Reginald Hill - The Roar of the Butterflies

Joe knew that to ask why Butcher was heading for Hermsprong would be like asking a bank robber why he robbed banks. ’Cos that’s where my clients are, stupid.

Instead he said, ‘You’re not going to light that thing in my car, are you?’

Referring to the cheroot which Butcher had inserted between her lips.

‘Jesus, Sixsmith, you should watch more old movies. You can’t be a proper PI unless you chain smoke!’

‘Like you can’t be a proper lawyer ’less you wear a wig and charge five hundred pounds a minute?’

‘Don’t insult me. I’m worth more than that.’

But she put the cheroot away then asked, ‘So, business is so bad you’ve shut up shop and decided to spend the rest of the day watching mucky videos?’

‘Wrong, as usual. Matter of fact, I’m going home to do some research on the very important client I’ll be lunching with at his club tomorrow.’

‘Oh yes? And I’m going to meet the Lord Chancellor to talk about becoming a High Court judge!’

This provoked Joe to telling her all about his encounter with the YFG.

She listened with interest. He tried to conceal his ignorance of what the case was all about by claiming client confidentiality but she saw through that straightaway.

‘You mean you haven’t got the faintest idea, don’t you? How many times do I have to tell you, Sixsmith? Always find out what you’re getting into before you get into it. Interesting though that the sun doesn’t shine all the time, not even on Golden Boy.’

‘You know Porphyry?’

‘Not personally, but professionally I had occasion to do some research on the family three, four years back in connection with a compensation case.’

‘Shoot. And that was against Porphyry?’ said Joe, feeling illogically dismayed.

‘Against the Porphyry Estate, which makes it the same thing. One of their employees died. Coroner said accident, no one to blame, but that’s what they appoint coroners for, isn’t it? To make sure the Porphyrys of this world never get blamed. There was a widow and a son. I reckoned they deserved better.’

‘And did they get it?’

‘Unhappily the mother didn’t survive her husband long enough for things to run their course. If there is a God, he’s a member at Royal Hoo and looks after His own.’

‘I thought Chris was OK,’ Joe protested.

‘And you’ve got O-levels for character judgement, right? I’m sure he’s a very likeable guy. In the class war, the ones that make you like them are the worst, Joe. He might seem to be trailing clouds of glory, but he’s also trailing a couple of centuries of unearned privilege. And if you get to thinking he’s different from the rest, remind yourself he’s just got engaged to a fluff-head whose father runs some of the most fascist imprints of our mainly fascist press.’

To Joe this sounded a bit unfair on the Bugle, but political debate with Butcher was a waste of time.

‘All I know is the guy’s got some kind of trouble,’ he said weakly.

‘Yes, and that is good news,’ said Butcher. ‘But what’s really puzzling is why he’s looking for help from you of all people.’

Indignantly he retorted, ‘’Cos I was recommended, that’s why?’

‘Recommended?’ she said incredulously. ‘Who by? The Samaritans?’

‘By Willie Woodbine, no less.’

Which meant he had to tell her all that part of the story too.

To his surprise she nodded as if it all made perfect sense.

‘Poor Willie,’ she said. ‘Must be in a real tizz. And you’re his last resort.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘You don’t know anything, do you, Joe?’ she said. He knew she was going to be really patronizing when she called him Joe, but he didn’t mind. Folk could rarely be patronizing without telling you stuff you didn’t know just to show how much more they knew than you did.

She said, ‘Willie Woodbine’s dad used to buttle for the Porphyrys…’

‘Battle?’ interrupted Joe. ‘You mean, like he was a minder or something?’

‘He was their butler, for God’s sake. Willie must be three or four years older than Chris, just the age gap for a bit of hero worship, young master being shown the ropes by the butler’s worldly-wise son. Boot on the other foot when they grew up, of course, but there’s a relationship there which begins to assume at least the appearance of equality when Willie joins the police force and starts his rapid climb up the ladder. If he gets to be chief constable, he might even get invited round to dinner.’

‘Miaow,’ said Joe, who might have observed, had he been given to self-, social-, psycho-, or indeed any kind of analysis, how interesting it was that folk from nice bourgeois backgrounds like Butcher were much more inclined to get hot under the collar about the inequalities of class than natural-born plebs like himself.

She ignored him and went on, ‘So it’s not surprising that Willie, with his eyes on the top, should want to do the young master a service, particularly in this area.’

‘You’re losing me,’ said Joe.

‘It’s finding you that’s the problem,’ she sighed. ‘The golf club. The Royal Hoo. Getting into the Hoo is the ultimate accolade in Luton high society. If your face doesn’t fit, you’ve more chance of getting into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot wearing shorts like yours!’

Now Joe did feel hurt. Class didn’t bother him but snipes at his fashion sense did, ’less they came from a rich client or a gorgeous in-out girlfriend. He refused to let himself be diverted, however, and asked, ‘So you don’t just go along and pay your admission fee?’

‘No! They need to look you over, check your family and friends then move on to your bank balance, your tailor and your table manners. After that if you’ve got someone to propose you, second you and probably third and fourth you, they take a vote…’

‘Who’s this they?’

‘Some committee,’ she said dismissively. ‘And it just takes one blackball and you’ve had it.’

‘Black ball?’ said Joe. ‘Don’t like the sound of that.’

‘Don’t go vulgar on me, Joe,’ she said.

‘Sorry. So Chris is putting Willie up for membership, is that what you’re saying?’

‘So I’d guess. And of course if you want to get into the Hoo, then getting yourself proposed by Christian Porphyry is just about the closest thing you can get to a guarantee of success.’

‘Because everybody likes him, you mean?’ said Joe, who didn’t find this hard to believe. One of the many perks of being a YFG had to be that everybody liked you.

‘Don’t be silly. What’s liking got to do with it? Because the Royal Hoo more or less belongs to the Porphyry family, of course.’

‘That more or less?’ asked Joe.

‘I don’t know the precise details,’ said Butcher. ‘Just what I picked up when researching the family background. Know your enemy, Joe. You never can tell when some little detail might come in useful in court.’

Joe shuddered at the thought of finding himself on the wrong end of Butcher in a courtroom. Not even Young Fair Gods were safe.

He said, ‘OK, give me the history lesson, long as you’re not charging.’

‘I’ll put it on your slate,’ she said. ‘Back in the twenties, one of the Porphyrys was so hooked on golf he built a course on an outlying stretch of the family estate known as the Royal Hoo because, according to tradition, King Charles had been hidden there in a peasant’s hut during the Civil War.’

‘And he was anonymous, so they called it Hoo?’

‘Funny. I hope. No, it’s called Hoo because that’s what hoo means: a spur of land. At first it was for private use only, by invitation from the family. Then the war came and the course got ploughed up. When peace broke out, and the UK was once more a land fit for golfers, the old gang of chums and hangers on started pestering Porphyry to have the course refurbished. Only this was a new Porphyry, your boy’s grandfather, I’d guess, and he was commercially a lot sharper and didn’t see why he should pick up all the tabs. He insisted a proper company was formed and the Royal Hoo Golf Club as we know it – everyone, that is, except you – came into being.’