He paused. 'Look, if anyone wants me, I'll be up at Fettes this afternoon… in the dry! I'll record my score, have a bite of lunch with the team and then I'll be off.'
OK boss. How d'you score after all that?'
`Gross seventy-nine, nett seventy-two. I'm bloody chuffed, given the weather. Darren was phenomenal again. He got it round in sixty-eight.' He nodded up towards the leader board beside the green. 'Look at the rest. Only young M'tebe's under par. Even Cortes is struggling.
Right, see you later.'
He strode off towards the Recorder's tent, where Susan Kinture waited, in her Day-Glo cape and sou'wester, with a sodden Mario McGuire at her side. As he reached them, Atkinson stepped out of the tent. 'Well done, skipper,' said Skinner. 'Good news for you. Brav's going to be all right.'
Thank Christ for that. Now I can concentrate on winning us some money.'
`What're you going to do with the million?'
`Pay bloody tax on it!' said Atkinson, regretfully. 'Never mind me, what are you going to do with the scratch amateur prize? It's a car, you know, and you're well on the way to winning it.'
The policeman laughed. Two rounds is a long time in golf!'
He nodded in McGuire's direction. 'How did you find your our replacement caddy?'
`Fine. He's got the gift. Knows when not to offer advice, which is every time that I don't ask him for it!'
`How d'you feel about having him for another couple of days?'
Atkinson looked at him, grasping his meaning at once. If you think it'd be a good idea, and he's willing, that's fine by me.
A pro caddy would need time to get to know my game anyway.' `How about it, Mario? Are you willing?'
`Haud me back, boss,' said the Sergeant, grinning.
`Fine,' said Atkinson. 'Come on and I'll show you where my clubs live when they're off duty.
See you for lunch, Bob.' The two set off towards the clubhouse, leaving Skinner with Lady Kinture.
He looked at her with a hesitant smile. 'Listen Susan, you're a great caddy…'
`But…' she interrupted.
`Yes. 'But', indeed. That thing with Bravo's got me worried. It looks like an attempt to nobble Darren. McGuire isn't a caddy, he's a bodyguard, and Darren knows it. It's only a precaution, and I don't expect any more trouble, but if it did I'd feel happier if you were nowhere near it.
`So. Would you mind?'
She shook her handsome head. She had the gift of making a bright orange rain hat look like a high fashion garment. 'No a bit, my dear. You've been very good, indulging me as you have, letting me be so close to my idol.
'But the gilt has worn off a bit after two days. I've actually been feeling guilty about neglecting old Hector. This is his big week, after all, and he deserves my support. So don't you worry, Bob; I'm more than ready to step aside.'
`Thanks, Susan. I'm really sorry, you know. Detective sergeant McIlhenney isn't going to be nearly as much fun as you!
Forty-nine
The National Library of Scotland always made Maggie Rose think of Lenin's Tomb. The windowless stone face which it presented to the thoroughfare of King George IV Bridge she found profoundly depressing, and she had often pitied the civil servants who spent their working lives confined behind it.
The reality, as she entered it for the first time, was less bleak than she had imagined, once she had made her way through the gloomy entrance and into the main reception area, high sided and surrounded with galleried bookshelves.
She introduced herself to a young receptionist. 'I have an appointment with Stephen Knox.'
The man who appeared behind the desk a few minutes later was a stereotypical bookperson.
He wore a baggy grey tweed jacket over a check shirt with a frayed collar, and the end of the black belt which secured his crumpled trousers swung loosely from the buckle. He had a long nose and a pinched face, with hair which stood out from his head in a manner which reminded Maggie of a recently departed Cabinet Minister. Stephen Knox, she thought, was possibly the dustiest human she had ever seen, not so much in need of a wash as of a good vacuuming.
But then he smiled, a bright brilliant smile, and all his shortcomings disappeared. 'Hello, Inspector. You have made my year. I have always wished I could have a visit from the police.
I have lots of callers in here, researchers, students and others and they are uniformly boring.
I can't imagine what you want, but I am sure it will be a welcome break from the norm.
Follow me, please.'
He led her out of the hall and into a small windowless meeting room, with a desk and two hard grey chairs. 'I'm sorry I can't offer you anything. The coffee here is an embarrassment.
`Before we begin let me tell you something about me. They call me a librarian here, but curator would be a better title. When you called my boss he thought from what you said that I'd be the man to help. So, satisfy my curiosity by letting me satisfy yours.'
She smiled at the odd expression and produced a large envelope from her briefcase. 'It's about a Bible, Mr Knox. A very special Bible, I think. It's at least four hundred years old.' From the envelope she shook a handful of colour prints, blown up to A4 size, shook them loose and passed them across the desk. 'I took these photos yesterday. They show the cover, the title page and four of the pages. I hope they're clear enough.'
Knox took them from her, and looked through them, one by one. The first was of the cover.
When he saw it, he gave a small start. The second was of the title page, and as he looked at it his eyes widened. He gulped, making his Adam's apple jump. Slowly and carefully, and silently, he studied each of the remaining exposures. When he had finished, he placed all six on the table and looked up at Rose. He tried to speak, but then his eyes filled and tears spilled, uncontrollably, down his face. She waited, astonished, for him to recover.
Eventually, after almost two minutes, he dried his eyes with a grey handkerchief which had once been white. Once in a lifetime,' he whispered, 'and only for a privileged few. When I said that your visit was a refreshing change, Inspector, I had no idea…
The Bible in these photographs is more than just special. It's of great historic interest, and undoubtedly priceless. Where is it? Who owns it? Has it been stolen, or recovered from theft?'
`Neither of these,' said Rose. 'It's in good hands, the hands of a family which has held it, in absolute secrecy, since around the year 1600. I'm trying to establish how it came into their possession.'
Knox looked at her. 'What sort of a family are we talking about?'
Ordinary, you'd call them.'
Oh no, I would not. Whoever these people are, they are very special indeed.'
`Hold on to your seat, Inspector. Unless this is an elaborate and brilliant forgery, this is a King James Bible.' Maggie opened her mouth to interrupt, but he silenced her with another brilliant smile. 'No, not the James you're thinking about. His great-grandfather King James IV was a very careful man. His were times of violence and betrayal, and so he had very few close friends. Those he had, he trusted, literally with his life, and to them he was in turn very loyal. In fact, James had two great companions, the Earls of Gordon and Kinture. Court records show that, in 1540, James commissioned from the great French craftsman, DeLarge, a favourite of his wife, Mary of Guise, three illuminated Bibles, in Latin of course, bound in the finest leather. Each of the three were numbered, and were given as gifts by the King, just before he died in 1542.
The first went to the Queen herself, and on to Mary, her daughter, who became Queen of Scots, and ended on the block in Fotheringay. She took it with her to France, when she married the Dauphin. It remained there after Mary's repatriation to Scotland, but was destroyed during the French Revolution. The second was given to the Earl of Gordon. It remained in his family for three hundred years, until it was given to the Duke of Grange in settlement of a debt. Around fifteen years ago, it was stolen from his castle in the Borders, and has never been
