Skinner's Round (8 page)

Now, I'd better go and speak to the press. See you later.'

He stepped through the automatic doors, out into the afternoon sunlight, with Alan Royston following behind. In addition to the two television operators, there were around a dozen reporters and three photographers assembled in the car park. He strolled slowly across.

Àfternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm going to tell you as much as I can. We are dealing with the murder of a man. He suffered a fatal cutting injury some time after midday today, and we do not see the possibility of suicide. Enquiries are under way, and you will be kept informed of their progress.'

`Who's the victim, Bob?' A husky voice came from the rear of the group.

Skinner glanced across in surprise. 'Hello, John. Didn't expect to see you out here on a Sunday.'

John Hunter, a veteran Edinburgh freelance, and one of Skinner's oldest journalist friends, laughed ironically. 'You're kidding. Wi' all these new tabloids opening up and wanting copy, I don't have a day off any more. Come on. You can tell us. Who is it?'

Skinner shook his head. 'Sorry, chum. Not until I'm sure that the widow's been informed.' He nodded towards Royston. Àlan'll give you a name as soon as we know that's happened.'

"S no one of the golfers, is it?'

`Certainly not. Just be patient for a few minutes more and we'll have something for you.'

Ànything else you can tell us, then? Like, is anyone in custody?'

`No, I'm afraid not. The victim went off to take a bath after playing golf, and the body was found by a member of staff half an hour later. We're still taking statements from everyone who was on the course at the time.'

Aha,' said John Hunter, dramatically. 'Golfing, eh. That tells us it's no' the Marquis, anyway.'

He paused as a thought crossed his mind. 'Here, it's no' Michael White, is it?'

`See you later,' said Skinner, poker-faced, as he left the group and walked back to his car.

`How's Andy? From what I hear, he's settled in OK. Roy Old has moved big Mcllhenney out
to East Lothian, and I expect that he's behind that.

`Jimmy's appointed himself as a sort of unofficial emissary between us, sounding me out,
sounding Andy out. He tells me that Andy isn't in the mood for any olive branches. Says he
never wants to see another Skinner as long as he lives!'

`So I shouldn't invite him to supper just yet?'

Ì don't think that would be a brilliant idea. More to the point though, have you had any joy
in tracking down that daughter of ours?'

`No. Her band's management company gave me a list of venues, but they wouldn't go any
further than that. I pushed them, but eventually the girl there got rude and told me that they
weren't there to act as a contact service.'

`Cheeky sod! Give me the number, and I'll ruin her day.'

`No, my darling. You've done enough of that. I'll write to Alex at each of the venues on the
list, just asking how she's doing. Just letting her know that I'm thinking about her. Don't
worry, honey. She'll get in touch.'

He looked at her mournfully. 'What makes you so sure?'

She laughed. 'She might have fallen out with you; with me even; but before long she'll realise
she's missing her kid brother.

`Just be patient. We'll hear from her. And when we do . . . we'll just take it from there.'

MONDAY

Seven

‘H ow did she take it?'

`Just about as you would expect of Myrtle White. Very calmly, at first. Then as it sank in she began to shake. No tears, just this violent shivering as if the room was very, very cold.'

Sir James Proud gave a slight shudder himself, as the memory chilled him, too.

Òf all the jobs I've ever had to do in the police service,' he said quietly, 'breaking bad news is the one which I've hated more than any other.'

Skinner nodded. 'You and me both, Jimmy.'

`But that's the first time I've had to face the widow of a friend.'

`How close were you and Michael White?'

The grey-haired Chief Constable reflected for a moment. `Fairly close, but not confessors, if you know what I mean. But Chrissie and Myrtle have been best friends for years. They'd come to us for dinner on occasion, and we'd go to them. Then we'd see them at parties.

Michael and I didn't socialise without our wives, but they went shopping together so often that they had their own table in Jenners' tea-room.

`Chrissie volunteered to come with me yesterday. I was glad of her presence, I tell you. I let her get on with the task of comforting, while I called the doctor in to give Myrtle a sedative. Then I phoned their son-in-law, Gavin, and gave him the job of contacting the rest of the family. I arranged for him to go into the mortuary this morning too, to make the formal identification.'

`Yes, that's good. I suppose you or I could have done it, but it's better if it's a family member.

Neither you nor I should be called as identification witnesses when this gets to trial . . . if it gets to trial, because we've got next to bugger all to go on.'

Skinner glanced out of his office window. It was still a few minutes before 9 a.m., and several members of the expanding army of the force's civilian staff were striding purposefully up the steep driveway which led to the police headquarters building in Fettes Avenue. As he watched, Chris Whitlow, the Management Services Director, pulled his car into one of the six reserved parking spaces below the window. There had been one or two confrontations between Whitlow and Skinner during the first few months of the new Director's tenure, as the pure disciplines of financial control struggled to adapt to meet the unpredictable needs of operational policing, but recently the ACC had been forced to admit, if only to himself, that his new colleague was a quick learner and, after less than a year in the post, was proving his worth.

He turned back towards the Chief. 'I don't suppose you asked her any questions yesterday.'

Proud shot him a quick glance and shook his head.

`Not a chance. She wouldn't have heard a word I said, even before the sedative took effect.'

`You know we have to talk to her?'

Proud Jimmy leaned back in his chair. 'Oh yes. I haven't been behind a desk so long that I've forgotten that. And I know we can't leave it any longer than today.'

Skinner grunted agreement. 'That's right. Look, I've told Ali Higgins that I want her to run this investigation as far as possible, but this is one instance where it's down to us. You know Myrtle White, and I've met her too, so what d'you say we go to interview her together?'

The Chief Constable picked up a biscuit from the plate on Skinner's desk, and pushed himself to his feet. 'Aye, that's fine by me, Bob. Just give me a call when you want to go.' He turned to leave the room, but Skinner stopped him with a call. `Hold on, hold on. There's something else.' Proud turned back towards him, puzzled.

The ACC sat behind his desk smiling. 'I should really interview you too, shouldn't I?' .

'Christ, I suppose you should at that! Fire away then.' Proud Jimmy lowered himself back into his seat.

'Well, as a good friend of the Whites, have you heard anything that might make you think someone had a fatal sort of grudge against the man? What do you know of his business dealings?'

Proud's ruddy face was serious as he considered Skinner's questions. Not a lot, really. The retail business, where he made his millions, was all high-flying corporate stuff. I don't remember him ever really talking about it. His later activity, on the development side, was more ad hoc. I think he did it for fun as much as anything else.'

Did you ever hear him talk about the Witches' Hill project?'

The Chief searched his memory. 'Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. He brought it up one night when we were at their place for dinner, a few years back. He said that Hector Kinture had just come to him with the proposition, and asked me what I thought. I remember telling him that the only thing I'd heard about investing in sport was that you shouldn't do it unless you could afford to lose every penny you put in. And I remember him saying that he could, and that since the thing sounded like fun, he probably would put up the money.'

`How much was it?'

`Three million, he said. Half equity, half loan.'

Was that the only time he discussed it with you?'

`No. I asked him about it at our party last Christmas. Just before you arrived, as I recall.

Asked him how it was going. Very well, he said. So much so that all sorts of people had approached him wanting to buy into the project.'

`Mmm; Skinner murmured. ‘But he turned them all down?'

`Yes. He said that he and Kinture had decided that if they let one in it'd be open season, and that before they knew it it wouldn't be their course any more. So they thanked everyone for their interest, but very politely they refused them all.'

Did he mention anyone in particular?'

The Chief paused again. 'Yes, he did mention one name. That big promoter fellow. What's his name again? Like a football club . . . Yes! Morton, that was it. He told me that they had asked Morton to set up their tournament, and that he had said that he would only do it if they would give him — give him, mind you — twenty-five per cent of the equity.

`Michael said that he and Hector had told him, politely as ever was, to bugger off, and had said that they would find someone else to arrange their event. At that the chap came back, with a very ill grace and said that he would do it for his usual percentage of all money taken in from spectators, sponsors and exhibitors.'

A broad smile spread over Skinner's tanned face. 'Generous of him. He's a regular winner of the "Nae Luck" award, is our Mr Morton. Here's another interesting tale for you. It seems that the same Morton tried to bend the rules, and stuff this week's event with his own golfer clients. He might have got away with it, only Michael White went to the sponsor and cut the legs from under him.

Ànd the guy looked at me yesterday and told me, wide-eyed, that he thought White was

"charming". According to him they were practically blood brothers.'

The Chief Constable leaned forward in his seat. 'Were they now! I think we ought to find out a bit more about Mr Morton.'

Too right,' said Skinner. 'That's already under way. Higgins has got Brian Mackie checking him out on the international network. I've got another button I can push too.'

Proud smiled. 'That other job of yours comes in handy at times, doesn't it?'

Ìt can do. I've thought about packing it in, letting the Secretary of State find himself a new part-time security adviser, then something like this crops up and I decide it's worth it after all.'

He stood up; Sir James followed his example. 'Look Chief, why don't you go and empty your in-tray and I'll speak to Brian Mackie. While I'm doing that I'll have Maggie Rose check that it's all right for us to see Myrtle White.'

Àye, fine. Come to think of it, we'll take Maggie with us. I'm a plain coward when it comes to coping with grief!'

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?'

Às 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.