But Joe found it hard to accept that a man so self- lessly devoted to the well-being of Luton City FC could be party to any form of physical violence that took place off the field. He was ruthless in business, yes. He would cut so many corners in a deal he could turn a polygon into a straight line. But he was at heart a sportsman. Would he underwrite beating up a fellow Luton fan? Or framing an honest golfer for cheating?
Joe found it hard to believe. Which meant nothing. He'd been absolutely certain the Lutes were going to stuff Spurs last time they went to White Hart Lane, and look what happened then.
But he only knew one way to find out.
With a sigh, he started to push himself upright.
"Hey, you take it easy now," advised George. "You want I should call that girl of yours? She's a nurse, right? Maybe she could give you a massage or something."
"Think that would probably finish me off right now, George," he said. "Look, I got things to do. Thanks a bunch for helping me out here. Don't know what I'd have done else. Except maybe die."
"My pleasure," said the big boxer. "Listen, man, you get any more trouble, you give me a call, right?"
"You'll be first on my wish-list," Joe assured him.
As George left, he paused and looked at the splintered door frame.
"Sorry about that," he said. "You'd best get that fixed afore some of them Hermsprong brothers come across to borrow your TV and hi-fi. You got anyone you can ring?"
"Yeah, but it will probably be the weekend before he gets here."
"Then leave it to me. I know this guy owes me a favor. He'll be round this afternoon, right?"
"Right," said Joe, thinking, the Prince of Wales would probably be round this afternoon if Jurassic George asked him. "Tell him I'll leave the door open."
It took George a full thirty seconds to work this one out, but when he did, he really appreciated it, and Joe heard his deep bass laugh echoing all the way down the corridor.
When it died away, he felt suddenly lonely.
In the bedroom he stripped naked and examined his assaulted parts in a mirror. Apart from being a rather fetching shade of red and feeling very tender, no real damage seemed to have been done, and five minutes under an icy shower completed the good work begun by the frozen broccoli. He got dressed in his loosest fitting boxers and slacks and gingerly made his way down to the Morris.
22
The Right Price
Ten minutes later he was walking into the Supporters' Club. He met Larry Hardwick and one of his staff coming out of the kitchen bearing trays of beer and sandwiches. "Those for the directors?" Joe asked. He knew a meeting was scheduled for today. "Yeah, they just rang down. Must have a lot to talk about." "Give Sir Monty a message, will you, Larry? Tell him I'd appreciate a quick word." "Now, you mean?" Hardwick looked at him. "Joe, personally I'd walk a hundred miles for one of your smiles, but I don't think even your rendition of "Mammy" is going to get Sir Monty out of his meeting." "Tenner says you're wrong, Larry," said Joe. "You're on." Joe sat down at the big corner table and hoped he was going to have to pay up. If Monty Wright appeared, it had to mean he really was involved. A couple of minutes passed. Then the door opened and the club chairman came in. He made straight for Joe's table and sat down heavily. He carried too much weight, most of it round his waist, and his round face was flushed. "You've got two minutes," he said. "No," said Joe, determined not to be over-faced. "You being here means I got as long as I like." The man said, "We'll see. So talk." In most of life's transactions there are two possible approaches, the subtle and the direct. By getting Sir Monty to leave his meeting, Joe reckoned he'd scraped the bottom of his subtlety barrel. Time for a dose of directness. He said, "You planning to build a hyper-market on the Royal Hoo golf course, right?" If this came as a shock to Wright, he was too experienced a negotiator to show it. He said, "Nice idea. So how am I going to get planning permission?" "Getting permission's no problem. Specially not with Mr. Ratcliffe King on the case," said Joe. "It's getting the land that's hard. Mainly because you'd need a majority of the members who are also the shareholders to agree to a sale, and the majority shareholder is the Porphyry family, represented by Christian Porphyry." "A bastard who loves me so much, he's going to roll over and say, There you go, Monty, it's all yours for a shilling an acre. I don't think so!" This was spoken with real venom. This isn't just business, this is personal, thought Joe. That was good. Business he'd never really understood, but personal was people and that was his strength. "You don't like Mr. Porphyry much, do you?"
"Hardly know the guy. But from what I've seen, he's not my type, no. Life's been easy for him. When his mother dropped him, he landed right at the top of the pile, didn't have to get dirt under his fingernails dragging himself up there."
Joe considered this. Social envy played as little part in his own make-up as social ambition. You played the cards life dealt you. Injustice wasn't the deal, it was when some joker cheated. And he didn't really believe Sir Monty had a socialist chip on his shoulder either. If you think you're any man's equal, there's not much space for social resentment.
Suddenly he recalled something Merv had said the other night about his conversation with the club chairman at this very table.
He said, "This is because you think Chris Porphyry blackballed you, isn't it?"
Sir Monty shook his head perhaps a little too emphatically.
"That's not the way I work," he growled. "Business deals are about money and markets. Minute you start letting personalities get into them, you're in trouble. I've got thousands of employees, even more shareholders. You don't think I'd put their well-being at risk for the sake of a private grievance, do you?"
He spoke with a dismissive assurance that was completely convincing. But it rang a note Joe recognized. He'd been performing in public, and certainly in public houses, as long as he could remember, and he knew that to take your audience with you, it wasn't enough simply to sing a song, you had to inhabit it. You had to leave people in no doubt that, martial or romantic, melancholy or comic, you really meant those words you were singing.
That was the note his performer's ears were hearing. The note of rehearsal to such a pitch of perfection that Sir Monty probably believed himself when he spoke, the same way Joe could never finish singing "Mammy" without tears streaming down his cheeks.
He said, "Don't believe you. I think you're so pissed off with Porphyry that when Ratcliffe King contacted you to say there could be a chance the Royal Hoo was coming on the market, you didn't ask questions."
Wright said, "I always ask questions."
"But maybe this time you didn't ask enough. And when you found out it all depended on Chris being stripped of his membership 'cos he'd been found guilty of cheating, bet you didn't ask questions then? Bet you were just over the moon to hear he was going to be disgraced?"
"No, I didn't ask questions then because it didn't surprise me," said Wright aggressively. "That type, they think they've such a God-given right to be on top, the usual rules don't apply to them."
"Yeah? So why'd you start asking yourself questions the other night when you heard Porphyry had hired me? I think you started wondering why the shoot would someone like Porphyry hire someone like me to prove he was innocent? Bet you thought, a guy would have to be really desperate to do that. And then you got to thinking, or maybe he'd have to be really innocent."
Wright leaned forward so that his round perspiring face was close to Joe's.
"OK, mind reader, so here's a question for you. Have you proved he's innocent, Sixsmith?"
Joe didn't flinch but said, "No, I've not proved it. But I know!"
"You've not proved anything, but you know?" Wright echoed mockingly. "And this is what I've missed my beer and sandwiches for? Sixsmith, I'd always heard you were a better singer than a detective. My advice is, get yourself a pitch down the underpass and start busking." He began to rise. Joe tried to think of something that might hold him, but nothing came. Running out of ideas rarely involved
him in a marathon, but this hadn't even been middle distance. Then his phone rang. He took it out, glanced at the caller display and said, "Hi, Christian." Sir Monty froze. "Joe, glad I got you. I'm sorry to disturb you when you're away on another case…" "No, that's OK," interrupted Joe. "Change of plan. I'm still here." "Thank God for that! Listen, something's happened." There was an edge of desperation in the YFG's voice that made Joe's heart sink. It was like hearing Callas reaching for the notes after her ill-advised comeback. He said, "What?" Sir Monty had sat down again and was watching him like a cat who sees his dinner slowly approaching through the long grass. Porphyry said, "Have you seen the Crier?" "Yeah, but that's nothing-" "Yes, it is. I hadn't mentioned any of this to Tiff, that's my fiancee, but now she's seen it and her father Bruce has seen it and he's furious about that crack about the Bugle and furious that I hadn't told him what was going on-" "Chris, this is all irrelevant," urged Joe. "Newspapers print so much crap, no one even notices the smell anymore. Tomorrow it will be forgotten."
"Don't think so, Joe," said Porphyry gloomily. "Tomorrow it looks like they'll have an even better headline. I've just been talking to Tom Latimer. He said the Four Just Men had been worried about my hearing because the next round of the Vardon has to be played by the end of next week and it depends on the outcome whether Syd or myself goes into the draw. Then this thing in the Crier made up their minds for them. As long as it was kept inside the club, that was fine, but now it's in the open, it isn't something the Hoo needs to have hanging over it. The upshot is they've brought their meeting forward to this evening. God, Joe, I thought we had a fortnight and now there's only a few hours. What do you think, Joe? Is there any hope?"
No wonder King was happy to get me out of the way for a couple of days! thought Joe. The bastard knew this was on the cards. It was probably him who primed the Crier. There I was thinking it would make no difference, when the truth was I'd have come back to find everything done and dusted. And when he discovered I hadn't gone to Spain, he decided that a few broken bones would do the job just as well.
He said, "There's always hope, Chris. You at the club now?"
"Yes. I'm in the car park. Had to come out here to ring you, but I'm heading back to the terrace. Mustn't let people think I'm running for cover."
That's my Young Fair God, thought Joe. Still sticking to the rules even though the bastards were going to chuck him out for breaking them! And determined not to let anyone think he was running scared.
He said, "I'm following a lead just now but I'll be along later, OK?"
"A lead?" The hope in Porphyry's voice gave him a jolt. "I knew I could rely on you, Joe."
He looked at Sir Monty, who, though he'd only heard one side of the conversation, had an expression on his face that said, So that's it, Sixsmith. Give it up. You had your chance to convince me and you blew it.
Maybe if I got him to talk to Chris, thought Joe. No, there was no way forward there. What could they say to each other? Sir Monty would only be rudely triumphant and Christian would be completely bewildered.
On the other hand…
He said, "Hold on, Chris," and put his hand over the mouthpiece.
"Sir Monty," he said, "I'm going to ask Mr. Porphyry a question and I want you to listen to his answer, OK?"
Wright shrugged indifferently.
"Chris," said Joe. "Just to clear something up, Sir Monty Wright was up for membership recently and he got blackballed. Was it you who put the blackball in?"
He shuffled his chair round alongside Wright's and held the phone between them.
"Good Lord, no," said Porphyry in a surprised tone. "I thought he was an excellent candidate. I met him when his sponsor brought him round to look over the place. Very nice chap, and I heard he could hit the ball a mile. I was really knocked back when he didn't get elected."
"Yeah? Any idea who might have blackballed him?"
"No. Whole idea is that nobody ever knows, you see. Though I did hear… but no, idle gossip causes nothing but trouble, I should know that!"
Thinks he's being disloyal to his beloved club, thought Joe. Dear God! How could anyone believe this guy was a cheat?
He said, "Nothing you tell me is gossip, Chris. Client confidentiality, right?"
He felt bad about that, sitting here with his phone held up so Sir Monty could hear the reply.
"Well, if you're sure," said Porphyry reluctantly. "The only person who might get a glimpse of who puts what ball in is Bert Symonds, our steward, who carries the bag round when the vote is taken. That evening after Sir Monty got blackballed, I went round to the service area to have a word with Bert about some catering matter and I overheard him say something about the vote to another member of staff. Well, when I got him by himself, I really tore into him. Firstly because I hate gossip, and secondly because I knew in this case it must be untrue."
"What was it he said?"
"He reckoned it was Tom Latimer who put the blackball in. But he must have got it wrong. I'm absolutely sure of that because… Joe, the pro's waving at me, wants a word. I've got to go. Keep in touch. Please."
The phone went dead.
Joe switched off and looked at Sir Monty, who shook his head violently and said, "No!"
"No? Hey, listen, this wasn't something I set up-" Joe began indignantly.
"No, it can't be true," said Wright, ignoring him. "He got that right at least. No way it could have been Tom Latimer… no way!"
He was shaking his head, but to Joe it seemed he was shaking it to dislodge an idea rather than deny it.
It took Joe his usual ten-second delay to get there. And then…
"It was Tom Latimer who proposed you! Wasn't it?"
"Yes, of course it was." Wright snarled. "And Latimer's a smart guy, he knows which side his bread's buttered on. So tell me, smarty-pants, why the hell would he want to put the black in?" This time Joe didn't need ten seconds. "Maybe because if you'd just got elected to the Royal Hoo, you were hardly likely to be interested in knocking the place about and building a hyper-mart on the site, were you?" he said. He saw Wright taking this on board and pressed his advantage. "Who was it told you it was Christian who blackballed you?" Wright didn't answer. He didn't need to. "And how long was it afterward that King Rat said he'd got a whisper that the Hoo might be up for grabs?" Joe went on. Now Sir Monty spoke. "About a fortnight." Joe did some working out. "That would be a good week or more before the Porphyry cheating thing came up," he said. He didn't need to say more. He had a great respect for people whose minds left his standing when it came to working things out, and it wasn't for nothing that Sir Monty watched the beautiful game from the Directors' Box while Joe's season ticket placed him high behind the south goal with the sun straight in his eyes. Larry approached the table looking a bit nervous. "Sir Monty," he said. "They're asking about you upstairs…" "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," said the chairman. "You done here, Sixsmith? I got a really important meeting to attend." Joe found the stress offensive. If the guy didn't think what they'd been talking about was important, he'd been wasting his time.
"Just one more thing," he said, letting his irritation show. "Woman called Bradshaw got fired from your Luton store a while back. You probably never heard of her…"
"Betty Bradshaw? Yes, I know her. Nobody gets fired from my stores without I know, Sixsmith. What's your point?"
"She says she got made redundant to make way for cheaper labor."
"She's right. The amount of stuff she was lifting from the store, anyone would have been cheaper!"
"She got fired for thieving?" Joe was disconcerted. He tried to think like Butcher and heard himself saying, "Well, maybe you weren't paying her enough to feed her family and she thought you wouldn't miss a few tins and stuff-"
"She wasn't stealing food, Sixsmith," Wright said. "It was top-quality Scotch and cognac mainly. About five hundred quid's worth a week. Nice little scam, undetect- able if she hadn't got greedy. Only reason I didn't charge her was it might have given some other people
the same idea. I take care of my staff. All I expect in return is honesty. You might find it hard to believe, Sixsmith, grubbing around in the muck where you spend your working days, but being a businessman doesn't mean being a crook. You make hard decisions but there's a line you don't step over."
"Does Ratcliffe King live on the same side of the line as you?" asked Joe.
The supermarket magnate stood up and glowered down at him.
"Interesting talking to you, Sixsmith. But at the end of the day, you've proved nothing."
"Maybe not," said Joe. "But I know. And the difference is, now you know too, don't you?"
He watched the man make his exit. What he might do now, Joe couldn't guess. Probably nothing. The Wright Price is the right price. What effect did having that printed on your notepaper have on a guy? He said he was an honest businessman. Joe wanted to believe him. He'd kept Luton City afloat in the bad times, which meant there was certainly something he loved more than money.
Let's hope his reputation was another thing.
Sir Monty had certainly got one thing right. Though he was beginning to see the shape of the conspiracy more and more clearly, Joe still felt as far away as ever from getting his hands on firm proof of Porphyry's innocence.
So what next? Joe asked himself.
He needed help from above.
A ten-pound note came fluttering down in front of him.
"There you go, Joe," said Larry. "Like the good Lord, I always pay my debts."
Joe picked up the note and took it to the bar where there was a coin-filled appeal jar for Save the Children.
He tucked the note into the jar, saying, "Yeah, I know you do, Larry. You and Him both."
23
Pillow Talk
One of Joe's strengths was knowing when he needed help.
And another of his strengths was knowing what sort of help it was he needed.
Give half a dozen people the same information and you get half a dozen different interpretations, all equally valid and probably not even mutually contradictory in any significant way, but each of them will bear the style of the individual interpreter.
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