‘At least it’s still in one piece. That’s unusual for me.’

Ben was taping over the seventh hole when his phone went.

Chalmers still wasn’t happy to be forced into giving out free information, but he’d moved quickly. The number was a UK landline with a 01298 prefix area code for an area of the East Midlands. Ben went back inside the cottage and dialled it. The voice that replied after just one ring spoke in a very clipped upper-class accent. ‘Montgomery.’

Ben knew he was only going to get one shot at this, so he wasted no time in throwing in everything he had, including the most powerful, albeit tenuous, connections he still had in the British Army. He was even prepared to capitalise on his rank title, something he normally avoided at all cost.

‘Colonel, we’ve never met and you don’t know me, but my name is Major Benedict Hope, formerly of 22 Special Air Service. I can send you a link to my business website to verify who I am. Lieutenant-General Cedric Grumman, formerly of the Irish Guards, and Brigadier Jacko Jennings of the King’s Royal Hussars, will also vouch for me.’ Both men, now retired and in their seventies, had served at different times as Director of Special Forces, commanders-in-chief of SAS.

Ben was aware of Grace staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment, but he ignored her as he pressed on: ‘I apologise for this unorthodox method of approach, Colonel, but I’m dealing with a specific problem and I believe you’re the only person who can help me. It concerns an organisation of former servicemen who go by the name “the Dishonourables”.’

There was a drawn-out pause on the other end of the line while Montgomery evaluated whether or not to trust this stranger calling out of the blue. Finally he said, in the same plummy tones, ‘It’s certainly a pleasure to speak to you, Major. How may I be of assistance?’

At the same moment Ben was talking on the phone to Mad Colonel Monty, Charles Stuart was receiving another phone call from his payrolled underling, Fergus Macleod. The detective inspector was calling from work and speaking so low he was almost whispering, as though frightened that others might be listening at his office door.

‘You wanted Grace Kirk’s home address. She lives in Kinlochardaich.’

‘Give it to me.’ Stuart listened, and copied it down as Macleod read it from the personnel file. Stuart said, ‘I want to know everything about this bitch. What kind of car does she drive? Is there a husband or boyfriend?’

‘She drives a wreck of a ’98 Land Rover Defender,’ Macleod answered in the same furtive near-whisper. He read off the registration number. ‘As far as I know, she’s single and lives alone.’

Stuart noted down the reg, too. ‘When does she next get off work?’