He had seen both, he had walked in both, yet neither impressed him as did the mountains of his home.
There was something great and looming and threatening about Ben Nevis, approached from the south, and about al the other Munros, the Scottish peaks of greater than three thousand feet. It was small wonder, he thought as he drove on, that someone like Everard Balliol, to all intents as American as the Stars and Stripes itself, should be drawn back to roots which had been physically severed hundreds of years before.
He thought of the American as he drove, and their last meeting, under a gathering storm around the eighteenth green of Witches Hil Golf and Country Club: sallow-skinned, mid-fifties, gunmetal, crew202 y" cut hair, tall and lean. Those intense, ruthless, deadly serious eyes.
The grudging, resentful admission of defeat. The challenge to another encounter.
'Any time,' Skinner had said. 'Your place or mine.'
Balliol's place, Erran Mhor, was such a significant estate that, unlike most private dwellings, it merited its own entry on the map of Scotland. The policeman stayed on the main road towards Wester Ross for almost thirty miles after passing through Fort William, at the base of the great Ben.
Eventual y he came upon a single signpost, pointing westward like a finger and bearing the names Erran Mhor and Loch Mhor. He drove on for miles along the single-track road, with the mountains behind him, and without seeing another car. There were few trees on the peaty plain, and grey boulders and sheep, indistinguishable from a distance, were the only features of the landscape.
He had no clue of whether or not he had passed on to Bal iol's estate, but gradually, the road rose once more towards a horizon above which he could see wheeling gulls. As he crested the rise the landscape changed, before him the land stretched, cultivated and tended, with neat forest plantations, reaching towards the head of a loch. He pul ed his car to a stop in a passing place, and climbed out, picking up a small pair of binoculars, to survey the scene.
On the northern shore of Loch Mhor, Skinner could see the turrets of a castle, an impressive structure even from a distance. This was no historic monument built by feudal lords over the centuries, the policeman could tell, but the folly of a Victorian grandee, indulging himself upon money flowing from the sweat of poor people in Britain and around the Empire.
Beyond Balliol's castle, and beyond a helicopter on its landing pad, there was a green area, with a few trees, and familiar golden patches. Skinner smiled, and sharpened the focus of his glasses. Men were working like ants on a determined mission. There were tractors and mowers, and pick-ups loaded with sand: the billionaire's golf course was nearing completion.
He climbed back into the BMW and drove on towards the mock castle. When he was stil a mile away, he passed through a large gate, a symbolic gesture really, for the place was too large to be wal ed in. Beyond the entrance the road widened out, into newly laid, white-lined tarmac. The detective drove on to the very end, which came as a curve opened into a wide area beside a lawn which stretched from the Castle of Erran Mhor down to the lochside.
Skinner, dressed in crisp blue trousers and a matching polo shirt, drew his car to a halt beside a green Range Rover, climbed out and walked across the parking area and towards the house, climbing a 203 wide flight of stairs set into the lawn, and stepping on to a terrace which stretched for the ful width of the four-storey building, around eighty yards. He crossed it, passing under a portico which arched over the main doorway.
One half of the great double door swung open before he reached it, and a man stepped out. Korean, Skinner guessed, dressed in a black teeshirt and slacks, balanced lightly on his feet, with brown muscles oiled and rippling. The bodyguard stared at him, impassively, without offering a word.
'I'm here to see Mr Balliol,' said the policeman. 'I reckon he owes me a game of golf.'
The Korean stared back. 'Mr Balliol, please,' Skinner repeated.
Stil the man did not move or speak.
'Okay,' sighed the detective, at last. 'I'l play the game.'
He took a step towards the doorkeeper. As the man leapt forward to grasp him in what would have been a judo hold, the policeman pivoted with exceptional speed and hit him on the temple. It was a short, hooking, right-handed punch, hard but wel short of ful force.
The Korean's eyes glazed. As he slumped to his knees, Skinner seized his right arm and twisted it round behind him, jerking him back to his feet.
'Did I get the password right?' he asked, looking towards the open door.
'Not bad,' said Everard Balliol, stepping into view. 'Not bad at all for a guy your age.' The policeman had met the American four times, and had spoken to him twice. This was the first time that he had ever seen him smile.
Skinner released the Korean, and patted him on the shoulder. The bodyguard nodded, without any sign of animosity, and went inside.
'Just my rich man's game,' Bal iol grinned.
'Pretty risky game. I might real y have hurt that bloke.'
The billionaire shook his head. 'Not you. I guessed you wouldn't damage the guy too bad for just doing his job.'
He stretched out his hand in a friendly greeting, which Skinner accepted. 'Come on in.' He turned and led the way into a surprisingly small hal way from which a staircase climbed. 'You want the grand tour?' he asked.
'Maybe not this time.'
Bal iol led him through the hal and into a study, behind the stairway. It had a big picture window which looked out across the golf course. Skinner could see two greens, cut and prepared, although only the one on the right had a flag in position.
'So what brings you to see me, Mr Skinner?'
'I'd have thought you'd have worked it out.'
Bal iol looked at him, his expression guarded. 'Should I?'
'Come on, now. You going to tell me that though you own it, you don't actually read Spotlight
'Shit, man,' drawled the Texan. 'Of course I don't read that stuff.
Would you?' He smiled. 'But sometimes they do tell me what's goin' in it.'
He walked over to the window. 'You serious about that golf game?'
'I heard you were building a course, so I stuck my clubs in the car.'
'Go get 'em then. I've only got nine holes in play so far, but they're good ones. Tiger Nakamura advised me on the layout. Come round to the first tee, just outside the window. I'll call out the caddies.'
When Skinner arrived on the tee, Balliol was waiting for him, with a huge bag holding a set of brand new Callaways, and with two more Koreans, dressed in black like the doorman, but with white golf shoes on their feet. The American handed over a map of the course, and a hole-by-hole yardage chart.
'We're playing ten to eighteen,' he said. 'The earth moving took longer on the front nine. You still off seven?'
'Down to five,' Skinner replied. 'But I'm out of practice.'
'You get a shot, then.' Bal iol grinned, hugely. 'The practice is your problem.'
He took out his Great Big Bertha driver and split the first fairway.
Skinner took a few practice swings, then tugged his tee-shot left, into heavy rough.
'Let's play for now,' said the billionaire, as they moved off, their black-clad caddies lugging their bags, 'and talk later. Tell me one thing though. How d'you know about the golf course? Only Tiger and me and a few others know about that.'
'More people must know than you think,' said Skinner, 'if a simple copper like me can find out about it. Have you got planning permission?'
Bal iol laughed. 'Don't need it. You gotta know that. Al I'm doing is landscaping my own back yard!'