Higgins and I are in the shit all right. DI Rose and I had an appointment with my parish priest this afternoon. Now she's having to go on her own. You can imagine how pleased she is.'
Skinner laughed. Detective Inspector Maggie Rose, McGuire's fiancee, was his personal assistant. She was a redhead, with a temper to match. Their wedding was thirteen days away.
`Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll write you a note. Good to see you anyway, Mario. Neil's briefed you, I take it.'
McGuire nodded. 'Yes, sir.'
`Right, let's get to work. You three take one of the DCs each, to take notes and write up witness statements. I want individual interviews to establish the exact location of everyone here at the time Michael White went into his dressing room. Most of all I want to know whether anyone else was seen going in there. At this stage, I don't want any mention of murder. All that you say is that Michael White has been found dead. The natural assumptions are heart attack or suicide. Let's see whether anyone assumes otherwise.
`Mario and Neil, you two get across to the caddy-shed and interview everyone there. Alison, you and I will give the common folk in the bar the kid glove treatment… I'll start with the Marquis.
`Right, let's get this investigation on course.'
All I'm saying, Alex, is that maybe Bob has a point.'
`What! About us, you mean?'
`No… well, yes… well, no, not in that way. He can't expect to pick your partner for you, but he's got a right to disapprove, if that's the way he feels. I'd hoped that he would be happy about you and me, and I'm disappointed by the way he acted, but you know how he thinks somet…'
`Just hold on a minute. If we're talking about rights, I've got a right to expect his support, come what may. Yes, and I've had it in the past, even when he guessed I was way in the wrong. Yet now, when any reasonable person should see this as something that we've both taken a long time to come to, and should be happy for us, he throws a hundred-megaton wobbly.
And you can stand there and take his side! He's supposed to be your friend. D'you know what he said about you?'
`Yes, I was coming up the stairs then. It hurt but it's the truth, and you know it. Since I've been on the force I've had upwards of a dozen girlfriends, none of them long-term. He's seen that. Christ, he used to get their names mixed up! Isn't he entitled to be worried about that, as your father?'
`No, he bloody well isn't!' She hissed the words. 'I suppose he was right about this dressing-gown too.'
I suppose he was!' he barked back. 'But what the hell's that got to do with it?' It was as close as she had ever seen him come to losing his temper.
She glared at him, then, slowly and deliberately, untied the sash, peeled off the blue robe and threw it at him, across the bedroom. He caught it in mid-air, and there was a sudden, pleading look in his eyes. 'Look, honey, I'm sorry. I just reckon he's got a point about being kept in the dark, that's all.'
She stood naked before him, and he could see the tension gripping her body. 'Rubbish!' Her stomach muscles bunched as she shouted at him. 'How many times did we by to get to see him? God knows! But he never could make the time for us, tearing around everywhere chasing all those bad people!'
He shook his head. 'But I had a dozen chances to tell him, and I passed them all up.'
`Yes, because you knew it was important to me that we told him together. Because I made you promise.'
OK, and you were wrong… and I was wrong to agree. It was something between Bob and me, before Bob and us. Now he thinks that I've betrayed him, and if you don't know how he'll feel about that you don't know your father.'
Oh no? Well I don't think I've known you either, until now. Tell you what I think, Andy. I think you're more worried about your bloody job than about me. You're wondering, 'How can I square it away with Big Bob and save my career?' Well, Superintendent, I'll make your choice simple.' She knelt down beside a big, soft hold-all, which stood, unzipped, on the floor.
Delving into it, she found a pair of white cotton panties.
`What're you doing?' he asked, as she pulled them on and reached for her black denim jeans draped across the bedroom chair.
`Can't you even figure that out? I'm off!'
Aw, come on, Alex. Get a grip of those knickers, and calm down! We're off on holiday in an hour or two.'
`Like hell we are! You can go, and take my ticket. You've got from here to Glasgow Airport to find someone else to use it. That shouldn't be too difficult for you, given your track record.'
She pointed to the blue bathrobe, which he held still, loosely, in his hand. 'You'd better take Old Faithful too. It could come in handy.'
Alex!'
She fastened her jeans, and drew a sweatshirt over her head, shaking her damp hair as she adjusted the garment to her body.
`Look, Andy, it's simple. You're either on my side of the street, or you're not. You had a choice a few minutes ago, and you stood right in the middle of the road. Well, guess what?
You just got run over!' Tugging on a pair of low-heeled fawn suede shoes, she picked up the hold-all, slung it over her shoulder, and took her small black handbag from the dressing table.
She was in the doorway when he called after her. 'Know what? You're just like him. There are no shades of grey in the Skinners' world, only black and white. Ayes or Nos.'
She turned back to face him. 'Leave my values out of this. This is about you, Andy, and yours.
They're all 'maybes'. He insulted me, he insulted you, and you took it. Then he threatened your career, and it's 'Oh maybe he's got a point.'
`You know what? I reckon you'd shoot me if the boss told you to!'
The silence which fell on the room was palpable. His tanned face, suddenly bloodless, looked yellow. He gasped, and for a second she thought he would spring at her. But then his green eyes moistened, and swam. She turned away from the hurt she had caused, and left the room.
A few seconds later he heard the front door close, quietly.
Four
‘About bloody time too. Skinner, isn't it?'
`That's right, My Lord; Assistant Chief Constable, Edinburgh.'
He walked down the room, past the polished board table, towards the man in the powered wheelchair, his hand extended. The Marquis of Kinture reached up and shook it, with the affected ill grace which Skinner knew was his frequent manner. They had met on several occasions, and on each one the crippled nobleman had greeted the policeman in exactly the same way.
The wheelchair, and its occupant, sat in the bay window of the Witches' Hill boardroom, which faced out over the wide eighteenth green looking down the fairway and across the Truth Loch. 'Had enough of those Johnnies in the bar. Nothing but business talk, even from the golfers. Decided to withdraw in here.
'S all right, isn't it?'
Of course, sir. I wanted to speak to you in private anyway.'
The Marquis shook his head. 'Poor old Mickey gone to meet his Maker and all those buggers can talk about are rights and bloody royalties. No sensibilities, these people, none at all.' He looked up at Skinner, with a faint, surprising grin.
`He finished with a par, so Cortes told me. Safe drive to the middle landing area, good three wood to the green, two putts. Spaniard put his tee shot in the water.' The Marquis chuckled.
`Teach the bugger! Damn good hole that. The pros'll think they can carry the corner of the loch, but they'll find that it's nearly always into the wind… even, sometimes, when you wouldn't think there was a wind blowing!'
Skinner nodded. 'You're right. And not only the pros. Your loch owes me a Top Flite.'
