Mimi said, ‘Joe, this is Stephen Hardman, Mr King’s other personal assistant.’
She said it slightly sniffily, but Joe was too busy registering Hardman. Had to be a joke. Didn’t it?
He didn’t feel inclined to ask.
His feet made no sound on the deep-piled carpet. In fact he’d been in noisier chapels of rest. There wasn’t even that tell-tale hum you got from an air-conditioning system, but this beautifully cool atmosphere with its faint tang of ocean breeze certainly didn’t come from downtown Luton. A door opened and a plumpish man of about fifty with a round, pink instantly forgettable face emerged. Assuming he was making for the lift to go down, Joe gave him a nod and stood aside, but he felt his hand seized and a pleasant light voice said, ‘Mr Sixsmith, good of you to come.’
Oh shoot! thought Joe. This was him! King Rat himself. He’d seen his photo in the local paper, of course, but he’d still blanked the guy in his own office!
‘Mr King, hi,’ he said. ‘Nice place you’ve got.’
Mimi giggled and said, ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, Joe. Can I get you a cool drink?’
‘Thank you, Mimi. Mr Sixsmith would prefer tea, I think. Stephen, will you see to it?’
Joe, rather to his surprise, found King was right. Since the heatwave hit the eighties, he’d generally been panting like the hart for cooling streams of extra-cold Guinness, but up here in this temperate mini climate, a cup of tea sounded very nice.
King led the way through a door behind the desk into a larger office which, with its bright colours, pop-art paintings, vigorous houseplants and a trace of freesia on the air alongside the ocean breeze, had to be Mimi’s. Then through another door into King Rat’s throne room.
The girl was right. He hadn’t seen nothing yet!
He was on top of the world here. Two huge windows gave him a view of Luton which previously he’d only glimpsed from a holiday charter dropping towards the airport, and then his aesthetic appreciation had been considerably inhibited by the sheer terror he always felt on take off and landing. Now he could study at his leisure the bones and arteries of his beloved city. He let his gaze move round from the floodlights of the soccer stadium, across the drooping flags of the Wright-Price Superstore and the golden cross on the dome of St Monkey’s, to the Clint Eastwood dirigible anchored to the roof of Dirty Harry’s. The glass had to be that fancy light-reactive stuff you got in expensive sunglasses because it darkened where the sun hit it directly so you could look the old boy straight in the eye. As for heat, there was no competition with the ProtoVision air-conditioning system.
‘Have a seat, Mr Sixsmith.’
Reluctantly he channelled his attention from outside to in. The room was sparsely furnished with four easy chairs round a glass table. With a view like that you didn’t need a desk the size of a football pitch to show you were boss.
At the same time he’d have expected something more to confirm you were in King Rat’s lair. The colour scheme of the décor and furnishings was a restful blend of browns and beiges and ochres repeated in the linen jacket and slacks that Ratcliffe King wore.
More King Hamster than King Rat! thought Joe.
Then Hardman came in with a silver tea tray and his sense of relaxed complacency vanished.
On it was a small wicker basket piled high with the unmistakable knobbly currant scones from the Billabong Bakery which were his favourites. Alongside it was a plateful of the delicious apple tartlets which he always had at Charmaine’s Olde Worlde Tea Shoppe. He did not doubt that the jam in the jam dish was Baxter’s Raspberry, the butter Irish unsalted, and the tea Lipton’s.
Mimi poured his tea. She didn’t ask him how he liked it but stirred in three spoonfuls of sugar before adding the milk.
Suddenly Joe was wanting to be out of here.
He said, ‘So what did you want to see me about, Mr King?’
‘Straight down to business? I like that,’ said King. ‘Here then is the situation, Mr Sixsmith. I have a client who has been relying on my advice in a large-scale development project. His role in it is mainly financial and the moment is fast approaching when he must decide whether or not to commit a considerable sum of money to the scheme. On the surface there are large profits to be made which he is eager to share in. In matters of large profit, of course, there are always attendant risks and our main task at ProtoVision is to assess those risks and advise accordingly. You follow me so far?’
‘No problem,’ said Joe, sinking his teeth into a scone which he’d coated liberally with butter and jam. As he’d expected, Baxter’s raspberry and Irish unsalted. Wasn’t it Georgie Best who said, if you’re drowning in Guinness, might as well drink deep?
‘Excellent. Now my main concern is with another member of the consortium behind this development, a man called Brian Tomlin. His contribution is more in terms of commercial expertise and contacts than hard cash. Basically, he is the one tying everything together. To be honest, I suspect a sting may be planned. I have absolutely no evidence to back my feelings, and I may be wrong. But if I’m not, then there is no way Tomlin cannot be deeply involved.’
‘You’ll have had him checked out, surely?’ said Joe through his second scone.
‘Naturally. Everything holds up. But I need to be absolutely sure. There are three days left till D-Day, D standing for delivery of money. During that period I want his movements and his contacts observed and analysed every waking hour of his day.’
‘So it’s a surveillance job?’ said Joe, turning his attention to the apple tarts. He was seeing his way out of this and thought he might as well tuck in while the tuck was there.
‘That’s right.’
‘And a blanket surveillance job, from the sound of it,’ said Joe. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr King, but for that kind of operation you need a team and I’m just a one-man band. It can’t be done. You need one of the bigger outfits.’
‘None of whom come as highly recommended as you,’ said King. ‘I foresaw the problem, of course. You would need at least one other person, I imagine, to give you cover for rest, refreshment, and calls of nature. Mimi here has volunteered to be your assistant.’
‘Mimi?’ said Joe, almost choking on his tartlet.
The young woman who’d perched on the arm of one of the chairs smiled at him, her eyes shining with excitement.
‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘I know I’ve got no experience and I’d just be along to fetch and carry. But I’m a fast learner, Joe. It would be real fun!’
‘And Mimi would bring a different kind of expertise to the surveillance, I believe,’ said King. ‘One based on her work with me.’
‘But doesn’t this guy know her?’ objected Joe.
‘In fact, no. They’ve never met, though Mimi is fully au fait with the file I have put together on him. So your task would be simply to observe and record while Mimi filters out anything she thinks may be pertinent to the business in hand and alerts me. I understand your usual hourly fee is thirty pounds. As this would require your round-the-clock commitment for three, let’s call it four days, why don’t we bypass the arithmetic and call it a straight four thousand? Plus, of course, expenses.’
Oh dear, oh dear, thought Joe. He saw that the apple tartlets had almost vanished. Could he decently return to the knobbly scones? Such a U-turn would in Aunt Mirabelle’s eyes demonstrate the kind of ill-breeding you might expect from rough-edged Johnny-come-latelys but not from a born-and-bred Lutonian.
He said, ‘Who was it recommended me so high, Mr King?’
‘Now let me see. I know Detective Superintendent Woodbine thinks very well of you. And Ms Butcher of the Bullpat Square Law Centre is a fan, I believe. And the Reverend Potemkin of the Boyling Corner Chapel, a fine judge of character as well as of choristers, acknowledges your excellence in both fields.’
For the first time Joe really focused on Ratcliffe King, trying to get beyond the courteous manner, the soft brown eyes, the amiably undistinguished features, to King Rat who knew everybody and
everything. But it was impossible, and that was truly frightening.
He looked from King to his PA. This was better. Mimi’s eyes were shining with excitement, like a kid who’s been promised a fun outing with a favourite uncle. How could he disappoint her? And surely her involvement confirmed this was a genuine job. He must be crazy to think anyone would go to this trouble just to divert his attention from a case that only his soft heart had prevented him from giving up already.
His soft heart and Porphyry’s hard cash, he corrected himself. Which he could now afford to refund in full and hardly feel any pain at all.
He said, ‘When would you want me to start?’
‘Your fee-payment meter started ticking at three o’clock, or perhaps we should more strictly say five to three when you turned up here,’ said King. ‘But you need not bother with hands-on involvement till tomorrow morning. That will give you time to clear your decks, so to speak, and of course to pack.’
‘Pack?’
‘Oh yes. Didn’t I say? Our man is flying out to Spain in the morning. Hopefully he’ll feel relaxed enough there to drop his guard and give himself away, if there is anything to give away. Mimi…’
Mimi handed him a pale green plastic file smart enough to deserve a Gucci label.
‘You’ll find your ticket and hotel reservation in there, along with photographs and a full briefing,’ she said. ‘Plus a small float to cover initial expenses. It’s an early start, I’m afraid. Plane leaves at seven a.m., so we need to check in by five thirty. Any queries and you can get me on my mobile. The number’s in there.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Sixsmith. I’m so glad you are able to help me out here. And believe me, if in the end your report is completely negative, I shall be very pleased to hear that too. Goodbye now.’
Joe shook hands. As he and Mimi headed for the lift, Hardman said, ‘Nice to have you on board, Joe.’
He was Joe now. Should have come over real friendly, but the message Joe got from those cold eyes was that the alternative to coming on board was being tossed over the side with an anchor chain round your neck.
In the lift he said to Mimi, ‘That guy Hardman, is that really his name?’
‘Never seen his birth certificate, Joe,’ she said. Again he caught a note of dislike which emboldened him to say, ‘He ain’t the same sort of PA as you, I’d guess.’
‘What sort is that, Joe?’
‘Sort of gorgeous.’
She laughed her champagne bubbly laugh and said, ‘I can see I’m going to have to watch you. And if you see Stephen coming, maybe you’d better watch him, Joe. I don’t know exactly how he assists Mr King, and I don’t want to know.’
The lift door opened. Joe stepped out. Mimi stayed where she was and said, ‘See you tomorrow, Joe. I’ll pick you up, shall I? I’ve got to pass Rasselas on my way to the airport. Five o’clock, OK? I can’t wait!’
Then the door closed and she was gone. And if it hadn’t been for the elegant pale green file in his hand, Joe might have thought it was all a dream. He opened the file as he made his way out of ProtoVision House. It was all there as Mimi had itemized with the small expense float consisting of an envelope containing five hundred euros.
Outside the hot air of Luton’s long summer hit him like a barber’s towel.
But the euros didn’t dissolve. So definitely not a dream.
Which didn’t necessarily mean it might not be a nightmare.
The Hole
The Hole in the Wall pub was a popular trysting point for Luton’s wild young things looking to tread the primrose paths to clubbing pleasure. Here they met old friends, discussed new plans, and took on board the liquids and medicaments necessary to keep them going during the long night’s journey into day ahead.
As Joe entered the cavernous bar, his mind went back to a time when the pub had had four separate rooms distinguished by décor, size and function as indicated by their names, which were the Public, the Snug, the Mixed, and the Snooker. Then the sign above the entrance had read the Jolly Sailor. Later it changed to Finbar McCool’s and the room names changed also to the Shebeen, the Crack, the Céilidh and the Aitch-Block. That experiment had ended in tears and a riot, the damage caused by which had probably given the next owner the idea of knocking down what remained of the interior walls, putting in a central round bar, and rechristening it the Hole in the Wall.
In another hour you would need a shovel to dig your way through to the bar. At seven thirty it was just beginning to fill and he had no problem spotting Eloise and Chip. The former was wearing a halter and skirt that made the office wear that had so affected Joe’s blood pressure look like a burqa.
The latter was wearing a puzzled frown, which meant that Eloise had forgotten to mention that Joe might be showing up.
‘Mr Sixsmith,’ said Chip. ‘Hello again.’
Joe didn’t blame him for being puzzled. The Hole was not the kind of place you expected to encounter prospective members of the Royal Hoo. The parrot shorts which Joe was wearing once more probably didn’t help either.
He sat down and said, ‘Hi, Chip. Hi, Eloise.’
‘You two know each other?’ said Chip.
‘Long time,’ said Eloise.
Then, perhaps to compensate for not preparing the ground, or more likely because she reckoned if she let a pair of men enter the mazy paths of explanation, they’d never get out, she reduced the situation to its basics.
‘Joe’s a PI. He’s been hired by Mr Porphyry to look into something at the golf club. I said being as it’s Mr Porphyry, you might like to help.’
Chip Harvey looked far from enthusiastic at the prospect.
In fact he looked seriously pissed, but before he could respond, Eloise leaned forward to give him a long and breathtaking kiss, and Joe a long and breathtaking view down her halter, then said, ‘I’ll get some booze while you two talk. Guinness, Joe. Right?’
The kiss was the kind of incentive to co-operation Joe couldn’t match so he didn’t bother with his prepared line about knowing Chip was a loyal and discreet employee of the Hoo but sometimes a guy had to choose between loyalties and anything said here and now was in absolute confidence etc etc.
Instead he said, ‘In the car park you were definite Chris Porphyry couldn’t have cheated. Was that you being polite ’cos you thought I was his friend?’
Still feeling the intoxication of that promissory kiss, Chip said emphatically, ‘No way!’
‘So what do you think’s going on?’
‘Has to be a mistake, doesn’t it?’
‘Like a coincidence, you mean? He hits a ball into the wood just at the same time as a passing sparrow drops an identical ball into Mr Postgate’s swimming pool? You get a lot of trouble with sparrows stealing balls at the Hoo?’
‘No. Sometimes a dog…’
‘A flying dog? Flying pigs more likely, Chip. Come on. What’s the crack? You must have talked it over with friends on the staff. And I dare say you’ve heard some of the members talking about it, too.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
The tone had changed to cautious. He was coming out of his kiss-trance. Time to remind him.
‘Look, Chip, I don’t want to harass you, OK? Only Eloise seemed to think you liked Mr Porphyry enough to want to help him. I know he’d be very grateful. Eloise too. She thinks you’re pretty special. But I can see this bothers you. Look, best I just head on out of here. Tell Eloise I’m sorry she got stung for a Guinness. You like Guinness, Chip? Maybe she’ll give it to you.’
It was hardly fair, but as Merv Golightly was wont to say, fair doesn’t get you rich and it doesn’t get you laid.
Chip said, ‘No, it’s OK. Look, I’d like to help Mr Porphyry, only there’s some of the others who’d get me sent down the road if they knew I’d been talking to you.’
‘Because they wouldn’t want to help Mr Porphyry, you mean? Who’s got it in for him then? You can talk to me, Chip. This is off the record, won’t go no further.’
Even wi
th this reassurance it was clearly going to be hard to get names out of the young man.
‘Everyone likes Mr Porphyry,’ he insisted. ‘He’s very popular. Only some of the members worry about what it might be like if he wasn’t such a nice guy…’
‘Sorry? You mean they’re worried about a personality change?’
‘More like a personnel change, I think,’ said a new voice.
Joe had been aware of the Hole filling up in the last few minutes but hadn’t noticed that one of the new arrivals standing close to their table was Butcher. The background music, which was background like the sound of falling water at Niagara, and the general chatter level had seemed to guarantee protection from eavesdropping, but as Joe knew to his cost, Butcher had the kind of directional hearing that cost you serious money down Tottenham Court Road.
She sat down in the chair vacated by Eloise. Chip looked at her in amazement then at Joe in anger.
Butcher said, ‘It’s OK. I’m Joe’s lawyer.’
‘Yeah?’ Now Chip was seriously alarmed and seriously angry. ‘Mr Sixsmith, you said this would be confidential…’
‘It will be,’ said Butcher. ‘I’m the one who makes sure Joe doesn’t go around shooting his mouth off. You’re Deb Harvey’s nephew, right?’
‘You know Aunt Deb?’
‘I was able to help her out with a problem she had with a credit company.’
‘You’re that lawyer, the one from Bullpat Square,’ said Chip, sounding impressed.
‘The same. Butcher’s the name.’
And butcher’s the game, thought Joe. Chip was mincemeat in her hands.
‘Aunt Deb says you’re great,’ he said.
‘That’s nice. So you were saying that all that worries the members about Mr Porphyry is what happens when he passes on?’
‘Why should that bother anyone?’ demanded Joe, a bit miffed that Butcher had assumed front-line duty without even a beg-pardon.
The Roar of the Butterflies Page 9