Sarah, Mike Morton, a solemn Oliver M'tebe, Frankie Holloway, the actress and another man whom he did not recognise. The golfer, on the eve of a million-pound event, was as relaxed as anyone he had ever seen.
`He's got no nerves, has he?' he said to Weekes.
`You guessed it. I was in a play-off with him once, at Augusta. I was so nervous and so hot I was hyper- goddamn-ventilating. I'll swear his heart-rate was about fifty! What a guy.'
`Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,' the head waiter called from the doorway. Skinner and Weekes strolled across to check their places on the table plan. Atkinson was indeed between Sarah and Susan Kinture, but Bob was seated at his wife's right hand. The Marquis was across the room, between Highfield and Cortes.
They took their places and Skinner found himself opposite Oliver M'tebe, who sat between Bill Masur and Hideo Murano, who was alongside Tiger Nakamura, and the golfer's unofficial interpreter for the evening.
The starters were served, a spoon rapped on the central table, and Andres Cortes rose to recite a brief grace in Spanish. The wine waiters circulated with Chablis and Strathmore, and the meal began. The sight and smell of the cockaleekie soup made Skinner realise suddenly how hungry he was. He set to without a word, even to Sarah.
In the lull as the waiters served the fish, he glanced across to M'tebe and caught the young man's eye. 'Have you been in contact with South Africa today?'
He nodded. 'Yes sir, but there is no good news. My father is still missing.'
I know, and it's a pity, but at least there's been no more bad news. I asked one of my people to check with the South African police. They're doing everything they can, Oliver. They say that they're convinced, like you, that it's not political. It may be a kidnapping for ransom, in which case there may be no contact at all for a few days.
`The police do have one small lead. They've found that two men stayed overnight in the hotel nearest your father's home, and checked out just before the kidnap.' He paused. 'The names in the register are John Mallett and Steve May, and the addresses are Sydney, New South Wales.' He kept his voice casual, and glanced at Masur as he spoke. There was the briefest flicker of an eyebrow, in instantly suppressed surprise, but otherwise the Australian's expression was unchanged. The Australian police have been asked if the names mean anything to them. I know it's pretty tenuous… I mean for all we know these guys could be Jehovah's Witnesses… but at least it gives you something to hang on to.
`How about you, Mr Masur?' he said suddenly. 'Do those names mean anything?'
The Australian shrugged his shoulders, impassively. `There's Malletts and Mays all over bloody Sydney, mate.'
He tapped the young South African on the arm. 'Don't you worry, Olly son. It'll be OK. You win the Million for your old man.' M'tebe smiled weakly.
Dinner continued in a welter of small talk, about the day's rounds, or recent golf tournaments, or the newest endorsement and sponsorship deals. Eventually, with coffee and liqueurs on the table, Andres Cortes rose again. 'I should like to say some words about this competition. I am pleased that we are all here to open this fine new course, and naturally, I am pleased also that we are here to play for so much money.
`But I am very sad about the terrible thing that happen on Sunday, and that Mr White will not be with us tomorrow. Whoever wins this week, we should all think of him.' He sat down in silence.
`True indeed,' said Masur, across the table. He stood up. `Still, even in sadness life and golf go on, and I have a happier announcement to make. Today, Tiger Nakamura's contract with SSC expired. Tomorrow he signs a contract appointing Greenfields as his global manager, in all of his golf and business dealings. The times they are a-changing, my friends.' He sat down.
There was dead silence across the room. It was broken, almost bizarrely, by the trilling of a mobile telephone. Around the table a dozen hands reached automatically into pockets, but it was Darren Atkinson who produced the intrusive instrument. He switched it off, apologetically.
As the buzz of conversation resumed, Skinner looked across the room towards Morton. His face seemed bright red, and suffused with rage. 'Tell me, Masur,' said the ACC, 'when you went to Charm School, why did you skip the diplomacy classes?'
The Australian followed the direction of the policeman's gaze and laughed. 'Don't waste your sympathy on that guy, Skinner. He's had it coming. Tomorrow will be a great day. It will mean that we've got a million-pound field without a single SSC player in it.' He drained his brandy.
Skinner shook his head in disgust, but his retort was cut off by Sarah's tug on his sleeve. 'Bob, over there. It's our taxi-driver. I'd say he's just in time.'
Thursday
Thirty-two
For once they were not awakened by the early morning phone call. Jazz had put in an unscheduled appearance and lay with them in their bed, refreshed and chortling between his drowsy parents.
`So, did you enjoy last night, aside from Masur's gloating wee speech?' asked Bob, sipping from a mug of restorative coffee, his naked shoulders cool against the pine headboard.
`Yeah. You know how much I like meeting new people. And it was a minor triumph to get into that black dress again, after having this fella.'
`Tell you something, I enjoyed watching the heads turn when you walked into the room.' She smiled and rubbed a leg against his.
`What did you think of my golf partner?'
`Special. He's got quite an aura about him. There were two guys in that room last night who stood out from the crowd, and I had one of you on either side of me at the dinner table. I'll tell you something. Susan Kinture's got the hots for Darren!'
Bob laughed. 'I am only a dumb copper, my darling, but even I had figured that one out!
D'you think she's really in the market, though?'
Sarah propped herself up on an elbow. The duvet slipped down her side, and Jazz seemed to eye her left breast, hungrily, as it swung closer to his face. 'She probably is. She's a fine healthy woman, is Sue, and it's questionable whether Hector, with his disability, is capable of meeting her needs.
`But leaving her appetites aside, d'you think Darren would be interested… or available? Is he married?'
No. He's a legendary golf bachelor. He told me he's had opportunities, but he's always put golf first. Probably right, too. D'you have any idea of the time these guys spend practising?'
She smiled. 'In that case, you better not let this week make you too keen on golf.'
Jazz looked up in surprise when the telephone rang. `Bugger!' Bob snapped, and picked it up, pulling himself upright. He glanced at the bedside alarm clock. It showed 6.21 a.m. 'Skinner!'
`Sorry, Boss. It's Andy. We've had another death at Witches' Hill.'
Oh, for fu…' He stopped himself short. 'Suspicious?'
`Depends what you read into a bloke being tied to the imitation seventeenth-century ducking stool and dropped into the Truth Loch!'
`Jesus Christ!'
`The club pro found him. He went out at five-thirty to position the flags and cut the holes for today's play. He did the eighteenth first, and was on his way back down the fairway when he saw that the stool was in the water.' He paused. 'You remember how it's usually held clear by a rope.
`He thought that the rope had slipped, and went over to replace it, but when he tried to haul the stool out of the water, it was a ton weight. But the device has a sort of pivoting lever, and he was strong enough to haul it up and swing it on to the bank. As soon as it was clear of the water, even in the grey light before dawn, he saw that there was a stiff in it. He belted back to the clubhouse and phoned Haddington. They called me. I've got men on the way there, I've called Ali Higgins, and I'm en route myself. Now I need a doctor.'
`Could the pro identify the body?'
`Well the light was dodgy and he looked a bit grotesque, but he said that he thought it was Masur, the
