Reginald Hill - The roar of butterflies

"Not where I am," said Joe, glancing round at the dank shades of the Bottom. "Bert, I need a favor. Any phone calls come through for the Triangle, like someone asking one of them to ring back urgently, don't pass it on." There was a long silence. "Just had a call for Mr. Latimer," said Bert finally. "Was on my way to give the message when you rang." "Don't. Specially if the message is to give Mr. King a bell." Another silence. "How'd you know that?" "Never mind. Will you help me?" "It's my job if Mr. Latimer finds out," said the steward. "Who'd you rather rely on for your job, Tom Latimer or Chris Porphyry? Is he there, by the way?" "Oh yes. Toughing it out. You know the Rules Committee are meeting tonight?" "Yeah, no problem. That's all fixed." "You mean-" "Never mind that. I'll explain everything later. Will you help?" "OK, but I-" "Good. Is Mr. Postgate on the terrace?" "No. Too hot for him. I imagine he's at home in the shade." "You got his number handy?" "Sure." After Joe had noted it down he said, "One last thing. Can you tell Mr. Porphyry discreetly that I'll be on my way shortly? See him in the car park in say half an hour. OK?" "OK. But if this goes wrong, Joe, you'd better be able to afford a well-paid assistant, because I'll be on your payroll, believe me!" Joe switched off. That had been close. If the Triangle hadn't been on the terrace, held incommunicado by the Hoo rules on mobiles, or if Bert had already delivered King Rat's message, then his plan would be worthless. On the other hand, he'd have had plenty of time to try to put some flesh on the very skimpy bones of his theory before he made a call to the one man in Luton he really didn't want to piss off.

But needs must when the devil drives, and rehearsing in his mind the tones of absolute certainty, he turned to his phone again.

He didn't need to ask Inquiries for the number this time.

When the phone was answered he said, "Hi. My name's Joe Sixsmith. I'd like to speak to Detective Superintendent Woodbine, please."

Joe stood outside No. 15 Lock-keeper's Lane and rang the doorbell with some trepidation. To his relief it was the boy Liam who opened the door. Joe glanced at his watch. It was half past three. Joe said, "Hi, Liam. Back from school already?" "Exams," said the boy lugubriously. "You want to see Mum?" Not if I don't have to, thought Joe. He said, "Just wondered, that morning Steve left, did he actually eat his breakfast?" "Yeah, Steve always ate his breakfast," said Liam wonderingly. "He really liked Mum's cooking!" Recalling the burned offering he'd seen on his previous visit, Joe understood Liam's wonderment, but he wasn't sure the boy had fully understood the question. "Don't mean generally," he said. "I mean, that specific Wednesday morning, did he definitely have breakfast before he went?" Now the boy understood him. He turned away and yelled, "Mum! It's for you!" Then he vanished up the stairs. Oh shoot! thought Joe, his heart sinking not only at the prospect of renewing acquaintance with Mrs. Tremayne but because he already had his answer. She emerged from the kitchen in a puff of vegetable steam. Presumably she was preparing her returning lodgers' evening meal. It did not surprise Joe that she belonged to that old-fashioned school of landladies who thought that vegetables could never be boiled too much. Her face was already flushed from the heat of the kitchen, but irritation at the sight of Joe slapped on another coat of puce. "What?" she demanded. "Mrs. Tremayne, quick question then I'm out of here. Did you cook breakfast for Mr. Waring the morning he left?" She hesitated, obviously debating whether an answer or a slam of the door would get rid of Joe quickest. Then she glanced up the stairs and said, "What's he been saying?" "Nothing," said Joe. "He's a good lad. I can see that." "He says you're a private detective." "That's right. And all I'm doing is asking a question that the police might want to ask." "The police?" she said, outraged and anxious at the same time. "Nothing for you to worry about," he assured her. "Only, please, in your own interest, answer me the same as you'd answer them, so there's no contradiction." As an argument it didn't feel all that weighty to Joe, but it worked for Mrs. Tremayne. "Yes, I started cooking it, but no he didn't eat it, if that's what you're getting at. Two eggs, three rashers, half a pound of pork sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and a slice of fried bread. No use to me when it's cooked, is it? So I didn't see why your friends shouldn't pay for it."

"Ain't no friends of mine," Joe assured her. "So when Mr. Waring didn't appear for his breakfast, what did you do?"

"I yelled up the stairs, then I went to his room and knocked, then I opened the door."

"Did his bed look like it had been slept in?"

"It looked like it always looked," she snapped. "A tip! I told him, Mr. Waring, I said, if you want your room cleaned and your bed made, you had better start leaving it halfway decent. Till you do that, I'm not going in there!"

"But you went in that morning and he wasn't there?"

"No."

"And when Mr. Waring's brother was settling his bill this morning, he didn't make any fuss about exactly when Mr. Waring had left?"

"No. He was most accommodating. He said, 'Mrs. Tremayne, no problem, I'm perfectly happy to accept that my brother was here till the morning of the Wednesday the twelfth and left after eating his usual hearty breakfast,' and he insisted on me putting that down on the receipt."

"I bet he did," said Joe. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Tremayne."

"Is that all I get? What about some explanation?" demanded the woman switching back to aggrieved-party mode. "I'm entitled to know what's going on in my house."

Joe sniffed. The steam seemed to be darkening and the boiling smell was being overtaken by the odor of burning.

"Think what's going on is your veggies have boiled over," he said.

With a scream of rage, she turned and rushed back into the kitchen.

Joe made his escape. As he headed up along Plun- kett Avenue, he felt his sense of relief at escaping from Mrs. Tremayne evaporate like the nourishment from her over-cooked vegetables.

He was bearing news to rejoice and news to dismay the Young Fair God, and by now he felt he knew his man well enough to be sure which would prevail.

The Young Fair God was pacing up and down the Hoo car park in a state that came close to mortal agitation. Even the capsule of coolness in which he moved seemed to have shrunk to a mere aureola. Joe opened his passenger door and said, "Get in." Human anxieties of course are no match for divine good breeding and, as he settled into his seat, Porphyry looked around with interest and said, "What a nice car. And a lot more comfortable than my sardine tin." "Swap you," said Joe. "You bring me good news, Joe, and it's a deal," said Porphyry fervently. Anyone else, Joe might have asked for this on paper, but somehow with the YFG that would have been really offensive. He said, "Chris, I got news and some of it's good and some of it's bad, and a lot of it's guess work and, like the man said, sometimes my theories make them Harry Potter movies seem like documentaries."

The man in question being Willie Woodbine, but he saw no need to name names.

He took a breath and began.

"Don't know what order most of this stuff is in, but here's what I think happened. I'd guess it really started after you'd let Arthur Surtees take a look at the foundation document before the AGM in the spring. Having a drink later with his mates, Rowe and Latimer, talking about their favorite subject, money, he probably said something like, if you ever lost your membership, they should move quickly to buy up your shares as the Hoo site was worth a bundle. Now they knew that already, of course. What they probably hadn't realized till Sur- tees spotted it was that the rule about giving up shares applied just as much to you as any other member. Expect you knew that already?"