for him!'
She smiled gently. 'Darling, it's for both of you that I'm going back to work.
The decision's made, I've given my word, and the students are enrolling. Now, put all this out of your mind. Get down to Witches' Hill and knock that first tee-shot way past Norton Wales!'
Twenty-nine
‘Does the name Richard Andrews mean anything to you, Darren?' Skinner asked as he finished tying the laces of his brown golf shoes.
Atkinson looked at him in surprise. 'Mr Nice? Oh yes, I know him well enough.'
`Why d'you call him that?'
`That's what everyone calls him. You might say that he's the unacceptable face of Mike Morton… if you can handle that as a concept! He's been around Morton for as long as I've known him, and if you thought that Mike behaved like a shit with Masur yesterday, you should see Andrews in action. I've heard him talk to world-class golfers like I wouldn't talk to a dog. And the amazing thing is that they take it. I mean, these guys are effectively his employers, his and Morton's, yet they're told where to play, where to live, what deals to sign.
They just surrender themselves to SSC, completely.'
`Did SSC ever try to recruit you?'
The golfer nodded. 'Sure, just over ten years ago, just before I won my first tournament on the US tour, I had a call from Morton. He made me an offer, said that if I signed with him, I'd get access to invitation events that would be closed to me otherwise, that I'd make a guaranteed million dollars a year in endorsements.
I told him I was earning that much already, and that didn't have a problem filling my schedule. Next day I had a visit from Mr Nice, in my hotel room. He said to me that if I didn't sign with SSC then maybe I would start to have schedule problems. I said to him that I was very happy with the way that my brother Rick was managing my affairs, and that I wasn't about to change things.
`Then Mr Nice said… and I'll never forget the way he said it
… 'Yeah, but anyone can have an accident. Suppose something was to happen to your brother?' He came straight out with it.' Atkinson pulled on his sweater, and headed towards the changing-room door.
`So how did you react?' said Skinner, following.
I told him that if Rick as much as caught a cold I'd go straight to the FBI. Then I threw him out.'
Was there any follow-up?'
Atkinson opened the door at the end of the corridor and stepped out into the daylight. He shook his head. 'Not from them. It got me steamed up though. I went out and won the tournament that week. Paul Wyman was SSC's top dog then, and I beat him in a play-off. A few weeks later I won my first Masters, and all of a sudden I was big news, and even bigger box-office. Whether they liked it or not, SSC needed me at their events. So Morton and I reached an agreement, that I'd give their tournaments preference and they'd pay me appearance money.'
Skinner glanced at him, as they strolled towards the first tee. And he didn't give you trouble when you set up your own company? No more visits from Mr Nice?'
`No. I told Mike from the start that I was mainly interested in guys who base themselves on the European tour. He said that he didn't have a problem with that.
'How come you're asking about Andrews all of a sudden, Bob?'
The policeman shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh, the name was mentioned, that's all. And I'm just a nosey bastard by nature.' Atkinson grinned. 'Yeah, and I'm the next Pope!'
Norton Wales and Hideo Murano were waiting on the tee as they approached. Bravo stood, with two wizened, weather-beaten caddies and their heavy burdens, beside a tall signboard bearing the legend, 'The Murano Million. Hole № 1. 465 yards.' Skinner wandered across and looked at the champion's bag. 'You play Shark's Fin clubs, Darren?'
'Yes, they're the best. I'm paid well to use them, but that's secondary for me. I've known pros who've changed clubs just for the money they've been offered to make the switch, and who've lost their game as a result. You want to be the best, you have to use the clubs that are best for you.'
'D'you carry a standard set?'
'No. I have three wedges, one for fairway play, a sand-iron and a thin-soled job for short play around the greens. I find that I can do without a nine-iron. Actually, in any given round I tend not to use any more than ten out of the fourteen. If I could be sure in advance which ones they were going to be, I could take some weight off Bravo's shoulders!'
He clapped his hands. 'OK guys,' he called. 'Ready for action?' He looked around. 'Where's your caddy, Bob?'
‘lady Kinture? She said she was going to change her shoes, that's all.' He looked round. 'Here she comes now.'
The others followed his gaze and saw the immaculate figure of Susan Kinture sweeping elegantly towards them. She was dressed in a peach-coloured trouser suit, with a white shirt and golf shoes, and was pulling a wide-wheeled caddy-car, on which Skinner's clubs were loaded. 'Hello, chaps,' she called as she approached. 'Ready for action?' She smiled warmly enough at Skinner, Wales and Murano, but when she looked at Darren Atkinson, the light of hero worship seemed to shine in her eyes. 'Hello, Lady Kinture,' the golfer said, formally, and with the briefest and most courtly of bows. Skinner thought that he saw the faintest flash of disappointment cross her face.
A grandstand had been set up behind the tee, looking down the first fairway. It was filled by around three hundred seated spectators. Skinner tried to banish all thoughts of the gallery from his mind.
`Right chaps, we'll play this as a medal round, but just for interest, let's make a match of it.
Norton and I'll take on you guys. Let's give Norton and Hideo a shot at each hole. Bob, there are ten par fours. I'll give you a shot at each of them. OK?' The three nodded agreement.
'Right, Hideo,' said Atkinson, 'you're up first.' The Japanese stepped forward and asked his caddy for a number three wood. He wasted no time, teeing his ball up and clipping it carefully and sensibly down the middle of the fairway.
`May I have my driver, please, Susan?' said Skinner. The tall blonde looked at his clubs, found the longest in the bag, pulled off its woollen head cover, and handed it to him. He teed his ball and stepped back, looking down the fairway. The hole was a slight dogleg easing right around the slope of the Witches' Hill towards the green which was, according to the sign, a good drive and a long second shot distant. There was a wide bunker on the left, two hundred yards away; the reason, Skinner guessed, why his Japanese partner had played deliberately short. He gave the club a swish to loosen his shoulders, then lined up his drive.
'No chances here, boy,' he muttered to himself. 'You've got one of your shots at this hole, and you'll need to make use of them all.' He addressed the ball and swung, slowly and smoothly.
There was a gasp from the gallery as the ball headed straight for the sand-trap, then an exhalation of relief as it carried easily over the hazard, took a hard high bounce and careered for another thirty yards down the left- hand side of the fairway. Behind him, there was a smattering of applause. Skinner stepped back to stand beside Murano.
Norton Wales stepped up to the mark, clowning and waving to the gallery. Atkinson spoke to his caddy, who handed his client a five-iron. The singer took the club with a nod to his team captain, who mouthed the words, 'Swing slow.' Wales followed the instructions and was rewarded with a satisfactorily straight shot, shorter than Murano's or Skinner's, but like theirs safely in the playing area.
Darren Atkinson took the tee to a round of sustained applause from the gallery in the stands, and from the crowds lining the fairway on the left, swelled in number by his appearance on the course. He acknowledged them with a smile and a wave, then turned to begin his day's work. As he flexed the golden shaft of his metal-headed driver, rehearsing his swing section by section, Skinner was aware that this was no longer the amiable coach of the previous evening. This was a warrior readying himself for battle, not against another man but against the course itself, against its challenge to his supremacy, to his mastery of his craft. He looked down the fairway, selecting the point to which he would strike his first blow, and Skinner recognised in his eyes an expression which, in his earlier
