It was fair to say he hadn’t particularly warmed to either of Francis’s friends much. Baxter was a seriously cantankerous man who Grant failed to hold any sort of relaxed conversation with, and Wilander’s head was so far up his own arse he must surely be forever eating his own shit. Francis, for all of his laddish bravado, was actually the one that Grant had felt most at ease with. Which was quite a turn-up, given how Grant had felt towards his neighbour at the start of the day.

‘We play every Wednesday,’ Francis said as they were pulling into his driveway. ‘Sometimes at the weekend too if there’s a tournament or social going on. You’re always welcome.’

‘No. Thanks for offering, but I think I need a few more lessons before I put myself through that again.’

When the engine shut off, Grant opened his door, got out, and went around to the back of the car.

‘You just need to relax and enjoy it more,’ Francis said, coming around from the driver’s side. He clicked a button on his key fob that sent the boot lid gliding effortlessly and silently into the air. ‘None of us is that good, really.’

‘Yeah, I’ll let you know,’ Grant said.

He pulled his clubs from the Range Rover’s cavernous boot, slung the heavy bag over his shoulder, said goodbye to Francis then lugged his gear across the street back to his house. When he reached the front door he slapped the bag down onto the gravel and headed inside. He’d put the clubs away later, he just wanted to get inside and slump down for a while.

Before he’d finished taking his shoes off his attention was caught by the sound of giggling in the kitchen. He looked over at the shoe rack and noticed a pair of three-inch stilettos there, with fancy sequins along the straps. They weren’t Mary’s or Annie’s. Unless one of them had been on an impromptu shopping spree.

‘Mary, I’m home,’ Grant called out.

‘In here, Steven,’ she called out, followed by more muted laughter.

Grant walked through to the kitchen. Mary was there, standing over the breakfast counter with a cocktail glass in her hand filled with pink liquid. She was all glammed-up in a knee-length skirt and silk blouse, her hair neatly coiffed, her lips a cherry red and her eyes dark with make-up that nearly covered her bruise.

She wasn’t alone. Sat at one of the breakfast stools was a similarly dolled-up woman. Actually, no, she was even more dolled-up than Mary. The make-up on this woman’s face was thick, almost like paint, her lips so bright they could act as a beacon, and the figure-hugging top she was wearing revealed several inches of buxom bust that was over-spilling onto the marble counter.

‘Darling, this is Julie Francis. Ed’s wife.’

‘Hello, Steven,’ Julie slurred.