`You've played the course?'
Indeed. Michael invited me a few weeks back. The poor bloke had a par up the last then too.'
`So you knew Mickey. Real shocker, this, eh. Seemed so fit, too. Talk about life's bloody ironies. Here's me stuck here in this damnable thing, and there was he playing three or four rounds a week. Yet which one of us is floating in the bloody Jacuzzi?
What'd they reckon it was? Heart attack? Stroke? Bryan just said he'd been found dead in the tub.'
Skinner sat down in a red leather chair and looked across at the Marquis. 'None of those, sir, I'm afraid. I've got some even worse news for you. Michael bled to death. His throat was cut.'
The Marquis shook his head violently. He swung his chair, first left, then right, then turned to face Skinner. 'You mean he committed..
`No, sir. Not that. I'm sorry, but he was murdered.'
Oh by Christ, how awful! Murdered! Right here in the club. Who the hell would…' He glared across at Skinner. `Well, who the hell would? Do you have a suspect?'
It's early days yet, sir. My officers are just beginning interviews with everyone who was here when Michael was killed. Once they're complete we'll see if anything leaps out at us. Just for the record, sir, when was the last time you saw him?'
The Marquis raised an eyebrow. 'This morning. We had some stuff to go over, to do with the tournament. He came out to Bracklands early; ate breakfast with Sue and me.'
I take it that Sue is Lady Kinture?'
'S- right.'
`How did he seem?'
`Full of beans. He was very excited about playing with Cortes. Went on about it just a little too much, in fact. Most difficult thing about all this for me is having to watch all these damn fellas playing my course. I helped design it, you know. Gave O'Malley the architect some ideas. Insisted that he use all the existing features, but create nothing new, except bunkers.
My baby, but I'll never hit a shot on her.'
Skinner looked at him, touched by the sadness which had broken through the crusty exterior.
'There's no movement in your legs at all, then?'
`Not a bloody twitch. Been everywhere, tried everything. When something like this happens, they're never quite sure how it'll work out. Sometimes a little movement can come back after a couple of years. Not with me, though. On my arse for the rest of my life.'
`So Michael was a bit insensitive. Did you quarrel over it?'
This time both noble eyebrows shot upwards. 'God no! Chap didn't mean anything by it.
Frankly, even if he had, I couldn't afford to fall out with him. Needed his dough in the venture. I'd be in the shit if he pulled out. Have to go into business with the banks, God forbid. So no, officer, we did not have words. Mind you, I was grumpy all morning. Took it out on poor Sue, I'm afraid.'
`You needed White's money, you say. Mind if I ask how the venture is structured.'
`No point in my minding. It's a matter of record. We're incorporated as Witchhill plc. The company has three shareholders; the Kinture Family Trust has forty-five per cent, White Holdings has another forty-five and Ryan O'Malley, the course architect, was given the balance as part of his fee, with the proviso that if he ever wants to sell he has to offer Michael and me five per cent each.'
`No one else with any form of interest?'
`Nobody. Had plenty of approaches from people wanting in on the action. Everybody and his brother — in one case quite literally — were keen to have a part of what's going to be the finest golf development on the planet. Mickey and I turned them all down. We were pretty certain that we didn't need anyone's cash or reputation to make Witches' Hill a success.'
The policeman nodded. 'What's the effect of the death of a shareholder?'
The Marquis smiled. 'Good question, Skinner. In the event of my death or that of O'Malley, there's no effect. But as far as Michael is — or was — concerned, the company has a term policy on his life which will put it in funds to buy out his share. So, as Mr Morton is fond of putting it, how do you like them apples, Assistant Chief Constable?'
It was Skinner's turn to smile. 'They look very tasty, sir, for you and Mr O'Malley. Your respective holdings should double, virtually, as a result of Michael's death. Gives you each a prime motive.'
The Marquis glanced down at his captive legs. 'Don't think I'm up to cashing in on it,' he grunted.
Ah, but you must know, sir,' said Skinner, leaning back in his chair, fixing the Marquis with his easy grin. 'You don't have to do the killing to do the crime. I investigated a case a few months ago in which a man was responsible for a murder even though it was committed after he was dead.
`But on balance I think you're a bit too obvious a suspect actually to be a suspect… even if we ignore the fact that whoever killed White didn't do it from a wheelchair.' He paused. 'Still, we must cover all the angles. Where's Mr O'Malley right now, d'you know?'
I rather do. Nowhere around here, I'm glad to say. Fella's in the pokey in Australia.'
In jail!'
'Fraid so. Wild bugger, O'Malley. Got into a fight in a bar in Sydney two weeks ago and broke a fella's jaw. Wasn't the first time, so the judge gave him sixty days to cool off. So that's your Theory Number Two down the Swanney.'
Skinner pushed himself from the chair and looked out of the window, across green, fairway and loch. 'And there were no problems between Michael and O'Malley as far as you know?'
`None at all. Nor, I say again, between Michael and me. Been friends for years, since long before this business.'
`Right, but do you know of anyone who might have had a down on him?'
The Marquis looked blankly at Skinner for a few seconds, then shook his head. 'None at all.
If you knew him you'll know that he wasn't the sort of bloke to go around collecting enemies.'
Skinner nodded. 'That's what makes this so odd. The man was impeccable. Christ, the New Club'll be in turmoil. A murder victim among the membership!'
The Marquis grunted in agreement, so loudly that Skinner hardly heard the knock on the door. It opened, slowly. A woman's head appeared, blonde and tanned. The Marquis looked round. 'Susan.'
I'm sorry, are you still busy?'
The Marquis looked up at the policeman, inviting him to answer. He shook his head. 'No, Lady Kinture, we're done.' The heavy oak door swung open wide, and she stepped into the room; suddenly it seemed smaller. Susan Kinture was tall indeed, at least six feet, with a handsome oval face, crested by a mass of perfectly arranged blonde hair. Skinner guessed her to be in her early forties, perhaps a year or two younger than him. The slimness of her build, allied to her height, made it easy to accept that before her marriage she had been one of Europe's top models, and she carried herself with a confidence which made her even more striking. She was dressed casually, but in style, in a beautifully cut golden trouser suit.
Probably silk, the policeman thought to himself.
She stared at him as recognition dawned. 'You're Bob Skinner, aren't you? Yes, of course you are. You have that brilliant American wife. I met her a few months ago at an event for disabled charities. Hector and I have done our bit for them since the accident. We feel we have to give a lead.'
She paused, and her right hand went to her chin in a gesture of habit. 'I seem to remember she was pregnant. Has she…'
Skinner smiled. 'Yes, last May. We have a wee boy called Jazz. Getting bigger by the day… and louder. That's his American half, of course.'
Lady Kinture smiled. 'Give her my best, then. Sarah, wasn't it?'
`That's right.'
`This is terrible news about our friend Michael. I can hardly believe it. He had breakfast with us. What happened?'
Skinner hesitated. 'I'll let Lord Kinture explain, I think.'
She frowned at him, questioning. She might have pressed him, but they were interrupted by a loud knock on the window. Skinner looked down and saw the Marquis close to the glass, beckoning and nodding to someone
