On their way, boss,' said Mcllhenney. `Mario's on his way out, and Alan Royston's bringing three Detective Constables with him. We'll have a right few statements to take.
`Has anyone been told what's happened?'
`Williamson, the steward, found the body. He ran into the manager's office, blurted it out, then collapsed in a faint. Mr Bryan, the manager, used to be one of us. He verified Williamson's story, then he phoned us. But other than that, he's kept the detail to himself.
`He told the people waiting in the bar that Mr White had been taken ill. When we got here, Mr Martin told them that he had died, but that's all they know.'
`How about the Marquis?'
`Mr Martin told him the same when he called him.'
`We'd better not keep them waiting much longer then.'
He glanced at the door of the Jacuzzi cubicle. 'I saw an ambulance outside. That means the body's still here?'
Higgins nodded. 'Yes sir. We thought you'd want to see it.'
Skinner shook his head. 'Thanks, but no thanks. I've seen enough stiffs to last me a lifetime, and I knew this one. Sarah described the scene, and I'll see the pictures. So if the photographer and the scientists are finished, you can take him off to the morgue.'
He looked across at Mcllhenney. 'See to it, Neil, will you. Then tell everyone in the bar that we're nearly ready to speak to them: We'll need at least two separate rooms for interviews, so set that up with the club manager. Once that's done, let us know. We'll be outside.' He paused, then an afterthought struck him. 'Oh yes, ask Sergeant Boyd to contact Mr Martin on the radio and tell him that I want to see the PGA man when he's finished with him.'
`Sir.' The bulky Sergeant moved towards the door.
Skinner motioned to Higgins, and followed him out of the room, but instead of returning to the foyer, he turned to the left and followed the corridor until he came to another door, he opened it and stepped out into the open air.
The afternoon was sunny and warm, but the Witches' Hill golf course was still scented by the last mowing of its greens and fairways, dampened by overnight rain. They were facing the wide first tee, and beyond it, a beautifully manicured green, which sloped away to the right.
From the rough on the far side of the first fairway, a conical hill rose sharply. Its flanks were wooded but the summit was clear, giving it a strange, tonsured look. Skinner pointed towards it. 'That's it, Ali,' he said. 'Witches' Hill; it gave the Marquis his idea and the course its name.
The local legend has it that the witches were burned at the bit on the top, and that nothing's grown there since. If you go up there, on top you'll find the vestiges of some tree-stumps and bugger-all else.'
`Had you heard of it before it was made into a golf course, sir?'
Skinner nodded, a soft smile flicking the corners of his mouth. 'Yes, years ago. Myra, my first wife, was a teacher. When we moved here she researched the local history for her class work, and she came upon the story of Aggie Tod, Witches' Hill and the Truth Loch.
I'd forgotten all about it until the Marquis announced his project.' He looked down at Higgins. 'It's not an everyday topic out here, you see. The tourist people are happy to sell this county on the back of its golf, beaches and sailing, but they keep quiet about the bloodshed and persecution for which it was famous before that.
On the whole the locals take a dim view of the Marquis's venture. And the golfers tend to look down their noses at his course. It's parkland, y'see, not links, so they look on it as a bit of an Ugly Duckling. But I've played it, and I can tell them, it's a swan all right; I found it a really good course, very mature and ready for play.'
The Superintendent looked up in surprise. 'I thought it wasn't open yet?'
It isn't, officially, but the Murano people have played here, and Michael White took a few of us out one Sunday last month.'
`So you knew White, sir.'
`Sure. Not that well, not as well as the Chief, but we knocked into each other every so often.
He was a member of the New Club, and a real man about town.'
`How did you find him? What sort of a man was he?' Skinner smiled. 'Are you interviewing me, Superintendent?' Higgins flushed.
`That's OK. You should be. I knew the man, I have insight. Michael White was a very successful man. He made his money in the retail trade, with a chain of mid-price, good quality clothing stores, for Cl, C2, customers and he got it exactly right. Sold out around ten years ago, in his early forties, for a right few million quid. He invested successfully in sure-thing property developments until the slump started, but he's done nothing much since then.. other than play golf.
`When the Marquis came up with his project, he didn't have the cash to fund it himself, so he gave Michael first refusal. Golf was his great passion, so, probably for the only time in his life, he took a business decision on emotional grounds and said "yes".
As a man, Michael White was friendly, generous, ethical, honest, in love with his wife, and well-respected; and no, I cannot think of a single reason why anyone would want to lie in wait for him and cut his throat. Any other questions, officer?'
Higgins hesitated. 'Couldn't theft have been the motive, sir?'
`Sarah says that's unlikely, the way it was done, and I'm with her. The watch and wallet were nicked as a red herring. Christ, his golf clubs were worth more, and they'd have been a hell of a lot easier to steal!'
He shook his head. 'No, Alison. Michael White was assassinated, executed, killed out of malice; choose your description, but it was premeditated murder.'
He slapped his hands together. 'Now, do we know who we've got in the bar?'
`Yes sir, Mr Bryan, the manager, gave me a list.' She produced two pieces of A4 paper from the right-hand pocket of her jacket, unfolded them, and scanned them quickly. She held one up for Skinner's inspection.
Six of them, including the Marquis. According to this the other five are all his guests.' She read quickly from the list.
`Bill Masur, Chief Executive Officer, Greenfields Management, Mike Morton, President, Sports Stars Corporation, Andres Cortes, Tiger.. that's what it says here… Nakamura, Paul Wyman, and the Marquis himself. Mr Highfield from the PGA is here too, but Andy Martin took him off to discuss policing for the tournament.'
`He's assuming it's still on,' Skinner muttered. Alison Higgins looked at him in sudden surprise. 'Well..' he said and shrugged his shoulders. 'We may have to consider that. But let's cross that bridge later.
`That's quite a list. SSC is the biggest sports and entertainment management company in the world. It's American based, but it goes everywhere. Until fairly recently it had no challengers, but Greenfields has been making big strides in the last few years. Masur's an Aussie, and typically aggressive, by reputation.
`The other three are all golfers. Cortes is Spanish. He's the leading money-winner in Europe, just as Tiger Nakamura is on the Far East circuit. Paul Wyman's a Yank. He's been their top money-winner for the last two years. They'll all be playing this week.
`Did Bryan give you a list of staff present?' Higgins nodded, and waved her second piece of paper.
`Yes, sir. Three of them in the clubhouse. Joe Bryan himself, Tommy Williamson, the steward, and Laurence Bennett, bookings and reception. There's a fourth member of the permanent staff, Iris McKenna. Mr Bryan described her as his assistant. She does the book-keeping. She's off today.
`The other full-time staff here are Jimmy Robertson, the club professional, Archie McCubbin, the caddy-master, and three greenkeepers, all named Webb. Brothers, presumably.'
Skinner grinned. 'Not necessarily, half the greenkeepers around here are Webbs. I take it that they're all over in the caddy-shed, with the scaffolders and the caddies.'
Higgins nodded.