The roar of butterflies js-5

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The roar of butterflies js-5 Page 3

by Reginald Hill


  Not that Butcher was the only one able to identify the enemy.

  The terrorists had begun a slow drift toward the Morris.

  He gave them a friendly wave and accelerated away toward the visible haven of Rasselas.

  5

  Tiger

  That night, with Beryl working, nothing but repeats on the box, and his cat Whitey plunged deep into whatever the summer equivalent of hibernation was, Joe decided to wander round to the Luton City Supporters' Club bar in search of social solace.

  To start with it seemed a good decision. He arrived just in time to get in on the end of a round that most democratic of club chairmen, Sir Monty Wright, was buying to celebrate the close-season signing of a sixteen-year-old Croatian wunderkind. Word was that Man U and Chelsea had both been sniffing around, but while they hesitated, Sir Monty, who hadn't got where he was by hesitating, had dipped his hand into his apparently bottomless purse and said to the manager, "Go get him."

  Joe bore his pint of Guinness to a seat next to his friend, Merv Golightly, self-styled prince of Luton cabbies but known because of his exuberant driving style as the man who put the X in taxi.

  "Good to see you, Joe," he said. "But I thought you was on a promise tonight. What happened? Beryl give you the elbow?"

  "Something came up at the hospital," said Joe.

  "Better than washing her hair, I suppose." Merv laughed. "So how's business? Slow or stopped?"

  The slur prompted Joe to tell Merv about Christian Porphyry. If he'd hoped to impress his friend he was disappointed.

  "And this guy wants you to meet him at the Royal Hoo? And he's going to say you're applying for membership? Must be someone there he really wants to wind up! Give him the finger, Joe. He's using you. You don't believe me? Take a look at Sir Monty there."

  Joe, ever a literalist, turned to look toward the table where Sir Monty was holding court with some of his directors. He found Sir Monty was looking back. Joe gave him a cheerful wave and got a nod in return, which was not to be sneezed at from a man worth a couple of billion and rising.

  The Wright-Price supermarket chain had started from a flourishing corner shop owned by the Wright family in a Luton suburb. When Monty was eighteen, one of the big supermarket chains looking to expand had approached Wright senior with an offer for the business, while at the same time negotiating with the Council for the purchase of a small playing field adjacent to the shop. This looked a smart move, taking over a flourishing local business and acquiring enough land to expand it into a full-blooded hypermarket. With young Monty pulling his parents' strings, the sale of the shop was delayed and delayed until the day before the Council Planning Committee meeting which was expected to confirm the sale of the playing field on the nod. Fearing that if they went ahead with the land purchase before they'd got the shop, the Wrights would be in an even stronger bargaining position, the big chain caved in to most of their demands and ended up paying almost twice as much as their original offer.

  The deal was signed.

  Next day the Planning Committee voted to reject the chain's offer for the playing field, preferring, as it said, to put the needs of the local community first.

  On the same day the bulldozers moved on to a piece of derelict land only half a mile away and, financed by the big chain's own money augmented by a large loan from a city bank whose CEO had long nursed a grudge against his opposite number on the chain's board, the first of Monty Wright's supermarkets was erected in record time.

  Five years later even the City's most dedicated doubters had to accept that the Wright-Price chain was here to stay. By that time another dozen shops had gone up in the southeast and marketing whiz-kids were keen to climb aboard the bandwagon. The fact that an early appointee to the Board of Directors was a local businessman called Ratcliffe King who had happened to be Chairman of the Planning Committee that rejected the application to purchase the playing field was noted but not commented on. At least not by anyone with any sense. Ratcliffe King wasn't known as King Rat in Lu- ton political circles without reason. No longer a councillor, he retained the title and still wielded much of the political power in his role as head of ProtoVision, the planning and development consultancy he had founded on retirement from public life. Officially his role on the Wright-Price board was and remained nonexecutive, but in the view of many, he'd played a central strategic role in the campaign that twenty years on had led to Monty Wright being knighted for services to industry as head of a company no longer coveted by the market leaders as possible prey but feared by them as potential predator.

  "What about Sir Monty?" asked Joe, turning back to Merv. "And keep your voice down, I think he heard you talking about him."

  "What's wrong with that?" said Merv. "Not saying anything everyone doesn't know."

  But he dropped his voice a little, or as much as he could, before he went on. "Like I said, look at Monty. All that lolly plus the title-even got his teeth straightened to go to the Palace, I heard!-and what happens when he applies to join the Royal Hoo? They turn him down flat!"

  "So what's your point?" asked Joe, who liked things spelled out.

  "My point is, doesn't matter what this plonker Porphyry says. The only way they'll let you into the Royal Hoo is through the back door dressed as a waiter! Maybe that's it. Maybe they're short of staff. They ask to see your testimonials, just you be careful!"

  Merv's difficulty in keeping his voice low even to share a confidence was compounded by a compulsion when uttering a bon mot to up the volume several decibels as if to make sure no one in the same building was deprived. Heads turned, and when a few moments later Joe went to the bar to get a round in, he was pressed to elaborate by several of the other drinkers.

  The result was, for the rest of the evening Joe found himself the object of much cheerful waggery. Normally this was water off a duck's back, but even his good nature was finding it hard to raise a smile the tenth time someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Pardon me, sir, aren't you the one they call Tiger?"

  Rumors of the joke must have reached Sir Monty's table. After a visit to the Gents, Joe returned to see Merv sitting next to the baronet, talking expansively. At least he wasn't getting the easy laughs he'd wrung out of the rest of his audience. Indeed, Sir Monty, though listening attentively, had a deep frown on his face. Maybe after his own experience with the Royal Hoo he didn't reckon there was much to laugh at.

  Serves Merv right, thought Joe.

  "Fancy another one, Tiger?" called an acquaintance from the bar.

  "No thanks. On my way home," he replied.

  It wasn't just the golf jokes that had got to him. He'd found himself thinking, what if Merv was right and this guy Porphyry was pulling his plonker by using him to get at some of his fellow members? He hadn't struck Joe as that kind of bean-head, but what did he know about the mind processes of Young Fair Gods? So tell him to take a jump. Except he didn't know how to contact him. OK, just don't turn up. Except he had two hundred quid of the guy's money in an envelope in his back pocket (somehow it hadn't seemed decent to put such lovely clean money in with the dirty old stuff in his wallet). Perhaps he should get there early, intercept him in the car park, hand back the cash and take off. But that would be hard.

  "What would you do, Whitey?" he asked the cat, who'd woken up long enough to join him for a late supper after he got home.

  For answer Whitey yawned, jumped up on the bed and closed his eyes.

  "Good answer," said Joe, who was blessed with the invaluable gift of rarely letting the troubles of the day spill over into his rest. He lay down beside the cat and soon joined him in deep and dreamless sleep.

  6

  Pastures New

  The Reverend Percy Potemkin, pastor of Boyling Corner Chapel, master of its famous choir, and known wherever song is sung or souls are saved as Rev. Pot, preached a mean sermon.

  Twice every Sunday he preached it, and with slight variations he made it do for weddings, funerals, christenings, and the opening o
f garden fetes.

  Any suggestion that a little variety might not come amiss was greeted with the response, "If it's not broke, why fix it?" And if the doubter were foolish enough to persist in his doubt, perhaps educing in evidence the fact that most regular members of the congregation knew the words by heart, Rev. Pot would reply, "Now that is good, that's exactly what I want. I'm just a messenger, these are the words of the Lord, and He wants them to be burned on your soul so you never forget!"

  A couple of lines from the mean sermon came into Joe's mind as he drove in search of the Royal Hoo Golf Club not long after ten o'clock the following sweltering morning.

  Hell is a populous city a lot like Luton, and one of its suburbs is called Privilege and another is called Wealth. They look at things differently there.

  Following Beryl's directions he found himself on the big roundabout which he sent the Morris round three times before opting for the only exit that didn't have a signpost. Soon he found himself driving along narrow country roads, not much more than lanes really, winding between high hedgerows. To make matters worse he got stuck behind a tractor for half a mile. Finally it turned into a gateway. When the driver stopped to open the gate Joe drew up alongside.

  "All right for the Royal Hoo, am I?" he asked.

  The man, who looked like a farmer in every respect except that his expression was happy, said, "Oh yes, another mile or so, and there you are. Lovely day for golf."

  At least he doesn't assume I'm a delivery man, thought Joe.

  Leaning over the gate he saw a possible explanation of the man's demeanor in the shape of an estate agent's sale board across which was plastered SOLD.

  "Selling up then?" he said. "Expect you'll miss it."

  "Miss drought, and drench, and interfering bastards from DEFRA? Oh yes, I'll miss them, right enough! I'll lie in bed on a cold wet winter's morning and think of some other poor sod getting up to milk his beasts! It's a mug's game these days, farming."

  "Lucky you found a mug then," said Joe lightly.

  "Not really. Some so-called agri-conglomerate with a fancy name. 'New Pastures,' would you believe? Pastures! They'll likely cover the place in polytunnels and grow soft fruit. Me, I'll be long gone. Cheers now. Enjoy your game."

  "You too," said Joe.

  He drove on, smiling.

  After perhaps a mile the high hedgerows gave way to an even higher wall, topped with shards of champagne-bottle glass that signaled clearer than billboards he was getting near one or both of Rev. Pot's suburbs.

  One thing you couldn't say about the Royal Hoo, however, was that it was ostentatious.

  Joe had once been retained to look into a suspected fiddle in the kitchen of a very exclusive restaurant. He had walked by it three times before spotting the entrance. When he'd suggested to the owner that a sign invisible till you got within six feet wasn't going to bring in much passing trade, the man had winced and replied, "The kind of people who don't know where we are, why would I want to tell them?"

  The Hoo clearly worked on the same principle. Not that the entrance itself was understated. Eventually the wall was interrupted by a massive granite archway on which he wouldn't have been surprised to find listed the dead of both world wars.

  Instead all he found after getting out of the car to do a recce was a sign as discreet as that of a Harley Street pox doctor. It didn't declare but rather murmured that this was indeed the Royal Hoo Golf Club.

  Slightly more prominent on the left-hand pillar was a notice suggesting that tradesmen and others of the ilk might care to continue another half-mile till they encountered a lane on the left that would take them to the rear of the clubhouse. Joe was momentarily tempted. But he hadn't changed into his best blue slacks and yellow polo shirt for nothing, so he boldly sent the Morris rolling between a pair of gates containing enough wrought iron to make a small battleship.

  Instantly he knew he was in a different country. Lu- ton might be only fifteen minutes drive away, but this was somewhere else.

  The driveway wound along an avenue of tall and probably ancient trees. Horticulture wasn't one of Joe's areas of expertise and the best he could say about them was that they weren't silver birches, palms, or monkey puzzles. Between their huge trunks he could see sweeping lengths of manicured greensward, and from time to time he got glimpses ahead of what looked like the kind of stately home the proles were permitted to rubberneck around for a substantial fee a couple of days a week during the summer. Presumably this was the clubhouse. Eventually as he got closer, the driveway forked. Another of those signs so discreet he'd have missed it if he'd been doing more than five mph indicated that cars should bear to the right.

  The car park, screened from the house by a colorful shrubbery, was full of serious machinery. You parked a Beamer here, you were anonymous. Couple of Rollers, lovely old Daimler, a vintage Bugatti, at least three autograph Range Rovers, Jags across the spectrum, a scarlet Ferrari that you tiptoed round in case you woke it up, several other sports jobs of varying degrees of flashness. But nowhere any sign of Porphyry's Volante.

  Not surprising. Joe was deliberately early. It was something he'd read in Not So Private Eye, his PI bible. When a meet's been set up on ground you don't know, get there first to suss things out.

  He got out of his car and strolled over to the Bugatti to take a closer look.

  "Morning, sir? That your Morris?"

  He turned to see a fresh-faced youngster of eighteen or nineteen coming toward him. At least it wasn't a heavy in a security uniform alerted by CCTV that a dodgy-looking character was prowling round the car park, but it probably amounted to the same thing.

  "That's right," said Joe. "Not in the wrong car park, am I?"

  Maybe at the Hoo they had auto-apartheid.

  "Oh no, this is fine. Nice motor, but I think you could do with a bit of air in your front offside."

  "Could all do with a bit of air," said Joe, checking it out. The kid was right.

  "Wouldn't be Mr. Sixsmith by any chance, would it, sir?"

  "That's me, yeah."

  "Mr. Porphyry mentioned you might be coming," said the youth. "I'm Chip Harvey, assistant pro."

  He held out his hand. Joe shook it. The kid seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

  "First time here, is it, sir?" he said. "I hope you like the look of us. It's a lovely course. It would make a marvelous championship venue, but as I'm sure you know if you're looking to join us, the membership here doesn't care for that sort of public exposure. Let me show you to the clubhouse."

  If you're looking to join us, thought Joe. Said without the slightest hint of some hope! In the light of morning, the doubts sown by Merv had withered considerably. Porphyry had struck him as straight and he was used to backing his own judgment. However daft the membership story might play to outsiders, what was the guy supposed to say? That he was bringing a PI to lunch with a view to casing the joint!

  Really he would have preferred to hang around the car park till Porphyry appeared, but that would have looked a bit odd, so he let himself be guided through the shrubbery.

  Close up, the clubhouse had even more of the feel of a stately home about it. French windows opened onto a long terrace spotted with parasoled tables. No plastic DIY superstore stuff these, but the kind of old-fashioned, twisty wrought-iron jobs you'd look to find in the gardens of folk who didn't have to buy their own furniture. Not that Joe spent much time among such people, but he was a great fan of heritage movies. Come to think of it, the scatter of people drinking coffee or long fruit drinks in elegant glasses could have been carefully arranged there by Messrs. Merchant and Ivory. Of course these days, when class can be cloned as easy as sheep, anyone could buy the gear and walk the walk and talk the talk. But there's always a pea under the mattress, and to Joe's keen eye, where real kiss-my-ass class showed through was in the way your born-to-its sat easy. Folk like him either slumped or, at best, lolled. Somewhere toward the top of the heap you learned the art of reclining gracefully. Most of thes
e folk here either had it, or were working very hard at getting it.

  One end of the terrace overlooked a huge circle of lawn only slightly smaller than Kensington Gardens. From the numbered flag at its center he deduced it was the eighteenth green. Green was the right word. It was so green it could have played for Ireland. Considering there'd been a hosepipe ban in the Luton area for a fortnight, reducing most gardens and public parks to dust- bowls that would have made a dromedary cough, Joe couldn't understand why everyone here wasn't under arrest. And it wasn't just the actual green. The undulating crescent of tree-lined fairway stretching into the distance didn't look like it was dying of thirst either. Maybe here at Royal Hoo they had their own special cloud which sprinkled a little rain during the hours of darkness.

  Chip Harvey sat him at a table and said, "This do you, sir?"

  "Yeah, this is fine," said Joe. "You don't have Mr. Porphyry's-Chris's-number, do you? I could give him a bell, see if there's a holdup?"

  He pulled out his mobile. The young man grimaced and said, "No can do, I'm afraid, sir. Use of mobiles is strictly forbidden on the course or in the clubhouse. Heavy fine even if it just rings! You'd need to go back to your car to use it, but I'm sure Mr. Porphyry will be here soon. Relax, have a drink. The steward will be along in a minute. Enjoy your day, sir."

  Nice boy, thought Joe, taking in his surroundings. This was OK, this was the real deal. Comfy seat under a parasol, lovely view, four crisp new monkeys in his pocket, steward would be along in a moment, even a breath of what must be the only breeze in the whole county, what more could a man ask? Envy and resentment didn't play a large part in Joe's outlook. Social injustices and inequalities had to be personalized before they hit his indignation button. If as he sat here he saw another black, balding, middling aged, vertically challenged, slightly overweight, redundant lathe- operator being given the runaround because of all or any one of these conditions, he would have groaned regretfully, stood up, and taken sides with the guy. But long as these folk didn't mind him, he certainly wasn't going to mind them. He'd learned his Bible the hard way, meaning Aunt Mirabelle's way, and that meant it stuck, especially her favorite bits, one of which was what Paul wrote to them Ephesians, whoever they were. For we wrestle not againstflesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Well, that was OK for Paul and Rev. Pot, and good luck to them. Let all them preachers and politicians and newspaper columnists and such sort out the principalities and powers. Joe was happy to restrict his wrestling to good old-fashioned flesh and blood.

 

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