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Authors: Quintin Jardine
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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?'
Ì 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. Àfternoon, 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,
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?'
Ì 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. Àfternoon, 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,
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