Skinner's Round (28 page)

Possession of the tale sets you apart from others. It makes you unique. It's been handed on in that family for four hundred Years. I mean, just look at that tree. It's fantastic.' She pointed to the piece of paper on the table, in the mobile police office.

The thing has built up its own tradition within that string of descendants, and gathered its own power. They've had four centuries of believing that if they betray the witch secret they've been entrusted with, then the Devil will show up to sort them out. They've had four centuries of submission to the tale, of its being beaten into them when necessary. Within their own family, these women have been set apart, seen as different, somehow.'

Rose picked up the paper and looked at it again. `D'you know what keeps Lisa going, through the drabness of her life, and what makes her tolerate that bloody husband of hers?' Her anger boiled over. 'Honest to God, in that whole house there was nothing to show that Lisa is cared about!'

Skinner reached out and touched her hand. 'Maggie,' he said kindly. 'I know that sometimes it's hard not to get steamed up over people's problems. But that's the job. We're police officers, not marriage counsellors or social workers. You mustn't allow yourself to be deflected from the task by sympathy for others. Have compassion, but professionally, you've got to stick to what's relevant. You know that.'

`Yes sir, I do. And this is relevant. I do have a point to make. Lisa is driven on by one thing.

She's living for the day when wee Cherry is old enough to be told the story, and to take her place in the line of the Tellers. Then it won't be just her alone. There'll be two of them to share the secret, two strange women a bit different from the rest.

`Yet Lisa's still marked by her nana's warning, and until I came along, with the tape and the press cutting, there's no way that she'd have breathed the story of Aggie's curse to another living soul. I'm certain of this. Whoever sent those notes to the Scotsman and the Herald didn't hear the story from Lisa Davies.'

Alison Higgins stood up and refilled her mug with coffee from a Thermos jug on the table. 'If that's the case, what other possibilities are there? Didn't Henry Wills say that there was a nineteenth-century reference to the story?'

`Yes, he did. I'm seeing him later today. I'm going to follow that up with him. I've asked him to help me find out who Elizabeth Carr is too.'

`Come on, Inspector,' said Higgins. 'You heard what the ACC said about keeping to the point.

Is that strictly relevant?'

Ì don't know, ma'am, but I can't say that it isn't, and neither can you. It's bizarre and it's a bloody nuisance, but the Aggie Tod story is linked into two murder enquiries. If we run it completely to earth, we may find out who else knew of the curse. If we do, we may have found our killer.'

'Touché,' said Higgins.

`There's something else I want to do, that might not be so relevant, but it is connected to the story.'

`What's that?' asked Skinner.

Ì want to find out as much as I can about Lisa's Bible, sir.

It's an extraordinary thing for an ordinary person to have.'

Ìf you can call Lisa Soutar ordinary!' said Higgins.

`Granted. But even at that . . . I mean we're talking about , a Bible which pre-dates the King James edition. And apart from its age, it's a remarkable work. The cover is rich beaten ; leather. It's been well cared for by all its keepers, and inside there are some beautiful illustrations. I persuaded Lisa to let me take some photographs of it. I'm going to find an expert, , to see if it can be identified, and to get an idea of how much ' it's worth. `She'd never given a thought to its value. Now that she has, ; she's decided to keep it in a bank deposit box.

Her husband doesn't know it exists, but she reckons that if he ever found it he might take it and sell it.'

She looked up at Higgins, still standing coffee mug in hood. 'I don't know,' said the Superintendent. 'I'm more interested in finding out who else could have written those notes to the press.'

Àye, Ali,' said Skinner, 'but this investigation is already so weird that we can't rule out anything. Maybe, just maybe, researching the Bible will help us to answer that very question.

ÒK Mags, you get on with all that, and report back to Miss Higgins on each part of the investigation.'

`Very good, sir.' She got up from the table, put her notes back in her briefcase and left the office.

Skinner and Higgins were alone. The ACC picked up the Thermos jug. Guessing by its weight that it still held coffee, he twisted its screw cap and poured himself a refill.

`You're doing a good job on this investigation, Alison,' he said. 'No one's going to fault you for lack of achievement.' `Thank you very much, sir.'

`But there is one thing. It's an essential skill of command. It's a bit like football; no, let's say sailing, since that's your sport. You can either be the sort of captain who issues every order, and who sees the crew simply as implements of her will, or you can be the type who keeps a steady hand on the tiller and lets her crew get on with their different tasks, backing their judgement all the time . . . even if on occasion they're wrong.

Ì don't succeed all the time, but I try to be the second sort of skipper. If I have a crew member who's idle or slipshod, then he'll walk the plank, but I always respect those who do their best. If someone comes to me and proposes an initiative, then I give them the same trust I expect them to place in me, and I let them run with it.'

Ànd that's what I should have done with Maggie?'

`Yes, as second nature. It may be that at the end of the day, all she'll achieve is a free valuation of her family Bible for Lisa Davies. But that's not her objective. She wants to find out all she can about that book, and about how it might have come into the hands of a burned witch's sister, because that's what her training and her instinct tell her she should do.

`You're in command of good detective officers, Ali. And their second greatest asset, after their attention to detail, is their instinct. Never suppress it, or countermand it . . . unless your instinct tells you different!'

Higgins nodded. 'Thank you, sir, I appreciate the advice. I'm grateful to you.'

`Don't be, Superintendent.' He waved his right hand vaguely around him, circling the room.

'To finish my sailing analogy, I'm Admiral of the CID fleet and it's my job to see that we all make a safe landfall! One other thing. How's that coven hunt doing? Have we had word of local witches?'

Higgins smiled. 'As a matter of fact, sir, we just did. One of the PCs in the Haddington station was told by his daughter that there's some sort of group in her school. The kid said that it's older girls and boys, and that they meet every Friday in an old quarry behind the town.'

Òh aye? To do what?'

`Maybe we'll find out tonight. Andy Martin's taking some people to the quarry tonight, to see if there's anything in it.' `Could be interesting. Meantime, I've got some golf to play!'

Forty-four

East Lothian is one of the driest counties in Scotland, but when it rains in summer it does so in full measure.

A brief visit to the practice ground had convinced Skinner that while the opening day of the tournament had been the finest of his life on a golf course, the second round would be an ordeal to be endured. Like most good links golfers, he was accustomed to windy conditions, but he detested heavy, still days with rain pouring from leaden skies.

He had begun his practice wearing his favourite waxed cotton hat, made by Christy and guaranteed waterproof, only to find that it lived up to its warranty so well that as he stood over the ball, rainwater flooded off its brim like a waterfall, obscuring his vision. Laughing helplessly at the ludicrous picture which he offered to the three foolhardy spectators who stood, huddled under umbrellas, around the practice area, and to the television camera on its rostrum behind him, he zipped his Gore-Tex jacket as high as it would go and retired, stopping in at the professional's shop on the way back to the clubhouse to buy a brimless rain hat and a new non-slip glove.

Now he stood in the changing area corridor, studying the full list of scores from the opening day. At 14 under the Darren Atkinson team had a six-shot lead. Of the twenty-four amateurs in the field, fifteen had handed in completed cards having played out every hole. Skinner saw with satisfaction that in the handicap section his nett 67 put him two shots clear of a Japanese player, off 12, named Hirosaki, while in the scratch calculation, his 74 was one clear of Everard Balliol, an American three-handicapper, and a member of Team Nakamura. He checked its line-up and saw that Mike Morton was among their number, but that he had posted an incomplete card, littered with wasted shots and conceded holes. 'Must have something on his mind,' he muttered to himself with a grim smile.

He stepped out of the clubhouse into the pouring rain, and squelched across to the first tee.

Even in the morning gloom, Sue Kinture shone out like a beacon. She wore a Day-Glo hat and cape and carried a huge umbrella bearing the Witches' Hill name and crest. A tall young man stood beside her wearing weatherproofs and carrying a second umbrella.

`Hello Bob,' she called as he approached. 'This is Joe, from the estate. I thought we could use an extra umbrella-carrier today. Hope it's not against the rules.'

Beside her, Darren Atkinson laughed. 'No Susan, that's OK. No more than fourteen clubs, but as many Witches' Hill umbrellas as you like — especially when there's a chance to flash the logo at a few million television viewers!' She loioed at him with a faint smile, but the downpour seemed to have drenched some of her sparkle.

`Ready for battle then, team?' called Atkinson. 'We're off first today, so the rest of the field will be shooting at us. In these Conditions, the idea is just to get round. Forget all about yesterday and the day before. This is a different golf course today, and you'll need to take a fresh look at every shot.

Whatever your caddies tell you to do, take their word for it and do it.'

He put a hand on Norton Wales's shoulder. 'Today is made for you, friend. So far everyone's been expecting you to be a showbiz clown . .

Ànd I haven't let them down! Given them some bloody laughs so far,' said the singer, emphatically.

`So what? Today they'll be saying, "My God, but he's game to be playing in that." They'll cheer every decent shot you play and go "Shame" if you duff one. How about you, Hideo, you OK?'

The heir to the automobile fortune laughed softly. 'You think it doesn't rain on Japanese golf courses? This is nothing for me.' He pointed up at his umbrella, on which the namèMURANO' was emblazoned in huge blue lettering. 'And I can do my advertising too!'

`Bugger this,' said Skinner. 'I should have brought one with a black-and-white check band around it!'

The announcer introduced the team through a PA system which crackled in the rain, and Atkinson stepped up to the tee. He chose a three-wood, rather than the driver which he had used on the earlier rounds. Teeing up his ball, he stood back under his umbrella, which Bravo held aloft until the last possible moment, before booming out a long, high shot which faded in flight along the line of the dogleg. It carried around 260 yards before pitching and pulling up short.

`Remember, Bob,' he said, stepping back amid the applause. 'Give it height off the tee. If you use your driver, tee it high, or the rain will force the ball down. You won't get much run either. Today we're playing target golf.'

Skinner nodded. Normally he detested umbrellas on the golf course, but on this occasion he was glad of Joe, the estate worker, shielding him from the rain as he surveyed his shot. He took out his driver and set the ball as high as he could on the tee, concentrating as hard as he could on keeping his head down and swinging smoothly. The click of the club-face sounded almost damp, and he had trouble in picking the ball up in its flight, but eventually he saw it, soaring high and pitching around 230 yards away, to the right of the fairway, and stopping dead. His sigh of relief was so loud that the television effects microphones picked it up, even above the applause.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Mike Morton, in the gallery less than twenty feet away, glaring towards him from under an umbrella, with a dark, sullen look on his face.

He waved to him as Hideo Murano stepped up to the tee. Ènjoy your round when it's your turn, Mike,' he called, with a soft smile. But watch where you put your feet. It's helluva muddy out here!'

Forty-five

‘To think, Inspector Rose, that this was once part of a department store.' He paused, awkwardly. 'But pardon me, you'll barely be old enough to remember those days.'

Maggie laughed. 'Oh no, Mr Wills. My mother used to drag me around Patrick Thomson's every Saturday morning. Usually she didn't buy anything, but it was part of her ritual.

Nowadays, your behavioural psychologists would call it mother/daughter bonding. I just remember girning all the time, because I wanted to be playing with my pals, not looking at school shoes, new lampshades and God knows all what.' She looked nostalgically around Carlyle's Coffee Shop on the North Bridge, where Henry Wills had suggested they should meet. 'I guess this would have been the cosmetics section. Another regular stopping-off point.'

She smiled. 'Rituals don't change, you know. Only their locations. She still drags me out on the odd Saturday morning ... except now we go to the Gyle Centre, together with half the folk in South-east Scotland!'

A fresh-faced young waiter appeared at their table, order pad in hand. 'Hello there,' said Wills. 'You're a student, aren't you? Law Faculty, yes?'

`That's right, sir.'

Ì thought so. May we have a pot of coffee for two, and something self-indulgent for me, an eclair, I think? Miss Rose?'

The Inspector shook her head. 'I wouldn't dare. My wedding dress will be tight enough as it is. That's something else I'm doing for my mother on a Saturday morning. Personally I'd rather get married in uniform!'

The young waiter left a copy of their order on their table and disappeared towards the kitchen. 'You've got a good memory for faces, Mr Wills. You have thousands of students in the University.'