Skinner's Round (33 page)

He laughed to himself at the power of the place to lighten his mood, then set himself for the last punishing section of his run, back up and over the hill once more, at speed this time, along the roadside, into the village and across Goose Green to his cottage.

Sarah was seated in the kitchen, in a pale blue robe, giving suck to her son, as Bob sprawled through the back door, steaming, streaming with sweat and holding his pulse to check his recovery rate.

Woah, hoss,' she cried. 'Stay away from me.'

He stripped off his running gear and stepped straight into the shower beside the kitchen, which he had installed when Alex was a child so that the sand from the beach could be washed off before being trailed into the house. Setting the valve to cool, he twisted the lever, arching his back and bunching his muscles as the powerful jet hit him.

As he soaped himself he heard Sarah call from the kitchen. `Can't hear you,' he bellowed back. 'I'll be out in a minute.' It took longer than that for him to cool out completely, but eventually he stepped back out of the small shower compartment, drying himself with a fluffy white towel.

She looked at him as he stood framed in the doorway, tall, lean and powerful, his golden tan emphasised by the white patches around his hips and around his wrist, where his watch was normally worn. 'Well, did that help?'

He grinned at her. The older you get, the harder you have to work to stay in shape. You wait till you get to my age.'

It was her turn to laugh. 'I can wait. I can wait. I find it hard enough being a thirty-something as it is. But that wasn't what I meant. I meant did you get your head together? All night you were tossing like a ship on the stormy ocean.'

Was I? Sorry. Ach, it's just this whole week, and everything that's happened. It's bizarre. I feel as if we're missing something. I get frustrated when an inquiry isn't going as fast as I'd like it, and it's worse on this one, where I've made a point of putting someone else in command.

`But it's OK, I've got myself sorted out now. Whenever I need a lesson in letting things take their course, a run through God's own country out there always does the trick.' He towelled his wet hair vigorously. 'By the way, what were you trying to say when I was in the shower?'

Òh yes, Brian Mackie telephoned. He had a call from South Africa.'

Skinner's eyebrows rose. 'Already?'

`Yeah, he said they called him at seven-thirty. They've got more news on Oliver's father's disappearance.'

`That was quick. Did they say how he is?'

`He's fine, from the sound of things. He woke up early this morning wanting to talk. Brian would like you to give him a call.'

`Sure, soon as I'm dressed.' She followed him from the kitchen, through the house to their bedroom, with Jazz, who had finished his first feed of the day, sprawled contented across her shoulder. Skinner dropped his towel into the laundry basket and stepped into their shower room. Standing naked before his shaving mirror, he wet his chin with hot water from the basin tap and rubbed gel, liberally, into his tough stubble. As he drew the razor in its first long sweep down the side of his face, a memory from the previous evening resurfaced suddenly in his mind. He called over his shoulder.

`Hey, remember last night when you and Sue were deep in conversation and you waved me away? What was all that about?'

Sarah stepped into the shower room to stand alongside him. `That . . .' she began, strangely hesitant. 'You might say that it was women's talk. Sue had something on her mind, and she's short of girlfriends to confide in.'

`What's her problem, then? Physical or emotional?'

`The latter.'

Àh! Is Hector that tough to live with?'

`No, he's very kind to her, under all that crustiness.'

`But he can't attend to her physical needs, yes?'

ÒK, so he can't, but that's got nothing to do with it, either.'

Òh yes?'

She stamped her foot lightly in mock exasperation. 'Damn you Skinner! You're going to go on and on, aren't you! Look, I'll tell you, but not a word or any sort of a hint to Sue . . . or anyone else, that you know about it.'

As he shaved, she recounted Sue Kinture's story. By the time the last of the gel was cleared from Bob's face, his smile had gone with it.

Fifty-three

He had just driven away from the cottage when he remembered that he had not called Mackie. He switched on his earphone and dialled the Headquarters number, knowing, even though it was Saturday, and not yet 9 a.m., that he would find the early-rising, workaholic detective at his desk.

`Mackie.' Skinner smiled at the cautious tone, and imagined his lugubrious colleague's brow wrinkling at such an early weekend call.

`Mornin', Brian' He tilted his head up towards the hands-free microphone clipped to the car's sun visor. "S’ok, there's no new crisis. I'm just returning your call. Sarah said that there had been word from South Africa.'

`Morning boss.' His voice boomed around the car. 'Yes, that's right. I asked them to keep us informed, in case it ties into our investigation. The Durban people called me early doors. Old man M'tebe woke up bright and breezy, and wondering where the hell he was.

`He's pretty vague about most of what happened to him. It seems that his abductors stuck him full of dope as soon as they picked him up.'

`Was he able to describe them?'

`Yes, he said they were Maggie Thatcher and Ronald Reagan!'

`What!'

`They wore rubber joke shop masks when they snatched him, and every time they showed themselves to him. He heard their voices, though, and he's pretty certain they were Australians. After they kidnapped him off the street, they gave him a shot and took him to an abandoned two-room shack on the outskirts of the city.'

Did they tell him why he had been taken?'

`No, boss. He said that he doesn't remember them speaking to him directly at all. He was pretty well out of it by the time they got him to the shack, and they kept giving him shots all the time he was there.'

`So how did he get away? Did they let him go?'

`No, sir. He said that one time they must have given him less juice than they intended, or forgotten to top him up, because he came round from it. But he played it crafty. When they came in to check him, he pretended still to be semiconscious. They gave him some more, then went back into the other room. Once they had gone, he was able to climb out of a window and get clear of the place, before the stuff took effect. When he walked in front of that car he was legless again from the dope.'

`What were they giving him?'

`Just a strong sedative, according to the hospital; the sort of stuff you can buy over the counter in some countries.'

Ànd they didn't say anything to him? Nothing at all?'

`They didn't say anything to him, boss, but he did hear something interesting. Before they gave him that last shot, when they thought he was still out of it, they were talking to each other, and Maggie Thatcher said to Reagan that maybe they shouldn't give him any more. He said, according to M'tebe, "RA only said to keep the fellow out of circulation for a few days, not to kill him." The police asked him if he was certain of the name they used, and he said he was. He said that to him all Aussies speak slowly, so he could make out every word they said.'

Ànd they spoke of someone called RA?'

`That's right boss. As in ..

Skinner finished for him. 'As in Richard Andrews! Brian, we've got to find this character!'

Fifty-four

The weekend crowds were pouring into Witches' Hill as PC Pye, on duty at the main vehicle entrance, saluted Skinner through to the reserved area. The morning mist had lifted but the clouds still hung low and heavy over the course, and as he climbed out of his car the policeman felt unseasonal humidity growing in the air.

He took a holdall containing his golfing clothing from the back seat and carried it into the changing room, in which he had been assigned a locker. Squeezing the bag into the confined space beside his clubs, he locked the cabinet and strolled back out into the corridor, stopping at the scoreboard to check the team totals. As he had expected, the Atkinson squad's 19

under-par total gave them a commanding lead of nine shots over their nearest challengers, but he was surprised to see that his 79 had left him three shots clear in the scratch amateur competition, the American Balliol having slumped in the rain to an 81. In the handicap competition he had gained a further shot on his Japanese pursuer.

Smiling with satisfaction he made his way on to the course. Spectators were gathered around the first tee, where the members of Team Nakamura, at the tail of the field at the halfway mark, were preparing themselves for play. Skinner looked around until he caught sight of Maggie Rose, in jacket, jeans, and green wellingtons, leaning against the metal barrier which fenced off the teeing area, just where the players had gathered. He eased his way over and stood beside her. 'Hi, Mags,' he said in greeting. `You're dressed for the occasion.'

She grimaced. 'Don't know that I am, sir. This jacket feels sticky already, and we haven't even started!'

`Give it to me, if you want, and I'll take it back to the van.'

`Would you?' She peeled off the heavy tweed jacket and handed it to him, replacing her small brown leather bag over her shoulder on its sling.

`You know which one you're observing, do you?'

Òh yes, it's the cheerful one!' Mike Morton stood at the back of the group of golfers and caddies, head bowed and shoulders hunched, staring morosely at the ground.

Suddenly Tiger Nakamura looked up. Spotting Skinner, he reached across, smiling, to offer a handshake. Between them stood a taciturn, leather-faced man, whom the policeman recognised from the PGA dinner and from the cocktail party. He guessed that he was in his mid-forties, around his own age, but his weather-burned skin made it hard to be certain. He stood beside a caddy and a massive white golfbag, which bore the name Èverard Balliol, Fort Worth'.

Shaking hands with the Tiger, he nodded to the man. `Hello, Mr Balliol. I'm Bob Skinner.

Good luck today!'

The man looked back at him, unsmiling, with a stare of such intensity that it was startling. Ì

know who you are,' he said quietly. `Life has nothing to do with luck, mister. It's about doing it right, or doing it wrong.'

Skinner recovered his composure in a second. Ìn that case,' he replied, evenly, 'I hope you do fewer things wrong than you did yesterday. Me, I'll just ride my luck, as usual.' With a final wave to the Tiger, and a brief farewell to Maggie Rose he turned and walked away, his assistant's tweed jacket slung over his shoulder.

He made his way around the front of the clubhouse, and round to the mobile police headquarters. As he expected Alison Higgins was there before him. She was seated at the table reading a sheaf of papers. Martin, as uncomfortable as ever in uniform, and Neil Mcllhenney stood at the other end of the big van, nursing mugs of coffee.

Skinner nodded to them and took a seat across the table from Higgins. `Mornin', Ali. What have you got there?'

She glanced up, surprised, from her reading, noticing him for the first time. 'Oh, sorry sir. I didn't hear you come in.' She waved the papers which she had been reading. 'This just arrived. It's the lab report on Morton's clothing.'

She passed it across the table. Skinner took it from her and read it through, line by line, his expression darkening by the minute.

When he had finished he looked up and across at Higgins once more. 'Sod it! This means that I'm going to have to make a call I didn't want to make. I could delegate it to you, but I don't think that would be fair.' He took out his diary and checked a number, then picked up the telephone on the table and dialled a number, beginning '0181'.

`Yes?' The voice on the other end of the line was deep and brusque.

`Mr Salter? It's ACC Skinner here. I've just seen our lab report on the samples which were taken from your client's shoes and clothing.'

Ànd?' said Salter, aggressively.

`Well, it runs to several pages, but I won't bore you with it all. It confirms that the mud on Morton's shoes was impregnated with fertiliser. We took mud samples from the gardens at Bracklands and from the scene of Masur's murder. Both were laced with fertiliser, but they were completely different types. The mud on Morton's shoes came from the gardens. The grass from the hem of his trousers showed traces of the same compound. That would seem to confirm his story of going for a walk outside. There is nothing on his clothing that puts him at the murder scene.'

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. `Skinner, I told you yesterday that I took the greatest exception to your conduct. Now, on behalf of my client, I demand a written apology, not from you but from your Chief Constable.'

Martin, watching from across the room, saw the ACC's shoulders stiffen. Mcllhenney followed his gaze. A silence fell across the room.

Skinner's tone was even and icy. 'Salter,' he said, 'I told you yesterday that you were pushing your luck. Now get this. Neither my Chief Constable nor I apologise to suspects, and that's what your client remains, whatever that lab report says. His right-hand man, Richard Andrews, was unaccounted for at the time of each of the two murders, and he still is. Until we can eliminate him as a suspect, then your client — who I remind you, has been crossed in business by both victims — is still very much in our thoughts, and under our observation.

`You can tell him that when you speak to him. Morton denies involvement in either murder.

He insists, too, that he doesn't have a clue where cousin Richard is. The best advice you can give him is to find out . . . damn quick! Good morning.'

He replaced the phone and glanced up at Higgins. 'Thank Christ we don't have to deal with that character every day of the week. Our criminal lawyers may be a pain in the bum at times, but at least they remember their manners.'

He looked across at Martin. 'Andy, boy. How did your witch hunt get on last night?'

A slow smile spread across the younger man's face. 'I've been bursting for you to ask. We caught some. Videoed them too, with an infra-red camera.'