surprised in the slightest degree.
He applauded with the rest, as he walked up the green to shake the champion's hand.
'Wonderful round, Darren. I think I'll go and put those bets on now.'
Atkinson smiled. 'Let's just hope I haven't used up my ration of birdies before the tournament begins!' With Susan Kinture between them, they walked across the green, towards the clubhouse entrance, where Arthur Highfield stood waiting, with Andres Cortes, Ewan Urquhart, and a rugged man Skinner recognised as Sandro Gregory, the Australian.
`Well,' said Gregory, with more than a trace of irony. 'How was it? Have the rest of us got a chance at the money?'
Atkinson looked at him evenly. 'Sure,' he said. 'All you have to do is go round in fewer shots than me.'
`What did you shoot, Darren?' asked Urquhart.
Oh, just one or two birdies,' he replied vaguely.
`Yes,' said Skinner, quietly. 'Nine, to be exact. That last putt was for a sixty-three.
Andres Cortes shook his head and muttered something obscene in Spanish.
`That's physically impossible, Andres!' said Arthur Highfield. He rubbed his hands together.
'Gentlemen, you will remember this evening's dinner.' The four golfers nodded. It was really you I wanted to see, Mr Skinner. The PGA is hosting a pre-tournament dinner in the clubhouse dining room. Seven-thirty for eight p.m., lounge suits. I should have mentioned it before. You will be able to come, won't you?'
I'd be delighted. I'd better head home right now though, to break the news to my wife… gently.'
`Bring Sarah,' said Susan Kinture at once, 'otherwise I'll be the only lady present.'
`She'd love to come, but we have a four-month-old social handicap, with an established routine. And we'd never find a baby-sitter at this notice.'
Susan Kinture folded her arms across her chest. 'No excuses, officer. We have a wonderful girl on our staff at Bracklands. She'll sit for you. Off you go home and help Sarah to get herself prepared. Otherwise I'll tell her she was invited, but you said 'no' on her behalf.'
Bob smiled. 'I give up. But you phone Sarah anyway, and tell her all about your wonder girl.
I'll head off home, meantime.'
`Time for a quick team shandy first,' Atkinson interposed, and led his playing companions to the changing room. Hideo Murano and Norton Wales, each sweating heavily from their exertions, decided to shower, but Atkinson and Skinner simply washed and changed into blazers, slacks and shirts.
In the bar, they found a window table, to which Williamson, the elderly steward, brought their drinks.
That was a lifetime of golfing experience in one afternoon, Darren,' said Skinner, sipping his Coke. 'I'll be the club bore for months. But tell me, isn't it disconcerting for you to be playing with the likes of us?'
Atkinson smiled. 'When I play, Bob, I don't even notice you're there. I don't see anything but the ball or the course. I don't hear the crowd, not even in the States.'
`That's dedication for you. Is your brother like you?' `Rick? Yes, I suppose he is, in his own way.'
Is he around this week?'
`No, he doesn't come to all the tournaments. We have field people who look after our clients' interests, just like SSC and Greenfields.'
Skinner nodded, thoughtfully, and took another sip of his drink. 'Speaking of them, did you see Richard Andrews at the tournament last week, by any chance?'
`Mr Nice? Oh yes. You always know when he's about, he's such a loud-mouthed bugger.'
`Was he there every day?'
Atkinson considered the question for a moment. 'Come to think of it, he was there on Thursday, Friday and Saturday, with his gopher, a bloke called Hollywood, or something…
Holliman, that's his name. But on Sunday, the gopher was around on his own. I didn't see Mr Nice at all.'
The golfer looked at the policeman, curiously. 'How come you're so interested in him anyway? You don't think..
Skinner shook his head. 'Of course not. Tell you what; try to forget I asked about him, OK?
But if you see him around this week, give me a whisper. Remember that. Not a shout. A very discreet whisper.'
Thirty
‘Honey, you are wonderful! Imagine swinging an invite to the tournament dinner for me too!
And finding us a baby-sitter, into the bargain! Ooh, come here!'
She pulled him to her, ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him; a long squashy kiss of sheer delight.
Bob frowned, to keep his confusion from her. `So Susan Kinture called you,' he said, in what he hoped was a knowing ' tone.
Sarah squeezed him again. 'Yup. She told me about Highfield inviting you to the dinner, and you saying that given the short notice you'd only come if you could bring your wife, and then about you asking her if she could fix us up with a short-notice baby-sitter.'
He smiled, relaxing. 'She's quite a woman, that Susan. You're happy about the sitter?'
Oh yes, Susan told me all about her. She's working as a maid at Bracklands during the summer, living in. With all the house guests at the dinner tonight, she's surplus to requirements. I said you'd pay her thirty pounds.'
His jaw dropped. 'That's a bloody good hourly rate. Did you say we'd lay on a taxi too?'
Of course I did. But she's got her own car.'
`Thank Christ for that!' he whispered, through clenched teeth. Then aloud, 'OK, it's six o'clock now, we'd better get cracking.'
Together they bathed the rumbustious Jazz, sticking to their vow that bathtime should be a joint exercise whenever possible. The baby seemed to fill more of the plastic basin with every day. 'It's soon going to be easier to get in the bath ourselves and take him with us,' said Bob.
I have done before now, on the odd occasion you've been away.' She grinned. 'I think it might be a bit tight for three, though.' She lifted the child from the tub, still kicking and wriggling, and wrapped him in a towel. 'I'll take him to the nursery to dry him off and package him up. Meantime, you can get into the shower.'
`Yes, ma'am.' Bob gave a mock salute and wandered into their bedroom unbuttoning his shirt.
He enjoyed a long, leisurely shower in the en-suite bathroom, easing his tightening muscles in the pulsing of the strong jets, and kneading the Paul Mitchell shampoo through his thick, greying mane.
A momentary dip in the air temperature told him that the cubicle door had been opened, even though his eyes were squeezed shut. Then Sarah's body moulded itself against his, and they opened with a start. She reached up and drew his mouth to hers. She kissed him, in earnest this time, not in fun, and he felt her salty tongue in his mouth, flicking, probing. Her fingers wound through his wet chest hair then down, down, until he felt himself throbbing as she held him, there in the pulsing water of the shower. He lifted her up, effortlessly, with his massive strength, bracing her back against the shower's tiled wall, and entered her unerringly. She gasped and shuddered, gripping his hips with the inside of her strong thighs and binding her legs together behind him. He moved inside her barely at all, clenching muscles rather than thrusting, but it was enough to send her into a writhing frenzy. Her hair whipped against his face as she shook her head from side to side, crying out aloud. And at last he felt the tremors of impending orgasm; in his legs at first, then rushing up through his entire body as he pushed himself as deep inside her as he would go, drawing one last hoarse shout of pleasure from her, in unison with his own.
They stood there in that position as they recovered, kissing and nuzzling, breathing heavily together, wearing the secret smiles of total intimacy. Eventually he raised her from him, then lowered her carefully, supporting her until he was sure that she would not slip on the cubicle floor. He kissed her once more, then took a foaming sponge and began to rub her body, as she smoothed soap over him. When they were finished he twisted the wheel of the shower control, stopping the flow, and held the door open as she stepped out. She turned and looked up at him, something in her eyes, one of those perfectly timed punchlines, waiting to come out. 'And I only came in to tell you
