`With all that's happened here this week,' said Martin, 'you ever know!' He turned to the Sergeant. 'Switch off the lights the Rover, Boyd. There are farms quite nearby, over the rise, and it's still dark enough for the flashes to be seen a way off. We don't want to advertise this before we have to' The veteran grunted and clambered off up the slope.
Sarah, suddenly grim-faced, stepped down the last few yards of the embankment. The stool had been landed only feet from the edge of the Truth Loch, and the ground around it Was almost swamplike. She squatted down beside the body, unclipping the catches of her bag.
The clothes were dark and sodden, the face was swollen and grey in death and the thinning brown hair was plastered over the forehead. She leaned closer and saw, on the cheeks and nose, a series of small, irregular puncture wounds. She lifted up the head in both hands and looked into the face. For a second her professional detachment faltered, and she gave a small shudder.
`Yes, Andy, this is William Masur. I sat opposite this man at the dinner table last night, and now at…' she glanced at her watch `.. six-forty-nine a.m., I can certify that he is very dead.'
I suppose that must mean that he wasn't a witch, then,' said Martin, with the macabre humour which policemen sometimes need to make their job bearable.
The body was lashed to the low-backed chair of the ducking stool by a thick blue nylon rope.
'I can't give you cause of death until the pathologist opens him up and looks for water in the lungs. As to the time, going by the general condition of the body, I'd say he'd been in there for between five and seven hours' She let go of the head, which fell forward with a squelch on to the chest.
Martin knelt down beside her. 'What are those marks on the face, d'you think?'
'One or two fish have been taking an early breakfast, I'd guess.’
She put her hands back to the temples of the dead Masur, probing gently with her fingers, working her way gently round to the back of the head. 'There's an irregularity there. It's not as pronounced as in the case of White, but I'd guess that when they do the autopsy they'll find a skull fracture.
'My supposition is that the method is much the same as with Michael White. Someone cracked him on the head, knocked him unconscious, then finished him off. Only in this case the victim was drowned. I could be wrong. There may be other wounds that I can't find, and we can't untie him until the photographers are finished. But I don't see any rips in his blazer or his shirt, or anything else that would take us to another conclusion.'
Martin shook his head. 'You sure you couldn't work out a suicide theory for us on this one, Sarah? It'd make life a hell of a sight easier. One murder's bad enough, but two, on a site where we're expecting about sixty thousand people over the next four days!'
`Given enough time, Andy, I could work out a suicide theory for Abraham Lincoln. But I don't think anyone would buy it, any more than they'd buy this one. Sorry, but my conclusion is that the man who killed White has notched up another.'
They stood up together and clambered back up the bank to drier ground, where Sergeant Boyd and PC Pye maintained their solemn guard. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of two motor vehicles approaching beyond the rise. The four looked back up the hill until they swung into sight. ‘Good,' said Martin. 'That's the scene of crime team, and that looks like Higgins and Mcllhenney too. The sooner they all get to work, the better.'
Sarah nodded. 'I don't think that there's much more for me to do here, Andy. I'll write up a note for the record this morning, and fax it in. I'll speak to Alison, then I'll be off. Do you want to go back to your car?'
Not just now thanks. I'll stay here for a while.' But then his mobile telephone warbled its own dawn chorus.
Thirty-four
Skinner shambled across the kitchen and perched on a stool.
He caught his reflection in the glass door and smiled. His hair was tousled, there was a grey stubble around his jawline and his yellow towelling dressing-gown was knotted roughly around his waist. 'If the boys could see you now,' he muttered.
Jazz wriggled excitedly in his high feeding chair as he smelled the warm milky rusks. 'You realise,' said Bob solemnly, `that this is far too bloody early for you to be having breakfast.
You do understand that, do you?' He dug the baby's horn spoon into the grey mixture and held out a mouthful, just out of his reach. 'You do appreciate that no allowances will be made when you're yelling for more before lunchtime? That your mother will just ignore you till she's good and ready?'
Jazz bounced up and down against the straps of his chair, laughing and slapping its tray.
'Well, as long as you understand that.' He fed the baby the first spoonful, which he swallowed voraciously. 'Better than sex as far as you're concerned, isn't it, Wee man?' he said, inserting the second mouthful in answer to an affirmative shout by his son. Their bizarre conversation Continued until the bowl was empty, and until Jazz had been Convinced of the fact.
Breakfast over, Bob unstrapped him, and carried him, draped across his shoulder through to the living room, where they sat together on the smaller of the two couches. 'You just be quiet for a while, pal,' he said, picking up the telephone directory, and looking up the number of the Marquis of Kinture.
The telephone at Bracklands was answered by a bright voice which Skinner recognised as that of the girl who had sat for them during the PGA dinner. `Kylie, you're up early! It's Mr Skinner here. Look, I need to speak to Mr Highfield, urgently. If he's still asleep, can you waken him, and ask him to telephone me at once. If he has a mobile, tell him I said to use that.' He gave her his number. 'But listen, don't make a fuss about it, and try not to disturb anyone else. Is that OK?'
`Sure, Mr Skinner,' the girl drawled. 'I'll do that right away.'
He replaced the receiver and looked down at the contented Jazz. 'That was your girlfriend from last night, pal. You took a right shine to her, and don't tell me otherwise. I saw the way you were looking at her when we got home last night. You and your sister, you're two of a kind!'
When the phone rang a minute later he was ready and picked it up at once. 'Skinner.'
The voice at the other end sounded both curious and anxious. 'Mr Skinner, what is it? Have they found Oliver's father? Is that it?'
`Not as far as I know. No, this is much closer to home. When was the last time you saw Bill Masur?'
`Last night, at the clubhouse.'
`Not at the house?'
`No. I came back on the bus with the boys. Masur said something about enjoying the night air. Why?'
Skinner took a deep breath. 'Because Jimmy Robertson, the pro, fished him out of the Truth Loch about an hour ago.'
`What! Had he fallen in? Was he drunk? Had he decided to go swimming.?'
`No,
Maybe you don't understand me. He was dead.'
Oh my God!'
Skinner thought that the man was whispering, until he realised that he had taken the phone from his mouth. When Highfield spoke again, his voice was tremulous. `What happened?'
All I know so far is that he was found in the loch, beside the eighteenth fairway.' He decided not to go into detail. 'My people are there now, and so's my wife. She's a police surgeon. I'll head down there myself, as soon as she gets back here.'
`What do you want me to do about the tournament?'
That's what I wanted to discuss. When does the first team play off?'