Reginald Hill - The roar of butterflies

"Some club I never heard of called the Who. You any idea where it is?"

She thought a moment then began to laugh.

"That's not a club like you think of a club, Joe. That will be the Hoo, aitch oh oh, the Royal Hoo Golf Club. That is seriously posh."

"Yeah? A posh golf club?" He considered the idea dubiously. "Any idea how I get there?"

"You could try bank robbery and a skin graft. Sorry. Head out on the Upleck road till you hit the bypass, then get off at the big roundabout; it's along one of those little roads no one ever uses, don't recollect which one, but you'll know you're getting close by the watch towers and the big signs saying No Hawkers, Vendors or Racial Minorities. They're particular what people wear too, I dare say."

She glanced significantly at his shorts, which were resuming normal service.

"He said there was a dispensation in the hot weather," protested Joe.

"For those you don't need a dispensation, more like a disposal unit," said Beryl. "You ever play golf, Joe?"

"May have done," said Joe, reluctant to admit that what he knew about the game could have been written on the point of a tee peg. Football was the only sport he had any real interest in, and nowadays his active participation there consisted of shouting advice at his beloved Luton City FC and singing Songs from the Shows on Supporters' Club social nights.

"Oh yeah?" she said. "So what's your handicap, Tiger? Apart from not being able to see the ball over your belly."

She didn't wait for a response but ran laughing down the stairs.

"Why shouldn't I be a good golfer?" Joe called after her, stung by the reference to his waistline. "Lot of things about me you don't know."

Which, considering Beryl's intimacy with his Aunt Mirabelle, wasn't likely to be true, but a man was entitled to his dignity.

His musings were interrupted by the screech of the office phone.

He picked it up and said, "Sixsmith Investigations. We're here to help you."

"Today it's me helping you, Joe," said a man's voice.

Joe recognized the voice, not because it was distinctive, but because it was Detective Superintendent Willie Woodbine's, which was a good voice to recognize. He hesitated a moment before he replied. His relationship with the Super was a bit like his relationship with Beryl. Not that he had any ambition to get in bed with the guy, but sometimes it was man to man, sometimes boss to man, sometimes first name, sometimes not. Trick was to read the signals and decide if this was a Willie day. Same with Beryl, if you thought about it.

He decided to sit on the fence.

"Hi there, how're you doing?" he said.

"That could depend on you, Joe. I was ringing to tell you that I've pushed a possible client your way. Christian Porphyry. You heard of him?"

"Didn't I see his picture in the paper recently?" said Joe. "Got arrested or something?"

He didn't see the need to tell Woodbine Porphyry had been and gone. Might be some chance of getting a bit of info from the horse's mouth.

"Got engaged, Joe. Not the same thing. Though, come to think of it, maybe you're right."

He chuckled. His voice was quite friendly. Looked like this might be a Willie day, which probably meant he wanted something. Woodbine was the kind of ambitious cop whose gaze was fixed on the high ground. He only glanced down in search of small change that someone else had dropped. In his mind, professional and social upward mobility marched hand in hand and he'd married accordingly. But popular judgment was that he'd need to become Lord High Executioner before his wife would reckon she'd been compensated for her noble condescension.

He stopped chuckling and went on, "The thing is, Joe, I've given you a good write-up, and I just wanted to make sure you won't let me down."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Willie, no sir, you can rely on good old Joe."

He'd over-hammed it. Woodbine said sharply, "This is serious, Joe. I hope you're going to take it seriously."

"Of course I am," said Joe in his serious voice. "Might help, though, if you gave me a hint what it is I'm being serious about?"

"It's nothing, storm in a teacup, really. Mr. Porphyry, Christian, has got himself a bit of bother at the golf club. He mentioned it to me, asked my advice. I gave it some thought, and I told him, 'Sorry, Chris, but this doesn't get close to being a police matter.' You know me, Joe, always willing to stretch things a bit for a friend, but in this case I really couldn't see how anything in the official machinery could be of any use. But I hate to let a chum down. And it struck me, what he really needed was someone so unofficial, you'd pay him no heed. Someone so unlikely, no one would worry about him. Someone you'd not lay good money on to know his arse from his elbow. Someone like you, Joe."

It wasn't exactly a glowing testimonial. But Joe knew that he probably only survived in Luton because Willie Woodbine felt able to give it.

Very few cops like private eyes. Most view them with grave suspicion. And a few hate their guts and would love to put them out of business.

Not that Joe had looked like he needed much help in that line when he started. But somehow again and again after stumbling around like a shortsighted man in a close-planted pine forest on a dark night, he had emerged blinking with mild surprise into bright light and open country with everything lying clearly before him.

On more than one occasion Willie Woodbine had been nicely placed to take most of the credit. But the cop was clear-sighted enough to recognize it was Joe's success, not his own, and from time to time he reached out a protective hand, not so much to pay a debt as to protect an asset.

Reaching out the hand of patronage was something new.

"That what you told Mr. Porphyry about me, Willie?"

"No." Woodbine sighed. "I told him that in something like this, despite appearances, if anyone could get the job done, it was likely to be you. So don't you go letting me down, Joe. Or else…"

"Yeah yeah," said Joe, to whom a veiled threat was like a veiled exotic dancer. While you didn't know the exact proportions of what you were going to see when the veil came off, you knew you were unlikely to see anything you hadn't seen before. "But just what is the job, Willie?"

There was another voice in the background now, saying something Joe couldn't make out, but the tone was urgent.

"Joe, got to go. Keep me posted, OK?"

The phone went dead.

"Shoot," said Joe, draining his can of Guinness.

He hadn't got much further forward. What could a bit of bother at a golf club amount to? Taking a leak in a bunker, maybe. Or wearing shorts with parrots on.

There was mystery here, and maybe trouble. At least he had the consolation of knowing beneath the parrots he had two hundred quid of the YFG's money thawing in his pocket.

He looked at his watch. Just after three, but he might as well go home. He didn't anticipate getting any more business today.

He tossed the can toward the waste bin, missed, rose wearily and went out to brave the heat of the Luton dog days.

As Joe drove the Morris through Bullpat Square, he saw a familiar figure coming out of the wide-open door of the Law Centre. Tiny enough for even a vertically challenged PI to loom over, from behind she could have been taken for a twelve-year-old, but that wasn't an error anyone persisted in once they'd looked into those steely eyes and even less after they'd listened to the words issuing out of that wide, determined mouth, usually borne on a jet of noxious smoke from a thin cheroot. This was Cheryl Butcher, founder and leading lawyer of the Centre, which offered a pay-what-you-can-afford legal service to the disadvantaged of the city. Joe slowed to walking pace and pulled into the kerb. "Hey, Butcher," he called. "You looking for action?" She didn't even glance his way. "What the hell would you know about action, Six- smith?"