threatening all afternoon. 'First landing area, Bob,' said the golfer quietly. He hit an easy gentle shot which soared high over the water to pitch softly in the centre of the first promontory. 'There, that leaves me three hundred to the green, and a bunker in line with the flag. No one could get on in two from there. A hundred quid says I get a birdie. Got the bottle for that, Mr Skinner?'
`You're on,' said the policeman, evenly. 'Neil, my driver please.' He lined up on the central landing area, swung smoothly and struck the ball as cleanly as he could. The distance across the water was 230 yards, but the adrenaline was coursing through his body and the ball cleared it easily. Its leftto-right fade was accentuated by a friendly bounce, leaving him around 190 yards to the green.
As Skinner walked from the tee, pulling on his new all-weather garment, Atkinson fell into step beside him. 'You know, Bob,' he said, with undisguised mockery. 'This story you've told me, it's really good. It flows along nicely, I have to admit. But a story is all it will ever be,
'cause it's got a couple of loose bricks.
“For openers, I remember quite well meeting that dozy greenkeeper — on Monday — and giving him an autograph. I was heading off to practice and I signed it in a hurry. Golfers are notorious among collectors; half the autographs we do are written on the march, so no two signatures look the same… apart from those on cheques. That's how it was with Webb.'
At least that's what you'll say in court,' said Skinner, as they walked in step around the first curve of the Truth Loch.
Exactly! And you know better than I do what a good QC will do to Hughie Webb in cross-examination. After five minutes he won't be able to swear what month it was let alone what day of the week. I don't fancy your star witness in the White case, mate.
`Tell you something else. I don't see Susan Kinture standing up in court. I'd have to say that she came to my room…' He looked at Skinner in mock outrage. 'My hostess, for God's sake
… climbed straight into my bed, muttered something about not having had any for years, and set about me. I'd have to say that I told her next day that if she ever did anything like that again, I'd go straight to Hector.'
He slowed, as they approached his ball. 'Those are two problems you've got. Here's another.
Masur only decided at the last minute to walk back to Bracklands, after he and Morton had their second barney. How the hell could Rick have known about that? There are a few claims of empathy in twins; you know, one experiencing the other's pain even when they're miles apart, but nobody in his right mind's going to suggest that they're telepathic.'
He stopped beside his ball, and knelt down to look at its lie on the soft, lush, velvety grass.
'Watch this, Mr Policeman,' he said, standing up. 'Driver, please, Mario.' McGuire looked at him in surprise, but Atkinson nodded in confirmation and held out his hand, snapping his fingers. Behind them the crowd murmured as they saw the white-bibbed policeman caddy remove the cover from the longest club in the bag, notoriously uncontrollable even from the best of positions on the fairway. Atkinson swung the driver experimentally.
Standing behind the ball he looked down the line of the 300-yard shot which faced him, nodding to himself as he planned it.
Skinner could picture the look in his eyes as he stepped up to address his ball, ignoring the rain, which was growing heavier by the minute. He swung with an unimaginable combination of power and finesse, thundering it away yet leaving the grass unmarked. The Titleist soared in its early flight out over the loch, heading, it seemed, far to the right of its target. Then, with a curve which defied gravity, it drew unerringly back in towards the green, pitching first on the fringe, then leaping forward to the flag. Skinner strained his eyes against the gloom of the afternoon, but was certain that he saw the ball come to a dead stop on its second bounce, looking for all the world to lie on the very edge of the hole.
The view of the spectators behind the rope barrier was hampered by the bunker which guarded the green, and by the distance itself. Some cheered, but others stayed silent, not seeing where the shot had finished, thinking perhaps that it had gone awry. In the stands beside the clubhouse there was a moment of stunned silence, as the crowds there in the distance took in the sheer enormity of Atkinson's blow. And then, as one, they leaped to their feet, some waving programmes or hats. It took a moment for the sound to travel back down the fairway, and then it reached them, crashing over them like a wave.
The champion turned back to the policeman. 'Impossible shot that, wasn't it? To bend a ball like that with a driver, to hit it that far, and then to pull it up with backspin. You're right, Bob.
There's the rest, and there's me.
A hundred quid, I reckon.'
'It'll be worth it,' said Skinner, 'for that shot. But what a pity that you don't keep your power-lust for the golf course. What a pity that you see people as you see golf balls, to be manipulated, and crushed when necessary, with the same level of feeling.'
They walked on, towards the next landing area, and Skinner's ball. 'Telepathy, Darren, you said earlier. Almost, but not quite. You ask me how Rick knew that Masur would be walking back alone to Bracklands, in the dark, and vulnerable?
`Dead simple, really. You've both got mobile phones. The latest digital GSM model by Motorola. They've got numbers in series, and they were supplied by a company in the South of England. They work internationally, so wherever you are, you can talk to each other. It is telepathy of a sort. One of you has a thought, and the other can share it seconds later.
`Remember the night of the PGA dinner? You were embarrassed when your phone rang.
Embarrassed! You almost swallowed your tongue. That was Rick, calling you by mistake.
That's not a guess. I know it. I've checked, you see. This is your world, Darren, but I've got mine, and there I can do things that you couldn't imagine.
I know Rick called you during the dinner. I know you called him afterwards. I know you called him last night, after my detectives had left Bracklands. I know that he called Morton just a couple of minutes after that. If I'd had a wee bit more warning, I'd even know for sure what he said, and what you said to him. But the jigsaw didn't fit in time for me to do that.'
They arrived at the detective's ball. He looked down the line to the green. The flag was guarded by the encroaching bunker but, from the line of Atkinson's shot, he knew that the hole was cut well back from it. ' 'Play the card, not the course', you told me. Best golfing advice I've ever had, and I'll never forget it. Let's see if I can finish in style. Eighteen straight pars and Skinner's round will be the best he's ever played.
`Five-wood, please Neil.' Mcllhenney gave him the club, with a brief smile of encouragement. He lined up his shot, gathered his breath and his concentration and hit it, high and handsome as he had intended down the line of the flag over the bunker and to the back of the green. The applause of the crowd was less rapturous than for Atkinson's shot, but it was warm nonetheless. His chest swelled with pride. The champion joined him and they walked together towards the green, under the eerie, threatening, darkening skies, in the rain the intensity of which was gathering slowly but inexorably, to the breaking point of the storm ahead.
I'll fill in the last part now, will I?' said Skinner. 'Where has Rick been all this week, to have been able to do all these things, to react as swiftly as he did to your two telephone calls, to take advantage of sudden opportunities to remove the only two guys who stood in the way of your ambition to make DRA Management the Number One force in world golf, with the Number One player at its head?
Was he booked into a hotel near here? Hardly, not looking like he does, among all these golf fans.' He shook his head, and took from his back pocket a small white card, on which a few lines were scrawled.
On August 1, a Winnebago mobile home — the compact version, not one of the big ostentatious jobs that stand out a mile — was registered in the name of DRA Management, number P 325 QRC. These things are popular among golfers, especially those who don't have wives. Arthur Highfield reckons this new one must be your fifth.
`Before that, last March in fact, a Yamaha trail bike, 125 cc, was registered in the name of Reginald Atkinson, number N 763 LRC. Arthur thought he remembered seeing a bike mounted on the back of your last camper vehicle.
One of my guys got these numbers this morning through the PNC. Then he had calls made to all the caravan sites. We struck it lucky at Yellowcraig, outside Dirleton. It isn't a commercial site: the local Ranger Service looks after it, and the sort of people who go there tend to wear green wellies rather than golf shoes. The warden we spoke to remembers the vehicle. There's no register kept there, but his description matches the one we've
