Free Losing Ground by Catherine Aird

offered Ned Phillips. ‘Even I know that, but at least they’ve got Tolmie Park now and there’s plenty of ground over there.’
    ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ said Jock Stirling tightly. ‘Some clever dick had ideas one time about turning the park into one of those pay-and-play golf courses and the old building there into apartments for a Dormyhouse to give the golfers somewhere to stay.’
    ‘Really?’ Ned Phillips looked interested. ‘How did you feel about that?’
    The professional held the club he had been polishing at arms’ length and regarded it for a moment before putting it back on the rack and selecting another. ‘No skin off my nose if they have an anti-elitist golf course over there. It wouldn’t ever have been a proper club like here. You know, with members and a committee and proper competitions and matches. That sort of thing.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘Oh, nothing came of it,’ said Stirling. ‘I expect they were held to ransom by the highwaymen.’
    ‘I don’t get it. What highwaymen?’
    ‘Highways authorities, then. The county surveyor and his underlings.’ Stirling sniffed. ‘The Highways Department always put their oar in on development. If it generates road traffic, then they don’t like it and it gets the thumbs down.’
    ‘Waiting for a sweetener?’ suggested the young man. ‘Or a back-hander?’
    The golf professional shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who can say? I can’t.’
    ‘So what happened at Tolmie Park?’
    ‘The golf project went belly-up and the operator disappeared.’
    ‘Leaving the field wide open for Berebury Homes, I suppose?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I never heard a dicky-bird afterwards about a golf course there.’ He resumed his polishing of the club-head. ‘I suppose doing anything with it is better than doing nothing.’
    ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Ned Phillips.
    ‘Then you’re not one of those do-good types all against developing the countryside – oh, no, of course you’re not. Couldn’t work for that outfit if you were, could you?’
    ‘Not easily,’ said Ned Phillips.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The next visitor to arrive at Tolmie Park was also female and also wearing a hard hat. There the resemblance to the chubby Melanie Smithers, the conservation officer, ended. This woman was tall and willowy and as far as Detective Inspector Sloan could see under the hard hat, ash blonde. She was wearing white overalls and walked with the panache usually associated with the fashion catwalk.
    She swept past Crosby with a winning smile, calmly lifted the tape clearly reading ‘P OLICE – D O N OT C ROSS T HIS L INE ’, and advanced towards Sloan.
    ‘Colleen Murphy,’ she murmured in a soft Irish accent. ‘Calleshire Fire Service.’
    ‘Ah, miss…that is, madam…’ he started to respond as she approached.
    ‘Doctor,’ she corrected him sweetly. ‘Fire Forensics Investigator.’ She gazed at the charred site. I’m told Sub-Officer Burton should be around.’
    Sloan pointed to Charlie Burton, just coming into sight round a corner of the wrecked part of the building.
    ‘Dear man,’ she murmured.
    Unclear whether she meant Charlie Burton or himself, Sloan nevertheless felt curiously uplifted.
    ‘Unaccidental fire,’ said Burton briefly. ‘Window forced on the far side. Slight smell of accelerant when we arrived but you never can tell exactly which one.’
    She flashed him a little smile. ‘Never. Were there any witnesses?’
    ‘One,’ said Burton, ‘who has so far chosen to remain anonymous.’
    ‘Dear, dear,’ said Dr Murphy. ‘That won’t do at all. And the building empty, you say?’
    ‘Everyone says so. Waiting for final planning approval, I understand,’ said Burton.
    Dr Murphy cast her gaze over the jumble of burnt wood and fire-blackened bricks. ‘Where would you say the seat of the fire was?’
    ‘Point of origin thought to be in the outer corner of the ballroom here,’ replied Burton, jerking a thumb