`Bugger,' he muttered. 'Every time, I'm either short or past by that much' He putted the second ball. It missed on the left and rolled at least a yard past the hole.
`Show me again,' said Atkinson. He crouched down as Skinner hit two more putts, with the same results. 'This one's easy,' he said, straightening. 'You're almost grounding the club-head, and so you're hitting underneath the ball, chipping it very slightly instead of putting. That's affecting both weight and line. Concentrate on keeping the head half an inch clear of the ground. That way you'll hit through the middle of the ball. Try it.'
Skinner tried a few practice strokes as Atkinson instructed, then hit two more practice putts.
The first missed on the right and stopped six inches past, and the second rolled smoothly into the hole. Five minutes later, the policeman was beaming all over his face. 'Right,' said Atkinson. 'Now let's see if you can hit the bloody thing. I see Norton and Hideo Murano heading out to the range. Let's get after them.'
Skinner shouldered his bag once more, and the two headed off down the side of the first fairway.
I heard about Oliver's dad,' said Atkinson. 'He told me you'd been to see him. That's a bloody awful thing, isn't it? The lad says he can't think of a single reason why anyone should want to harm him.'
Did he call his mother?'
Atkinson nodded. 'Yes. She persuaded him to stay here. I'd have understood if he went home, but he's going to play. His mother said that was the best way for him to sustain his father.'
`You manage him, don't you?'
`Well, my company will do. Oliver was quite a catch. Masur made him an offer, but he approached me. He hasn't signed formally yet, but we've reached agreement, and we're acting for him.'
`How did Masur feel about that?'
`He grumbled, but not too hard. I don't think he's too interested in black African golfers. The white guys, Aussies and Japs are his main strengths, although he's making inroads into America. Morton hates that.'
He paused. 'Mind you, he'll hate it even more if the Tiger leaves SSC.'
Skinner looked at him in surprise. 'Is that likely?'
Atkinson nodded. 'His contract's almost up, and Masur's made him an offer. Greenfields has strong Japanese connections, and they feel that the Tiger should be with them. Morton's pulling out all the stops, since the Tiger's his star attraction in the Far East, but that's the way it'll go, I think.'
`That's interesting,' said Skinner. 'How do Morton and Masur get along generally?'
`They don't.'
`How do they feel about your company?'
`They're polite to me, but I've made it clear that I'm sticking to golf, and to European tour players.'
`Will it always be that way?'
`Shrewd question, Bob. No it won't, but I'm not going to let them in on that secret.' They were approaching the practice ground, and had almost caught up with their teammates, each of whom was pulling a caddy-car. Atkinson called out to them, OK, guys, let's get together.
That's my caddy over there with the practice buckets.' He pointed towards a tall red-haired figure who stood with one hand on a huge golfbag, on which Atkinson's name was emblazoned. Beyond him, still swinging powerfully, was the colourfully clad figure of Tiger Nakamura. Skinner noticed that Bill Masur was watching him practise, a contented smile on his face.
As the four came together, Atkinson introduced Skinner to his playing companions. He was struck by the difference between Norton Wales in the flesh and on television. He knew that the singer was over fifty, but for the first time he realised that he looked every day of his age.
Hard living had carved deep traces which were normally covered up by stage make-up.
Alongside him, Hideo Murano, the thirty-year-old heir to the car-building fortune, looked almost cherubic. 'And this is Bravo,' said Atkinson, introducing his caddy. 'To answer the obvious question, his real name's Charlie, and I've no idea why he's called Bravo. Neither has he. Most of the older caddies go by nicknames, and Bravo's been around for longer than me.
OK, let's grab a bucket of balls each, and let's see you swing. Murano-San, you first, please.'
The Japanese nodded, teed up a ball and hit it competently, to just short of the 200-yard marker. 'That's good,' said Atkinson. 'You keep that up and I won't need to do much for this team. Norton, you next.' The tubby singer set himself up and took a tremendous thrash at his ball, knocking it no more than sixty yards along the ground. Atkinson shook his head and smiled. 'Look, man, there's no need to be in such a rush. The bloody ball isn't going anywhere until you send it. Swing at half that speed and you'll play twice as well. Right, Bob, let's see you'
Skinner had never felt so nervous on a golf course. But he steadied himself, thought only of the ball, concentrated on timing rather than power, and swung smoothly. The Titleist made a satisfying 'click' on the face of his graphite-headed driver, and soared away. It moved from right to left in flight, pitched just short of the 225-yard marker and ran on for another forty yards. Atkinson watched it until it came to rest, then turned towards him. 'You should be arrested for playing off seven,' he said with a grin. 'You've played this course before, haven't you?' Skinner nodded. 'What did you shoot?'
`Seventy-eight,' he said, adding quietly, 'with a ball in the water up the last.'
`See, I told you it wasn't testing enough! Right. You and Hideo concentrate on hitting targets.
Bravo, you keep an eye on them. I'm going to do some serious work with Norton.' As Atkinson set about one of the greatest challenges of his career, Skinner and Murano followed instructions, aiming at different targets with different clubs, working their way through their bags from long irons to the pitching clubs. Skinner had almost emptied his practice bucket when his concentration was shattered.
`Hey asshole, get your butt out of here. The Tiger's still my man, and if he knows what's best for him he's going to stay that way.' Mike Morton's raised voice cut through the stillness of the practice ground. His shoulders were back and his jaw thrust out as he approached Bill Masur and squared up to him.
The Australian looked coolly down at him. 'Face up to it Mike,' he said calmly. 'You've been assuming too much for far too long. It's time you took a tumble. Tiger belongs with Greenfields, and he knows it. Ain't nothing you SSC boys can do to change that.'
Without warning Morton shoved him violently in the chest. Masur took a pace back to steady himself, but stayed on his feet, still smiling. Skinner stepped across quickly. He put himself between the two and seized the American by the arms.
`Let's have less of the playground stuff, Morton.' The man struggled for a second or two, but the policeman's grip was unbreakable. Frustrated and still enraged, he glared hotly at Masur and hissed something in Italian.
`Not here, he won't,' said Skinner. 'Mr Morton, I don't imagine there's anything in your contract to stop Mr Masur watching the Tiger practise, so I think it's best if you leave. And by that I mean leave the club! Masur, you wait here for a while. Morton, I'll warn you once only.
I don't care who or what you are. Behave yourself properly or I'll have you barred from here.
`Now. On your way!' He released the American from his grip, and pushed him, none too gently, towards the pathway, where a golf buggy was parked. For a second Morton stood his ground, until Skinner caught his eye. Finally, his teeth clenched in anger, he spun on his heel and stalked off. `Masur; said the policeman, 'you wait here till his buggy's well out of sight.'
The Australian shrugged his shoulders and nodded, still smiling. Then Tiger Nakamura motioned to him, and he turned to watch the Japanese as he resumed his interminable practice.