Skinner's Round (9 page)

'Golf is a very important part of the company's business, certainly — in fact that's where it started — but really, sir, now SSC gets everywhere. It's a major promoter as well as manager.

Ìt has a boxing division, with a string of world champions, recognised by an organisation of which Morton's son-in-law is president. It owns an American football franchise, an ice hockey team, and a basketball side. Morton has a baseball team of his own. Then there's tennis. The company has agreements with most of the leading players.'

ÒK,' Skinner interrupted. 'That's all a matter of record, but what sort of a business is it, and what sort of a bloke is Morton?'

The message I'm getting, boss, is that they're both squeaky clean. I spoke to my opposite number in Miami. He said he knows Morton and reckons that if he ran for Mayor out there, he'd win hands down. He put me on to a contact in the State Attorney's Office and she told me the same thing. Mike Morton is a very respected businessman without a blemish to his name.'

Skinner pushed himself off the table. 'No, Brian, I don't buy that. He's got one blemish that I know of, for a start. He tells lies to the police.' He took a small address book from the pocket of his jacket, and looked up a number. Then he picked up Mackie's telephone and dialled.

The call was answered before the third ring. 'FBI.' `Christ, Joe, don't you have a secretary yet!'

There was a laugh on the other end of the line. 'No chance, my friend, I couldn't keep one busy. Anyway, there's a view in the Bureau that secretaries are a security risk.

`So how're you doin', you Scottish SOB. It's been a year now, since you made my phone ring.'

Skinner had known Joe Doherty, the permanent UK representative of the FBI, since he was posted in the late eighties. The two men had an informal friendship which had proved valuable on more than one occasion, yet in the main it was conducted by telephone. Doherty was in a high-risk post, and was careful about going out in public.

'Cuts both ways, Joseph. As for how I'm doing, you and I are almost related. I've got a half-American son, now. Didn't you know?'

Doherty laughed again, but there was something behind it this time 'Yes, I knew. There's very little happens to an American citizen resident in the UK that I don't find out about eventually.

Listen,' he went on, 'I've been planning to come up to Scotland to surprise you and meet your new Special Branch guy.'

'Great idea,' said Skinner. 'Tell you what, I'll even give you an excuse. I'd like you to do me a favour. I'm looking for all available information, known or suspected, on one of your lot. He was sat in the next room to a very bloody murder yesterday, a real cool job. The victim was Scottish, and I know that he had crossed your man, seriously, on at least two occasions. Yet when I interviewed the guy, he told me that he and the victim were bosom pals.

Òur international man checked this guy out in his home state, Florida, and they gave him a character reference that makes him sound like Mickey effing Mouse. I'd like to know what your chums think of him. Can you find out?'

There was silence for a second. 'What makes you think we'd know him?'

Àh, I don't know. There's just something makes me think you will. He's a very big wheel.

His name's Mike Morton.'

`Morton!' Doherty exploded. 'Then I know the murder you're talkin' about. All over last night's news and today's paper. The golf club. Mike Morton was there?'

Ùhuh.'

`Well, I'll be ..

`Look, Bob, I do remember being briefed about this fella, way before I came here. I'll need to update. Leave it with me and I'll be in touch soon as I can.'

Nine

Proud Jimmy stood, nervously, behind the big cream sofa, head bowed and hands clasped together, almost like a worshipper at prayer.

In complete contrast, Myrtle White sat stiff-backed and upright. She was as pale as a ghost, and her eyes were noticeably bloodshot, yet as she looked across at Skinner, seated opposite her in an armchair, she was calm and fully in control of herself. As Detective Inspector Maggie Rose handed her a cup of tea, Skinner noticed that it was his assistant's hand which trembled slightly, not that of the widow.

They were seated in the main drawing room of the White villa in Whitehouse Loan. It was a big, bay-windowed apartment, expensively decorated and furnished, with heavy curtains and a thick Axminster carpet, not fitted but surrounded by varnished wood. There was no television set or hi-fi anywhere in sight. It was a reception room in the most traditional sense, presented as it might have been when the big grey sandstone house was built and first occupied. Outside the sun shone on a garden which was equally conservative in its design, with rose-beds set around and in the centre of a carefully cut lawn which stretched out from the red stone-chip pathway in front of the house to the high privet hedge which maintained its privacy.

Skinner leaned forward in his chair. Ì'm sorry that we have to intrude, Mrs White, but there are matters which we have to discuss with you, so that the investigation into your husband's death can proceed.

The widow nodded and sipped her tea. 'Please don't be so formal, Bob. It's Myrtle, remember.

We have been introduced socially, after all.' She smiled gently, and he was touched by the realisation that she, the bereaved, was putting him at his ease.

She went on. 'Before you begin, can you answer two questions for me?' Skinner nodded.

'First, are you certain that Michael did not commit suicide?'

Àbsolutely. For one thing, we haven't found the weapon.'

Ì understand. My second question is, how quickly did he die? Jimmy told me how he was killed, but I need to know as many details as possible. I need to imagine that I was with him; it's a peace of mind thing, you see. Michael and I sometimes talked about death, and we both always assumed that when one of us went, the other would be there, to say farewell. Not goodbye: we're both Christians, you see. We believe in the concept of death as a gateway.'

Skinner looked into her eyes as he answered. 'I put that question to Sarah. She said that he would have become unconscious from his wound very quickly and died very shortly after that. But she believes that he was knocked out before he was killed, by a heavy blow to the head. The way she described it to me, he wouldn't have known a thing. You can regard his death as instantaneous.'

He waited, as she considered his answer. Eventually she nodded. 'Right. Now your questions.'

`Can I just take a step back? You asked about suicide. Did you have any reason to think that Michael might have taken his own life?'

She shook her head vigorously. 'No, none at all. It's just that . . . As I said, we were very close. We've been married for almost thirty years. I couldn't imagine him having a worry so great that he'd conceal it from me, far less choose to die as an escape. That's been my great fear since yesterday. But now you've confirmed that it wasn't the case, and I'm relieved.

Bizarre as it might seem to you, I can cope with the idea of murder more easily. It's strange, how the mind works.'

Skinner shook his head. 'No, not strange. You can't prepare the mind to cope with the sudden, unexpected loss of a loved one. When it happens, everyone reacts in a different way, but it all comes back to the same question.' Memories of the past came flooding back. 'I remember how I was when my first wife was killed. My great fear — no, more than that, my immediate assumption — was that the accident had been caused by a fault in the car that I should have seen and corrected. When sudden death happens, the survivor feels reflex guilt. That has to be dealt with, and put away.'

Ànd afterwards?' she asked. 'Tell me, how long does it take for the pain to stop?'

He looked into her eyes. 'My loss happened almost twenty years ago. Now I'm married again, to a woman I love as deeply as I can imagine, and I have a baby son. Yet still, there isn't a day goes by when I don't think of Myra. But the memories are warm, not painful. As I see it, each life is a book. It's a series of interconnecting chapters, and some will have different characters. You were in Michael's book, and he in yours. His was closed yesterday, much of yours still has to be written. As for the epilogue, well, that's a matter of faith.'

Myrtle White touched the policeman's arm. 'Thank you, Bob. I'll try to keep that concept in my head.' She smiled at him, then blinked and sipped her coffee.

`Tell me, do you think that the murderer was a thief?'

`His wallet and watch were stolen, but we're not making assumptions from that.

`You and Michael discussed everything, Myrtle, yes?' `That was our way.'

`Did he mention any problems recently, any difficult deals, anyone with whom he might have been in dispute?'

`None that I can think of. After he sold the company, Michael did things purely for fun. If someone brought a development to him, he asked himself, "Do I like this person?" and, "Will I enjoy an association with this project?" It was only after that he'd look at the numbers involved. That's how it was with the golf club, more or less, although he admitted that he'd probably have done that even if the figures hadn't been so good.'

Was there anyone, anyone at all whom he regarded as an opponent or an enemy?'

`No. Michael didn't have an enemy in the world.'

Ì'm sorry Myrtle, but he had one. And my job is to find who that was.'

She looked at him, almost in a sly fashion. 'I don't think I want to know.'

`What d'you mean?'

`Well I can cope, the way things are just now. Michael's been murdered, I know, but it's surreal; I have no one to associate with it. If you catch the person who did it, I'll be forced to look at him. I'll be forced to hate him, and hatred is something I've never experienced. I'm not sure how I'd cope with that.'

`You will, though. You'll take comfort from the thought that he's paying for what he did.'

He glanced at the fine carved fireplace which dominated the White's high-ceilinged sitting room. A row of photographs in silver frames stood on the mantelpiece. He pointed towards two on the left, of a young man and young woman. 'Are those your children?'

`Yes. Sheila and David. Sheila and Gavin live in Edinburgh, in Dean Village, but David's working in Australia just now. He's in advertising. Gay phoned him last night. He's flying back on the first plane available.'

`What does Gavin do?'

`He's a surveyor. Lovely boy. He can be a bit wild, but he's devoted to Sheila, and he was wonderful yesterday.'

`Will Michael's death give you Inheritance Tax problems?'

She smiled at him again. 'I shouldn't think so. We have a very good tax planner. Most of the money is in trusts, from which we draw income. So do the children, and they each have capital of their own. The rest is what Michael called our "play money". It's a sort of private investment pool that he used to fund projects and to do daft personal things. For example, a couple of winters ago we were watching Test cricket from Australia on television. I just happened to say that I wished I was there, and two days later I was.

Òh I'm sure there'll be some tax to pay, but it'll be manageable. Our accountant will make sure of that.'

Skinner grinned. 'Worth their weight in gold.'

‘But would you want your daughter to marry one?' said Myrtle White, with a smile.

He winced. He shot a quick glance at Sir James Proud, then looked back at the woman. 'My daughter's given up doing what I want, Myrtle.'

She smiled again. 'Don't be daft. They all go through that stage. If she's giving you problems, she'll come round.'

`Maybe, maybe not. Anyway, one more question. Did Michael ever mention someone called Mike Morton?'

Suddenly the smile faded from her face. 'Yes, he did. On a few occasions. He was supposed to be playing golf with him yesterday, wasn't he?'

`Yes, that's right. What else do you recall about him?'

`Well, Michael did say that he'd been difficult over the tournament. Hard to deal with. He mentioned a couple of times that he was having trouble with him, but I think that he had sorted it all out.

Ì remember he said once that he'd met a few people like Morton in business, and that mostly they'd been shady. "Shady" was probably Michael's strongest term of disapproval.'

‘Hmm,' Sir James Proud grunted. He still stood behind the woman, as if protecting her. 'He was a very generous man, your husband, in his view of his fellow beings. Many of us could learn from his example.' Skinner looked up at the Chief, and was astonished to see a moistness in his eyes. He sensed that it was time to go, before grief could force its way through the calmness of the room.

Ùnless there's anything else you can recall that might help us, Myrtle, we'll be off. I'm sorry that we had to intrude at all.'

Not at all, Bob. I welcome your presence, yours Jimmy, and yours too, Miss Rose.' She nodded to the Detective Inspector, who was seated at the other end of the long sofa. 'I was glad of the chance to be involved. I've never been good at sitting around. In fact, I had been thinking of phoning Lady Proud and inviting myself round for coffee'

`You do that very thing, my dear,' said the big, bluff Chief Constable, his composure fully recovered in the relief of knowing that the interview was over.

Òne thing, gentlemen,' said Myrtle White. 'When can I plan on having the funeral? I mean when will you release...'

Skinner interrupted quickly. 'Strictly speaking, that's for the Fiscal to say, but in the circumstances, I'd say the beginning of next week would be OK. Monday or Tuesday. I'll speak to Davie Pettigrew myself, and let him know that's your intention.'

`Thanks, Bob. That's good of you. There'll be a lot to arrange. I'd imagine that we might have quite a turn-out.' For the first time that morning, there was a catch in her voice, but almost instantly, her shoulders squared and she recovered herself. She stood up and the others followed suit.

Proud Jimmy led the way out to the hall, and to the front door, where Myrtle White reached up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. She shook hands with Skinner and Rose.

`Thank you again for your help,' said the ACC. 'I'll keep you informed of any progress that we make.'