Skinner’s round

He paused. 'You know, ultimately people like you and he only care about yourselves. Rick won't shop you because he couldn't gain from it, that's all. Pretty soon you'll have got used to the idea of life without him. You'll build your empire. That's what you're thinking, even now, isn't it?

Except that's not how it's going to be. Mike Morton's father, the old man of influence, is still alive. Masur's Yakuza friends, the boys in Tokyo, they're still around. And I'm here.

I know the full story, Darren, and I'm going to make it my business to see that they hear it too: all of it. Don't build yourself an empire, friend. Build yourself a fortress, because they'll be round to see you sometime fairly soon.'

Atkinson looked at him, weighing him up. 'That's bullshit. You wouldn't do that. You couldn't do it.'

Ski

`Neither will you slither away from what you and your brother have done here. You may think you have. But sooner or later, someone, Sicilian or Japanese, will come calling. Now's a good time to quit, partner. At the top. Because it's going to be impossible to stay there if you can't go out in public for fear of your life. DRA Management is finished. You're finished. My word upon it.

`Now, let's get these scores in and this presentation over with. Oh yes, and there's that hundred quid. Birdie at the last, remember? You owe me. I'm not letting you off with that either. See you outside.' He strode into the Recorder's tent and handed his signed scorecard to the Marquis of Kinture, who was acting in that capacity for the conclusion of his tournament, then turned on his heel and walked out again without a word.

Outside, beside the eighteenth green, where the crowds still waited for the presentation, Norton Wales and Hideo Murano had joined Mcllhe

Ski

`Come and take a look at this,' he said, pointing to the bag.

Highfield walked across impatiently. 'Count them,' Ski

It's never been out of my sight, sir,' said the Detective Sergeant, indignantly. Highfield groaned, and put a hand to his head.

`What's the penalty for an extra club?' asked Ski

Oh my God,' sighed Highfield. 'Then he's disqualified.'

`How embarrassing!' said Ski

`Mmm. I think you're right.' He walked back to the microphone and switched it on. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he called, and paused. A second boom of thunder, much closer this time, gave him inspiration. 'If I may have your attention please. I am very sorry, but it has been decided, because of the weather, that the presentation will take place indoors. I thank you for your attendance today and all this week and hope that you have enjoyed the wonderful golf which we have seen.' As he switched off the mike, Darren Atkinson emerged solemnly from the clubhouse. Highfield rushed off to meet him.

`Maybe we should make ourselves scarce till we find out what's happening,' said Ski

He reached Alex as she stepped down from the stand, the hood of her oilskin jacket tied tight under her chin. 'Hi Pops,' she said, excitedly, easing herself under his umbrella for added protection. 'You were brilliant.' The thunder crashed again, shaking the ground. The rain tumbled down. Although it was only a few minutes after five o'clock, it was as if night was about to fall.

`When are you going to tell me what's happened?' Alex shouted above the downpour. 'That man Andy and Brian took away, that looked like…'

Suddenly Ski

`You bastard!' he screamed, waving the club. It was a Shark's Fin nine-iron, new and shiny.

Ski

As well as being a conspirator and a murderer by association, you've betrayed millions of people, me included, who made you their example. What you did to Oliver, as well as being illegal in every country I've ever heard of, was plain cheating. The lad deserves the Million, not you.'

`Damn your hide!' Atkinson shouted. 'You and your monkeys planted this club in my bag.'

Ski

Darren Atkinson snarled in impotent rage, spun round on his heel, and stalked away from the policeman and his daughter, the club grasped tightly, near the head, in his right fist. He strode down the fairway, the rain thrashing down on him in torrents. They watched him as he came almost to the edge of the Truth Loch, and as he pulled his arm back and above his head, to throw the alien nine-iron, the hated cause of his defeat, into its dark, storm-dappled waters.

The single shaft of lightning shot down from the darkened sky, cast like a huge jagged, shining spear. It found the route which it sought in the club raised up in Darren's hand. The golfer seemed to be consumed by it as it coursed through him to the earth below. He jerked and danced in its grasp, like the flickering black centre of a huge candle, its brilliant white light reflecting in the Truth Loch beyond and flooding Bob and Alex where they stood.

It vanished after a few seconds, but by then they were blinded. Against the dying sound of its accompanying thunder, Ski

Gradually his vision returned, and he realised that he and Alex had been edging, hand-in-hand, down the slope, towards the centre of the lightning strike, tugged like moths towards the candle. He held her still, pressing her face against his chest to help her eyes recover, and to prevent her seeing, when they did, what lay before them, on the shores of the Truth Loch, in the centre of the charred circle, a twisted, melted thing in its hand.

Trembling still, Ski