`Bob, you have got to get this in proportion! If it works for them, you should be happy!'
And if it doesn't, I should be understanding. When Andy says "Thanks for the memory," like he always has in the past.. Sarah looked at him sharply.
He held up his hands, splashing coffee on the kitchen floor. OK, save that one time. But when it breaks up, when Alex finds out it isn't all sunshine, who picks up the pieces for her?'
`But why should it break up? They've known each other for long enough.'
`Don't remind me! No. It'll break up for the same reason Andy's other flings broke up; because sooner or later, usually sooner, he lets his women see where they stand in relation to the job. That's his mistress, and as long as she's around he won't have room for a wife.. especially one as demanding as my, sorry, our daughter!' He took a sip from his mug, and Sarah, looking into his eyes, saw for the first time the concern behind his anger.
`Look, Bob, I know you think that Alex lights up the ground behind her as she walks, but she's a big girl now. She's got big girl rights, and that includes the right to make her own mistakes
… which I don't think this is.'
`What about father's rights, Sarah? I'll tell you what they include: the right to be told when something like this happens within the family. That's why I'm steamed up.'
Did it ever occur to you that Alex might have made Andy promise not to tell you before she could?'
`Doesn't count. I'm old-fashioned that way. Andy was family, almost as much as Alex. When their relationship changed, even when it began to change, he had a duty to speak to me before things went.. ' he paused… too far. He abused his position.'
`What, falling for Alex is an abuse?'
`No. Forming a relationship with my daughter and passing up on every one of the many opportunities he had to tell me about it: that is. You're family, you play by its rules. Andy didn't, so he's put himself outside the wigwam.'
And Alex?'
Even now, they'll be packing to catch their holiday flight. Alex has made her choice.'
Three
I’m sorry, sir, but the clubhouse is closed.'
`What's your name, Constable?' The man was tall, around two inches over six feet, wide-shouldered, lean and powerful. His steel-grey hair, which matched the colour of his slacks, seemed, in a strange way, to emphasise his vitality. There was a look of authority in his blue eyes which made the young officer gulp involuntarily as he answered.
`PC Pye, sir.'
`Well, mine is Assistant Chief Constable Skinner.'
The young man sagged so suddenly that his smart new uniform almost seemed to lose its creases. Then, a second later, he snapped to attention, red-faced. 'I'm sorry, sir, I didna' recognise you..
Out of uniform?' said Skinner, reassuring the boy with a quick smile. There was a strange sadness about it. Something about PC Pye reminded him of another young officer from a few years before. 'That's all right, son. I didn't recognise you either. How long have you been with us?'
`Since May, sir. I'm stationed at Haddington. I really am sorry, sir.'
`Don't be. The way I'm dressed, I look more golfer than polis.. and I'm sure there are those who'll say that's always the case. You've reminded me to wear this.' He took his photographic warrant card from his pocket and clipped it to the open pocket of his shirt, above the Gullane Golf Club crest.
He nodded towards the impressive cream-clad clubhouse building. There were no windows on either side of the wide entrance. Instead the doors were flanked to the left by a huge brass coat of arms, and to the right by the legend, 'Witches' Hill Golf and Country Club', spelled out in tall letters. `Superintendent Martin inside?'
`No sir, Mr Martin came out a few minutes ago, with another gentleman. They went off down there.' PC Pye pointed vaguely to his right.
`Probably walking the course,' said Skinner.
`Sergeant McIlhenney's inside though, sir, and a lady superintendent.'
`Thanks, Constable. You haven't seen a gentleman in a wheelchair, have you?'
The Marquis, sir? Yes, sir. He arrived just after Mr Martin left. He told me to say that anyone who wanted him would find him watering his Iron Horse. Those were his exact words, sir,'
PC Pye added.
`How did he look?'
`He seemed really upset, sir. A lady brought him, in a Range Rover with a tail-lift thing, and as she was lowering it down he kept swearing at her.'
Skinner grunted. 'Sounds about right.' He was aware that the Marquis of Kinture had accepted his paraplegic condition with an ill grace.
`How about the press officer, Alan Royston? Is he here yet?'
Not as far as I know, sir.'
Damnit. The Edinburgh press are a bit sleepy on a Sunday, but they'll show up sooner rather than later, and en masse too, for this one. When they do, tell them that I'm here, and marshal them in that area of the car park to the left. I'll send another officer out to join you as soon as I can. Once the hacks realise what's happened here, it'll be Bedlam.
`Right, son, keep up the good work.' The young constable snapped a smart salute as the ACC stepped through the automatic doors.
Skinner glanced around the foyer. It was empty, but for two middle-aged uniformed officers, sergeant and constable, who stood, chatting and looking bored. They came to attention as he entered. 'Afternoon, sir,' said the sergeant.
He nodded a brief acknowledgement. 'What are you two doing? Crowd control? You should know better, Sergeant Boyd. That lad shouldn't be on his own out there, however keen and smart he is. Get outside and keep him company. And you, Constable Roe, you take yourself off to the end of the driveway, and stop every car turning in off the road. Tell the press as they turn up to report to Sergeant Boyd.
'Sage, until Royston or someone from his office arrives to take charge of them, you make sure that any camera people that arrive are kept together in the car park. I don't want them running all over the place taking snaps of the Marquis, or any of the players that are here.
Now, where is everyone?'
`Miss Higgins and Neil McIlhenney are through in the changing area, sir,' said Sergeant Boyd. 'The Marquis, two of his guests and some players are together in the big bar. The caddies, green-keepers and the men working on the stands are all in the caddy shed. There's a uniformed officer with each group.
`My gaffer's gone out to walk the course with the man from the PGA. He left me in charge.'
Is that so? Well next time he leaves you in charge of anything, don't let him down. Make sure you're out front where you can be effective, not hidden in a quiet corner talking about yesterday's football. Get on with it, both of you.'
He jerked a thumb towards the main entrance and strode off towards the changing area.
The dressing room door was open. Alison Higgins was seated on a bench, and stood up as he entered. Mcllhenney, his back to the door, identified the newcomer from the Superintendent's expression, and turned with a smile.
`Jesus Christ,' barked Skinner. 'Is everyone here just standing around?'
Higgins was flustered, momentarily. 'I didn't want to begin till you got here, sir. The Marquis looks like the type who needs careful handling, and some of the others gathered in the bar seem pretty high-powered too.'
He looked back at her. 'When will you get it through your head, lady, that you're high-powered too? You're a Superintendent of Police, and in the new structure that's one grade below me.
`That said, all I can see here are chiefs and warrant officers. Where are the CID foot-soldiers?'
On their way, boss,' said Mcllhenney. `Mario's on his way out, and Alan Royston's bringing three Detective Constables with him. We'll have a right few statements to take.