Skinner’s round

One of my guys got these numbers this morning through the PNC. Then he had calls made to all the caravan sites. We struck it lucky at Yellowcraig, outside Dirleton. It isn't a commercial site: the local Ranger Service looks after it, and the sort of people who go there tend to wear green wellies rather than golf shoes. The warden we spoke to remembers the vehicle. There's no register kept there, but his description matches the one we've got.

It won't be there now, though.' Ski

`He tried to call you back, but he got a pre-recorded message telling him that there was a fault with your phone.'

Ski

`Who knows, maybe I'll find something in the Wi

Now, champion of champions, your public awaits. Go ahead and take your applause, and your million quid.'

And so Darren Atkinson, as he had done so often before, strode alone on to the eighteenth green of Witches' Hill, to the roars of thousands of his admirers, waving and smiling, and hiding his real self from their sight. As Ski

Ski

He punched the air in delight, as the crowd shouted, smiling and waving to Alex as he retrieved his ball from the hole and backed off, leaving the oval green to the champion.

The crowd fell silent in expectation, as Atkinson, now wearing a dark blue waterproof jacket, strode across the close-mown grass. He replaced his ball and looked down the thirty inches of his putt, satisfying himself that there was no swing or borrow that he did not see. He bent over the ball, and set himself for his sixty-first and last shot of the day.

The rumble of thunder which broke into the silence, although still some way distant, drew a gasp from the crowd. His concentration broken, Atkinson stood up to let it subside.

To Ski

And then Rick Atkinson's expression changed, as he caught something in his brother's face, and completed the mirror image. The look in his eyes was cold, hard and furious as sudden comprehension dawned. It confirmed for Ski

The crowd, oblivious to the exchange, fell silent again. The rain began to hammer down harder as Darren bent over his putt for a second time. He struck it quickly. The ball rolled true and caught the hole, but it was travelling too fast and spun round the lip, finishing on the edge but still on the putting surface. The crowd's groan could not drown out the sound of the champion's slap against his thigh. He reached over and tapped the ball into the hole to win the Murano Million. Their disappointment forgotten, the crowd rose, cheering.

Ski

'That was some round of golf, Darren,' he said quietly, 'given the conditions. Sixty-two, ten under par, in the final round of a tournament. But only you and I will ever know how good it really was.' He took his hand in a grip rather than a shake. 'Now come over here, before you go for your prize and get your reward. I want you to hear this.'

He eased Atkinson in front of him towards his twin at the edge of the green. As they reached him Alison Higgins stepped between them, her back to Darren. 'Reginald Atkinson,' she said,

'I am arresting you in co

I didn't…' Darren began.

I know. Keep it that way. Don't say anything.' Without a fuss, and without a single spectator being aware of the drama, he was led away by Martin and Mackie.

Atkinson and Ski

In on what act?' said Ski

He led Atkinson off the green. Behind them McIlhe

As they headed for the clubhouse, Ski

`Your place or mine, any time,' said Ski

`You think you're getting away with this, Darren, and in a physical sense, you're probably right. Rick won't say a word to implicate you; I guess he'll claim that Morton threatened him.

He'll get his twenty-five years regardless, but you'll still be a hero, not tarnished at all. You'll be able to headhunt someone to run DRA for you and build the business into something that'll let Rick live in luxury when he gets out. The grand design is under way, even if your twin will be over sixty before he can enjoy it.'