Read Online Skinner's Round by Quintin Jardine - Free Book Online
Authors: Quintin Jardine
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were working on various parts of the course this morning. They knocked off at half-twelve and met up with the scaffolders and joiners in the caddy-shed. The steel-workers had brought a load of beer in.
They were all out on the piss in Aberlady last night, and they needed a wee pick-me-up, like.
The caddies joined them too, when they came in. They can sniff out drink anywhere.'
`So they were all there when White died?'
'Apart from anyone who went for a slash in the main building, boss.'
Skinner glanced up in surprise. 'What about clubhouse security?'
`Security, boss?' said McGuire. 'Insecurity more like. The place was wide open. The temporary urinals on the course aren't available yet, so the scaffolders and joiners have been allowed to use the clubhouse toilets.'
`So there have been guys coming and going all day along the corridor leading to the course?'
Mario McGuire nodded his head. 'That's right, gaffer. Any bugger dressed like a workman could have walked in there.' `How many men were working today?'
`We didn't count them, but I'd say around a dozen steelworkers, and four joiners. That right, Neil?'
McIlhenney grunted his agreement. Ùhuh. The joiners are all local guys, but the steelworkers are specialists. They work full-time with the contractor, and travel around. Fearsome characters, they are.'
Àre they still there?'
Àye, sir. We left the DCs to finish taking names and statements, and them to finish their beer.'
`Right. You two get back over there, and find out if any of them were away from the caddy-shed, for any reason, between one and one thirty-five. And find out if anyone saw anyone who shouldn't have been there, or anyone they didn't recognise or who looked out of place.
Meantime, Superintendent, you come with me.' He rose abruptly from the table and led Alison Higgins from the room and through to the bar.
Two of the five men rose to their feet as they entered, but not out of courtesy. 'Christ, another one!' said the taller of the two, in a broad Australian accent.
Skinner looked at him, unsmiling. 'You'll be Mr Masur, then?' The man nodded. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Skinner cut him off.
Ì'm sorry to have kept you all waiting, but there's been a lot to do. I'm Bob Skinner, Assistant Chief Constable. I'm here because we are not dealing with sudden death or suicide, but with murder. Just after he left you, Senor Cortes, Michael White was attacked. His throat was cut and he died almost instantly.'
The colour drained from Maser's tanned face. The other man who had stood as the two police officers entered sank back into his chair. He was a few years older than the rest. The ACC
recognised him as Morton from newspaper photographs.
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
They were all out on the piss in Aberlady last night, and they needed a wee pick-me-up, like.
The caddies joined them too, when they came in. They can sniff out drink anywhere.'
`So they were all there when White died?'
'Apart from anyone who went for a slash in the main building, boss.'
Skinner glanced up in surprise. 'What about clubhouse security?'
`Security, boss?' said McGuire. 'Insecurity more like. The place was wide open. The temporary urinals on the course aren't available yet, so the scaffolders and joiners have been allowed to use the clubhouse toilets.'
`So there have been guys coming and going all day along the corridor leading to the course?'
Mario McGuire nodded his head. 'That's right, gaffer. Any bugger dressed like a workman could have walked in there.' `How many men were working today?'
`We didn't count them, but I'd say around a dozen steelworkers, and four joiners. That right, Neil?'
McIlhenney grunted his agreement. Ùhuh. The joiners are all local guys, but the steelworkers are specialists. They work full-time with the contractor, and travel around. Fearsome characters, they are.'
Àre they still there?'
Àye, sir. We left the DCs to finish taking names and statements, and them to finish their beer.'
`Right. You two get back over there, and find out if any of them were away from the caddy-shed, for any reason, between one and one thirty-five. And find out if anyone saw anyone who shouldn't have been there, or anyone they didn't recognise or who looked out of place.
Meantime, Superintendent, you come with me.' He rose abruptly from the table and led Alison Higgins from the room and through to the bar.
Two of the five men rose to their feet as they entered, but not out of courtesy. 'Christ, another one!' said the taller of the two, in a broad Australian accent.
Skinner looked at him, unsmiling. 'You'll be Mr Masur, then?' The man nodded. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Skinner cut him off.
Ì'm sorry to have kept you all waiting, but there's been a lot to do. I'm Bob Skinner, Assistant Chief Constable. I'm here because we are not dealing with sudden death or suicide, but with murder. Just after he left you, Senor Cortes, Michael White was attacked. His throat was cut and he died almost instantly.'
The colour drained from Maser's tanned face. The other man who had stood as the two police officers entered sank back into his chair. He was a few years older than the rest. The ACC
recognised him as Morton from newspaper photographs.
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
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