Skinner looked at all five, making eye contact with each, weighing them up. 'You've all spoken to Superintendent Higgins earlier, but there are just one or two things I'd like to ask.'
He glanced towards the swarthy Spaniard. `Senor Cortes, how did Mr White seem as you played. What was his mood?'
Cortes thought for a few seconds. 'He was good. He was very pleasant, very polite. He was very happy with his golf, too. After that finish at the eighteenth, he was… how you say… pleased as Paunch.'
`He didn't seem worried about anything?'
Not at all.
`Thanks.' He looked once more around the room. 'How many of you had met Michael White before this morning?'
Only one man raised a hand. 'I had. I'm Mike Morton. My company is running this event, so I've had some dealings with Mickey.'
`How did you get on together?'
`Like a house on fire. Mickey was a most charming man.
He and I hit it off from day one. Christ, this is terrible. Poor guy!'
`Did he say anything to you about a problem that he might have had?'
Morton shook his brown-toupeed head. 'No. Mickey was filthy rich and happy about it. He didn't have any problems.'
Skinner grunted. 'That seems to be the general view. One other thing, gentlemen. Did any of you see anyone today who looked out of place. Mr Morton, can you translate for Nakamura-San; tell him what's happened?'
Morton nodded, then spoke quietly to the Japanese. A bewildered look spread across his broad brown face, then he shook his head vigorously. In turn, Masur and the other two golfers did the same.
`Tiger says "no", Mr Skinner,' said Morton, 'and I guess that goes for the rest of us, as well.
Other than the course staff and the steel riggers, there was no one around here. Tomorrow is set-up day for the exhibitors in the tented village, and for television. It'll be crazy then, but today, peaceful. That's why we played our little Stableford.
`God, and poor Mickey never knew he won the money.'
Morton stared out of the window for a second or two, then turned back to Skinner. 'Say, what will this mean for the Murano Million?'
`Put the gate up, I should think,' said Skinner.
`You're not gonna tell us to cancel?'
I don't think that's practical or necessary. It'd cause chaos. We can keep the key area sealed off. No, Mr Morton, you can have your tournament.'
He looked up again. 'Well, gentlemen, I thank you again for your patience. You may all go now, but if anything does occur to any of you, anything at all odd or out of the ordinary, please get in touch.'
He led Alison Higgins back out into the foyer. A well-dressed, slightly-built man in his early thirties stood there alone. He turned as they entered. 'Hi, Alan,' said Skinner. `What have we got outside, then?' Through the smoked glass of the entrance doors he could see a crowd of people. Two of them carried television cameras on their shoulders.
Alan Royston, the force press officer, nodded a greeting. Afternoon, sir. Afternoon, Alison.
The tip-off industry's done its work. They all arrived, mob-handed, around ten minutes ago. I have a statement ready for them.'
He handed Skinner a sheet of A4 paper. The ACC scanned it and nodded. 'That's fine, Alan.
Tells them what they need to know. You call Edinburgh and have it issued on our press distribution network. I'll see the people outside.'
Royston looked up at him. 'Are you sure, sir? I could do that.'
`That's OK. I'm off to salvage my family Sunday, and I'm sneaking out the back way for no one. I'll deal with them as I leave.'
He turned back to Superintendent Higgins. 'Alison, you get things tidied up here. You can set up your Inquiry HQ here, or in Haddington, wherever you think best. As far as this place is concerned, I want the technicians to go over every inch of that dressing room and the Jacuzzi cubicle, then I want them sealed off and guarded round the clock by a uniformed officer. If our killer has left any trace of himself, that's where it is.'
He stopped short. Suddenly he remembered his own time as a rising CID officer, and his frustration when his ACC would arrive at the scene of one of his investigations. Skinner had christened the man 'Seagull'. 'Why's that?' Andy Martin, then a Detective Constable, had asked him. 'Because he flies in from far away, makes a lot of noise, shits on you, then flies away again.' For the first time in his short career at Chief Officer rank, he saw himself spreading his wings, and realised how difficult it was not to become a seagull.
His smile took Superintendent Higgins by surprise. 'Look, I'm sorry. I don't mean to put my big feet all over this investigation, but there's going to be pressure on us to solve this thing and I don't want to expose you unfairly. So I'll keep a personal involvement, and I'll carry the can if we don't get a result. You're the supervising officer, same as usual with a crime in your area, but on this one you report to me at every stage. Right, any thoughts on how we should go ahead?'
Higgins' cheeks were flushed with what Skinner hoped was pleasure. 'Well, sir. It seems to me that the only avenue we've got for the moment is the known antipathy felt by Morton towards White. I thought of asking Brian Mackie to make enquiries in the US about Morton's background, to see if there are any other skeletons in his business dealings.'
`Good idea. You do that; I'll be in the office tomorrow. Look in sometime and give me a progress report. Unless, that is, you get lucky and make an arrest. Mind you on the basis of what we have so far, that'll take a lot of luck.
Now, I'd better go and speak to the press. See you later.'
He stepped through the automatic doors, out into the afternoon sunlight, with Alan Royston following behind. In addition to the two television operators, there were around a dozen reporters and three photographers assembled in the car park. He strolled slowly across.
Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm going to tell you as much as I can. We are dealing with the murder of a man. He suffered a fatal cutting injury some time after midday today, and we do not see the possibility of suicide. Enquiries are under way, and you will be kept informed of their progress.'
`Who's the victim, Bob?' A husky voice came from the rear of the group.
Skinner glanced across in surprise. 'Hello, John. Didn't expect to see you out here on a Sunday.'
John Hunter, a veteran Edinburgh freelance, and one of Skinner's oldest journalist friends, laughed ironically. 'You're kidding. Wi' all these new tabloids opening up and wanting copy, I don't have a day off any more. Come on. You can tell us. Who is it?'
Skinner shook his head. 'Sorry, chum. Not until I'm sure that the widow's been informed.' He nodded towards Royston. Alan'll give you a name as soon as we know that's happened.'
"S no one of the golfers, is it?'
`Certainly not. Just be patient for a few minutes more and we'll have something for you.'
Anything else you can tell us, then? Like, is anyone in custody?'
`No, I'm afraid not. The victim went off to take a bath after playing golf, and the body was found by a member of staff half an hour later. We're still taking statements from everyone who was on the course at the time.'
Aha,' said John Hunter, dramatically. 'Golfing, eh. That tells us it's no' the Marquis, anyway.'
He paused as a thought crossed his mind. 'Here, it's no' Michael White, is it?'
`See you later,' said Skinner, poker-faced, as he left the group and walked back to his car.
`How's Andy? From what I hear, he's settled in OK. Roy Old has moved big Mcllhenney out to East Lothian, and I expect that he's behind that.
`Jimmy's appointed himself as a sort of unofficial emissary between us, sounding me out, sounding Andy out. He tells me that Andy isn't in the mood for any olive branches. Says he never wants to see another Skinner as long as he lives!'