I listened carefully to what he had to say. When he had finished I asked him the two follow-up questions that I needed an answer to.

“That would represent an investment of, roughly, how much would you say?”

“It’s not exactly my area of expertise but I’d say somewhere in the region of five to ten million. I can check it out for you if you want.”

“And the potential value?” “Impossible to say but my guess is that you could, if everything worked out, multiply that by at least ten.”

“Thanks, Steven. That’s helped me a lot. I can’t tell you any more at the moment but I promise you you’ll get your story as soon as I have checked out a few other things. In the meantime forget that this phone call ever happened.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve you to thank for the inside edge about AIM and I’ll say nothing. I’m off for a couple of weeks to Spain for a holiday anyway. I’ll call you when I get back.”

I put down the receiver, sat back and, resting my elbows on the arms of my chair, I raised my hands and put my fingertips together and let out a slow quiet whistle. That was certainly enough money to kill for, I thought to myself.

Next port of call – Keith. He knew Gavin Reid. I wondered if he was available for a game of golf.

I phoned the club house to ask David, the pro, if he had Keith’s phone number. He had. As he was a busy man, running around all over Scotland in his private helicopter, I thought I would wait and try to get him in the evening.

After supper I got through to him and asked him if he was up for eighteen holes the next day. “Hold on a minute, Bob,” he replied. “Let me check.” He returned to the phone after about a minute. “Sorry. Can’t do tomorrow but I am free the day after, in the afternoon. I’d be delighted to take another twenty quid off you.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll book us a tee for two o’clock. How’s that?”

“Fine. See you then.”

Keith had just arrived when I drew into the car park. He wandered over as I got out of the car.

“Afternoon, Bob. New motor? Won the lottery have you?”

I smiled. “Not really – just a little consulting fee. I decided to treat myself.”

He was his usual bustling self, eager to get to battle, and we walked over the railway to the clubhouse together. Another warm and sunny afternoon. The course was looking in superb condition and as there weren’t too many people around we got off on time. Today I was determined to play some good golf and when we were finished I could talk to him quietly in the clubhouse afterwards.

I was looking forward to a good competitive round. We went at it seriously. No strokes were given or taken as Keith’s handicap was only two more than mine. We shared the first few holes thanks to one long putt from Keith on the second and a miss from three feet by me on the third – one of those ones that tickled the edge of the hole, ran round the back and stayed out. I controlled my frustration as we stepped up onto the next tee. Forget it, I said to myself. You can’t do anything about it now. Just concentrate on the next hole.

Keith lost the next two, we halved six and seven and he hauled one back at the eighth. Things weren’t going too badly. I was driving reasonably straight, although not very long. Keith visited the rough a couple of times. We both played the ninth perfectly. As it’s a slight dog-leg to the left it’s a hole where the placing of the drive is important to get a decent shot at the green. Both of us were on the green in two and two putted. Two pars in front of the clubhouse is always a nice feeling so we were in good spirits as we attacked the tenth.

“Only one down and nine chances to get in front,” said Keith with a wicked smile. “Come on, Bruce, let’s see what you’re like under pressure.”

Pressure helped me control my iron shot to the par three tenth and I hit the green dead centre. Keith, attacking the ball pugnaciously, brought his hands through just a little too quickly and his shot faded off into the greenside bunker.

As we walked up the fairway he was muttering to himself, forehead furrowed and eyebrows gathered together as if to keep the sun out. I couldn’t help thinking that I wouldn’t like to cross him in business. There were moments when he looked as if he would be utterly ruthless in the pursuit of his goals.

All was sunshine and roses, however, a few minutes later when he played out to four feet and sunk the put to halve the hole.

The battle continued, never more than a hole apart until we got to the sixteenth tee which is right down at the bottom end of the course. The last three holes at Ladybank run alongside the drive up to the clubhouse from the main road. It’s narrow with almost no room for cars to pass and is lined by beech trees on the left and denser trees and shrubs on the right as you drive up to the car park. Playing the last three holes back to the clubhouse these beech trees form a major hazard for those of us who have a tendency to slice off the tee.

The sixteenth is a dog-leg left where you have two choices – play straight, but not too strong or you’re in the trees or try to cut the corner over a strategically placed bunker and a chunk of heather on the left.

I chose the former strategy and Keith the latter. Keith didn’t quite clear the corner which meant he was in the heather and I, unfortunately, connected with more than my usual effectiveness. I watched with anguish as my ball bounced once and disappeared into the trees.

We were in no particular hurry as there was no one on the hole behind. So Keith set off to look for his ball while I headed off across the fairway into the trees.

“See you on the green,” I said cheerfully as I kept my eye on the spot where I had seen my ball disappear. Keeping one’s eye firmly fixed on the line is the key to not losing too many golf balls. You don’t look around you but walk in a straight line to the spot that you have registered. One of the first lessons Dad had given me when I was a wee lad.

But this was one occasion when I shouldn’t have followed his advice.

I entered the trees, pulling my caddy car behind me and searching the ground for that pesky little white ball.

I was about ten yards into the trees when they jumped me. There were again two of them. They must have been hiding behind the trees waiting. Looking back on it I suppose that if I hadn’t drifted into the trees on that hole they would have moved up to the seventeenth or the eighteenth. It didn’t change much. I was grabbed from behind by a pair of very strong arms and a hand rammed a cloth against my face, drenched in some kind of chemical. I gagged. I had no chance to shout out to Keith before my head started spinning and I lost consciousness.

It was a total surprise. I had no time to think. No time to struggle. No time to realise what had happened to me until sometime later – I had no idea if it was five minutes or fifty – I came groggily to the surface and found myself in the back of a car, blindfold, being driven to some unknown destination.

When I stirred and groaned my way into consciousness I was made aware that there was someone sitting beside me. I presume I was in the back seat. I was told roughly to shut up and keep quiet. I obeyed. There didn’t seem much point in doing anything else as I couldn’t move anyway. My hands and ankles were firmly bound by what felt like some kind of nylon cord.

After about ten minutes the nausea had abated and my brain started to function again.

I had recognized David Firkin’s voice. I presumed that MacLean must be the driver. This didn’t surprise me. What had taken me unawares, however, was the speed of reaction. Never underestimate the opposition. I had done exactly that. They had moved much faster than I had expected.

Steven’s information had given me a possible motive that I imagined could, to certain people, justify getting rid of two people – me and, more importantly, Dewar. I had no doubt that Dewar’s death was murder even although I had no way of proving it.