The Roar of the Butterflies

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Because the Porphyry family retains a controlling share in the Hoo and the heir apparent is a cousin who lives in a Buddhist monastery in Thailand.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Chip. ‘I heard Mr Surtees say that if he inherited, we’d all be wearing yellow robes and eating noodles.’

  Joe couldn’t see how this could have anything to do with anything.

  Butcher frowned at the mention of Surtees. She thinks it’s lawyers like him who give lawyers a bad name, thought Joe. She ought to get out more!

  She gave him a glare as if he’d spoken the thought out loud, then said, ‘So it’s in everyone’s interest to keep Mr Porphyry happy, hope he gets married soon and has a kid he can bring up to take care of the club like he does?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Chip. ‘Everyone was really chuffed when he got engaged to Miss Emerson. She’s really nice.’

  ‘Is she a member?’ asked Joe.

  Chip looked at him as if he’d said something stupid.

  Butcher said, ‘It’s an all-boys outfit, Sixsmith. Ladies can be guests, but there’s no way they can join.’

  ‘Is that legal?’ asked Joe. ‘Thought there were laws against it nowadays.’

  If he thought his indignation would win him house-points from Butcher, he was disappointed.

  She said, ‘Before you get on your white horse, Sixsmith, ask yourself when was the last time Sir Monty dug into his piggy bank to buy a female player for your beloved Luton.’

  ‘But women don’t play in the League,’ said Joe.

  ‘Exactly. Chip, when the members got wind of this business about the ball in the swimming pool, what did most of them reckon would happen?’

  ‘Well, nothing, I suppose. I mean, it was something to talk about, but it was so daft really, it being Mr Porphyry and everything, I think they just thought things would settle down and it would go away. You see, you need someone to make a complaint, which in this case would most likely have been Mr Cockernhoe who lost the match concerned. It was in the scratch knock-out competition for the Vardon Cup – that’s the club’s top award, everyone wants their name on that. But I heard Mr Cockernhoe tell Mr Latimer that he certainly wasn’t going to take any action.’

  ‘Why would he tell this Mr Latimer in particular?’

  ‘He’s Chair of Rules, that’s the committee that deals with disputes and discipline and such.’

  ‘So someone complained. Any idea who?’

  ‘No,’ said Chip. He looked so relieved he didn’t know that Joe felt guilty at what they were doing to him.

  ‘One more thing, Chip,’ said Butcher. ‘Mr Porphyry’s golf balls have a special identifying mark, right?’

  I told you that already, thought Joe.

  ‘Yes. They’re stamped with a blue seahorse. Something to do with his family coat of arms.’

  ‘And who does the stamping?’

  ‘Me, usually. We keep the stamp in the pro’s workshop. A lot of the members have their own identifying stamps. Initials mostly.’

  ‘Could anyone get at the seahorse stamp?’

  ‘Sure. It wouldn’t be hard. The members are in and out of there all the time, getting adjustments made to their clubs, that sort of thing.’

  I should have asked that, thought Joe. Which didn’t stop him from feeling pissed when Butcher said, ‘Thanks, Chip. That’s us done here, I think, Joe.’

  How come she’s acting like she’s in charge and I’m one of her volunteers she can boss around? Joe asked himself angrily. What he needed was another line of questioning she hadn’t thought of to win back the initiative. He looked around in search of inspiration and saw the crowd between their table and the bar part like the Red Sea to permit the passage of Eloise carrying a tray with a pint of Guinness and two other glasses containing the kind of frothy bluey-green liquid that turned you into something in a fantasy movie.

  Eloise flowed towards them in a ripple of bright flesh it was hard to take your eyes off, yet Joe found his gaze refocusing behind her. There, leaning back against the section of the bar momentarily revealed by the parting of the throng, was Stephen Hardman, King Rat’s minder.

  Even at this distance Joe registered the touch of those chilly eyes. Then the crowd closed back in and he vanished.

  ‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ said Eloise. ‘The lad behind the bar’s a bit out of it tonight. Wanted to know if I wanted a frosted kumquat in the Guinness to sweeten it up. Hello. You Joe’s secretary?’

  This to Butcher so delighted Joe that he forgot about Hardman and could almost have forgiven Eloise if he’d had to fish a kumquat out of his drink.

  ‘His minder, actually,’ said Butcher. ‘Here, have my seat. We’re just going.’

  ‘But you haven’t had a drink yet,’ said Joe.

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Joe, taking a long pull at the black nectar.

  ‘Please yourself, but I have an appointment with a landlady who believes that the Law permits her to put up to ten asylum seekers in each of her four small rooms and claim a full B-and-B allowance for each.’

  The word landlady triggered a memory in Joe. Nothing significant, but at least it suggested a question he could ask to regain control from Butcher.

  He said, ‘Chip, in the car park we were talking about Steve Waring, remember?’

  ‘Don’t recall,’ said Chip surlily.

  Butcher had stopped looking impatient, Joe noticed. But having got her interest, he couldn’t see any way to keep it.

  ‘Yes, we were,’ he said. ‘So when was he last seen at the club?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Chip said. ‘Last Tuesday maybe.’

  ‘Same day as Mr Porphyry played Mr Cockernhoe in that cup thing?’

  ‘The Vardon. Yeah, could be.’

  Well, that was a sort of connection; the sort that didn’t actually lead anywhere, but it would have to do.

  Joe finished his Guinness and stood up. It was worth it just to see the relief on Chip’s face.

  ‘Thanks, Chip,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your night out, you two.’

  He followed Butcher out of the now very crowded bar. As they headed for the car park, a figure standing by a Chrysler Cruiser caught his eye. He was sure it was the same skinny twitchy guy he’d seen outside Ram Ray’s and, if it was, he was still on the phone!

  Maybe I should go over there and have a word, thought Joe. But before he could act, he heard his name called and turned to see Eloise coming after him.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I forget something?’

  ‘No. It’s just that Chip seems really worried about talking with you. Looks to be weighing heavy on him and tonight I don’t want anything weighing heavier on him than me. So I just wanted to remind you, Joe, that you promised this would be absolutely confidential.’

  She was looking at him with the look she’d fixed on Scrapyard Eddie.

  He said, ‘On Aunt Mirabelle’s grave, I swear.’

  Though she wasn’t dead, invoking Mirabelle in an oath beat bibles.

  ‘OK,’ said Eloise. ‘And her?’

  She looked towards Butcher, who was watching them with an air of tight-stretched patience.

  ‘She’s a lawyer,’ said Joe. ‘She doesn’t talk unless you insert gold sovereigns into her mouth.’

  This dreadful slander seemed to convince the young woman.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Now I’ll go and take the weight off Chip’s mind. Thanks, Joe.’

  She leaned forward. She’s going to kiss me again! he thought in amazement. She did, and it was even better than before. This time she leaned right into it and he felt the soft warmth of that scantily dressed body mould itself around him like a wheatgerm poultice as her soft full lips pressed against his. Then she pulled away and vanished back into the depths of the Hole.

  ‘Sixsmith, can we go now?’ said Butcher. ‘Only watch how you walk or you’ll trip over your tongue.’

  Legal Advice

  Butcher sat with Joe in the Morris and listened as h
e described his audience with King Rat.

  He showed her the contents of the green folder. She looked at the photo of Brian Tomlin, his target, and said, ‘I know him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s the kind of wheeler-dealer you wear belt and braces with, and you can still end up bare-ass.’

  ‘So this could be a genuine job, not just a way of getting me out of the way?’ said Joe.

  Butcher sighed.

  ‘I’ve got a problem with both parts of that question, Sixsmith.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What I mean is, why would someone like King give you a genuine job? On the other hand, why would he be worried enough about you to want to get you out of the way?’

  There was an insult in here somewhere, maybe two, in which case could be they cancelled each other out.

  He binned it and said, ‘If this guy Tomlin’s such a chancer, why would King dream of trusting him anyway?’

  She opened her mouth to reply, closed it, opened it again and said, ‘Never thought I’d have to say this, but that’s a good point. Tomlin’s the kind of pond-life King might use to do something dodgy; he’s certainly not the kind he’s ever going to get close to doing a deal with. All right, let’s see how this runs. King wants you out of the way, he knows Tomlin’s in Spain, holiday, whatever, so he uses him as an excuse to hire you for a surveillance job.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s only for three days. I’d be back well before the committee meeting,’ said Joe, finding himself surprisingly reluctant to admit that the job was just a ruse. ‘Also he’s sending his PA to help me and he wouldn’t do that if he just wanted to get me out of the way, would he?’

  As so often in arguments with Butcher, all his get-round-that clincher won him was a long sigh full of intellectual pain.

  ‘She’s there to watch you, stupid,’ said Butcher. ‘He needs to be sure you’ve really gone.’

  Joe shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s OK, I don’t see her being in on anything dodgy. And she was so lit up at the thought of doing some detective work.’

  Butcher laughed.

  ‘What is it with you and nubile young women, Joe? Doesn’t matter if she’s in on it or not anyway. You do something weird like not turning up at the airport, or heading back home from Spain, and she’ll report straight back to King, won’t she? She’s his PA, after all. But you’re right about the time thing. If he wanted you out of the way till after the committee pinned the Scarlet Letter or whatever they do on Porphyry, why not hire you for a fortnight?’

  ‘I’d definitely not have agreed to that much,’ said Joe stoutly.

  ‘Not even with all that big money being wafted under your nose?’ laughed Butcher. ‘Pull the other one. Now, this fellow Waring you mentioned. What’s all that about?’

  Joe told her.

  ‘So, what’s become of Waring?’ she said in that amused tone the educated classes use when they’re saying something clever they reckon you probably won’t understand. ‘You say Porphyry seemed particularly interested in him. That why you felt his disappearance might be relevant?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Joe, reasoning that anything was better than admitting his only reason for bringing the vanishing greensman up was because Butcher had asked all the obvious questions. ‘But it looks like a red herring.’

  ‘Don’t undersell yourself,’ said Butcher. ‘You might in your inimitable way have stumbled on something. You see, I think I mentioned to you earlier I once acted in a case for an ex-employee of the Porphyry estate. Her name was Sally Waring. She had a teenage son.’

  ‘So that could explain Chris’s interest. Son of an old employee, give him a hand-up.’

  ‘Your belief in the philanthropic impulses of the ruling classes is touching, Sixsmith. In my experience, the nearest they get to giving anyone a hand-up is their hands up their maids’ skirts. Good Lord, I wonder – could this lad Steve be Porphyry’s child?’

  ‘Shoot, Butcher, you do get carried away on them socialist principles of yours,’ said Joe angrily. ‘Chris would only have been a kid himself when this Waring boy was born.’

  ‘Very precocious, the upper classes,’ said Butcher. ‘OK, how about his father? Steve could be his half brother.’

  ‘Talking through your wig, Butcher,’ said Joe. ‘Anyway, don’t matter whose brother this guy Waring is, can’t see how him taking off has any connection with my case.’

  Butcher might at this point have justly pointed out that it was Joe who’d started the speculation flowing in the first place. Instead she said, ‘All right, Joe. But relationship apart, there is one very obvious reason why Porphyry might not want anyone to show too much interest in looking for Waring.’

  Joe said, ‘What reason?’

  Butcher shook her head sorrowfully and said, ‘I don’t know how it is with detectives, Joe, but a good lawyer never discounts any possibility. It’s the only way you can be prepared for whatever the opposition may throw at you.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning it could be that Waring, going about his business near the sixteenth fairway, observed Mr Porphyry take a ball out of his pocket and set it down in a good lie at the edge of the wood. When Porphyry realized he’d been observed, he suggested to Waring that he might care to take a long, well-paid holiday far, far away. Of course, at that moment he would not realize that even as he spoke his Nemesis, Jimmy Postgate, was fishing his ball out of the pool.’

  It took Joe a few seconds to pick the meaning out of this verbiage.

  ‘You mean, Chris really did cheat? No way! No way!’

  ‘Your belief is touching,’ said Butcher. ‘Reminds me of all the times I’ve heard devoted mothers stand up in court and assure the jury that there is no way their beloved sons would commit assault or burglary or murder.’

  ‘I’m not his mother,’ said Joe. ‘Anyway, if he’s guilty, why would he hire me? And why would King Rat try to get me out of the way?’

  ‘I’m working on that,’ said Butcher. ‘I’ve been trying to find out more about the set-up at the Royal Hoo. If they’d gone public, it would be easy, but as it’s a private company, there’s a problem with getting hold of the details.’

  ‘Why don’t I ask Chris Porphyry?’ said Joe.

  Butcher looked at him for a moment then said in wonderment, ‘There you go again. Just when I’m starting to feel that perhaps I’ve got it all wrong and that looking at you as an investigator, what we see is in fact what we get, out pops an idea so obvious that a fine-tuned legal intellect like mine has overlooked it. Yes, why don’t you ask him. Now, I’ve got work to do, Sixsmith. Enjoy Spain.’

  Joe had put Spain to the back of his mind, which was an area of the Sixsmith intellect so crowded that a Health and Safety inspector would have condemned it out of hand. All kinds of stuff got dumped there and much of it was never reclaimed. But some decision times were not permanently postponable.

  ‘You think I should go, Butcher?’ he said through the open door.

  ‘Didn’t you tell King you’d take the job?’

  ‘I suppose. But if it’s just a trick to get shot of me…’

  ‘You got any evidence of that, Sixsmith?’

  ‘No. Was hoping you’d come up with something,’ he said sadly.

  ‘You were? I’m touched. But I haven’t. And as your legal adviser I have to say that a verbal contract in the presence of a witness is binding. And in Ratcliffe King’s case, the binding’s done with piano wire. So my advice is, go. Don’t pay me now, I’ll send you a bill.’

  She began to walk away.

  ‘I bet you will, too. Thanks a bunch,’ yelled Joe after her.

  He started up the Morris. He had a lot to think about, but as he left the car park he didn’t forget to check in the mirror to see if there was any sign of the Cruiser and its twitchy owner. There wasn’t.

  One less thing to worry about, thought Joe.

  But it still left plenty.

  What’s Become of W
aring?

  Back in his flat he shouted hello to Whitey but got no response. It didn’t surprise him. During this hot weather the cat spent most of the day sleeping, only rousing himself during the cool of the evening to sally forth and check on his empire. As the flat was on the seventh floor, sentimental visitors sometimes opined it was a long way for a little cat to have to make his way down all those stairs and back up again. Long and dangerous, some of them said.

  But if the visitors visited often enough, almost certainly a day would come when, as they got into the lift downstairs, they would find themselves joined by Whitey, who would then ride up to the seventh with them.

  ‘But we never see him going down with us,’ a visitor might occasionally say.

  ‘Going down he don’t use the lift,’ Joe would reply.

  He took it in his stride now, but the first time he’d seen Whitey squeeze through the railings of the tiny balcony and vanish from sight, he’d almost died of shock. He’d rushed to the rail and peered over, expecting to see a splatter of fur and flesh on the pavement below. Instead he’d glimpsed a little white rump moving rapidly down the wall from balcony to balcony till it reached the ground. At a pinch, Whitey could make it back up by the same route, but when it came to energy conservation, he was way ahead of the Greens.

  Joe checked the time. Eight forty, still early enough to wander round to Beryl’s flat and suggest they share a cooling takeaway. Early enough, that is, if you weren’t being picked up to go to the airport at five o’clock tomorrow morning.

  What should he do? Ring Porphyry and tell him he’d done all he could for him and would be refunding his money? Or ring Mimi and tell her to tell her boss something had come up and he wouldn’t be able to take the job after all.

  But that would make him sound really unreliable and he guessed King Rat’s dissatisfaction could blacklist parts of the Sixsmith Agency other complainants couldn’t reach.

  In any case, hadn’t the fact that this Spanish job was only for three days made even Butcher dilute her doubt of King Rat’s motives?

  So he’d go. It gave him the excuse he needed to ring Beryl.