The roar of butterflies js-5

by Reginald Hill

  Joe's head was in a whirl. From an objective, professional point of view, his investigation had made great strides forward, but he wished with all his heart he'd somehow managed to catch that early flight to Spain with Mimi.

  Which reminded him. He glanced at his watch and began to rise.

  "Where are you going?" demanded Butcher.

  "The airport, I told you-"

  "Sixsmith, you are unbelievable! Haven't you been listening to me? I've laid it out for you why I think your client's been set up! And if I'm right and this all leads back to Sir Monty bloody Wright, ask yourself who helped him get where he is today. Ratcliffe King, that's who, the man who's fixed it to get you out of the country. And all you can do on hearing this is rush off to the airport to make sure he's not disappointed!"

  Joe said, "Sounds a pretty healthy option to me. In fact, only last night you were telling me that I'd be mad to cross King Rat once I'd made a deal with him."

  "So when have I expressed belief in your sanity? You've got responsibilities to your client here, Joe."

  "Yeah? Well, Mr. King's a client too. His job's urgent. The golf-club thing ain't. I mean, this committee won't be considering Porphyry's case for another couple of weeks, and I'll be back long before then."

  "I'd bet Christian Porphyry's thinking it's a bit more urgent today," said Butcher. "You've not seen the Crier?"

  She produced a copy of the tabloid which appealed to those local readers who found the Bugle too intellectual. Under the headline STORM IN A TEE CUP? was a brief account of the cheating accusations leveled at Porphyry. Joe could almost hear the glee in the last sentences: Only a week ago the engagement was announced (though not in the Crier's classifieds!) of Mr. Porphyry to Tiff, only daughter of Bruce Emerson, proprietor of the South Bedfordshire Bugle. We look forward to following the affair in the Bugle's pages.

  "Shoot," said Joe defiantly. "That's rough, but it doesn't change things. Anyway, looks like you're making a lot more progress than I've managed. You take over, why don't you? Speed you work, you could have it all sorted by the time I get back."

  Butcher banged her tiny fist on her desk, toppling several piles of paper.

  "Bullshit!" she cried. "You're running away, that's what you're doing! Never thought I'd hear myself say this, but there are things you can do far better than me. I'm good at this stuff"-she gave the confusion of papers on her desk a further violent shuffle-"but it's not this stuff that's going to get things sorted, not without a lot more evidence. That's your job, Joe. The dirty nails, hands-on work. You're doing well, you're doing things right, otherwise they wouldn't want to be rid of you. So sit that well-upholstered backside of yours down and tell me what you've got, all of it, and let's try to work out how we can stymie these bastards!"

  Joe, shaken more than he cared to admit by the onslaught, shook his head, as much to clear it as in denial. For once what Butcher was saying seemed to accord with Endo Venera's advice, go with the garbage, meaning in the lawyer's case that this was all he was good for.

  He said. "I gotta get out of here."

  "You're going to Spain then?" she said disbelievingly.

  "Didn't say that. What I mean is, I got to get away from here. From you. Need a bit of time to think. My brain don't work like yours, Butcher. You see things in a tangle, then you see them clear. Me, I need to be picking and unpicking till I work out what I've got."

  He expected another outburst. Instead the little lawyer came round the desk and gave him a hug and her soft-spoken words sounded remarkably like an apology.

  "You're right, Joe. That's your way and it's a good way. For you it's the only way, which means it's the best way. You get it sorted in your mind then give me a ring, OK? I'm sorry I yelled at you."

  This was like Aunt Mirabelle jumping on the bar at the Supporters' Club and leading a chorus of "I'm a-rootin' for Luton," the club song. It was time to get out before she asked him to marry her.

  He said, "That's fine. Didn't notice. Really. I'll be in touch, yeah?"

  He hurried out to the Morris and drove away. His mind was in a turmoil. He knew he had decisions to make and he'd no idea how to set about making them.

  It wasn't till a couple of minutes later he realized he was heading for Rasselas.

  He relaxed behind the wheel and felt his mind clearing like a freshly poured bottle of pils. This was the way it often happened. Somewhere deep inside there was something that made important decisions affecting his well-being, then let him know at its own sweet leisure. Bit like the NHS. King Rat wasn't going to be happy when he found out. Well, that was tough. But lovely little Mimi deserved an explanation.

  After he parked at the tower block he dug her number out of the green folder and punched it in as he went up into the building. The lift was on the seventh floor. He summoned it down as Mimi's voice said, "Hi!" in his ear.

  "Mimi, it's me, Joe," he said. "Look, I'm really sorry, but I'm not going to make it."

  "Surprise!" she said with that gurgling laugh that made a guy feel real good. "Shame. It's lovely here."

  "Listen, I don't want you to get into trouble. I'll ring Mr. King and explain-"

  "No need. I've just had Ratcliffe on the line. Wanted to know why I hadn't told him you were still in Luton."

  "Shoot! I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do-?"

  "Nothing, thanks all the same. He fired me."

  "What? That's terrible! Mimi, I'm-"

  "Hold it there, Joe. It's OK. I've been looking for an easy escape route for a while now and they don't come any easier than getting sacked."

  "But what will you do?" said Joe, still guilt ridden. "I mean, without a job… and what about money…?"

  "Well, first I'll finish my margarita, then I'll do some serious work on my tan. That should take three or four days. Meanwhile I'll get back to the three or four guys who've been dangling tempting job offers in front of me for the past six months and decide if there's anything there I fancy. As for money, well, when I saw you this morning I said to myself, I don't think this guy is serious about coming to Spain. So I took the precaution of paying for my hotel room in advance with the company credit card before the Rat put a stop on it. Oh, and I hit a couple of money machines and got myself a whole hatful of euros too. So I'm fine. Hope you will be too, Joe."

  "Any reason I shouldn't be?"

  "I don't know why Ratcliffe wanted you in Spain, Joe, but I do know he doesn't much care for not getting what he wants. You see Stephen Hardman coming toward you, better turn and run! In fact, maybe a little holiday abroad wouldn't be such a bad idea."

  "I'll think about it. Mimi, something you can maybe help me with. Mr. King used to be in close cahoots with Sir Monty Wright. They got anything going lately?"

  There was a silence long enough to get Joe apologizing again.

  "Look, sorry, shouldn't have asked. Even though he's your ex-employer, I know you can't go mouthing off about your work there…"

  "No, I was just thinking. In fact, I never had any dealings with Wright-Price. No reason to, Ratcliffe was just a non-exec director, nothing hands on. But he has spent a lot of phone time talking to Sir Monty lately, don't know what about. Could be just exchanging recipes. That it, Joe? The ice is melting in my margarita."

  "Yeah. And thanks for being such a sport."

  "No sweat. Like I say, I was ready for fresh fields and pastures new. Take care, Joe."

  "No, hold on," said Joe. He rarely got flashes of inspiration but sometimes a trigger could produce a flash. "Pastures new, I mean New Pastures-you ever hear of an outfit with that name?"

  "Yes. How do you know about them, Joe? It's a land-holding company that Ratcliffe set up a couple of months back."

  "Thanks, Mimi. See you around, maybe."

  "Hope so, Joe. Bye."

  The lift had arrived and Joe had stuck his foot in the door to hold it there. He now stepped inside. As the door closed he saw the swing doors of the main entrance begin to open. His first instinct was to hold the lift f
or the newcomer. Then he saw who it was.

  Jurassic George.

  "Oh shoot!" cried Joe and hit the 7 button. Fortunately though a long way from the smooth swift sweet-smelling elevator in ProtoVision House, the lifts on Rasselas were just as far removed from the mechanically and physically dangerous mobile urinals you found on Hermsprong.

  The door closed. The ascent began. Not even a super athlete could make it up seven flights of stairs as fast as the lift, but Joe still sprinted down the corridor. Once in his flat he locked and bolted the door. The security chain dangled uselessly from the woodwork. Joe grabbed a stout dining chair and wedged it under the handle.

  "There," said Joe. "Let's see you get through that!"

  Breathing deeply he opened the balcony window to get some air. Below him Luton slumbered in the heat. It was good slumbering weather, specially if you were lying beside a pool with some like Mimi…

  Beryl… he corrected guiltily. He meant someone like Beryl…

  In Aunt Mirabelle's strict theology, even a fantasized infidelity deserves punishment, so she might have been unsurprised by what happened next, but Joe was figuratively as well as literally bowled over when he felt himself hit from behind and flung forward against the balcony railing.

  Whoever said lightning never struck twice clearly didn't know Jurassic George!

  For the second time that day Joe found himself staring down at the area of paving seven floors below which was likely to be the last resting place of his scattered brains.

  One part of his mind was thinking, no misnomer calling George lightning, speed he'd got here. The guy couldn't be human!

  But the other and larger part, that devoted to self-interest and survival, was instructing his voice to scream, "George, George, my man, no need for this, I thought we got it all settled, you seen my girl, you seen my Beryl, I got eyes for nobody else, man!"

  In view of his recent lascivious fantasy about Mimi, this wasn't strictly true, but while Jurassic might have superhuman physical powers, not all the hard training in the world could make him telepathic.

  The one improvement on his earlier experience was that this time, rather than being dangled over the balcony, he was folded across the rail on his stomach and he had instinctively taken a vice-like grip of the metal bar. Also his attacker seemed more interested in dragging him back than pushing him over; but as his preferred method of doing this was to heave at Joe's personal parts while simultaneously punching him in the kidneys, it did not appear that his motives were altogether benevolent, and now Joe found himself hanging on to prevent being dumped on the balcony floor rather then being dropped to the entrance paving stones.

  The hand between his legs twisted viciously, and Joe, who'd always envied the ability of the solo tenor in the Boyling Corner Chapel Choir to soar effortlessly toward his top-C's, now found himself hitting notes even a coloratura soprano might have balked at. Just as the agony brought him to the point of fainting, there was some kind of disturbance behind him and suddenly the grip on his testicles relaxed. But this blessed relief seemed likely to be counterproductive. Weakened and barely conscious, he slumped over the rail like a sack of potatoes and hardly registered that gravity was pulling him inexorably down toward the waiting paving stone.

  Too late he recognized his peril. His fingers clawed once more at the balcony railings but he could draw on no strength to get a grip. Then he was falling… falling…

  Then something grasped his legs and dragged him upward and backward and bore him through the balcony door and deposited him on his own sofa.

  He opened his eyes, blinking away the tears that the pain had started there, and as his sight cleared he saw looming over him the terrifying features of Jurassic George.

  Now to the sound range that he'd never expected to reach was added a whimper. He would have declared with some force that whatever else he might be he wasn't the whimpering type, but there was no other word to describe the noise he heard himself make in anticipation of George's renewed assault.

  And now that monstrous face was coming closer, so close that he could feel the hot breath as the boxer uttered words Joe could not understand but which he knew must be his death knell.

  21

  Frozen Broccoli

  In his detective career Joe had formulated many a hypothesis that proved so far from the truth that it would have taken a fully equipped inter-galactic space expedition to traverse the distance between. This time he felt he understood the truth beyond hypothesizing. George had made such a ham-fisted effort at reconciliation with Eloise that he'd provoked her into saying something like, Yeah, that Joe's quite tasty and you're dead right, he really fancies me and I wouldn't mind getting something going there.

  The only problem was, as the sounds issuing from the boxer's mouth stretched into syllables and then joined together to form words, something was going wrong with the script.

  What he seemed to be hearing was, "Hey, Joe, my man, are you OK? Take your time, man. Breathe deep. Here, try to sit up, get your head between your legs, long breaths, that's it, yeah, you keep doing that, I'll get you some water…"

  Then George vanished into the kitchen.

  Persuaded that he was aurally hallucinating, Joe glanced desperately toward the door. What he saw there drained any little strength he had remaining. The frame around the lock was splintered like matchwood… the wooden chair he'd wedged under the handle had snapped in half like a breadstick…

  In any case George was back.

  "Drink this. Hey man, how are your goolies? Thought that bastard was going to pull them right off. My corner man say, anything an ice-pack can't cure, you need surgery, so let's try this."

  Joe found himself looking at a packet of frozen broccoli as, with remarkably delicacy, Jurassic's banana- bunch fingers unfastened his trouser belt, slid down the fly zip and pressed the packet against his crotch.

  After the initial cold shock, it felt great, and as his injured parts stopped demanding ninety-nine percent of his attention, it started getting through to him that either George had a serious schizoid condition, or he wasn't in fact the attacker.

  He gasped, "George… why you here, man?"

  "Came to say I'm sorry," said George. "For this morning, you know… the misunderstanding…"

  "Like when you tried to kill me, you mean?" said Joe.

  "Hey, no, I was never gonna let you go," said the boxer earnestly. "Just give you a fright, shake the truth out of you."

  "And now you know the truth?"

  "Yeah. That Beryl girl, she convinced me. Then when I saw Eloise later at the garage… well, she really bad-mouthed me for even dreaming she'd pick you over me-no disrespect meant, man-"

  "None taken," Joe assured him, feeling better by the second. "So things are OK between you two?"

  "Just great!" said George, his face lighting up. "But she says I gotta apologize to you, which I want to do anyways. So I come round here and there you are getting into the lift, only you don't wait. So I come up after you and I reach your door and I hear this noise of yelling inside. First, I think maybe you and your girl are having a domestic, then you start screaming and I know it ain't no family row. So I push open the door and there's you hanging over the balcony and this guy pummeling you and trying to pull your goolies off. So I give him a tap and he hits the deck, and I'm just going to make sure he don't get up again when I notice you're slipping away. So I've got to grab you and meanwhile the guy has got to his feet and hightailed it out of the door. Sorry about that, Joe, should have hit him harder, then he'd still be here for you to give him a kicking."

  "George, don't be sorry, you made the right decision and I'm truly grateful."

  "That's OK. You must be really burning up, this pack's beginning to thaw. Think I saw some prawns in the freezer, how about I try them?"

  It occurred to Joe that lovely little Mimi, who'd jumped to the wrong conclusions this morning when she burst in on him standing starkers over a nurse with her legs in the air, would really ma
rk him down as a Number One weirdo if she could see him now having his crotch massaged by Jurassic with a packet of broccoli.

  He took control of the pack himself and said, "No thanks, George, this will be fine."

  But the thought of Mimi brought to mind the conversation he'd just had with her on the phone. King Rat knew he hadn't gone to Spain. Didn't need a Sudoku whiz to work out it must have been Colin Rowe who told him.

  And what was King's likely reaction…?

  "George, my friend, this guy trying to kill me, you get a good look at him?"

  "Yeah. Didn't know him, but I'll know him again. Real mean-looking bastard, got them hard eyes, know what I'm saying? Like some guys in the ring who try to stare you down while the ref's doing the intro. Me, I let my fists do the fighting. What you been doing, Joe, to get him so pissed with you?"

  "Don't think it was him that was pissed," said Joe.

  Had to be Hardman, the Rat's personal minder, who'd been sent round to take care of him. Not kill him, which was a small comfort. Getting knocked about a bit was regarded as an occupational hazard for a PI. Indeed, Joe had heard Sergeant Chivers, his arch-enemy in Luton's Finest, opine that a day in which Sixsmith got a good kicking could never be said to have been altogether wasted. But not even Chivers would have been able to turn a blind eye if Joe's body had been found splattered on the paving stones under the Rasselas tower. No, Hardman's mission had been to put him out of the picture by terrifying and disabling him.

  Which he'd got at least half right. But what he'd also done was confirm that King Rat was definitely involved, and the only thing that got the Rat's nose twitching was the ripe smell of filthy lucre. Lots and lots of it. A multi-million deal. Which, together with Mimi's hint that something big was brewing between ProtoVision and the supermarket chain, put Wright-Price in the frame, dead center.

  It was beginning to look like Butcher's obsessive belief that Sir Monty was involved was more than just political prejudice.