Skinner's Round (44 page)

`He tried to call you back, but he got a pre-recorded message telling him that there was a fault with your phone.'

Skinner stopped, in the rain, and looked at the great golfer with a savage smile. 'I can't touch you, Darren. Not yet, at least. I'm sure that twins talk to each other on the phone all the time, and that would be your defence. But I can arrest Rick in connection with Morton's death, after that phone call he made to him. Then, after the motorcycle tracks in the mud at the foot of Witches' Hill, which my people found at first light this morning, are matched to the Yamaha, I can charge him with his murder.

`Who knows, maybe I'll find something in the Winnebago that'll be a perfect match with the dent in Michael White's skull, and in Masur's. But tough if I don't. Doesn't matter to me whether Rick gets three life sentences or just one. Either way, I'll make sure that the prosecution drops enough hints to the judge to get him a twenty-five-year minimum sentence.

Now, champion of champions, your public awaits. Go ahead and take your applause, and your million quid.'

And so Darren Atkinson, as he had done so often before, strode alone on to the eighteenth green of Witches' Hill, to the roars of thousands of his admirers, waving and smiling, and hiding his real self from their sight. As Skinner followed him up the green to fading applause, he walked across to mark his ball where the shot of his golfing life, or anyone else's, had finished, two and a half feet from the flag.

Skinner glanced up at the leader board and saw, to his quiet satisfaction, that Oliver M'tebe, with a final round of 65, had finished a comfortable second. Then he bent down, marked his own ball, wiped it clean and replaced it, with the maker's name pointing directly towards the hole. As he paced out the distance, he glanced across at the silent crowd, and saw his daughter once again. For an instant their smiles linked across the green, and then he bent to his eight-yard putt. Keeping the head of the Zebra clear of the grass, as Atkinson had said, he stroked the ball. It rolled smoothly on its way, ten feet, twenty feet, its line two inches to the right, until, in the last two feet of its travel it curved towards the hole and fell in, for his first birdie of the day and a round of 71.

He punched the air in delight, as the crowd shouted, smiling and waving to Alex as he retrieved his ball from the hole and backed off, leaving the oval green to the champion.

The crowd fell silent in expectation, as Atkinson, now wearing a dark blue waterproof jacket, strode across the close-mown grass. He replaced his ball and looked down the thirty inches of his putt, satisfying himself that there was no swing or borrow that he did not see. He bent over the ball, and set himself for his sixty-first and last shot of the day.

The rumble of thunder which broke into the silence, although still some way distant, drew a gasp from the crowd. His concentration broken, Atkinson stood up to let it subside.

To Skinner, watching intently from behind, it was as if the man had looked into a mirror. The figure who faced him, standing behind the green, and whose puzzled eyes the golfer's met, could have been Madame Tussaud's finest work of art. Skinner had met twins before, but never any who were more identical than these. Height, build, hair-colouring, suntan, even their blue waterproofs; everything matched.

And then Rick Atkinson's expression changed, as he caught something in his brother's face, and completed the mirror image. The look in his eyes was cold, hard and furious as sudden comprehension dawned. It confirmed for Skinner, beyond any final doubt, the vision of the crimes which he had pieced together in his detective's eye. Atkinson began to back away into the crowd, but found himself restrained on either side, discreetly but effectively, by Andy Martin and Brian Mackie.

The crowd, oblivious to the exchange, fell silent again. The rain began to hammer down harder as Darren bent over his putt for a second time. He struck it quickly. The ball rolled true and caught the hole, but it was travelling too fast and spun round the lip, finishing on the edge but still on the putting surface. The crowd's groan could not drown out the sound of the champion's slap against his thigh. He reached over and tapped the ball into the hole to win the Murano Million. Their disappointment forgotten, the crowd rose, cheering.

Skinner walked across the green to his partner, unsmiling, yet with his hand outstretched.

'That was some round of golf, Darren,' he said quietly, 'given the conditions. Sixty-two, ten under par, in the final round of a tournament. But only you and I will ever know how good it really was.' He took his hand in a grip rather than a shake. 'Now come over here, before you go for your prize and get your reward. I want you to hear this.'

He eased Atkinson in front of him towards his twin at the edge of the green. As they reached him Alison Higgins stepped between them, her back to Darren. 'Reginald Atkinson,' she said,

'I am arresting you in connection with the death of Mike Morton. You do not have to say anything, but . . .' Rick's face was impassive as she recited the mandatory caution. He looked, not at her, but over her head at his brother.

Ì didn't . . .' Darren began.

Ì know. Keep it that way. Don't say anything.' Without a fuss, and without a single spectator being aware of the drama, he was led away by Martin and Mackie.

Atkinson and Skinner were left in the rain. Their two caddies stood on the far side of the green. 'I suppose those two stooges were in on the act,' said the golfer, nodding towards them.

Ìn on what act?' said Skinner. 'Think yourself lucky. You got a free caddy. Mario can't take a penny of that million of yours, but I'll have to pay the other bugger. Now come on, let's get our scores in and they can have the presentation. We should let the people get away home before the weather gets any worse. As well as that, Darren, having to let you walk free from here is sticking in my throat, so the sooner I'm shot of you the happier I'll be.'

He led Atkinson off the green. Behind them McIlhenney produced Skinner's big, bulging, rolled golf umbrella from its pouch down the side of his bag.

As they headed for the clubhouse, Skinner's way was blocked. 'I suppose I should say well done, Skinner,' said Everard Balliol. 'Damn fine round that must have been. Too damn fine for a seven-handicapper, but I suppose the company made the difference.' The taciturn Texan looked at him. 'We'll have a rematch some day, buddy. Depend on it.'

`Your place or mine, any time,' said Skinner, and resumed his progress to the clubhouse.

`You think you're getting away with this, Darren, and in a physical sense, you're probably right. Rick won't say a word to implicate you; I guess he'll claim that Morton threatened him.

He'll get his twenty-five years regardless, but you'll still be a hero, not tarnished at all. You'll be able to headhunt someone to run DRA for you and build the business into something that'll let Rick live in luxury when he gets out. The grand design is under way, even if your twin will be over sixty before he can enjoy it.'

He paused. 'You know, ultimately people like you and he only care about yourselves. Rick won't shop you because he couldn't gain from it, that's all. Pretty soon you'll have got used to the idea of life without him. You'll build your empire. That's what you're thinking, even now, isn't it?

Èxcept that's not how it's going to be. Mike Morton's father, the old man of influence, is still alive. Masur's Yakuza friends, the boys in Tokyo, they're still around. And I'm here.

Ì know the full story, Darren, and I'm going to make it my business to see that they hear it too: all of it. Don't build yourself an empire, friend. Build yourself a fortress, because they'll be round to see you sometime fairly soon.'

Atkinson looked at him, weighing him up. 'That's bullshit. You wouldn't do that. You couldn't do it.'

Skinner stared back, with eyes like ice, and Atkinson saw him, saw all of him, for the first time. 'You haven't the faintest notion of what I could do, Darren. And you better believe that I will do just what I've said. I've told you, I've met people like you before, one or two of them, and none of them has ever got away from me.

`Neither will you slither away from what you and your brother have done here. You may think you have. But sooner or later, someone, Sicilian or Japanese, will come calling. Now's a good time to quit, partner. At the top. Because it's going to be impossible to stay there if you can't go out in public for fear of your life. DRA Management is finished. You're finished. My word upon it.

`Now, let's get these scores in and this presentation over with. Oh yes, and there's that hundred quid. Birdie at the last, remember? You owe me. I'm not letting you off with that either. See you outside.' He strode into the Recorder's tent and handed his signed scorecard to the Marquis of Kinture, who was acting in that capacity for the conclusion of his tournament, then turned on his heel and walked out again without a word.

Outside, beside the eighteenth green, where the crowds still waited for the presentation, Norton Wales and Hideo Murano had joined Mcllhenney and McGuire, and the four were sheltering under large umbrellas from the steadily worsening rain. A girl in the sponsor's livery handed one to Skinner as he joined them. Beside them, a small presentation table had been set up in front of the stand.

Skinner's clubs lay at Mcllhenney's feet, but McGuire leaned on Atkinson's huge bag. The ACC looked at it idly. Suddenly his eyes seemed to narrow, and he looked more closely. He looked over his shoulder and called, loudly, to Arthur Highfield, who, in a trenchcoat, was setting up a cordless microphone on the table. •

`Come and take a look at this,' he said, pointing to the bag.

Highfield walked across impatiently. 'Count them,' Skinner ordered. The PGA Secretary counted the clubs in Atkinson's bag. Once, twice, a third time, his consternation growing by the minute. 'My God,' he said eventually. 'He's got fifteen clubs in his bag. One too many.' He looked at McGuire. Has anyone tampered with this?'

Ìt's never been out of my sight, sir,' said the Detective Sergeant, indignantly. Highfield groaned, and put a hand to his head.

`What's the penalty for an extra club?' asked Skinner. `Depends,' said the official. 'Has he registered his score?' `Yes, I left him in there doing just that.'

Òh my God,' sighed Highfield. 'Then he's disqualified.'

`How embarrassing!' said Skinner. McGuire, Mcllhenney, Wales and Murano looked as shocked as he. He thought for a moment. `Look, Arthur, don't you think that the best thing you can do is to scrap the presentation and stand down the crowd.'

`Mmm. I think you're right.' He walked back to the microphone and switched it on. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he called, and paused. A second boom of thunder, much closer this time, gave him inspiration. 'If I may have your attention please. I am very sorry, but it has been decided, because of the weather, that the presentation will take place indoors. I thank you for your attendance today and all this week and hope that you have enjoyed the wonderful golf which we have seen.' As he switched off the mike, Darren Atkinson emerged solemnly from the clubhouse. Highfield rushed off to meet him.

`Maybe we should make ourselves scarce till we find out what's happening,' said Skinner to Wales and Murano. 'My daughter's over there. I'm going to talk to her.'

He reached Alex as she stepped down from the stand, the hood of her oilskin jacket tied tight under her chin. 'Hi Pops,' she said, excitedly, easing herself under his umbrella for added protection. 'You were brilliant.' The thunder crashed again, shaking the ground. The rain tumbled down. Although it was only a few minutes after five o'clock, it was as if night was about to fall.

`When are you going to tell me what's happened?' Alex shouted above the downpour. 'That man Andy and Brian took away, that looked like . . .'

Suddenly Skinner felt a powerful tug on his left arm. He swung round, sending water cascading from his umbrella on to the figure before him. Darren Atkinson's composure had cracked at last. He stood there, almost glowing with rage, waving a golf club in the air.

`You bastard!' he screamed, waving the club. It was a Shark's Fin nine-iron, new and shiny.

Skinner smiled at him, and a feeling of satisfaction flooded over him. 'You didn't think I'd let you pocket the Million, did you Darren? How could I when you've let me down, along with everyone else who loves this game?

Às well as being a conspirator and a murderer by association, you've betrayed millions of people, me included, who made you their example. What you did to Oliver, as well as being illegal in every country I've ever heard of, was plain cheating. The lad deserves the Million, not you.'

`Damn your hide!' Atkinson shouted. 'You and your monkeys planted this club in my bag.'

Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'So prove it.' The thunder crashed, hugely. 'It's just your bad luck,' he said, as its echoes subsided, 'that I'm at my best on a Sunday afternoon as well!'

Darren Atkinson snarled in impotent rage, spun round on his heel, and stalked away from the policeman and his daughter, the club grasped tightly, near the head, in his right fist. He strode down the fairway, the rain thrashing down on him in torrents. They watched him as he came almost to the edge of the Truth Loch, and as he pulled his arm back and above his head, to throw the alien nine-iron, the hated cause of his defeat, into its dark, storm-dappled waters.

The single shaft of lightning shot down from the darkened sky, cast like a huge jagged, shining spear. It found the route which it sought in the club raised up in Darren's hand. The golfer seemed to be consumed by it as it coursed through him to the earth below. He jerked and danced in its grasp, like the flickering black centre of a huge candle, its brilliant white light reflecting in the Truth Loch beyond and flooding Bob and Alex where they stood.

It vanished after a few seconds, but by then they were blinded. Against the dying sound of its accompanying thunder, Skinner heard his daughter scream, and felt himself tremble. He realised that he was still holding his umbrella and threw it from him, instinctively, as far away as he could. Again and again, he squeezed his eyes tight shut, as if to rub away the last of the searing light.