Reginald Hill - The roar of butterflies

Another silence began. This time Joe didn't even disturb it with an U-huh. If the guy had been paying him, he might have felt different, but it was too hot for a man to exert himself with no certainty of reward, and besides he was wrestling with the problem of how come Willie Woodbine was pushing clients his way, particularly clients like this.

A phone rang. It wasn't Joe's. His desk phone had the harsh shriek of a crow just landed on an electrified fence and his mobile played the Hallelujah chorus. This one let out a soft yet firm double note, like the deferential cough of a butler wanting to catch master's attention.

"Sorry," said Porphyry, producing the neatest mobile Joe had ever seen cased in what looked like old gold.

He put it to his ear and listened. Then he switched off, stood up and said, "I'm afraid I have to go. Look, I'm tied up today, but can you do tomorrow morning? Let's meet at the club, how does that sound? I think it would be good for you to get a feel of the place. I can show you round. Scene of the crime, that sort of thing."

What crime? wondered Joe. And which club? Time to get some sense into this interchange.

"Look, Mr. Porphyry-" he began.

"Chris," said the man. "And I shall call you Joe. It will authenticate our cover, isn't that what you chaps say? You're interested in applying for membership, if anyone asks. Half ten all right for you? That gives us time for a look around, and we can have a spot of lunch after. OK?"

"I'm not sure," said Joe, glad at last to have something concrete to get his teeth into, though, come to think of it, all that was likely to do was break your teeth. "Look, I'm pretty busy just now and until I know-"

"Of course, I realize you're in great demand, Mr. Sixsmith, Joe, and I certainly don't expect to take up your time for nothing."

He produced a wallet, took out four fifties that looked like they'd just rolled off the press, and placed them on the desk.

"Will that cover today? Once you understand the fine details of the case, then we can regularize finances. So I'll see you at the club in the morning."

"What details?" asked Joe, dragging his gaze from the money. "Of what case? And what club?"

Experience should have taught him that if you ask more than one question at a time, you usually get an answer to the least important.

"The Who, of course," said Porphyry, slightly puzzled as if this were not a question he expected to be asked.

His answer meant nothing to Joe. Luton wasn't short of clubs, and he'd expected something like Dirty Harry's, which was the hottest, or maybe Skimbleshanks, which was the classiest, except these weren't places people did much lunchtime rendezvousing in.

But whatever the time of day, the Who rang no bell. Presumably named after the famous seventies group- everything was retro these days-or maybe after Doctor Who, the TV space opera that was enjoying a revival. Either way, he didn't know the place. But for a PI to display ignorance of the club scene might finally begin to scratch the bright shiny image Willie Woodbine had created for him, so best to let it be and ask around.

"Till tomorrow then," said Porphyry, heading for the door.

Here he paused and cast a speculative eye over Joe. He seemed to be meditating a parting utterance. Joe paid close attention in case at last a clue was going to be offered.

But Young Fair Gods speak only in riddles.

"There's a shorts dispensation during the hot weather for those with the legs to stand it, but they have to be tailored, of course. Myself, I just love the parrots. Bye."

And he was gone, leaving only a faint aroma of something too pleasant to be called aftershave in a slender zone of coolness, both of which the nuzzling heat gobbled up in a few seconds.

Joe sat for a moment wondering if it had all been a desert mirage brought on by heat exhaustion. But the crisp notes remained on his desk, and now further confirmation burst into the office in the attractive shape of Beryl Boddington, his in-out girlfriend, one vision authenticating another.

"And who was that gorgeous creature?" she demanded, hurrying past Joe to peer out of the window. "Saw the fancy wheels outside and soon as I clocked him on the stairs I thought, he's the man. Yeah, there he goes."

Joe swept the money out of sight into his shorts pocket, then joined Beryl at the window.

Below, Porphyry was vaulting into an Aston DB9 Volante parked behind Joe's Morris Oxford. His golden hair bounced and shimmered in the midday sun. It was like looking down at a shampoo ad. As he pulled away he glanced up, smiled and waved.

Beryl waved back with huge enthusiasm.

"That's solved one problem," she said. "Now I know what I want for my birthday."

"The car?" suggested Joe.

"That too," she said. "Come on. Tell me who he is. I'm sure I've seen him before. If he's not a movie star, he surely ought to be."

"Oh, he's just a client," said Joe negligently. "If I take him on, that is."

Maybe he should have felt jealous, but not in this weather. Anyway where was the harm in someone fantasizing about what was out of their reach, long as they stayed happy with what was in it? His trouble with Beryl was the way she hovered on the boundary of out and in. Sometimes she kept him at a distance, other times they were so close that if they'd been any closer they'd have fused. His mind drifted back to the last such occasion, and he found as he studied her sturdy yet well shaped body in its very becoming blue- and-white nurse's uniform that this heat wasn't totally enervating after all.

"Don't I get a kiss then?" he said.

"Not in those shorts, you don't," said Beryl. "Surely you know the guy's name?"

"Porphyry," said Joe, wishing she wouldn't go on about the YFG. "I could always take them off."

"Don't even dream about it. Porphyry. Of course! I knew I'd seen him. His picture was on the front page of the Bedfordshire Bugle last week. He's just got engaged. Damn!"

"Maybe I can catch you on the rebound," said Joe. "So why's he important enough to get his picture on the front page just because he's got engaged?"

"Well, first, he's gorgeous; second, his family have been around the county for ever and a day; and third, he's got engaged to Tiff Emerson whose daddy owns nearly everything in the media that Rupert Murdoch doesn't, including the Bugle. Where you been, Joe?"

"Maybe I've got more important things than gossip columns to fill my mind."

"Such as?" she demanded, looking around the office. "So much dust on that filing cabinet, don't think it's been opened since Christmas."

"So you're a detective now," said Joe. "First thing you should learn is, the real important cases, nothing goes down on paper."

"What real important cases?" she laughed.

"Like the one I'm meeting Mr. Porphyry, Chris, to discuss over lunch tomorrow," he said triumphantly.

It worked. For a moment she looked impressed.

Then she shrugged and said, "Well, that's a pity, 'cos that's why I dropped in to see you. I've got to break our date tonight. They're short-staffed at the hospital and need me to do an extra shift. I was going to suggest that maybe if you could find time in your busy schedule we could go somewhere nice and cool for a drink and a sandwich tomorrow lunch, but seeing as how you're engaged, I'd better look elsewhere. Bye, Joe."

She headed for the door. He tried to think of something to say to halt her.

"I can always cancel," he said.

"Let Chris Porphyry down? Don't be stupid, Joe."

But she was obviously touched by the thought that he'd do this for her and when he moved forward to kiss her, she didn't back off even though she was right about the shorts. But her mind was still dwelling on the YFG.

"You must be on the up, Joe, getting clients like that. Where are you meeting him?"