Yet even as the thought spoke itself, he pondered on his own inherited comfort, his investment and his pension provision. The really big difference, though, is that today, so does a guy like you!'
A silver car stood on the red gravel concourse which lay between Bracklands and its lawn.
Two men leaned against it and from afar, he recognised them. He drew the Frontera up parallel to the new Mondeo, a few yards away, and stepped out.
He took the few paces to close the space between himself and Andy Martin, both literal and symbolic, with a smile spreading across his face and his hand stretched out in greeting.
Martin pushed himself off the Mondeo's rounded side and came to meet him halfway.
Normally, Skinner would have avoided such an obvious punch as it looped towards him.
Instead he stood his ground, motionless, as the fist smacked into his chin. He rocked back on his heels, but stayed on his feet… and the smile never left his face. Neil Mcllhenney started forward in confusion, until Martin, breathing slightly heavily, grasped the still-outstretched hand, and shook it.
Skinner nodded slightly, and the smile became a grin of delight. Martin looked at him and laughed. It was as if the fist had punched through the last barrier between them. They stood there, neither finding a word to say, just two old friends reunited after a long separation.
Eventually, Skinner released his handshake, and turned towards Mcllhenney. 'So there you are, Neil. Now you know about the family quarrel, and now you know it's over. You're family too, you and Brian, and Maggie and McGuire. The whole team's back together again, so the bad people can look out.'
He slapped his hands together. 'Right, gentlemen. What have we got inside?'
I did as you asked, boss,' said Martin. 'I told the Marquis, but no one else. He says that they're serving breakfast in the dining room from seven-forty-five this morning, and that all the house guests should be up by then.'
Skinner glanced at his watch. The time was 7.46 a.m. `Come on then,' he said, 'let's see if anyone doesn't choke on his corn flakes when we give them the news.'
The three strode towards the vast house and up the wide stone steps which led to its doorway.
Light shone through the morning gloom from several of the upper windows and all along the ground floor to the right of the entrance. Martin pointed in that direction. The Marquis's suite is along at the far end. It's been wheelchair-adapted. That's where I saw him. I don't know where Lady Kinture sleeps, but that was certainly not a woman's bedroom. Plenty of Paco Rabanne, but no Rive Gauche.'
The simple plastic bell-push was something of an anticlimax, but the echoing sound of its chime was impressive. The door was answered after a minute by a small middle-aged man in a dark suit. 'Hello again, Mr Burton,' said Martin to the butler. 'We are expected back. This is Assistant Chief Constable Skinner.'
`Yes, sir. The Marquis told me to show you to the dining room, and to serve you with breakfast. Please follow me.' He ushered them into the house, and into a wide entrance hall. It was floored in yellowish marble and a stairway of the same stone, its crimson carpet held in place by heavy brass runners, seemed to flow upwards out of its centre. Ancestral portraits lined its walls, and tall double mahogany doors led off in several directions. The policemen followed Mr Burton through the first doorway on the right, and down a corridor. Twenty paces on, he stopped and opened another set of double doors, then stood aside to allow the three policemen to enter the dining room.
Twelve people sat around the long dining table. 'Morning Skinner,' boomed the Marquis from his place at its head. 'So glad you and your chums could join us for breakfast.' The ACC saw a gleam in his eye; he was enjoying the grim game.
At his shout, ten heads swivelled round in surprise to stare at the trio framed in the doorway.
Arthur Highfield looked tense and nervous.
The butler showed Skinner to a chair at the end of the table directly opposite Kinture, seating Martin on his right, Mcllhenney on his left. Around them three maids bustled, serving breakfast to the party. 'Thank you, sir,' said Skinner, taking his place. 'Let's see, is everyone here?' He looked around the table, from left to right and from place to place. `Mr Gregory.
Nakamura-San. Mr Weekes. Mr Wyman. Mr Morton. Mr Highfield. Lord Kinture. Lady Kinture. Mr Atkinson. Mr M'tebe. Mr Urquhart. Senor Cortes. Yes, that seems to be everyone.' A maid placed a huge platter before him, piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding and mushrooms. Kylie, his baby-sitter of the previous evening, filled his cup with thick black coffee.
`What about Mr Masur?' said Susan Kinture, a puzzle-line creasing her forehead.
I hadn't forgotten him, Sue. He's been detained elsewhere. We've just left him in fact.' He stared down the table towards the Marquis, who was biting his lip with some vigour.
Darren Atkinson leaned forward and looked along. 'What's that, Bob? Detained? Are you saying that Masur killed Michael White?'
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. 'Whether he did or not, Darren, makes no odds now. I didn't say that we'd detained Mr Masur. No, he's been kept from his breakfast on account of being dead.'
Susan Kinture gave a small shriek. 'You're kidding,' said Atkinson. Highfield went even whiter. Gregory, Weekes, Wyman, M'tebe, Urquhart and Cortes all stared at him in blank astonishment. Tiger Nakamura looked simply bewildered. Skinner could not see Mike Morton at all. He had shrunk back into his seat.
`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.'