That was all he knew.

I carefully explained to my investigatively-challenged partner that perhaps Miss Tall didn’t murder anyone. At first he wasn’t having any of it but when I explained more slowly and put some more emphasis on the fact that she was a lawyer Mitch began to catch up.

“So let me get this straight. You, erm, you think she’s just so cocky that she doesn’t care what she says to me because she knows she’ll get off?” Mitch asked.

“I knew we’d get there in the end. Anyway what’s she got to gain? Of course it’s possible she just thinks you’re a buffoon.”

“Ah, well, it’s possible.”

“It is,” I said. “It really is.”

Mitch stared at the corpse for a minute.

“Still, bollocks to it, eh?” he smiled. “My boss wanted this one wrapped up quick and if she’s prepared to admit to it then we might as well just leave it.”

“What are you talking about, there’s some sort of weird electrical thing in the golf bag you know?”

“Well, er, she probably put it there. These things are usually connected you know, Clint.”

The was a noise in the trees, a horrible, guttural scream of a noise that started way back in the throat and gradually transformed from a growl to a scream. Everyone turned around to see where it was coming from.

“What the hell was that?” I said.

“Probably the lads,” said Mitch, nodding calmly. “I had a couple of texts. Someone slipped a bunch of them laxatives and it looks like they figured out it was you.”

“What?”

“Well, it was, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…” I began.

“Dean shit himself on the fairway, then a bunch of them, you know, the new lot?”

“Yeah.”

“A bunch of them didn’t make it to the toilets. They had to close the, err, you know, the lounge part of the bar.”