Reginald Hill - The roar of butterflies

Porphyry stared at him for a moment, then his expression hardened from hope to resolve.

"Right!" he exclaimed. "Let's go and give those bastards a nasty surprise."

He started to get out of the car. He had the look of an avenging angel.

Joe held him back.

"Chris, no. All you'll do is warn them, give them time to get their story straight and tidy away any evidence that might be lying around in their homes or offices. King will be squeaky clean by now. The only way to him is to get those three so terrified they start singing like Rev. Pot's choir. No way we can do that. That needs special training. The kind of training Willie Woodbine's had."

"Then let's call Willie."

"Done it," said Joe. "But even Willie needs evidence. He should be down at Leck's Bottom by now with a bunch of police divers."

This reminder of what the evidence might consist of drained the light of avenging fury from the YFG's face.

"Poor Steve…" he murmured. "Poor Steve…"

Joe assumed what he hoped was the reassuring briskness of a man in complete charge of events.

"Listen, Chris, I asked Willie to ring me soon as he found… anything. You take my mobile and stay here. Soon as Willie rings, you come up to the clubhouse to let me know. Tell Willie to get his ass over here quick as he can. I'll go up to the terrace now and check on the Triangle. If they look at all restless, I'll find a way to keep them occupied. This sound OK to you?"

The YFG nodded and with an unconvincing attempt at brightness said, "Joe, as usual you're spot on. You should be top man at the Yard." "Great," said Joe. "Then I'll see you soon." He got out of the Morris and walked away. Just before he entered the alley through the shrubs he turned and looked back. Porphyry was slumped forward over the dashboard, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of the sobs that had finally broken to the surface now he was alone. Joe turned away. The bastards who could cause so much pain to his Young Fair God deserved everything they had coming to them. He went on his way to play his part in making sure they got it.

The terrace was crowded.

Joe took in the scene as he approached. The elegantly dressed members and their guests lounging beneath huge sunshades striped in the club colors of crimson, green and blue, the sound of chattering voices and laughter and ice cubes clinking against glass, the swift but unobtrusive movement among them of Bert Symonds and his white-coated assistants, the sense that all was for the best in the best of possible worlds. But he knew it now for a world in which butterflies roared and you couldn't tell by looking who was playing gotchas.

He glanced at his watch. Five o'clock. How time flew when you weren't enjoying yourself. He tried to remind himself that most of the people here had worked hard to earn their place in the sun, but he couldn't help wondering how many of them had decided to make an evening of it at the club because they knew the Four Just Men were sitting in judgment on Chris at eight o'clock.

He recalled reading somewhere that public hangings way back had always drawn huge crowds. It wasn't every day you got the chance to view the death of a Young Fair God.

He spotted the Triangle at the same table they'd occupied when first he met them. Perhaps, like Sir Monty's table at the Supporters', it had an invisible reserved sign on it. He advanced, looking to right and left as if in search of someone.

"Good day, Mr. Sixsmith, nice to see you again."

It was Bert, the steward, who'd contrived to cross his path. The reason why became apparent when in a rapid whisper which didn't trouble the deferential expression on his face, he said, "King's getting really pissed no one's returning his calls. Can't keep this going much longer, Joe."

Joe didn't blame him. He knew from experience that being on the wrong end of King Rat's anger was not a pleasant experience.

He smiled and said, "Nice to see you too, Bert. Is Mr. Porphyry here? Won't be long now, promise."

"Better not be. No, sir, I haven't seen him."

Joe moved on to Latimer's table.

"Joe, good to see you again!" said the vice-captain.

The guy should be in movies. He really looked and sounded like he meant it.

"Hi, Tom. I was just asking Bert if Chris was around. I'm supposed to be meeting him."

"Story of your life, waiting for Chris, it seems. Like waiting for Godot. He was here earlier, I think. Pull up a chair till he shows."

"Thanks. Don't mind if I do."

He sat down and nodded a greeting at Rowe and Sur- tees, both of whom regarded him narrowly, but there was nothing about them that suggested the jitters. He guessed that after Rowe had reported that, contrary to expectation, Sixsmith was still sniffing around this morning, King Rat had assured them there was nothing to worry about, he'd now make absolutely sure that any potential problem was nipped in the bud. Way their minds worked, seeing him here not walking on crutches probably meant he must have accepted a sackful of banknotes from the ProtoVision petty cash.

He decided to encourage this misconception. Dipping into his back pocket, he pulled out the YFG's notes, which still managed to retain some of their crispness.

"Buy you gents a drink?" he offered.

"Thanks, Joe, but not allowed, not till you're a member," said Latimer. "But let me get you one. Bert!"

The steward materialized at the table.

"Joe?"

"Thanks. I'll have one of them ice coffees."

"Wise man. Alcohol and sun don't mix. Thank you, Bert."

"You not having any more?" said Joe as the steward moved away.

"No, these will do us. Such a lovely evening we thought we'd play a few holes shortly. Can't do a full round, more's the pity. Arthur and I have a meeting at eight."

Now he felt their eyes hard on him, looking for his reaction.

He said negligently, "This that discipline thing? Chris mentioned it. Shame, but rules is rules, that's what I say."

He almost felt Latimer and Rowe relax, but Surtees with his lawyer's cynicism liked his judgments handed down signed, sealed and bound with scarlet ribbon. He emptied his glass and said, "Better get going or it's not going to be worth it."

He wants to get away from here and as soon as he's out on the golf course with no one in earshot but the other two, he'll get his mobile out and check with King that I've been truly nobbled, thought Joe.

By then it probably wouldn't matter. If Woodbine had got his finger out, they'd be trawling through the lock basin now, and once they found Waring's body in Rowe's bag Willie would be all over them like galloping shingles. Surtees' legal nimbleness might keep him clear for a while, but Joe would have put his own money on Rowe crumbling like meringue and spreading the blame like runny butter.

On the other hand, if the police didn't find Waring…

But they would find the body, Joe assured himself. What else could the evidence possibly mean?

He pushed aside all the previous examples of fatal misinterpretation that came swimming out of his past. No time for a faint heart now. He had to be true to himself. And when this bunch of bastards got what was coming to them, he wanted to be there and he wanted it to be in public. Had to think of a way of delaying them here, certainly of keeping them in sight.

Latimer said, "You're right, Arthur. Joe, what about you? Why don't you keep Chris waiting for a change and join us for a few holes?"

He was taking the piss, like they'd all done from the start. To them he was a sad little snoop who'd probably let himself be bought off for what in their eyes was a pittance. Joe didn't mind. The brightest and the best had often discovered the price of justice was humiliation. And in any case he'd made it clear from the start he was a crap golfer with a zero handicap.