“So, erm, do you or not? Sorry to be a pest, it’s just my job you see.”

“Hang on,” said Travers, twisting in his seat, screwing his cigar firmly into his mouth then pushing Mitch off the back of the cart with his not inconsiderable strength.

Mitch rolled onto the fairway and into my pursuers, knocking them to the floor.

“You need to be more resourceful, son,” said Travers

The cart picked up speed.

Slightly.

“So how do you fit into this murder?” said Travers, the cigar waggling up and down in his mouth as he spoke.

“Oh I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose, it’s like you said, I’m just the comedy turn. And besides Mitch says he’s got it all sewn up.”

“Does he now?”

I nodded, “Yeah, that lawyer confessed to him and that’s enough as far as he’s concerned.”

“Avelina killed Damien? Bwaaaaaaaaaaaah!” the last syllable bursting out of his mouth like the cry of an enormous karate-chicken. “And what do you think?”

I shouldn’t think anything but Mitch was such a dick. No pun intended. He had always been like this and he always bloody got away with it.

I shook my head.

“Nah. She’s a lawyer. She’s just pissing with him because she knows she can.”

Travers exploded with laughter again.

“So, sonny,” he continued. “If it’s not her then who?”

I shrugged, “Dunno, you probably.”

Then that laugh again.

“Very good!” he said and slapped me on the back. The golf cart swerved.

“Which way are we supposed to be going?”

“For years and years.”

“What? No, I mean which way is it to the clubhouse?”

“Oh right,” Travers pointed behind us. “Back there I think. Sorry, hearing not what it was.”