Skinner’s round

'Still, we had no choice but to treat Morton as our chief suspect,' he said as they walked to the tee of the 230-yard par-three twelfth. 'With Andrews unaccounted for, he was still the best bet we had.' He shook his head. 'Then Rick dropped that bloody note at the Herald, and I said to myself "Wait a minute!"

The editor's a pal of mine, and he agreed not to use it. That didn't bother you, though. You weren't after publicity. You just wanted us to see it, without taking the chance of dropping it on our doorstep. You knew that Morton wasn't the murderer, so you saw the second note as a back-up, to forestall, you thought, any chance of us looking in your direction.'

He stopped as Atkinson lined up his two-iron and smacked the ball greenwards, over the guarding bunker, to land eight yards from the flag. Ski

`You poisoned Bravo for the same reason, of course,' he said as they walked on. 'Right about here. With me on the scene as the perfect witness to an attempt on your life. I thought "What a stoic you are, Darren," as I watched the way you played on after it, as if you were in no danger. Which of course, you weren't, other than from me, eventually.

`Yes, that spiked drink was intended for poor old Bravo all along. I'd asked you about Mr Nice by that time, and you thought, "What a good idea to make the coppers think that he's after me as well!" A nice wee piece of insurance against the silly polis looking too hard at other people's motives for murder, including yours.'

He reached back and accepted his putter from McIlhe

`Lovely putt, Darren,' said Ski

As he had done on the first three days, Atkinson took a three-wood from the thirteenth tee, avoiding the dangers of the hogsback. Ski

`That was Rick at the side of the tee, wasn't it?' said Ski

He tapped Atkinson, convivially on the arm. 'Hey, maybe you dumped the spare one on the course. The bins are all emptied daily, but just maybe, if I used enough people to sift through the public refuse tip, I might get lucky and find something odd; a full, untainted bottle of isotonic thirst quencher, with your prints on it, and Rick's, and those of that wee boy. Doubt it, though. I'll do you the courtesy of assuming that you wiped it.'

They reached their tee-shots. Ski

`That was an awful thing to do to Bravo, Darren. He thought he was your pal as well as your caddy.

It was an awful thing you did to Oliver M'tebe too, having his father kidnapped by those two Australians, just to put him off his game this week. That boy must be the goods right enough.

They say he's approaching your class already, and that he'll be the next Number One.'

Eventually,' said Atkinson, evenly. 'That's why we signed him up. But the time isn't here yet, Bob, not yet.'

`No, but he's enough of a threat now for you to do something about it. After all there's a million pounds in the pot this week. The biggest prize ever, and you weren't going to let anyone else lift it, were you, not even if you picked up your manager's thirty per cent as a consolation.

`So you had Mr M'tebe picked up. You hired those two Aussie caddies, guys you knew would be linked to Masur, not you, and they picked him up off the street, just like that. The South African police hadn't a clue where to look.'

The thirteenth green was on a rise, like the tee, and guarded by two bunkers. Ski

Of course, pinching M'tebe's old man wasn't part of your grand design,' said Ski

The Reverend was smarter than they expected. Just before he escaped, one of them used the name, "RA". At first, I assumed he meant Richard Andrews, but when all the other pieces fell into place, I realised that he didn't. He was talking about Rick Atkinson.

`That's when you shattered my last illusions about honour and the nobility of the human spirit, Darren. I mean, multiple murder's one thing,' he said, his tone filled with ironic sadness, `but fixing a golf tournament, for God's sake! How could you?'

He shook his head and sighed, almost theatrically. 'Poor Oliver, poor Bravo. Reminds me of the old saying, about there being no greater love than that of the man who'd lay down the lives of his friends to save his own!'

Ski

`So there we are, Darren,' he said, walking to the fourteenth, a relatively gentle 414-yard par-four, designed by the course architect to imbue a false sense of security into the unwary before the tigerish finishing holes. Two enemies dead, the tournament in your hands, the police protecting your life and limb, and Mike Morton, your last target, in deep trouble with us.

`But that gives you a problem. We're watching Morton like a hawk, in case Richard Andrews tries to make contact with him. Ironic, isn't it, we're treating Morton as a murder suspect, and by doing so we're protecting him from the real killers.'

He laughed as they stepped out on to the tee. Atkinson looked away from him down the fairway. He took his driver from McGuire and sent the ball an effortless 290 yards. Ski

`You know,' said Ski