Joe Sixsmith: The Roar Of The Butterflies Part 15

'You did?' said Joe, feeling the not unfamiliar feeling that another promising theory might be on the point of crumbling. 'When was that?'

'I don't know, week back maybe.'

'Morning, night? Weekend, weekday? Before the heatwave started, after the heatwave started?'

'Don't remember,' said the boy with that indifference to temporal matters which is one of the blessings of childhood and one of the penalties of age.

'So where was this?' said Joe, moving from time to place.

It was a clever move. Suddenly he got precision.

'Coming down Plunkett Avenue from the bypa.s.s about half a mile away,' said Liam. 'I'd been round at my mate Trent's ...'

'So this was evening?' interrupted Joe.

'That's right, late on, still light but fading ...'

'So nine-ish?' said Joe.

'Bit later. Mum got real ratty, says I should be in by nine on a school day. Anyway, this silver Audi goes by and there's Steve in the pa.s.senger seat. I gave him a wave, thought I might get a lift, but he didn't see me.'

'So did you mention this next time you saw him?'

Liam's face went slack, which in another age might have been taken as evidence of incipient idiocy, but which Joe recognized as signifying the modern teenager's entry into deep-thought mode.

'No,' said the boy finally. 'Didn't mention it 'cos I didn't see him again.'

'You mean ...?'

'Yeah. He was up in his room when I got back, and next morning must have been the day he took off. What do you think I should do about the picture?'

'Best keep it safe,' advised Joe. 'You a Chelsea fan?'

'No,' said the boy indignantly. 'Luton!'

'Good lad!' said Joe. 'Could be a cracking season ahead, specially with Sir Monty coming up with the cash to sign the Croat kid.'

'Mebbe,' said the boy with that natural scepticism which marks the true Luton supporter. 'Tell you next April.'

Joe's musically attuned ear told him the dining-room duet was reaching its climax. It didn't sound as if Mrs Tremayne was going to return in a better temper than when she left, which was an excellent reason to be on his way. He'd got all he was going to get here, though as usual he'd no idea whether it was worth the effort.

'Mebbe see you at the ground some time, Liam,' he said. 'Say goodbye to your mum for me.'

He made his way out, glancing at his watch. Still a couple of hours before he needed to think about getting to the airport. His visit to Lock-keeper's Lane had proved more productive than he'd antic.i.p.ated, but he refused to let himself get carried away, mainly because his limited imaginative powers couldn't picture any destination he might be carried away to.

But he did know where it was worth looking for a silver Audi 8 Quattro.

He paused at the mini-roundabout at the top end of Lock-keeper's Lane to work out the best route to the Royal Hoo.

Straight across was going to be quickest, he decided.

And it was little surprise to discover after he'd negotiated the roundabout that he was driving along Plunkett Avenue.

A Patch of Oil.

It occurred to Joe as he was parking his car that on this occasion he didn't have the protective cover of an invitation from the YFG.

On the other hand, no one here was going to know that, he told himself, and in any case he wanted to keep a low profile.

He checked his gear. He was dressed for his Spanish trip. If it had been a holiday he would definitely have travelled in the parrot shorts, but as it was business he'd opted for canary yellow chinos, green T-shirt and blue deck shoes. Nothing there to cause offence in a place where plus-fours and tartan trews were regarded as sharp gear.

It was still early, but golfers must like an early start for there was already an impressive array of high-price metal on display in the car park, including two silver Audi 8's.

The first he looked at was the 3-litre diesel model.

'Some poor sod on the bread-line,' mused Joe, making for the other.

This was the big boy, the Quattro 6. He strolled round as if admiring the lines. No sign of Waring's belongings inside. Must be still in the boot. He noticed that the tyre had picked up some mud which was quite a feat round Luton during the heatwave. Except of course he was in Royal Hoo mini-climate land where you could probably summon the steward and order mud.

'Mr Sixsmith.'

He looked up to see Chip Harvey approaching carrying what looked like a portable mummy case.

The young man didn't look happy to see him. It was understandable. Last time they'd met here, he'd been the YFG's guest and a well-heeled prospective member. After last night he was just old Joe, the snoop.

He said, 'Hi, Chip. How're you doing? Have a good time last night?'

'OK,' grunted Chip, which didn't come across as the modest disclaimer of a guy who had raved it up round the clubs before being taken to the bosom and wherever else he fancied of the gorgeous Eloise. Maybe things hadn't panned out.

He said, 'Just admiring the Audi. Nice wheels.'

'OK if you like that sort of thing,' said Chip with the disdain of youth to whom Vorsprung durch Technik means dull in any language.

Then to Joe's surprise he reached down and started to unlock the boot.

'Hey, this isn't your machine, is it?'

'Don't be silly,' said Chip as the lid slowly rose allowing Joe to see that he'd got another guess completely wrong. The boot was empty except for a piece of dark blue carpeting of a quality Joe couldn't afford for his living room.

Chip's sharp young eyes spotted an imperfection that Joe had missed.

He reached in and touched the carpet with his index finger. He raised it to reveal the tip was oily. Frowning, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his finger and then rubbed the linen square vigorously over the offending piece of carpet. It took a lot of rubbing till he was satisfied, by which time his handkerchief was ruined.

'You do car-valeting too?' enquired Joe.

'These things cost too much to get them dirty,' said Chip, laying the mummy case gently inside. It was made of a rich black leather with a zipper and some strap buckles that looked like they could be real old gold.

'Just what is that thing?' asked Joe.

'It's a travel case,' said Chip. 'You put your golf bag and clubs in it so they don't get knocked around when you're flying abroad.'

'Shoot! You mean it's going to go in the plane's hold and you're worried about a bit of oil?'

'I'm not worried, but Mr Rowe might be.'

'That would be Colin Rowe?'

'That's right. It's just been delivered and he asked me to put it in his car. He plays abroad a lot so he needs his clubs well protected.'

'What happened to his last one?'

'Got ripped up coming back from Portugal the other week.'

'There you go! Way those handlers throw things around, he'd be better off using a couple of bin-liners. I mean, this thing looks more pricey than most of what I take on holiday!'

'You'd be amazed. Special order, we don't keep these babies in stock. But Mr Rowe wanted an exact replacement. Insurance paying, why not?'

'Suppose. Mr Rowe, is he one of the good guys or one of those who talk like you're not there?'

He'd moved off the acceptable ground of talking about how rich and important the Hoo members were.

Chip slammed the lid down, and turned to face Joe.

'Mr Sixsmith ...'

'Joe ...'

'Mr Sixsmith. I really don't want to talk to you about what goes on at the club.'

'No? What's happened since last night?'

'I didn't want to talk to you last night either, but at least we were in a pub. Here, well, this is where I work ...'

'And this is where you're going to get the money to put you on this tour thing, right?'

'That's right. The members are being very generous, giving me this chance to show what I can do ...'

'With Chris Porphyry leading the way, wasn't that what you said?'

'Yes, maybe. But there are plenty of others and I need to think about them too. If you're going to make it to the top in this business, you've really got to put your game first.'

Joe's areas of expertise were not all that extensive, ranging from the workings of the internal combustion engine to the history of Luton FC with not a great deal in between, but one thing he had learnt by bitter experience was you had to be very careful what you said to a woman, 'specially one who was willing to give Jura.s.sic George his marching orders when his training schedule got in the way of her raving schedule. He'd guessed earlier things hadn't gone too well for Chip last night. Now he thought he knew why.

'Didn't say this to Eloise, did you?' he asked.

'You been talking to her?' said Chip suspiciously.

'No need. But I'd guess you went on about how p.i.s.sed you were at her inviting me along to the Hole. And she said she didn't take kindly to being told what she could and couldn't do, and what was your beef? And then you told her about the support package and you probably rattled on about your career in golf being the most important thing in your life, and you didn't want it messed up. And she said in that case better you headed off home and got your head down before nine o'clock so you could be sure of waking at the crack to get out and practise.'

'You have been talking to her!' declared Chip indignantly. 'I don't suppose she said she was sorry?'

'As in, sorry I was wrong?' said Joe. 'Chip, I don't know much about handling women, but two things I do know. One is, never tell them anything is more important than the way you feel about them. The other is, don't matter they're so much in the wrong they could go to jail for it, there's always part of them that knows they're absolutely in the right.'

'Well, thanks for that good advice,' said Chip, moving away. 'But me and Eloise are history now, so it doesn't make much difference.'

'Believe me, you're well out of it, Chip,' said Joe, recalling with a shudder Jura.s.sic's subtle way with a rival.

He'd fallen into step with Chip, if taking one and a half steps to the youngster's one could so be termed. He got a distinct impression the boy was trying to shake him off.

Breathing hard, he said, 'When you were talking to Mr Rowe just now, he say anything about your career?'

'Well, yes, he did,' admitted Chip. 'He said there'd been a lot of interest in the support package and, all being well, as long as I didn't blot my copy-book and knew who my real friends were, I had a bright future.'

Yes, thought Joe. And then he tossed you the key to his super-luxe wheels and told you to run along and put his new highly expensive travel case in the boot. It's called putting you in your place.

Joe had experienced plenty of being put in his place, which he paid little heed to on the grounds that he found his place so very much to his liking that he had no notion of trying to get out of it. Also it was often very helpful to a PI for folk to be so certain you were in your place they didn't watch you as close as they should have done.

But to a young man with ambitions, being sent off to put the bag in the Audi was like saying, this is where you are and that's where you'd like to be, so keep your nose clean else you'll never take even the first step.

Talking of steps, the boy's had now lengthened so much he was several yards ahead. The distance didn't stop Colin Rowe glowering at him as he came out of the pro's shop and spotted the approaching procession.

Chip reached him and said in a loud voice, 'Case is in your car, Mr Rowe. Here are your keys.'

'Thanks, Chip,' said Rowe.

The youngster went into the shop. Joe approached, trying to give the impression of a man who just happened to be walking in that direction.

Rowe, now smiling broadly, said, 'Joe, nice to see you again. Taking another look at us, are you? Wise man. Second impressions are always best, that's what we say in the estate business.'

'Meeting Chris for coffee,' said Joe, following his practice of sticking to a simple lie. 'Thought I'd get here early and take a stroll around, if that's OK?'

'Of course it is. Take a good look. You've certainly given yourself plenty of time. I like a man who's thorough. Did Chris show you our changing rooms? Just over here.'

He led the way to the main building through a door marked Members Only.

Joe's experience of changing rooms was limited to what was on offer in the world of Sunday-morning football, which at the luxury end amounted to little more than a hut with wooden benches, four-inch nails driven into the wall to act as coat-pegs, and a couple of luke-warm showers whose thin trickle somehow managed to spread more water over the muddy floor than over your muddy body.

This was something else. The benches were upholstered in dark green leather, the walls were lined with richly glowing mahogany lockers each bearing a gilded name in cursive script, while the floor was covered with a carpet even more expensive than the one in the Audi's boot, and the only mud in sight was that carried in on Rowe's handmade shoes.

'Showers through there,' said Rowe, pointing.

Joe advanced through a small antechamber lined with shelves bearing bars of soap, bottles of shower gel and hair shampoo, and gleaming alps of snow-white bath sheets. Beyond this there must have been a dozen or more cubicles, each as s.p.a.cious as his own bathroom back on Ra.s.selas.