And they spoke of someone called RA?'
`That's right boss. As in..
Skinner finished for him. 'As in Richard Andrews! Brian, we've got to find this character!'
Fifty-four
The weekend crowds were pouring into Witches' Hill as PC Pye, on duty at the main vehicle entrance, saluted Skinner through to the reserved area. The morning mist had lifted but the clouds still hung low and heavy over the course, and as he climbed out of his car the policeman felt unseasonal humidity growing in the air.
He took a holdall containing his golfing clothing from the back seat and carried it into the changing room, in which he had been assigned a locker. Squeezing the bag into the confined space beside his clubs, he locked the cabinet and strolled back out into the corridor, stopping at the scoreboard to check the team totals. As he had expected, the Atkinson squad's 19 under-par total gave them a commanding lead of nine shots over their nearest challengers, but he was surprised to see that his 79 had left him three shots clear in the scratch amateur competition, the American Balliol having slumped in the rain to an 81. In the handicap competition he had gained a further shot on his Japanese pursuer.
Smiling with satisfaction he made his way on to the course. Spectators were gathered around the first tee, where the members of Team Nakamura, at the tail of the field at the halfway mark, were preparing themselves for play. Skinner looked around until he caught sight of Maggie Rose, in jacket, jeans, and green wellingtons, leaning against the metal barrier which fenced off the teeing area, just where the players had gathered. He eased his way over and stood beside her. 'Hi, Mags,' he said in greeting. `You're dressed for the occasion.'
She grimaced. 'Don't know that I am, sir. This jacket feels sticky already, and we haven't even started!'
`Give it to me, if you want, and I'll take it back to the van.'
`Would you?' She peeled off the heavy tweed jacket and handed it to him, replacing her small brown leather bag over her shoulder on its sling.
`You know which one you're observing, do you?'
Oh yes, it's the cheerful one!' Mike Morton stood at the back of the group of golfers and caddies, head bowed and shoulders hunched, staring morosely at the ground.
Suddenly Tiger Nakamura looked up. Spotting Skinner, he reached across, smiling, to offer a handshake. Between them stood a taciturn, leather-faced man, whom the policeman recognised from the PGA dinner and from the cocktail party. He guessed that he was in his mid-forties, around his own age, but his weather-burned skin made it hard to be certain. He stood beside a caddy and a massive white golfbag, which bore the name Everard Balliol, Fort Worth'.
Shaking hands with the Tiger, he nodded to the man. `Hello, Mr Balliol. I'm Bob Skinner.
Good luck today!'
The man looked back at him, unsmiling, with a stare of such intensity that it was startling. I know who you are,' he said quietly. `Life has nothing to do with luck, mister. It's about doing it right, or doing it wrong.'
Skinner recovered his composure in a second. In that case,' he replied, evenly, 'I hope you do fewer things wrong than you did yesterday. Me, I'll just ride my luck, as usual.' With a final wave to the Tiger, and a brief farewell to Maggie Rose he turned and walked away, his assistant's tweed jacket slung over his shoulder.
He made his way around the front of the clubhouse, and round to the mobile police headquarters. As he expected Alison Higgins was there before him. She was seated at the table reading a sheaf of papers. Martin, as uncomfortable as ever in uniform, and Neil Mcllhenney stood at the other end of the big van, nursing mugs of coffee.
Skinner nodded to them and took a seat across the table from Higgins. `Mornin', Ali. What have you got there?'
She glanced up, surprised, from her reading, noticing him for the first time. 'Oh, sorry sir. I didn't hear you come in.' She waved the papers which she had been reading. 'This just arrived. It's the lab report on Morton's clothing.'
She passed it across the table. Skinner took it from her and read it through, line by line, his expression darkening by the minute.
When he had finished he looked up and across at Higgins once more. 'Sod it! This means that I'm going to have to make a call I didn't want to make. I could delegate it to you, but I don't think that would be fair.' He took out his diary and checked a number, then picked up the telephone on the table and dialled a number, beginning '0181'.
`Yes?' The voice on the other end of the line was deep and brusque.
`Mr Salter? It's ACC Skinner here. I've just seen our lab report on the samples which were taken from your client's shoes and clothing.'
And?' said Salter, aggressively.
`Well, it runs to several pages, but I won't bore you with it all. It confirms that the mud on Morton's shoes was impregnated with fertiliser. We took mud samples from the gardens at Bracklands and from the scene of Masur's murder. Both were laced with fertiliser, but they were completely different types. The mud on Morton's shoes came from the gardens. The grass from the hem of his trousers showed traces of the same compound. That would seem to confirm his story of going for a walk outside. There is nothing on his clothing that puts him at the murder scene.'
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. `Skinner, I told you yesterday that I took the greatest exception to your conduct. Now, on behalf of my client, I demand a written apology, not from you but from your Chief Constable.'
Martin, watching from across the room, saw the ACC's shoulders stiffen. Mcllhenney followed his gaze. A silence fell across the room.
Skinner's tone was even and icy. 'Salter,' he said, 'I told you yesterday that you were pushing your luck. Now get this. Neither my Chief Constable nor I apologise to suspects, and that's what your client remains, whatever that lab report says. His right-hand man, Richard Andrews, was unaccounted for at the time of each of the two murders, and he still is. Until we can eliminate him as a suspect, then your client — who I remind you, has been crossed in business by both victims — is still very much in our thoughts, and under our observation.
`You can tell him that when you speak to him. Morton denies involvement in either murder.
He insists, too, that he doesn't have a clue where cousin Richard is. The best advice you can give him is to find out… damn quick! Good morning.'
He replaced the phone and glanced up at Higgins. 'Thank Christ we don't have to deal with that character every day of the week. Our criminal lawyers may be a pain in the bum at times, but at least they remember their manners.'
He looked across at Martin. 'Andy, boy. How did your witch hunt get on last night?'
A slow smile spread across the younger man's face. 'I've been bursting for you to ask. We caught some. Videoed them too, with an infra-red camera.'
Skinner was taken aback. 'What the hell…'
It was kids right enough, four boys and seven girls. We were well hidden and they never saw us. They lit a fire, then they all stripped off and started dancing round it, chanting mumbo jumbo.
‘But then an older couple arrived, man and a woman. They burst into the circle, wearing masks… and that was all. They did some more dancing, then the woman picked out one of the boys, and the man one of the girls. We put a stop to it at that point, before any naughties happened. Just as well; the girl who'd been picked turned out to be only fifteen.'
`Bloody hell!' said Skinner. 'Who were the couple?'
A pair of nutters named Golspie, from just outside Dunbar. He's a teacher. Some of the kids are his pupils. He filled their minds full of nonsense about communing with the Devil. Sure enough, some of the gullible ones took it seriously and started scuddy dancing round the fire in the quarry. Then Golspie and his equally kinky missus included themselves in, and the thing turned into a weekly orgy.'
`How long has this been going on?'
