Skinner's Round (24 page)

`Sorry, Darren. I wish I was kidding. I don't like looking at bodies at any time of the day, but just before breakfast is absolutely my least favourite time.'

`But he can't be dead,' said Atkinson. 'I mean, we all saw him just a few hours ago.'

`Believe me, my friend, if my wife says he's dead, then don't look forward to him buying you your next drink. And my wife isn't in any doubt.'

`What happened? Did he have a heart attack walking back?'

He snorted. 'It was a bloody weird one if he did. Look, I don't want to go into the details just now. What I need to know is where everyone in this room was at the time he died. That means between leaving the clubhouse and around two a.m.'

He glanced at McIlhenney, but the Sergeant had anticipated his request and had produced a notebook and pen.

`Let's begin at the clubhouse. After Sarah and I left in our taxi, what happened, and how did the party disperse? Lord Kinture, perhaps you could tell us?'

The Marquis nodded, and pulled himself a little closer to the table. let me think.' He scratched his eagle's-wing temple and gathered his thoughts. 'OK, the Murano party first. They're all based at North Berwick Marine. We couldn't put them all up here. They're hosting the celebrities too, all the politicians, singers and stuff. They went back to the hotel by bus, not long after you left. The others, the local people, all drifted off around then too.' He waved a languid hand at his table companions. 'That just left this lot.

`We all had another drink, while we waited for the estate bus and for my chauffeur with my battle-wagon. While we were doing that, Morton here and Masur had a shouting match.'

Skinner leaned to his right, forcing Morton to look back up the table towards him.

`To be fair to Morton,' said the Marquis, `Masur was rubbing his nose in it over the Tiger business. Man was bloody rude, being the sort of Aussie that gives Aussies a bad name.' He nodded down the table. `Savin' your presence, Sandro.'

`That's all right,' said the golfer. 'I was downright ashamed of him. In fact, I told him that if he didn't shut it he'd be losing a client while he was gaining one.'

Ànyway,' the Marquis continued, 'the bus and the Range Rover arrived just then. I didn't want Morton and Masur to be going at it on the bus, so I insisted that Morton travel back to Bracklands with me. We loaded up and we left.'

Skinner nodded, caught with a mouthful of breakfast. 'OK,' he said at last. 'How did everyone else get back, and what happened to Masur? Mr Highfield?'

The PGA man jumped as Skinner addressed him, but gathered himself together quickly. 'It was all quite simple really. The rest of us were climbing aboard the bus, when Masur said that he fancied some fresh air. He said that he'd probably had too many sherbets, and that the walk back to Bracklands across the course would do him good. He set off, and the rest of us got on the bus.'

Ìmmediately?'

Highfield thought for a moment. 'Couple of the chaps went off to the gents, but after that yes.'

`Very good. So we've established how everyone headed back to the house. Now, what did you all do when you got here? Lord Kinture?'

The Marquis waved his coffee cup at a maid. 'Can't speak for everyone of course, but Arthur here, Ewan and Andres had a nightcap with me in my study. The Tiger was with us too, watching some Japanese channel on satellite TV. I suppose that we packed it in around . . .

what was it boys, quarter to one?' Urquhart and Cortes gave brief nods of agreement.

`Right, that's five accounted for. How about the rest of you?'

Sandro Gregory raised a hand. 'Oliver, Paul, the Deacon and me, we all were in the billiard room for a couple of hours. The snooker match of the decade: US versus the Rest of the World. We called it a tie eventually around one-thirty, and split to our rooms.'

Skinner looked down the table. 'Darren?'

Atkinson leaned forward. 'Lady Kinture and I sat for a while in the drawing room. You remember, don't you; we said we'd have a chat about the course after the dinner.' The Marquis looked round sharply. 'I suppose we must have talked until just after midnight.'

OK, that gives us one group in the study, one in the billiard room and you two in the drawing room. After that you all went straight to bed, yes?' An assortment of assenting grunts came from around the table.

Ànd how about you, Mr Morton?' he asked, heavily. 'What did you do when you got back to Bracklands, after your argument with the late Masur?'

Fourteen people stared at the American in silence. Morton fidgeted in his chair. He stuck out his chin aggressively, and glared around the table. 'I went straight to my room, OK? I was still pissed by Masur's little speech at the dinner, and by the Tiger running out on SSC. I didn't want to see either of the bastards, so as soon as the Range Rover got back here, I said goodnight and hit the sack.'

‘Can you confirm that, Lord Kinture?'

Àfraid not, Skinner old boy. The car drops me at my ramp at the rear of the house. Sue and I got out there. Morton was still in the back seat last time I saw him, waiting for the chauffeur to drive him round to the front door. It's quite a long walk, y'see.'

`Yes, I see,' said Skinner. He looked at Martin. 'Superintendent, any thoughts?'

The blond policeman straightened up in his chair. His striking green eyes gazed steadily across the table, at the red-faced American. 'With everyone else accounted for, and in company, only one scenario can't be discounted; that Mr Morton, having had two recent run-ins with Masur and having suffered a painful business loss to him, watched the estate bus return, thinking that he would be on board, and that he could renew the earlier confrontation.

When he saw that the man hadn't returned with the rest, he guessed that he would be walking back across the course, and headed out into the night to confront him.'

`Hey, wait a minute!' Morton sat bolt upright in his chair, redder than ever, with the beginnings of panic in his eyes. 'This is a stitch-up!'

Skinner looked at him evenly. 'Relax, Mr Morton. As the Superintendent says, that's only a scenario. You have to face it. You have had violent disputes with Masur, in public. He has damaged your business. Alongside that, the fact is that from the moment you got out of the Range Rover there's no one to vouch for your movements.

`We're not saying positively that's what happened, and if we were it'd be up to us to prove it.

So don't get excited, unless you have something to be excited about.'

He paused and glanced back down the table. 'Lord Kinture, this is a bit awkward. There is something that I should do, to progress our investigation. Now the last thing I want to do is to go to the Sheriff in Haddington and ask him for a warrant to search Bracklands. It would be a great help if you would allow me to look around informally.'

`For my part, Skinner, I have no objection. Only thing is, I do have an obligation to my guests.'

Òf course. But I know exactly what I'm looking for, and I'd be happy to have any search witnessed by those whose rooms we go into. I'm sorry about this, but it is necessary, and I really don't want to do it the hard way. Any objections?' There was something in his expression which made the question rhetorical.

`Good. In that case, since you're the man with the whereabouts problem, Mr Morton, we'll start with your room. If you'll come with the Superintendent and me...' He rose from the table, and Andy Martin followed his lead. On impulse, he looked back down the table. 'Susan, just to give Mr Morton added comfort, perhaps you'd like to come along as an independent witness.'

`Yes, if it'll help.' She left her seat, resplendent in the bright sweater and slacks which Skinner guessed were to be the day's caddying uniform and walked round the table to join them. He held the door open for her, then for Morton.

The American's suite was front-facing, directly over the main entrance. 'I have to say, you couldn't have had a better view of the bus when it got back, Mr Morton,' said Skinner, idly.

`Let's keep this simple, shall we, sir? Show us the clothes you I wore last night, please, and all the shoes you have with you.'

The American hesitated, and the look of panic intensified. Skinner nodded towards the room's tall wardrobe, catching his reflection in its central mirror. 'In there, I think. Andy.' Martin stepped up and opened the right-hand door. A dozen hangers RI were occupied by a variety of suits, slacks and jackets. Eventually, Morton walked across, reluctantly, and removed the one bearing the blazer and slacks which the ACC recognised as his dress of a few hours before. 'Susan?'

Lady Kinture took the hanger and held it up. She peered at the clothes, then felt their fabric with her left hand. 'They're damp.' She looked even more closely at the slacks. 'And I think that's mud, just there.'

`Now the shoes, please,' said Skinner.

Morton's panic had been replaced by a look of resignation. He delved into the wardrobe and produced a pair of black leather moccasins, which lie handed again to Susan Kinture. Their uppers were dull and lustreless. She turned them over and saw black mud wedged into the angle between sole and heel.

Skinner hid his surprise. 'This doesn't look too good, Mr Morton. At this point I have to give you a formal caution that you do not have to answer our questions, but that anything you do say will be noted, and could be used against you. Now, on that basis, would you like to tell us now how this happened, or would you rather go to a police office and be interviewed formally?'

The American sat down hard on the bed. 'No, I'll tell you right now. It's dead simple, but like you said, there ain't no witnesses.

Ì did come straight up here when I got out of the car. And yes, I did look out and see the bus get back, and I saw that Masur wasn't on it. I was still as hot as a stove, and if he had been there, I was ready to go down and take a swing at him, or challenge him to pistols at dawn, anything to wipe that grin off his face.

`Your scenario is correct, Superintendent, but only up to a point. I did think about going out and catching the sonofabitch in the dark. But eventually I gave up the idea. I was steamed, though, so I decided to take a walk in the gardens to cool off. I'd been humiliated at that dinner, and I didn't want to see anyone else last night, so I went out down the back stairs.

`That's where my clothes got damp, in the garden, and that's where I must have picked up the mud, although I didn't realise till now that it was there. One of the gardeners must have left a sprinkler on. I didn't see it, so I walked right into it. I just stood there, laughing like a dummy, and thinking, "What the hell else can go wrong tonight?" Then I found out. The moon went behind a cloud. All of a sudden it was black as the Devil's waistcoat, and I walked right into a flower-bed. That was enough. I gave up, came back into the house, and went to bed.'

He looked up at the two policemen. 'And that is the truth. Happy as I am that that asshole Masur is dead, I swear to God I did not kill him.' Skinner stared at him hard, until the man dropped his gaze.

Ì'll need a formal statement to that effect, Mr Morton. You're a lawyer, you can draft it yourself and sign it. However, I have to take these clothes, and your shoes, for forensic examination. I'm not going to detain you, for the moment at least, but I should warn you that you'll be under constant police scrutiny, at least until we get the results of the lab tests.

Understand?'

Morton nodded, his face no longer florid, but pale. Skinner picked up the blazer and slacks on their hanger, and Martin took the shoes, carefully.

They made to leave, until Skinner turned in the doorway. `By the way Morton, where's Rocco Andrade?'

The American looked up with a start, and shook, visibly. `Richard! You mean Richard Andrews. He ain't been Rocco since we were kids.

Ì don't know where Richard is. He told me he was checking out from the tournament early last week, 'cause he had personal business to attend to. I don't know.where he is or what he's doin'.'

Skinner stared at him. 'Come on! He's your right-hand man. You're kidding us!'

Morton shook his head, solemnly. 'No sir, I ain't. No one ever asks Richard where he's going, or what he's doing. No one at all!'

Thirty-seven

‘I know you said I wasn't to, but I've been worrying ever since you called me, Miss Rose. If you've come a' the way to Germany to see me, it must be serious. It's got nothing to do with poor Davie, has it?'

The Inspector smiled and shook her head. 'No, not at all. Sergeant Soutar's fine. I saw him the day before yesterday in fact.'

Lisa Davies, née Soutar, was as far removed as it was possible to be from the adult that Maggie Rose had imagined. On the flight to Hanover, and on the drive to her overnight hotel, she had formed a mind picture of a fey, folksy lady, bejewelled, in long skirts and open-toed sandals, holding court amid the scent of joss-sticks. The reality was a small, nervous person, with dull sunken eyes, and streaks of grey in her hair which made her look well past her thirtieth birthday, even though she was still a year or so short of that milestone. Her child, who squatted in the middle of the floor playing with a doll, was scrubbed shiny and neatly dressed, but the mother, still in slippers and housecoat at 9.45 a.m., had the air of a woman who long since, had given up caring about herself. As Maggie looked at her, and around the severe, soulless living room, she recalled Davie Soutar's vehement dislike of his brother-in-law and wondered about life with Corporal Davies.

`Sit down, please,' said Lisa. 'I'll make us a cup. D'you take sugar?' Rose shook her head as she sat on the mock-leather couch; her hostess disappeared into the kitchen, directly off the living room, to return a few minutes later carrying a tray, with two steaming white mugs and a plate of cream biscuits. She handed the policewoman a mug, and sat down opposite her.

`So what's it about, then?' she said, trying to be matter-of-fact.

Maggie smiled again. 'You might say it's a voice from the past. I'd like you to listen to this.'

She produced the tape cassette from her handbag, and reached across the back of the couch to an expensive music centre, positioned in the centre of a cheap sideboard. She dropped the tape into one of its two drives and pressed the play button.