Thirty-eight
‘Miss Higgins, why didn't you cancel the tournament because of this incident?'
The questioner held a microphone across the table in the mobile police office, which had been parked on the edge of the tented village. The limited space was packed tight with journalists and cameramen. Alison Higgins sat, flanked by Andy Martin and Alan Royston, at a narrow table against the wall closest to the single entrance door.
I'll answer that, if I may,' said Martin. 'That decision was taken only after all the circumstances had been considered. The body was removed by eight o'clock, and the scientific team were finished their work by nine-thirty, so our work here is complete for the minute. The only practical reason for cancellation would have been public safety, and we're satisfied that there's no general risk. Postponement of the start for twenty-four hours was an option, but it was decided that since thousands of people would be on their way here already, it would be fairer all round to let play begin as soon as possible.'
`Who took the decision?' asked the journalist with the microphone.
I'm the area commander here,' said Martin, brusquely. John Hunter laughed, hoarsely. 'We know, that, Andy. I think the boy here's just a wee bit shy of asking if Big Bob didn't relish missing a day's golf!'
I'll treat that as a joke, you old scoundrel. The ACC's on leave this week, and for those of you who don't know, he's playing in the pro-am in Mr Michael White's place, at the request of Michael White's widow. As for what Mr Skinner did or did not fancy, I didn't fancy turning five thousand motorists away from the gate.
I believe that the PGA intend to stop play at one o'clock, when everyone's out on the course, for two minutes' silence, in memory of Mr White, and now of Mr Masur.'
`Have you established a link between the two deaths, Superintendent?' asked a young Sunday newspaper reporter, in a light Irish brogue.
`That's one for Miss Higgins,' said Martin.
Alison Higgins leaned forward with a brief nod of thanks. The answer is no. We are pursuing specific lines of enquiry in each case, but as yet they don't converge.'
Are you considering a connection with the kidnapping of Oliver M'tebe's father?'
`That's a separate investigation, being carried out by the South African police. So far they haven't established any connection with events here. And I can tell you that there has been no contact made by the kidnappers with Oliver or his management.'
`What about the letter to the Scotsman? Given the letter's allusion to witchcraft are you looking into the possibility that there might be a coven active today in East Lothian?' asked Julian Finney, of Scottish Television, a little bulldog of a man.
The Superintendent paused for a moment, considering her reply. When she did speak, she looked straight into the television cameras. 'Frankly we're following up every line of enquiry, however bizarre it might seem.'
`Your statement says that Mr Masur's body was found in the Truth Loch early this morning,'
Finney went on. 'Can you give us any more detail than that?'
'No.'
`Nothing on his injuries? May we take it that drowning was the cause of death?'
`That will be determined by the post-mortem, and will be part of our report to the Procurator Fiscal.'
`Were any extra security measures put in place following Mr White's murder?'
`There's been a police presence here throughout the day since Sunday, and private security in the exhibition area at night.'
`But individuals haven't been given police protection?' `No, but no one's been refused it either.'
`Will there be extra security after this second death?'
`Come on, Julian,' said Martin. 'That's a Command decision, not one for CID. We'll protect everyone here to the best of our ability and resources. But we've no idea who or what we're protecting them against.'
`You don't see a terrorist connection?'
`No, and neither do you, so stop trying to drum up an angle. Terrorists do it for the publicity.
There's been none of that, other than the Scotsman letter, and whatever that was, it sure as hell was not a terrorist communique.
`What we're investigating here are two unexplained, violent deaths, with no possibility of suicide in either case. An alleged murder mystery, to give you a non-prejudicial, legally correct headline.'
Thirty-nine
Skinner was striding towards the first tee when the stocky figure of Julian Finney fell into step beside him.
`Yes Julian, what can I do for you?'
I know that officially you're on holiday, but I wondered if you could give me a quick interview.'
Officially and unofficially, son. No chance. Didn't Royston fix you up with Andy and Alison?'
`Yes, but Bob, I no more believe that you're not involved in this investigation than I believe your scratch score will beat Darren Atkinson.'
Skinner smiled. 'Thanks for your confidence! Look, there's nothing I can say to you that won't have been said already, and I can't step in over the heads of the officers in charge. You know that so let's cut the crap, I'm on the tee in five minutes. What do you really want?'
Finney looked diffidently at his feet. 'Oh, it's just that I heard a whisper that there had been a big argument between Masur and Mike Morton on the practice ground the other day, and that you were there. Is Mike Morton one of the lines of enquiry that Superintendent Higgins was talking about?'
Skinner stopped in his tracks, a few yards from the tee. `Julian, I've never lied to you, and I'm not going to start now. Yes, there was an argument between Morton and Masur the other night. In fact there was another disagreement between them last night, at the PGA dinner.
I'm not going to comment at all on our investigation. All I'll say to you — strictly off the record — is that if someone goes out and commits murder immediately after having a heated public argument with the victim, then he has to be either crazy or dumb. I know that Morton isn't dumb. Time will tell whether he's crazy.
`Now, go to the press office for any further information. I've got some golf to play, and I don't need distractions.'
Finney smiled. 'Thanks Bob.' He made to leave, then hesitated. 'Might as well hang around and watch you tee off.'
Skinner growled and stepped up on to the tee beside his team. He glanced around, tasting the tension which hung in the air. The crowds were much thicker than on practice day, the television cameramen were on their rostrums and in their fairway buggies, and already there were numbers on the leader-board.
Skinner peered at the board closest to the tee. Andres Cortes was the early leader, three under par after eight holes, a shot ahead of Deacon Weekes. The others were all level par, with the exception of Oliver M'tebe, who was two over after ten.
Darren Atkinson stood beside Bravo on the tee, arms folded across his chest, staring heavy-browed down the first fairway. The muscles at the base of his jaw were clenched tight, and he seemed to Skinner to be standing an inch or two taller.
`This is it, Bob,' he said softly. 'This is where the hard men come out to play. This isn't a matter of money, there's honour involved. No one but me is going to walk off with Murano's million quid, because only the best has the right.
As far as the team competition is concerned, remember that the best ball, mine included, on any hole registers the score. I'd be grateful if you'd look after Wales and the Jap. Make sure they pick up once they've had half a dozen whacks at any hole. I'll be concentrating so hard I won't even notice them.
`You're on seven shots against the course today, with your handicap. If you can pick up a nett birdie with each of them, you'll have done your part for the team. Your other eleven holes don't matter.'
Skinner smiled, but there was a hard edge to his expression also. 'You don't know me very well, yet, Darren.
