The third member of the trio, Claire Hornell, was a newcomer. Marion knew that she lived somewhere beyond Aberlady and that she was married, with a pre-school child who attended a private nursery school close to the stables. She had been told that her husband was Royal Navy: ‘an officer on some ship or other who tends to be away for months at a time,’ Marion’s friend, the nursery proprietor, had volunteered. Claire had dropped her daughter off that morning and had come to exercise Cassie, her pony, arriving a minute after the two friends, who had invited her to join them.

  ‘All well?’ Marion called out as Frances Hilton led the group into the stable yard. ‘Your mounts look placid enough. You do know that it does them good to break sweat every now and again,’ she added ironically. ‘How about you Mrs Hornell? Did these veterans hold you back?’

  ‘Claire, please,’ the younger woman responded as she dismounted. ‘No, they were very pleasant companions, and they’re much better horse-women than me.’

  ‘You can join us any time you like,’ Iris Coffey told her. ‘We’re out most days.’

  ‘Where did you go today?’ Marion Wayne asked.

  ‘Not very far,’ her client replied. ‘The customary route up the West Fenton road, then onto the new path, through the building site, the new houses, and then across to the farm and the old railway line. Finally, back here. No alarms, apart from a black Lab that was a bit bolshie, but its owner sorted it.’

  ‘You didn’t go down to the beach then?’

  ‘No, not today. Why do you ask, Marion?’

  ‘Apparently there was a riding accident there this morning. A fatality.’ She paused, as if for emphasis. ‘A police officer called me about it. He told me they don’t know who the victim is yet. I can’t place him myself from the description they gave, but I wondered whether any of you might. He was a man in his thirties, the inspector said, fit, fair hair, a confident rider according to someone who saw him earlier. He was riding a bay gelding, wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. The theory is that his horse threw him and he cracked his head on the rocks. Does he ring any bells with you?’

  Frances Hilton shook her head. ‘Not me, I’m afraid. Confident, you say? Sounds as if he was over-confident, poor chap.’ She glanced to her left. ‘How about you, Iris?’

  Mrs Coffey shook her head. ‘If you don’t know him I doubt that I would.’ She turned to Hornell. ‘How about you, Claire?’

  The younger woman was staring past her; she was pale-faced, her gaze distant. She shook her shoulders as if she was pulling herself back into the present. ‘Me? No,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t know, how could I?’ She grabbed her horse’s rein, looking towards the stable. ‘I’m sorry, I really must go. I have to pick up Poppy from nursery. See you again, ladies.’

  Marion Wayne watched her as she led her mount away and the others followed. She watched her as she unsaddled, then stabled and fed her pony. From a distance she watched her as she slid behind the wheel of her Polestar, took out her phone and made a call. A minute later she saw her toss it on to the passenger seat, then bury her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes vigorously. She waited until Claire Hornell finally drove off, then reached for her own mobile and redialled her last caller.

  ‘Inspector Hill,’ she murmured as he picked up, ‘Marion Wayne. I’ve spoken to my three lady clients. None of them could offer any clue to the identity of the dead man on the beach. Two of them, you can take that as gospel, but the third? Of her, I’m not so sure.’

  Nine

  Sauce Haddock sighed as he opened yet another update from Jimmy Nairn on his terminal. He liked Lottie Mann’s reports, not least because there were fewer of them. The Glaswegian DCI understood that silence was golden as far as her new boss was concerned. It meant that her investigations were on course, that she was coping and that she was managing her workload, and continuing to break in her new detective sergeant. He had been moved on to Mann’s team as a replacement for John Cotter, who had returned to his native Newcastle in a blaze of glory after taking the lead in solving a high-profile mystery, one whose repercussions were still being felt.

  DCI Nairn’s approach was a polar opposite. He briefed Haddock on a daily basis on every open investigation that he had. It occurred to the newly promoted detective superintendent that while Mann’s approach showed her confidence that he had her back, Nairn’s constant covering of his arse showed the opposite, and as such it was self-fulfilling.

  In fact, Haddock was biding his time, assessing the clear-up rates and respective man-hour expenditure in each of the Scottish regions, including his own. When he was ready, in other words when he felt that he had extended enough rope, he intended to go to ACC Stallings with the proposition that Nairn be returned from CID to the administrative duties for which he was manifestly more equipped. Gazing at the latest tranche of pointless reports, Haddock smiled as he decided that the moment should be no more than a week away. He was still grinning as he answered an incoming call on his direct landline.

  ‘Sauce,’ Professor Sarah Grace exclaimed. ‘You’re still there. Good.’

  ‘Professor,’ he murmured, ‘when you call me at four twenty-five on a Friday on my private line, one thing I know for sure. Good, it will not be. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve stepped out for a moment,’ she said, ‘from an autopsy I’m performing on the body of an unidentified adult Caucasian male, age mid-thirties. He was presented to me as an accident victim, having fallen from a horse this morning on to rocks at the west end of Gullane beach and having sustained an apparently fatal head injury. With me so far?’

  ‘Yes, Sarah,’ he replied. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The initial assumption was justified,’ she continued. ‘The victim has a massive depressed skull fracture. He also has a catastrophic and un-survivable brain injury.’

  ‘Poor bastard.’ He smiled for a second. ‘And you’re telling me this, why?’

  ‘Because,’ she answered, ‘I do like a mystery and because that’s not what killed him. He had a fractured skull, yes. He had the massive brain trauma, yes. But, Sauce, the two were unconnected. When I removed the brain from the cranium, it was pretty much mush. When I looked further, I found a soft-nosed bullet lodged in the base of the skull, just behind the left ear. When I went back to the section I’d just taken off, I found an entry wound well above his hairline on the right side, one that I’d missed . . . understandably, because I had no reason to go looking for it. They brought his riding helmet here from the scene and when I looked at that I found a neat round hole. The projectile spread out on impact, passed through the brain on a downward trajectory, destroying it as it went, until it found its resting place. I’m not a firearms expert but this is a rifle bullet beyond a doubt. Knowing what I know of the site, I’d say this man was shot by a sniper, positioned pretty near the spot from where Noele told me she saw the body. Sauce, I suggest that you secure that scene and get a forensic team there as quickly as possible.’

  Ten

  ‘First Saturday in July, you’re saying? A table for two?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ronnie Hill confirmed. ‘I’m told that they arrived just after eight. Would they have needed a booking that evening?’

  ‘For sure,’ the restaurateur replied. ‘The Main Course is always rammed on a Saturday, I’m happy to say. Let me check for you, see if I can get you a name.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the inspector murmured. ‘I’d appreciate that.’

  ‘What’s he done, this man?’

  ‘Nothing, that I know of. We just need to put a name to him, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay, I won’t press you. Although . . .’ he paused, ‘should I be worried about data protection?’

  ‘I don’t want his credit card details,’ Hill said. ‘I just want to know who he was.’ He was aware of his error in the moment it was uttered.

  ‘Oh. This wouldn’t have to do with the beach incident this morning, would it? One of my waiters said he saw police activity down there.’

  ‘Yes, okay, Mr Crolla,’ he sighed. ‘I’m trying to identify an accident victim. His horse is a useless witness.’

  ‘I see.’ The man’s tone changed. ‘I’ll get right on it. I won’t be a minute; just need to check the bookings for that date.’

  Hill nodded, a gesture aimed at his office wall, turning in his chair to gaze at the street outside where the mid-afternoon traffic was building up. As he waited, he was alerted to an incoming call: on his line ‘Number withheld’ usually meant a colleague. For a second, he considered putting the restaurateur on hold but he came back on line.

  ‘I’ve got two possibilities,’ he announced, ‘but really only one, because I reckon you’d have known Sir Bob Skinner. The other is a Mr Ayre, spelled A, Y, R, E. Table for two, eight p.m. First initial G, according to his credit card. It was one of these online banks, Moneze, if that’s of any use to you. That was his first visit to us, but he’s been back since then a couple of times. Once was midweek lunchtime, but he booked even then; always a table for two. Always the same couple. My head waiter, he’s got a hell of a memory; he remembers them. A striking pair, he says; he was a tall good-looking guy, and she was a bit of a dish.’

  ‘When you say “a couple”,’ Hill ventured.

  ‘That’s what my man says. She wore a big ruby-and-diamond engagement ring, and a wedding ring, he said. It sounds as if you’ve got some bad news to break. That’s too bad. If it helps, they were picked up each time by the same taxi firm. AJ Private Hire, a local outfit. I’ve got their number if you want; this is it.’ He dictated an eleven-digit mobile number, then repeated it. ‘Give them a call and they should be able to tell you where they took them. Poor lady,’ he added. ‘Tough as it is, Inspector, I’ve got to tell you I’d rather have my job than yours.’

  ‘Mr Crolla,’ Ronnie Hill replied sincerely, ‘if you ever change your mind about that, I’d be more than happy to swap. Thanks for your help.’ He ended the call; as he replaced the phone in its cradle, he saw that he had a voice message awaiting his attention. He pushed the play button.

  ‘Inspector Hill,’ a youthful but authoritative male voice began, ‘this is DCI . . . sorry, Detective Superintendent Haddock, Serious Crimes, Edinburgh. Call me back ASAP, please.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Hill whispered. ‘Why do I feel that my day’s about to get longer?’

  Eleven

  ‘I know you’re a busy man, Sir Robert,’ James Wanjiru said, ‘but you don’t come here often enough.’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t like to impose,’ Skinner admitted. ‘The late Marquis made me an honorary member, but he’s gone now, and his heirs don’t own Witches Hill any longer. Your employers do. They were kind enough to accept that as a condition of purchase . . . even though I knew nothing about it, far less having asked for it . . . but I don’t like to take advantage of their generosity.’

  ‘It is not generosity, sir,’ the chief executive insisted. ‘The owners are aware of the reason Lord Kinture gave you membership and as far as they’re concerned it is still relevant. Without your intervention this place could have crashed and burned in its first year. Besides, sir,’ he added, ‘you pay a subscription, just like everyone else,’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, James, stop calling me “sir”. It’s Bob, okay? Yes, I pay a sub, which you determine. I don’t know but I suspect that it’s a hell of a lot less than your high-roller members are paying.’

  The Kenyan beamed back at him. ‘You think? The fact is you are paying more per round played than most of them . . . another reason for you to come here more often . . . Bob. With your son,’ he added. ‘We don’t have enough young people playing here, not by a long way.’

  Skinner sighed and gave in. ‘Okay, and thank you,’ he said. ‘But it’s a digression. It’s not why I’m here. I bear bad news. I believe that you may have lost a member.’

  Wanjiru frowned. ‘Indeed? Who? How?’

  ‘Who, I don’t know. How? He was killed this morning in a riding accident. The police have a problem though. They’re struggling to identify him.’

  ‘And yet you knew he was a member here? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I saw him this morning, just before he died. I don’t know who he was, but I’m certain I’d seen him before and that it was here at Witches Hill. He stuck in my mind that day because he was a novice golfer. He was playing in a fourball that included a football pundit and a Strictly contestant. None of them had the courtesy to invite Jazz and me to play through, but the would-be dancer did apologise afterwards. The man in question was about the same size as me, but twenty years younger, fair hair, clean shaven, tanned. He was wearing Nike clothing that looked as if it had come straight from the pro shop. And, he couldn’t putt to save his life, although in the event he could have been Brad Faxon and it wouldn’t have helped him, the rest of his game being so dodgy.’

  ‘I know who your Strictly contestant was,’ Wanjiru told him. ‘He’s here just now, in fact. I left him in the bar. He had a tee time booked, but his partner didn’t turn up. I wonder if . . .’

  ‘Yes, me too.’

  ‘Let me go and ask him.’

  The chief executive turned and walked into the imposing clubhouse, leaving Skinner on the terrace. He checked his watch, chiding himself for undertaking a mission that he could, and probably should, have left to Ronnie Hill. When Wanjiru reappeared he was carrying a pale blue folder.

  He opened it and displayed a photograph: male, fair-haired and smiling confidently.

  ‘That’s him,’ Skinner murmured.

  ‘His name is Gavin Ayre,’ the chief executive said. ‘He joined us at the beginning of February.’

  ‘Who introduced him? Did he have a proposer and seconder?’

  ‘Nobody; the truth is that’s not strictly necessary. The owners want Witches Hill to be accessible, rather than being a cosy circle. Yes, one can be introduced by a member, but one can also apply directly. That’s what Mr Ayre did. He approached me, and we had a telephone discussion. That led to a semi-formal interview and to his acceptance.’

  ‘Who did the interview?’

  ‘I did, with the chairman of our owners. It’s become standard practice to do these things using a remote conference platform. I didn’t actually meet Mr Ayre until he arrived to play his first round. By then he had paid a non-refundable registration fee of twenty-five thousand pounds and the full annual subscription for the calendar year, another twenty in his case. I had asked for a banker’s reference in advance of the interview, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Which bank? Skinner enquired. ‘Or would you rather not say?’

  Wanjiru shrugged. ‘He’s dead so I don’t see why not. The funds came from a Jersey bank account.’

  ‘What else do you know about him?’

  ‘His member file describes him as single. As for his address, it’s simply shown as a plot number on a gated estate between Dirleton and Gullane.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Skinner mused. ‘I know that layout, and what the plots cost. They could accommodate a house that would be big enough for an owner to have his own stable. How about his occupation?’ he asked. ‘Does the file say anything about that or don’t you need to know?’

  ‘He described himself as a property facilitator.’

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ he exclaimed

  The chief executive smiled. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘How about his next of kin? Is anyone named in his file?’

  ‘No, there’s nobody listed. Mr Ayre was asked about his status at the interview but he said that he’s alone; his parents are dead, and he has no significant other, as he put it.’

  Skinner raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? The lady he was with when my wife saw him at dinner a few weeks ago didn’t sound insignificant, not the way she described them.’

  ‘We don’t intrude, Bob,’ Wanjiru said. ‘The truth is, our members can be whoever they like.’

  He laughed. ‘In that case, can I be Tiger Woods?’ He paused, his smile disappearing. ‘James, I’d suggest that you pass all this information on to Inspector Hill, at Haddington police office. He might have identified Mr Ayre through another channel by now, but it’ll probably be useful to him regardless. Thanks for your help. I must be on my way.’

  He shook hands with the chief executive and headed for the car park. He was halfway there when his mobile sounded.

  ‘Well,’ his wife exclaimed when he answered. ‘Have I got news for you!’

  Twelve

  The face of the captain of Gullane Golf Club was lined with concern as he glowered at the roughly square area around the competition tee that had been marked off by yellow-and-black tape.

  ‘This is difficult, Detective Superintendent!’ Lee Sanders exclaimed. ‘We have a competition this weekend, played off the back tees, and your people have declared that the twelfth’s a crime scene. Is it really? Do you know what you’re looking for?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sanders, we do,’ Sauce Haddock replied, patiently. ‘First and foremost, we’re looking for a bullet casing expelled from a rifle that was used to assassinate a man on the beach this morning. As well as that, we’re trying to establish the exact spot that it was fired from in the hope that we can gather any trace evidence that might help us identify the shooter; a hair, say, or even a thread or fibre from clothing. Anything, anything at all. Suppose he had hay fever and sneezed on a blade of grass, that could give us a sample of his saliva.’

  ‘Or her,’ Sanders countered, with a half-smile. ‘We can’t be too politically correct these days.’

  ‘You’re right. Maybe we’re looking for a They.’

  ‘Are you saying there might be two of them?’

  Fuck me, Haddock fell just short of whispering. ‘We’re ruling nothing out at this stage,’ he said. ‘By the way, we’ll need to speak to every one of your greenkeepers. If they’ve gone for the day, we’ll need addresses.’

  ‘You should take that up with the Club secretary,’ the captain suggested. ‘That sort of stuff falls within his remit. When will you be gone?’ he asked. ‘By tomorrow morning, I hope.’