three hours. Too risky. So he hides somewhere else, somewhere close to the clubhouse. Somewhere that won't be in use.'
As he spoke he began to walk, down the teeing ground, to the brick-built, white-clad, starter's hut which was positioned on the left of the big square area of tight-mown grass. 'Like here, for example. The course isn't open for general play yet. There are only three pros here, and no more golf after they and the VIPs have gone out.'
He looked down at Higgins. 'You agree so far?'
`Yes sir.' Excitement gripped her voice.
`Right. Then suppose, once the three games are well in play, our man slips into the hut. He waits here until he sees the first game finish. It's White and Cortes. Our man picks his moment and slips inside, to wait behind the door of White's Jacuzzi and to drop him the moment he walks in.'
He led Higgins round to the door of the hut, which was out of sight of the clubhouse. It had only one lock, a Yale, and an L-shaped brass handle. He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, and very carefully, holding it by its tip, turned it downwards. The door swung open. Not even locked,' he muttered. 'Ali, from the look of it, the technicians haven't touched this place. I suggest that you get on to Edinburgh and get them back down here now. By 9 a.m. tomorrow, you'll need to have every last inch of it covered, and every fingerprint lifted. It's an official practice day for the pros tomorrow, and the public will be allowed in, so this thing will be in use.
She looked up at him. 'I should have worked all that out sir, shouldn't I?'
He smiled. 'Don't think that, Superintendent. I've been at this game longer than you. Anyway, it's probably just another wild Skinner theory!
`Here. Use this to call in.' He handed her his mobile phone.
'When I'm running an investigation, Ali, I always try to get a grasp of the whole picture as early as I can. Sometimes, if the picture's a bit grey, I have to colour it in myself. I only learned to do that through experience . . . which is what I'm giving you on this enquiry.'
He waited as she made her call. 'Right, what about this paper of Andy's?'
Higgins led the way back through to the boardroom. She picked up the paper for which she had reached earlier, and handed it to Skinner. It was enclosed in a clear plastic slip.
It was a single piece of blue A5 writing paper. It bore that day's date, but no address. Its message was scrawled in black fountain ink. Skinner read aloud: Dear Editor,
`By the blade . . .' said Agnes.
Thus it was.
`What the hell's this?' he muttered.
`Local loonies, probably,' said Higgins. 'Or it may not be connected at all.'
Skinner shook his head. 'Funny. It rings a bell somewhere. Alison, have someone make me a copy of this, before you send it off to forensics. I want to give it some thought, and maybe the bell'll ring a little louder.'
Twelve
They crested the rise and looked westwards down the Forth estuary. The mild September evening was cloudless, and across the wide bay they could see Edinburgh and Leith bathed in sunshine. Further on, the two contrasting bridges stood out clearly, although they were around twenty miles distant.
`Beautiful, isn't it?' said Sarah. 'At times like this I wonder whether we were right to bother with the Edinburgh house at all.'
`Sure,' said Bob, laughing, 'then you go for a run one morning, maybe in a couple of months, or even days, and the weather's turned full circle, and the hailstones are whistling at you with a gale behind them. What d'you wonder then?'
They trudged along the dune path, Bob walking more slowly than usual, because of his burden, three-month-old Jazz, secured in the carry-frame which was strapped to his chest.
The baby had been lively when they had left the cottage a quarter of an hour before, but the movement and the fresh air had soon taken effect. Now he was asleep, with Bob holding him steady and picking his steps carefully. Jazz was growing at an alarming
As he spoke he began to walk, down the teeing ground, to the brick-built, white-clad, starter's hut which was positioned on the left of the big square area of tight-mown grass. 'Like here, for example. The course isn't open for general play yet. There are only three pros here, and no more golf after they and the VIPs have gone out.'
He looked down at Higgins. 'You agree so far?'
`Yes sir.' Excitement gripped her voice.
`Right. Then suppose, once the three games are well in play, our man slips into the hut. He waits here until he sees the first game finish. It's White and Cortes. Our man picks his moment and slips inside, to wait behind the door of White's Jacuzzi and to drop him the moment he walks in.'
He led Higgins round to the door of the hut, which was out of sight of the clubhouse. It had only one lock, a Yale, and an L-shaped brass handle. He took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, and very carefully, holding it by its tip, turned it downwards. The door swung open. Not even locked,' he muttered. 'Ali, from the look of it, the technicians haven't touched this place. I suggest that you get on to Edinburgh and get them back down here now. By 9 a.m. tomorrow, you'll need to have every last inch of it covered, and every fingerprint lifted. It's an official practice day for the pros tomorrow, and the public will be allowed in, so this thing will be in use.
She looked up at him. 'I should have worked all that out sir, shouldn't I?'
He smiled. 'Don't think that, Superintendent. I've been at this game longer than you. Anyway, it's probably just another wild Skinner theory!
`Here. Use this to call in.' He handed her his mobile phone.
'When I'm running an investigation, Ali, I always try to get a grasp of the whole picture as early as I can. Sometimes, if the picture's a bit grey, I have to colour it in myself. I only learned to do that through experience . . . which is what I'm giving you on this enquiry.'
He waited as she made her call. 'Right, what about this paper of Andy's?'
Higgins led the way back through to the boardroom. She picked up the paper for which she had reached earlier, and handed it to Skinner. It was enclosed in a clear plastic slip.
It was a single piece of blue A5 writing paper. It bore that day's date, but no address. Its message was scrawled in black fountain ink. Skinner read aloud: Dear Editor,
`By the blade . . .' said Agnes.
Thus it was.
`What the hell's this?' he muttered.
`Local loonies, probably,' said Higgins. 'Or it may not be connected at all.'
Skinner shook his head. 'Funny. It rings a bell somewhere. Alison, have someone make me a copy of this, before you send it off to forensics. I want to give it some thought, and maybe the bell'll ring a little louder.'
Twelve
They crested the rise and looked westwards down the Forth estuary. The mild September evening was cloudless, and across the wide bay they could see Edinburgh and Leith bathed in sunshine. Further on, the two contrasting bridges stood out clearly, although they were around twenty miles distant.
`Beautiful, isn't it?' said Sarah. 'At times like this I wonder whether we were right to bother with the Edinburgh house at all.'
`Sure,' said Bob, laughing, 'then you go for a run one morning, maybe in a couple of months, or even days, and the weather's turned full circle, and the hailstones are whistling at you with a gale behind them. What d'you wonder then?'
They trudged along the dune path, Bob walking more slowly than usual, because of his burden, three-month-old Jazz, secured in the carry-frame which was strapped to his chest.
The baby had been lively when they had left the cottage a quarter of an hour before, but the movement and the fresh air had soon taken effect. Now he was asleep, with Bob holding him steady and picking his steps carefully. Jazz was growing at an alarming
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