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shouldn't be too difficult for you, given your track record.'
    She pointed to the blue bathrobe, which he held still, loosely, in his hand. 'You'd better take Old Faithful too. It could come in handy.'
    Àlex!'
    She fastened her jeans, and drew a sweatshirt over her head, shaking her damp hair as she adjusted the garment to her body.
    `Look, Andy, it's simple. You're either on my side of the street, or you're not. You had a choice a few minutes ago, and you stood right in the middle of the road. Well, guess what?
    You just got run over!' Tugging on a pair of low-heeled fawn suede shoes, she picked up the hold-all, slung it over her shoulder, and took her small black handbag from the dressing table.
    She was in the doorway when he called after her. 'Know what? You're just like him. There are no shades of grey in the Skinners' world, only black and white. Ayes or Nos.'
    She turned back to face him. 'Leave my values out of this. This is about you, Andy, and yours.
    They're all "maybes". He insulted me, he insulted you, and you took it. Then he threatened your career, and it's "Oh maybe he's got a point."
    `You know what? I reckon you'd shoot me if the boss told you to!'
    The silence which fell on the room was palpable. His tanned face, suddenly bloodless, looked yellow. He gasped, and for a second she thought he would spring at her. But then his green eyes moistened, and swam. She turned away from the hurt she had caused, and left the room.
    A few seconds later he heard the front door close, quietly.
    Four

    ‘About bloody time too. Skinner, isn't it?'
    `That's right, My Lord; Assistant Chief Constable, Edinburgh.'
    He walked down the room, past the polished board table, towards the man in the powered wheelchair, his hand extended. The Marquis of Kinture reached up and shook it, with the affected ill grace which Skinner knew was his frequent manner. They had met on several occasions, and on each one the crippled nobleman had greeted the policeman in exactly the same way.
    The wheelchair, and its occupant, sat in the bay window of the Witches' Hill boardroom, which faced out over the wide eighteenth green looking down the fairway and across the Truth Loch. 'Had enough of those Johnnies in the bar. Nothing but business talk, even from the golfers. Decided to withdraw in here.
    "S all right, isn't it?'
    Òf course, sir. I wanted to speak to you in private anyway.'
    The Marquis shook his head. 'Poor old Mickey gone to meet his Maker and all those buggers can talk about are rights and bloody royalties. No sensibilities, these people, none at all.' He looked up at Skinner, with a faint, surprising grin.
    `He finished with a par, so Cortes told me. Safe drive to the middle landing area, good three wood to the green, two putts. Spaniard put his tee shot in the water.' The Marquis chuckled.
    `Teach the bugger! Damn good hole that. The pros'll think they can carry the corner of the loch, but they'll find that it's nearly always into the wind . . . even, sometimes, when you wouldn't think there was a wind blowing!'
    Skinner nodded. 'You're right. And not only the pros. Your loch owes me a Top Flite.'
    `You've played the course?'
    Ìndeed. Michael invited me a few weeks back. The poor bloke had a par up the last then too.'
    `So you knew Mickey. Real shocker, this, eh. Seemed so fit, too. Talk about life's bloody ironies. Here's me stuck here in this damnable thing, and there was he playing three or four rounds a week. Yet which one of us is floating in the bloody Jacuzzi?
    What'd they reckon it was? Heart attack? Stroke? Bryan just said he'd been found dead in the tub.'
    Skinner sat down in a red leather chair and looked across at the Marquis. 'None of those, sir, I'm afraid. I've got some even worse news for you. Michael bled to death. His throat was cut.'
    The Marquis shook his head violently. He swung his chair, first left, then right, then turned to face Skinner. 'You mean he committed . .
    `No, sir. Not that. I'm sorry, but he was