The team captain acknowledged him with a wink and a brief wave and strode after his shot.
When they paused, as arranged, on the third tee for the two minutes' silence, Atkinson was one under par, having taken par at the first hole and birdied the par-four second. With Skinner's nett three at the first the team stood two under.
As they walked together down the par-five seventh following two good tee shots, Atkinson was three under, and ahead on the professionals' leader board. The team was five under par, thanks to a second nett birdie from Skinner at the fifth. Atkinson had settled into a groove of brilliant golf and was more relaxed than he had been at the start of the round.
I've been thinking, Bob,' he said. 'This course has a lot of potential, if someone other than O'Malley could get to grips with it. I said as much to Sue last night. So I've got an idea. I don't imagine that poor old White's widow really wants to be left with forty-five per cent of a golf course. I think I'll offer to take her share off her hands. I don't think I'll find a better investment opportunity. Certainly not in Europe.'
They stopped at Skinner's drive, which had carried just over 260 yards, leaving as much again and more to the guarded green. Three-wood, please, Sue.' She seemed not to hear him — at first as she looked, smiling, at Atkinson. As awareness dawned, she jumped, taken by surprise. 'Sorry Bob. Miles away. A three-iron?'
`No, three-wood. I'm not playing that safe.'
He cracked a long straight approach shot, which finished in the centre of the fairway thirty yards short of the green. They walked on, the gallery to the right of the hole keeping pace with them.
I like your idea, Darren,' said Skinner, as they approached the leader's drive. 'But there's just one problem. Maybe Sue didn't know about it. The company holds a substantial insurance policy on Michael White's life, to cover that situation. So Myrtle isn't looking for a buyer.
The Keyman arrangement means that she has one already. If you want to buy into Witches'
Hill you'll need to talk to Hector Kinture.'
Atkinson frowned, as he asked Bravo for his three-wood. He lined up more quickly than usual, and smashed into the ball. It soared away towards the green, but hooked left in flight and plunged into a thick copse of trees.
Bravo stood, head bowed against his white bib. 'Sorry boss. Should have given you a two-iron.'
Atkinson shook his head. 'No, Bray, it was me. Club was right, shot was crap. It was a concentration lapse, that's all.' The ball was unplayable, and the drop-out, with a one-shot penalty, still left a difficult approach. Despite a valiant effort, a fifteen-foot putt caught the lip of the hole and swung past, leaving the tournament leader to tap in for a six, and a dropped shot.
`Sorry lads,' said Atkinson to Wales and Murano.
`That's all right, skipper' said Skinner, mischievously, rolling in a six-foot putt. 'Mine was for a birdie. I told you that all eighteen holes matter to me. To the team too, it seems!'
Forty
‘Mr Wills? Hello, it's Maggie Rose here: Mr Skinner's personal assistant. I'd like your help on something, but I'm calling from Schiphol Airport, and I haven't much time.'
`Yes, Miss Rose. What on earth are you doing in Holland?'
I'm travelling back from Germany. I've been to see Lisa Soutar.'
Rose could almost hear Wills sit bolt upright in his chair. Oh yes! And was your trip worthwhile?'
`By God, but it was! You should see what she's got. I'll tell you all about it, but not over the phone. The important thing is that I've traced the Witches' Curse, right back to the source. It was written down in 1598, by Matilda Tod, who seems to have been Aggie's sister. She passed it on at some point to one Elizabeth Carr, and that's how it came into Lisa's family.
`What I don't know is who Elizabeth Carr was, and why Matilda Tod should have handed on the tale with its condition and its warning to her. I wonder if you'd be prepared to help me find out? Could you research the contemporary records of the Parish of Longniddry, or whatever it was called then, to see if you can find any trace of an Elizabeth Carr? All that I can tell you about her is that she married a man called Tullis, and gave birth to a daughter named Frances in 1623.' She stopped, and a tone in her ear signalled the passage of another minute.
`Well, would you do that for me? It'd save time, and I'd persuade the boss to authorise a fee.'
Wills laughed. 'I'd be happy to help. And you can forget the fee. I smell a doctorate in this!'
Oh no,' said Rose, emphatically. 'The story of the curse has to be kept secret, at least until Lisa says otherwise. The women of her family have guarded it for four hundred years. If it's published without Lisa's agreement it'll be a breach of trust… and more besides.
I mentioned a condition and a warning. The condition is that only a Kinture, or the sovereign of the day may hear the tale. The warning is that anybody who betrays the secret will have to answer to the Devil himself! My warning is that Mr Skinner would take the view that all this, bizarre or not, is evidence in a murder investigation.'
In that case,' said Wills, 'I will respect Lisa's wishes. I might not be too bothered about Beelzebub, but I wouldn't want to fall foul of Bob Skinner!'
Forty-one
Skinner rolled in a two-foot putt for a four on the eighteenth, completing a round of 74. The crowd in the grandstands and around the green applauded politely, unaware that they were watching a man who had just played the best golf of his life.
They fell silent as Darren Atkinson stalked his putt, a tricky 20-foot downhiller with no margin for error if the ball was not to run five or six feet past on the fast green, its surface spiked by the shoes of over thirty golfers and their caddies. But his stroke, when it came, was smooth and the Titleist rolled straight as an arrow. The crowd's shout rose as it travelled, and reached a crescendo as it dropped into the hole for a three, and a round of 64.
Skinner, with Wales and Murano at his heels, stepped across to shake his captain's hand.
'Well played, partner,' he said. 'That was even better than yesterday.'
`You don't know how much better,' said Atkinson. 'When you're playing for this sort of dough, the fairways, and greens, even the hole itself, are helluva narrow. The hole seems barely more than the width of the ball. Look at some of the other scores.'
Skinner peered up at the board behind the stand to the left of the green. Atkinson was four shots clear of Andres Cortes, who was alone in second place, with Ewan Urquhart and Deacon Weekes a further shot back. Oliver M'tebe had recovered to level par, but Tiger Nakamura had crashed to 75.
`The team must be well placed too, Bob. You chipped in with five birdies on top of my eight under, then there was Norton's crazy two at that short hole. I make it we're fourteen under in total. We're on a roll, boys.' Arms around the shoulders of Skinner and Wales, he led them towards the Recorder's tent to register their cards. Too bad I let you down with that six.'
`You didn't, pal,' said Skinner, with undisguised triumph. 'I covered your tail on that one, remember!'
Atkinson laughed aloud. 'I told you you were a bandit off seven. A gross seventy-four for Christ's sake. D'you realise you shot one better than the Tiger? Come on, I'll buy you all a drink to celebrate. Let's hand our cards in, talk to the press, then go change.'
They stopped at the entrance to the tent, totalled and signed their scorecards. Skinner handed his to Atkinson. 'If you'll register that for me, I'll join you guys in the bar. I want to call in on my people, and I'd rather do that before I have a drink.' He glanced towards the clubhouse and saw Sarah, seated beside Arthur Highfield, through the window of the first-floor dining room, which was in use as a competitors' hospitality suite. 'Tell my wife where I am if you get there before me, will you?'