been drugged, probably with a very heavy sedative. They've given him some more, to put him to sleep overnight. In the morning, once he's rested, the police will talk to him, to find out what happened.

`Your mother is at the hospital now, but the message as far as you're concerned is to stop worrying. When you tee off tomorrow, the chances are your dad will be sat up in bed, watching you on telly! That should knock two or three shots off your score.

Now, this is a damn fine party. I suggest you get on out there and enjoy it!'

He held the door open for the young man, whose smile had returned, and followed him back into the ballroom. Darren Atkinson saw them return. 'Good news?' he called across. Skinner nodded and gave him a thumbs-up sign. 'Marvellous. Come on over here, Oliver, and get outside some of this wine!'

Skinner looked around the room once more until he caught sight of Sarah, listening intently to Susan Kinture. He started towards them, until the faintest shake of his wife's head caused him to pull up short. Puzzled, he seized another glass of Rioja from a nearby tray and headed in the direction of Sir James Proud, who stood, with his back to him, resplendent in his Highland dress, his head nodding in conversation. Lady Proud saw Skinner approach and touched her husband on the sleeve. He turned, revealing the third member of their group.

Àh Bob,' he cried. 'Come and join us. Have you had a chance to meet Mr Mike Morton?'

Saturday

Fifty-two

Skinner shortened his stride as he slogged his way up the sheer, narrow path from the beach car park to the top of Gullane Hill. The rain had stopped but the rough grass was still sodden, and the ground still muddy, from the downpour of the day before.

It was still well short of 8 a.m., but already there was a clamminess in the air which made him thankful that he had chosen to leave his tracksuit in the wardrobe, and to run in teeshirt and shorts. Occasionally as he ground his way up the slope a bird would flutter out from the undergrowth, and once a young rabbit darted out across his path, forcing him to check his stride.

At last, chest heaving, he crested the hill and jogged out on to the golf course. He would have paused to enjoy the view from the seventh tee, but it was veiled by morning mist, and so instead he stretched his legs and loped easily down the middle of the fairway, allowing his breathing to return to normal after the effort of the steep climb.

Skinner enjoyed his morning runs around the three golf courses which were laid out on the grassy Gullane hill. They allowed him to plan the day ahead, and to think through the challenges and decisions which awaited him. But now as he skirted the seventh green and headed out across the links towards the lower slopes he felt his brow knit.

His week had become almost dreamlike. He felt himself uncomfortably out of control, being pulled along by events and reacting to them, rather than anticipating developments. He knew that he had been right to delegate command of the investigation of the two murders, and the apparent attack on Atkinson, but removed from the heart of the action, he felt isolated and slightly frustrated. He picked up his pace, punishing himself as he tried to piece the jigsaw together, to weigh the bizarre lead to the Witch's Curse alongside Mike Morton's twin grudges against Michael White, his very public hatred of Bill Masur, and even his potential antipathy to Darren Atkinson as a business threat. Morton was in the picture for all three crimes, and even, potentially for the kidnapping of the father of M'tebe, a client of Darren's company.

`But is Atkinson a threat to SSC?' he asked himself aloud as he ran. 'Of course he is,' his mind answered. 'He's completely devoted to being number one in everything he does, on and off the course. He's already conquered America in one respect, and it isn't in his nature not to want to wrap up the management side there as well. And if his businessman brother's anything like him in attitude, you have to bet on them doing it.

`That pitches them against SSC and Morton, and everything we know about him tells us that's a dangerous situation.

But what about that bloody curse? A death by the blade. Another by water! How the goddamn would Morton or his minder Andrews know about that?'

He stumbled briefly in a rabbit scrape. 'Shit!' he cried out. `Who'd be an effing copper!' He shook his head to clear the distracting thoughts, and looked around him as he ran through the misty morning, down on to the far reaches of Gullane's number two course. As if to remind him that he had reached the fringe of the nature reserve, a pair of late-breeding curlews swooped down towards him, their long beaks menacing, and their drawn-out cries warning him away from their nest. They swooped again, closer this time, almost within pecking distance. He looked ahead, and saw a line of four chicks, almost large enough for flight, waddling in single file across the path. He veered away, heading up the hill once more, back towards the village, with the cries of the watchful parents growing fainter behind him, only to rise in intensity once more as two deer broke from their camouflage against a clump of dark bushes, and raced across the course in the direction from which he had come.