As Easy as Murder by Quintin Jardine

doesn’t know that, though; nor does anyone else outside our tight little family group. The last thing I want is for him to grow up complacent, or worse, under the constant eye of a bodyguard.
    Jonny hit his three, with a little off. I couldn’t see exactly where it finished, but the boys seemed satisfied. Their eyes were twenty years younger than mine, after all. We walked forward to my ball, I hit another fairway metal . . . Mac still calls them woods, for some reason . . . into the middle of the green, not too far from the pin. We took two putts each; birdie four for Jonny, bogey six for me, a result, since I was getting a shot at the par three holes, two at the par fours and three at the par fives. Eight holes played and I was only three down, not at all bad, since my ‘opponent’ was four under par at the time.
    I must explain that I don’t regard life as a competition. I’ve always hated being idle, and if I see something to be done I’ll do it: for example, the tourist information service that I set up in my early days in St Martí. However, I’ve never felt the need to be better, only to be as good as I can. I was that way when I was nursing, to the extent that some people thought I was pushy. In truth the person I was really pushing was myself, but if I saw someone with a laissez-faire attitude to standards, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. As a mother, I don’t care how Tom compares with the rest of his school class, only that he does his best. (
Mind you
, she added smugly,
that’s pretty damn good
.)
    All that changes when I step on to a golf course.
    There I become the most competitive bitch you will ever see. Even Shirley says that my talons come out as soon as someone puts a score card in my hand, or as soon as a match-play opponent tees off. Not even my son is exempt from this. I don’t swear or chuck clubs when he’s around, but when we play for real, other than for fun, as we do more and more, the older he gets, I Do Not Let Him Win! (More often than not, he does anyway; if my evil side didn’t dematerialise as soon as the last putt drops, or misses, as is often the case, he’d have gone to bed without any supper many a night.)
    Buoyed by my win on the eighth, I headed for the next tee with undiminished determination and new hope. Three down, sure, but ten holes left and a generous shot concession coming my way, I wasn’t out of it: par three at the next, win it with my shot and maybe Jonny would start to get rattled.
    I was still thinking that way as we walked forward to red tees . . . okay, I was playing a shorter course than him, but he’s a pro . . . despite him having knocked an eight iron to within a couple of metres of the target, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. (Any attempt to ban the things from courses in Spain will be doomed to failure.)
    I dug it out, in case it was Tom: most of my calls and messages are from him. But it wasn’t.
    ‘Primavera.’ Alex Guinart was using his ‘all business’ voice, one I’d heard very rarely. ‘Where are you?’
    I told him, in my own ‘all business’ voice. He isn’t much of a golfer, but he and I play occasionally, so he knew what he was interrupting. I assumed that he’d ask me to call him back once I was finished, but I was wrong. ‘I need you,’ he said.
    ‘Darling,’ I replied archly, loudly enough for the guys’ eyebrows to rise, ‘many men have said that, but damn few have set me running.’
    He wasn’t in a joking mood. ‘I’m not kidding. This is urgent.’
    I felt a quick pulse of panic raced through me. ‘Is something wrong with Tom?’
    ‘No. Not at all. It’s nothing like that, but I would appreciate your help.’
    I sighed, out of frustration. ‘I’m on the verge of something big here, chum; but for you . . . ahh, where are you?’
    ‘I’m in L’Escala, almost. Do you know a street called Vall d’Aran?’
    ‘Near Shirley’s house? Yes.’
    ‘That’s the one. I want you to go there, right to the end