They arrived at the Belfry a good half hour before tee off. The place was buzzing with activity, as the resort included not just three golf courses but a hotel and large conference centre too. There was certainly a hell of a lot of money on display, Grant noticed – flash cars and flashier men with their outrageous golfing garb here, there and everywhere. Not many women about. Perhaps they were all in the adjoining health spa. It was the exact opposite of the type of place that Grant felt comfortable in, but he was there now and he’d do his best to enjoy it.

After ten minutes on the practice putting green, Francis and Grant made their way to the first tee where their two playing partners were waiting.

‘Alright boys,’ Francis said, slapping his hand into the palms of both the men.

‘Greg, Eric, this is Steven Grant, my neighbour. Steven, this is Greg Wilander. He’s some big ass partner over at PwC – you know, those clowns who earn shitloads of cash for dishing out everyday advice that no one needs.’

Wilander stepped forwards and shook Grant’s hand.

‘You’re only saying that because you can’t afford me,’ Wilander snorted, and Grant thought he appeared flattered by Francis’s laddish banter.

‘Twelve hundred quid an hour?’ Francis said. ‘I can think of far better ways to spend that sort of money than on you.’

‘But you’ve never tried me, so how could you know?’

Francis winked at Wilander before turning to the other man.

‘And this is Eric Baxter, he’s a Chief Super over at West Mids police.’

Baxter gave Grant an unconvincing smile and a bone-crushing handshake. Grant reciprocated, though he was feeling somewhat out of his depth in this group of men.

‘Hey Bax, you and Grant here have probably got a lot to talk about. This is Professor Steven Grant. You know, the guy who knows everything there is to know about murder.’

Grant felt his cheeks flush, but Baxter appeared unimpressed with the revelation.

‘I thought you looked familiar,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. But that was all he said.

The foursome took their shots from the first tee and soon they were off, trudging around the sodden golf course. Although the day was sunny and dry, the cold autumnal night had left the ground thick with moisture and the low sun could do nothing to alleviate the situation. The bottom of Grant’s trousers were soon sopping wet – not helped by the fact that on each of the first three holes his tee shots were wayward, landing in the long grass of the rough.