Inevitably, his eyes were wrinkled from peering down a thousand sun-baked fairways. In his mid-thirties, Darren Atkinson looked supremely fit, and supremely confident, a human being at the height of his powers.
He eyed Skinner up and down, appraising him. 'Seven, eh. Any pro-am experience?'
`Never played one in my life. And I'm seven and climbing, I'm afraid.
Atkinson smiled. ‘Lets see if we can do something about that before Thursday morning. I'm having a team meeting on the practice range at six-thirty this evening. Then we're on the tee tomorrow at one-thirty for a public practice round. Can you make those times?'
‘ I’ll make a point of it. Who are the other guys in the team?'
`There's one of the Murano guys — the son and heir, I think — and Norton Wales, the little singer chap. You'll be the leading amateur in that group. I've played with Norton at Wentworth. He said he was off twenty-two, but he was kidding himself.'
`What's the format?'
'Best-ball medal play. Amateurs get full handicap allowance.'
`With four of us, the rounds could be fairly long.'
Atkinson shook his head. 'Shouldn't be too bad. The high handicappers pick up if they're out of contention on any hole.' He laughed. 'Don't see old Norton having too many putts, unless he's improved a lot since last time.
Skinner winced. 'You could see me having quite a few, way I've been putting lately!'
'Hah! That's why it's seven and climbing, is it? Well that's what you'll practice most for the next two days.' He looked over his shoulder. 'Must go, I'm on the tee. I'm taking some money off young Mr Urquhart this morning. I'll see you tonight then, Bob. And bring that putter!'
Fourteen
‘Where's today's Scotsman, Maggie?' Skinner peered over the pile of correspondence on his desk.
It's in Ruth's office, sir.' Without being asked she rose from her seat and left the room to fetch the newspaper.
`That's an odd story about the murder on the front page, sir,' she said, returning to hand the broadsheet across the desk. 'It's unusual for the Scotsman to give credence to an anonymous letter.'
He glanced at the front page. 'Yes, but look how they're reporting it.
" Police were studying a mysterious unsigned letter handed in to the Scotsman office yesterday, to establish whether it might be linked to Sunday's murder of Edinburgh millionaire Michael White, at the luxury Witches' Hill Golf Club, where the world's richest golf event begins on Thursday."
It goes on to say that the phrase may have connotations in witchcraft, but that no one yesterday could pin it down. Based on that they leap to the conclusion that there may be a coven active in the area today.'
Rose looked at him, puzzled. 'All a bit tenuous, isn't it, sir?'
He grinned. 'So you might say, but it lets the editor put an "exclusive" tag on her story, and it's colourful enough to tempt every other newspaper in the land into following it up. And with the Scotsman holding the only copy of the letter in circulation, apart from the original, it's a real feather in their cap.'
The grin widened still further. 'Anyway, it isn't as tenuous as you think!'
The Inspector was intrigued. 'What d'you mean?'
Skinner reached behind him, into the pocket of his jacket, which was hung over the back of his chair, and took out a tape cassette, in its clear plastic box. 'Wait till you hear this,' he said.
It's a copy of something that's been lying in my attic for nearly twenty years.' He explained the origins of the cassette, then reached into his briefcase, and took out the original of the Scotsman letter.
I'd like to know more about this story. The child on this tape says that the story was told to her by her great-grandmother. But where did she get it from? Is it commonplace? Is it documented at all? Is it just a local legend, or does it have any historical basis?
`You see, Mags, while it's probable that this letter is just the work of a crank,' he waved the single sheet in the air as he spoke, 'there is just an outside chance that it's a confession of murder.
`So here's your chance to do some real detective work. The Scotsman experts couldn't come up with anything, but they didn't have this tape. Let's see if you can do better. I want you to make an appointment at Edinburgh University to see Henry Wills, the Registrar. He's a good friend of ours, and a historian into the bargain. When he was teaching, his speciality was Scottish History. You play that tape to Henry, and see if it excites him.
And once you've done that, perhaps you'd better check on the present whereabouts of the grown-up Lisa Soutar.'
Fifteen
Suddenly Skinner realised that everyone was looking at him. He disguised his discomfiture behind a cough, and gathered his concentration together once more. His hands, which had been miming the shape of his putting grip slapped down on to the table.
`Sorry, Constable. I didn't realise you had finished. That's all you have to say to the Board, is it?'
The square-shouldered young man, sitting bolt upright in the chair opposite him, nodded his close-cropped head. Skinner looked left along the table, then right. Any other points?' he asked his four companions.
`No?' He looked back at the Constable. 'In that case, thank you for your attendance, PC
Harris. You will be advised in writing of the outcome.'
The young officer rose, replaced his uniform cap, and saluted smartly before turning on his heel and marching from the room.
Skinner had no time for the formality of the Interview Boards which were part of the process of determining fitness for promotion. For one thing, it obliged him to wear uniform which, secretly, he hated. For another, he would have opted for a more relaxed approach, to contribute towards more analytical discussion with the applicants. Ultimately, he would have preferred to rely on his own judgement of a police officer's capability to cope with higher rank. But the system was entrenched, with observers from the Police Board and Police Federation among those entitled to attend, and he knew that he would have to live with it, and its imperfections, at least until he was in a position to do something about it.
He glanced again at the two officers nearest to him, on either side. They were the voting members of the Board. One was a Superintendent, and the other a woman Chief Inspector.
`Have you completed your assessment forms?' he asked.
`Yes sir.' The answers came simultaneously.
`Right, the next applicant is WPC Polly Masters. She was a lateish entrant to the service, after working in marketing for a while. Now aged thirty-four, she's done very well in the written part of the process. I note that she served in Dalkeith for three years, until she was transferred six weeks ago to the Press Office. I have to confess that I haven't met her as yet, but Alan Royston sent me a private note commending her. For all that, her experience is weak without a stint in CID.'
He checked along the table. 'Everyone ready? Right, let's have her in.' He pressed the green button on the panel by his right hand. A few seconds later the door opened, and a small woman entered, immaculate in a Constable's uniform. She sat down on Skinner's nod, and took off her cap, revealing short, well-groomed dark hair. Huge brown eyes looked nervously, but smiling, along the five Board members, finally coming to rest on Skinner with a directness which, a few years before and out of uniform, might have caught his attention in more ways than one.
His uniform belt dug uncomfortably into his ribs, and cut off the smile which was twitching at the corners of his mouth. `Right, WPC Masters..