`Now, let's get these scores in and this presentation over with. Oh yes, and there's that hundred quid. Birdie at the last, remember? You owe me. I'm not letting you off with that either. See you outside.' He strode into the Recorder's tent and handed his signed scorecard to the Marquis of Kinture, who was acting in that capacity for the conclusion of his tournament, then turned on his heel and walked out again without a word.
Outside, beside the eighteenth green, where the crowds still waited for the presentation, Norton Wales and Hideo Murano had joined Mcllhenney and McGuire, and the four were sheltering under large umbrellas from the steadily worsening rain. A girl in the sponsor's livery handed one to Skinner as he joined them. Beside them, a small presentation table had been set up in front of the stand.
Skinner's clubs lay at Mcllhenney's feet, but McGuire leaned on Atkinson's huge bag. The ACC looked at it idly. Suddenly his eyes seemed to narrow, and he looked more closely. He looked over his shoulder and called, loudly, to Arthur Highfield, who, in a trenchcoat, was setting up a cordless microphone on the table.
`Come and take a look at this,' he said, pointing to the bag.
Highfield walked across impatiently. 'Count them,' Skinner ordered. The PGA Secretary counted the clubs in Atkinson's bag. Once, twice, a third time, his consternation growing by the minute. 'My God,' he said eventually. 'He's got fifteen clubs in his bag. One too many.' He looked at McGuire. Has anyone tampered with this?'
It's never been out of my sight, sir,' said the Detective Sergeant, indignantly. Highfield groaned, and put a hand to his head.
`What's the penalty for an extra club?' asked Skinner. `Depends,' said the official. 'Has he registered his score?' `Yes, I left him in there doing just that.'
Oh my God,' sighed Highfield. 'Then he's disqualified.'
`How embarrassing!' said Skinner. McGuire, Mcllhenney, Wales and Murano looked as shocked as he. He thought for a moment. `Look, Arthur, don't you think that the best thing you can do is to scrap the presentation and stand down the crowd.'
`Mmm. I think you're right.' He walked back to the microphone and switched it on. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he called, and paused. A second boom of thunder, much closer this time, gave him inspiration. 'If I may have your attention please. I am very sorry, but it has been decided, because of the weather, that the presentation will take place indoors. I thank you for your attendance today and all this week and hope that you have enjoyed the wonderful golf which we have seen.' As he switched off the mike, Darren Atkinson emerged solemnly from the clubhouse. Highfield rushed off to meet him.
`Maybe we should make ourselves scarce till we find out what's happening,' said Skinner to Wales and Murano. 'My daughter's over there. I'm going to talk to her.'
He reached Alex as she stepped down from the stand, the hood of her oilskin jacket tied tight under her chin. 'Hi Pops,' she said, excitedly, easing herself under his umbrella for added protection. 'You were brilliant.' The thunder crashed again, shaking the ground. The rain tumbled down. Although it was only a few minutes after five o'clock, it was as if night was about to fall.
`When are you going to tell me what's happened?' Alex shouted above the downpour. 'That man Andy and Brian took away, that looked like…'
Suddenly Skinner felt a powerful tug on his left arm. He swung round, sending water cascading from his umbrella on to the figure before him. Darren Atkinson's composure had cracked at last. He stood there, almost glowing with rage, waving a golf club in the air.
`You bastard!' he screamed, waving the club. It was a Shark's Fin nine-iron, new and shiny.
Skinner smiled at him, and a feeling of satisfaction flooded over him. 'You didn't think I'd let you pocket the Million, did you Darren? How could I when you've let me down, along with everyone else who loves this game?
As well as being a conspirator and a murderer by association, you've betrayed millions of people, me included, who made you their example. What you did to Oliver, as well as being illegal in every country I've ever heard of, was plain cheating. The lad deserves the Million, not you.'
`Damn your hide!' Atkinson shouted. 'You and your monkeys planted this club in my bag.'
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'So prove it.' The thunder crashed, hugely. 'It's just your bad luck,' he said, as its echoes subsided, 'that I'm at my best on a Sunday afternoon as well!'
Darren Atkinson snarled in impotent rage, spun round on his heel, and stalked away from the policeman and his daughter, the club grasped tightly, near the head, in his right fist. He strode down the fairway, the rain thrashing down on him in torrents. They watched him as he came almost to the edge of the Truth Loch, and as he pulled his arm back and above his head, to throw the alien nine-iron, the hated cause of his defeat, into its dark, storm- dappled waters.
The single shaft of lightning shot down from the darkened sky, cast like a huge jagged, shining spear. It found the route which it sought in the club raised up in Darren's hand. The golfer seemed to be consumed by it as it coursed through him to the earth below. He jerked and danced in its grasp, like the flickering black centre of a huge candle, its brilliant white light reflecting in the Truth Loch beyond and flooding Bob and Alex where they stood.
It vanished after a few seconds, but by then they were blinded. Against the dying sound of its accompanying thunder, Skinner heard his daughter scream, and felt himself tremble. He realised that he was still holding his umbrella and threw it from him, instinctively, as far away as he could. Again and again, he squeezed his eyes tight shut, as if to rub away the last of the searing light.
Gradually his vision returned, and he realised that he and Alex had been edging, hand-in-hand, down the slope, towards the centre of the lightning strike, tugged like moths towards the candle. He held her still, pressing her face against his chest to help her eyes recover, and to prevent her seeing, when they did, what lay before them, on the shores of the Truth Loch, in the centre of the charred circle, a twisted, melted thing in its hand.
Trembling still, Skinner looked on and whispered, 'And by lightning..' to no one in particular.
