'Well, as long as you understand that.' He fed the baby the first spoonful, which he swallowed voraciously. 'Better than sex as far as you're concerned, isn't it, Wee man?' he said, inserting the second mouthful in answer to an affirmative shout by his son. Their bizarre conversation Continued until the bowl was empty, and until Jazz had been Convinced of the fact.
Breakfast over, Bob unstrapped him, and carried him, draped across his shoulder through to the living room, where they sat together on the smaller of the two couches. 'You just be quiet for a while, pal,' he said, picking up the telephone directory, and looking up the number of the Marquis of Kinture.
The telephone at Bracklands was answered by a bright voice which Skinner recognised as that of the girl who had sat for them during the PGA dinner. `Kylie, you're up early! It's Mr Skinner here. Look, I need to speak to Mr Highfield, urgently. If he's still asleep, can you waken him, and ask him to telephone me at once. If he has a mobile, tell him I said to use that.' He gave her his number. 'But listen, don't make a fuss about it, and try not to disturb anyone else. Is that OK?'
`Sure, Mr Skinner,' the girl drawled. 'I'll do that right away.'
He replaced the receiver and looked down at the contented Jazz. 'That was your girlfriend from last night, pal. You took a right shine to her, and don't tell me otherwise. I saw the way you were looking at her when we got home last night. You and your sister, you're two of a kind!'
When the phone rang a minute later he was ready and picked it up at once. 'Skinner.'
The voice at the other end sounded both curious and anxious. 'Mr Skinner, what is it? Have they found Oliver's father? Is that it?'
`Not as far as I know. No, this is much closer to home. When was the last time you saw Bill Masur?'
`Last night, at the clubhouse.'
`Not at the house?'
`No. I came back on the bus with the boys. Masur said something about enjoying the night air. Why?'
Skinner took a deep breath. 'Because Jimmy Robertson, the pro, fished him out of the Truth Loch about an hour ago.'
`What! Had he fallen in? Was he drunk? Had he decided to go swimming.?'
`No,
Maybe you don't understand me. He was dead.'
Oh my God!'
Skinner thought that the man was whispering, until he realised that he had taken the phone from his mouth. When Highfield spoke again, his voice was tremulous. `What happened?'
All I know so far is that he was found in the loch, beside the eighteenth fairway.' He decided not to go into detail. 'My people are there now, and so's my wife. She's a police surgeon. I'll head down there myself, as soon as she gets back here.'
`What do you want me to do about the tournament?'
That's what I wanted to discuss. When does the first team play off?'
`We're scheduled to start at nine-thirty a.m., gates open at eight forty-five.'
OK. My first instinct was to seal the site, and call the thing off. If I thought that the public would be at risk, that's exactly what I would do. But these murders are very specific, and I have to assume that they're connected in some way. Instinct ells me that the best chance I have of catching the killer is to let the thing go on, and keep everyone here.
I could simply call off today's play, but with thousands of eople heading for the course, and some of them probably underway already, I don't want to do that if I can avoid it. My technical people will be there by now. They'll do what they have to do there as quickly as possible, and we'll move the body soon as the photographers are finished. I'd like to keep the immediate area sealed off until we've given it a thorough sweep. Once we've done that I'll feel able to reopen the course.
Can you postpone the start until ten-fifteen and keep the punters out till nine-thirty?'
Anything you ask, Mr Skinner, we'll do. We've got a commercial firm handling the admissions. I'll call them and let them know.'
`No, leave that for the moment. I want you to keep this to yourself for now. I'll be along at Bracklands by eight o'clock. That'll give you time to alert your people at the course.
Meantime, I'd rather no one else knew about this till I get there.'
Of course,' said Highfield. 'I shall stay in my room. I can hardly cope with this, you know.
Good God, you saw Masur last night, so full of himself. Why on earth would he want to do something like this?'
Skinner smiled grimly. 'See you later, then.'
He ended the call, then dialled Andy Martin's mobile number, which he still knew by heart.
Andy, 's'me. Where are you?'
`Down by the loch with Sarah. She's just finished. She says that it's Masur all right. She thinks that he was cracked on the head, then dunked in the pond. He's been in there long enough for the fishes to have had a few nibbles.'
A shiver of sudden excitement ran through Skinner as he remembered Mike Morton's Italian imprecation, a day and a half earlier.
The crime scene people are here, plus Alison and Neil’
‘Good. I'll be down as soon as Sarah gets back. How many uniforms have you got with you?'
`Boyd and young Pye are here, and there are three more up at the clubhouse.
OK. Use as many people as you can to do a fast sweep of the area around the stool, looking for anything at all. Hankies, footprints, blunt instruments… oh yes, and fag-ends. You never can tell.'
He paused. 'Once that's under way, I want you to head up to Bracklands. See the Marquis and tell him — and him alone — what's happened. And take Mcllhenney with you. I don't want anyone leaving there for the moment. I'll join you there as soon as I can.
`With a wee bit of luck, when the house guests come down to breakfast you and I'll be there to give them all a nasty surprise… except that for one of them, I don't think it'll be a surprise at all!'
Thirty-five
His wellies were less trendy than his wife's. They were the old-fashioned, wide-topped, black sort, and they had lain in the dark recesses of successive car boots for over ten years. The dried mud of countless crime scenes packed the ridges of their soles, and another layer was being added as Skinner crouched to look into the grey, mottled, dead face of Bill Masur.
The body still sat in the chair, crumpled and shapeless. The right eye was slightly open. There was no sparkle there, no light, no life. The weight of the head was pressing the jaw into the chest, and the fleshy bottom lip stuck out grotesquely.
Old Japanese proverb,' said Skinner, softly, conversationally. ' 'He who play in heavy traffic sometimes get run over.' I don't think your Yakuza pals are going to know what to make of this at all. I just hope that if they decide to do some getting even, they do it well away from here.'
He pushed himself to his feet. With a squelch, he backed away, then climbed up the slope to where Alison Higgins and Mario McGuire were standing on firmer ground.
'A right nasty bastard, was Mr Masur,' he said. 'I thought he might have had something coming to him. Didn't think it'd arrive so fast, though. Have the photographers finished?'
`Yes, sir,' said Higgins, 'and the technicians say they can't do any more here either. They've taken samples from the rope that ties this thing down. Now they're looking for footprints around the bollard to which it's attached. They think they've found the exact point where Masur was loaded into the chair.
‘D'you see how it was done?' She took several steps past the pillar of the stool, which rose from the ground beside the steepest point of the bank to an area where the flatter ground widened out. She grabbed the rope which hung from the end of the long wooden boom which carried the chair. It was at least ten feet above her head. 'When there's nothing in the stool this can be moved about, no bother, and can be swung over there.' She pointed to an
