And the witnesses to the birth?'
One was described in the entry as a midwife, and the other as a maid.'
Skinner leaned back in the empty grandstand and gazed at his friend and his assistant in undisguised admiration. 'You two should set up in business. A detective and a historian, researching into the past.
`Henry, how do you feel about some more research? This is already the weirdest investigation I've ever known, but now that I've begun, I'm going to follow it as far as I can.
I'd like to hear everything you can tell me about the so-called crimes that led Agnes Tod to her death.
I want to know what the Burning of Witches' Hill was all about.'
Wills puffed up with pride. 'I should be delighted to assist. I will go back to Edinburgh now to begin my research. I'll work non-stop and call you as soon as possible.'
He stood up, hot and sticky in his suit, yet as dignified as always, and started off down the grandstand's stairway. At the foot he stopped, suddenly, and looked back at Skinner and Rose as they descended behind him.
Oh, one other thing, Bob. Do you remember in the tent, this morning? That man I was so sure I recognised? Well, I think I've seen him again.'
Fifty-nine
Skinner's mind was spinning with a host of new possibilities as he washed away the sweat and grime of the sultry day and changed into blazer, grey slacks, white shirt and tie.
On his way through to the bar, he paused to look at the updated scoreboard. Darren Atkinson's dismissal of Witches' Hill as a test for top-class golfers seemed not to stand up to measurement against the performances of the other competitors. Only he and M'tebe had broken 70 on the third day, with the World Number One's flawless 66 only a shot less than the young South African, his only realistic challenger among his seven professional opponents. The rest of the field, with Ewan Urquhart at its head, was averaging around or just under par. On the amateur scoreboard, Skinner's third-round 77 had strengthened his position as leader of the scratch section, with Everard Balliol shooting 78, but in the handicap section he had been overhauled by Hirosaki, the Japanese, whose nett 67 had earned him a tie for the lead.
He made his way through to the bar, and found Atkinson, Wales and Murano, his teammates, grouped together in the midst of the throng. Their lead in the team competition seemed unassailable, and as they stood in their tight circle, bantering cries flew at Murano, from his Japanese companions, and at the little singer from some of the other celebrities in the room.
As Skinner reached the trio, Atkinson handed him a pint of beer shandy. He gulped at it thirstily, realising for the first time how demanding the day's conditions had been.
OK skipper,' said Norton Wales beside him. 'Tell us how it's going to be tomorrow.'
Atkinson looked at him, unsmiling, deadly serious. `Tomorrow? Eighteen holes to go. The last round, and that's where your man comes into his own. In way over sixty per cent of my tournaments I shoot my lowest score in the last round. That's why I'm Number One. That's not an ego statement, it's just a fact. In professional golf, you can play good golf on the Thursday, better on the Friday, and great on the Saturday. But if you can't do it on the Sunday, then you can't be the man.
I am still, by a long way, the best Sunday player in world golf. Young Oliver, and Ewan, they're both coming up, and Andres does something spectacular every so often, but on Sunday afternoon, I'm your man. That's what it's all about. Hell, that's what life is all about.'
He looked around his three teammates. 'Whether you play golf, or sing, or make cars, or catch crooks and killers, it's about being Number One, and to do that you have to be the best Sunday player in your own field.
`You guys all are great Sunday players in your own right, so you know what I'm talking about. You all know how hard you have to work to be the best, what you have to do, and how ruthless you have to be.'
Suddenly he grinned and the sparkle came back to his eyes. `So what that all means is that if it's decent weather tomorrow and you're betting men, you should go see the bookies and ask them for odds on me shooting sixty-three or better. They'll probably say three-to-one, four-to-one, something like that, and if they do, bite their hands off. Statistically, the odds should be six-to-four on.
`You know, my brother makes all his beer money betting on me on Sundays!'
`Don't the bookies see him coming a mile off?' asked Skinner.
Atkinson grinned again, and shook his head. 'No chance! DRA Management is quite a big organisation now. He has people to do that sort of thing for him!'
Skinner's retort was choked off short by the insistent tug on his sleeve. He looked around, surprised by the interruption, to find the hot angry eyes of Mike Morton glaring up at him. 'A word, mister,' he said softly.
The policeman gazed down, coolly, at the newcomer for a few seconds, then nodded towards the only quiet corner of the room. They had hardly detached themselves from the crowd, before Morton turned on him.
OK fella. I've just taken a call from my lawyer, Salter. He told me you heard this morning that those samples you took put me in the clear. I don't suppose you could have told me direct, no? Yet still I've got your people following me around, watching everything I do.
Suppose I take a piss there's one of your people watching me. I tell you, guy, get your tanks off my fucking lawn, or there will be trouble.'
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'If you've got a problem with our procedure in informing you of the results of the tests, take it up with Salter. That was the way he wanted it.
As for my 'tanks', they stay where they are for as long as I decide. Our tests of those samples prove to me that you didn't kill Masur yourself. We know already that you couldn't personally have killed Michael White, or kidnapped Oliver M'tebe's father, or tried to poison Atkinson. But that doesn't put you in the clear, or under Scots law make you not guilty of murder.
`We know that you were stuffed twice by White, over investing in Witches' Hill and over the field. We know that Masur was doing you over in business. We know that you tried to gain control over Darren Atkinson, and that now you see him building up a stable of his own, with young M'tebe as one of his stars.'
Morton stuck out his chin. `So what? White was a small-timer, an amateur. Masur was a crook. A thousand people could have wanted him dead. And as for Darren fucking Atkinson and his doppelganger brother
… Nothing. Skinner, you've got nothing, so get your people off my back!'
Skinner smiled, a soft gentle apologetic smile. 'Oh but we know other things too, Morton, like the name you were born with, and like the business that the rest of your family is in. I know all about you, friend. I know who Richard Andrews is, and I can guess what his job involves.
What I don't know is where he is.
As things are so far, when I draw up a realistic list of people who might have committed these crimes, then the only name on it is your cousin Rocco… and he works for you.'
And in an instant Skinner changed. The amiable mask fell away, and Morton met for the first time the man who lay behind it, as he leaned close to him, and took his tie in his right hand.
He looked into his eyes, with an expression seen by very few people, all of them in the deepest trouble of their lives. As the American looked back at him, the last of his bluster left him. He tried to look away, but Skinner's thumb dug under his chin, forcing him to keep eye contact with his cold, implacable, frightening stare. Behind them, the buzz of conversation continued unabated, the others in the room ignorant of their confrontation.
Skinner could smell the rank sweat rising from the man. When he spoke again it was almost a whisper, but his tone was as cold as the look in his eyes. 'Back there, Morton, I thought I heard a threat. Maybe I was wrong. But here's one of mine. You have around twenty-four hours of liberty left, unless you can produce cousin Rocco, and prove to me between you that he had nothing to do with these crimes.
`This is my home patch, and someone's been leaving dead people all around. I don't like that.
In fact I hate it wherever it happens, and however hard I try to delegate responsibility for its investigation, sooner or later I always end up getting involved. Everyone's got a professional weakness. Yours is lack of co- ordination between your brain and your mouth. Mine is that whenever I see crime, especially violent crime, a little piece of me is outraged for the victims, takes it personally, and gets involved. When that happens, like it has right
