And the thought had come to him that if this natural phenomenon had been in its full display around an hour earlier, then perhaps Myra would have stopped to look also, and perhaps she would not have been travelling so fast when eventually she had come to Luffness Corner, and perhaps…
The thought crept back as it always did. He shook his head to throw aside impossible comparisons. He was still disturbed by the rediscovery of Myra's tape, and by the thoughts which it had stirred from their banishment to the deepest recesses of his mind. If his car had a time switch to take him back those seventeen years, to save Myra's life but to wipe out all else, would he press it?
He squeezed his eyes shut and took his wallet from his jacket. Flipping it open, he opened his eyes at the same time, and looked intently at the photo of Sarah and Jazz behind its Perspex panel. As he did the clenched muscles of his face relaxed into a smile. Replacing the wallet in his pocket, he slipped the car back into gear and drove on, into the present.
He had reached the outskirts of Gullane and the brown brick facility which his golf club had provided for its visitors, when the carphone rang. He pushed the receive button and Joe Doherty's voice filled the car. The background noise indicated that he was on the road also.
`My guys have come good, Bob. They've sent over a full list of the executive Vice-Presidents in SSC. As we thought, they're mostly lawyers, real Ivy-Leaguers in their early thirties.
They're organised within the company on a divisional basis, each one concentrating on a different sport, or global sector. For example, there are three V-Ps looking after golf, each with his own group of clients.
`But there's one of them who doesn't have any special interest. He reports straight to Mike Morton, and from what we've been able to figure out, all the other guys seem to defer to him.
He's older than the rest, about Morton's age, in fact, and he ain't no law school guy. His name is Richard Andrews, at least it is now. If you trace him far enough back, you'll find that when he was given exemption from military service on compassionate grounds, his name was Rocco Andrade. If you look a little further you'll find that his request for exemption was countersigned by old man Morticelli. Dig even deeper and you'll find that young Andrade's mamma's given name was Angela Morticelli, and that she was the old man's sister.'
`Tasty,' said Skinner, turning off Gullane Main Street. `What sort is Mr Andrews?'
`He's a big, mean mother. A few years back, SSC had trouble with one of its fighters, a good champion with more smarts than were good for him. He wasn't happy with his end of the money for an up-coming fight, so he said he wouldn't sign. Andrews went to see him, and the guy signed on the dotted line. By the time the fight took place, SSC had the opponent under contract too. The champ took a swig from his water bottle after the first round, and was kayoed in the second. He never fought again.'
Skinner drew the car to a halt outside the cottage. 'How do they describe Mr Andrews inside the organisation? He must have some sort of title.'
Doherty laughed. 'Sure he has, and you'll like it. Morton calls him Vice-President in charge of special negotiations.'
`You're right, I like it. Do we know where he was last weekend?'
‘Yup. Our informant inside SSC tells us that Andrews and one of the golf V-Ps, Bert Holliman, were in the UK for the PGA tournament last week. Holliman flew back on Sunday evening, but so far Andrews hasn't shown up back at the ranch.'
`Fascinating. I wonder where he was on Sunday? Listen, where are you just now? Is Brian with you?'
`Yeah, he's driving. We're heading out of town towards Fiaddington. We got a table booked at this Waterside place, then Brian's taking me to the station for the Glasgow train.'
OK, don't bolt lunch, or break any speed limits, but tell Brian that as soon as he's done that, he should check out Mr Andrews. He should find out which hotel had him as a guest last week, and when he booked out. Tell him to try the car hire companies too.
If this man can't account for himself on Sunday, I may want to have some 'special negotiations' with him myself.'
Twenty-eight
‘Honest to God, Skinner, look at you. Forty-five years old and nervous as a kitten. Where's the man I married? What happened to the father of this child?' She stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.
Jazz was curled in the crook of her arm, smiling. Approaching four months old, he held his head upright. His experiments with sound were growing more inventive by the day, and now he babbled out a string of sounds, as if mimicking his mother.
Bob threw him a mock glare. 'You can wind your neck in for a start, boy. One piss-taker in this family's quite enough.
And you madam, should be enough of a golfer to understand what it's like to be about to tee off with Darren Atkinson with people watching. Knocking a few balls down the practice range is one thing, but this is public play, on a nice day, with hundreds, maybe thousands of people in the gallery.
`This isn't going to be like teeing off in the Friday evening bounce game in front of Craig, or Bobby, or Ken or Eric.' He slipped on his blazer, over a fresh white shirt.
She laughed. 'Well, just imagine that's who is watching you. Look, what's the worst that could happen?'
He pondered her question. 'I suppose the worst case would be if Norton Wales out-drove me.
Mind you, I'd back Jazz to knock it further than Norton!' He took his son and raised him tip high towards the ceiling, tickling him with his thumbs. The baby grinned and chortled.
`Careful, Bob, he's just had a feed.'
`You wouldn't barf on your dad, would you, son? Any more than your sister did in her time.'
All the same, he handed Jazz carefully back to his mother, smiling.
`You know, my love, you've never looked more beautiful than you do now standing there, son on hip, all eyes, lips and suntan. Christ, if I wasn't going to golf.'
She grinned back at him. 'Yeah, too bad. I'll tell you something, copper, just between the three of us. I'm happier now than I've ever been in my life, happier in fact than I've ever imagined being. Going back to work'll be a lot tougher than I'd thought.'
`Then don't,' he said at once. 'Tell the University you've had second thoughts about the job. A lot of women need to work to sustain a lifestyle. You don't. We own all our properties, and I've got extra income from my legacy investments. And, you're right, we don't need both this house and the Edinburgh place. We want Jazz to go to school here anyway, don't we?
`So tell the University 'Sorry, I made a mistake.' Stay at home and enjoy being a full-time mother, for a few years at least!'
His sudden vehemence astonished her. 'Hey honey, is this Pre-match tension or something?
What brought all this on?'
He shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. I suppose I've been going along with the University thing because I know that a Chair at your age is an honour, but most of all because I thought it was what you really wanted.
`Now, if you say it isn't, then there's no question. Let it go, and stay here with Jazz. Nothing would make me happier.'
She took his hand and looked him in the eye. 'Slow down, big Bob, and listen to what I said.
Going back to work is going to be tougher than I thought, especially in the first few months, but it's still what I want to do. I'm your wife and Jazz's mother, but I'm more than that. I'm me as well.
It was me you fell in love with, not Jazz's mom. You're right, I don't have to go back to work. But it's part of being me, and if I throw it away, a big part of me will go with it. I'll change, I'll become someone else, someone different from the woman you fell in love with.
OK, you might love her too, but maybe not as much… or maybe not at all. I ain't going to take that chance.
`Mellow motherhood may have its hooks in me for now, but they'd loosen sooner than you think.'
He stared at her, with a strange, almost pleading expression that she had never seen before.
'OK I hear that, but surely a year wouldn't hurt. Defer the job till next session. Do that at least for me, and
