Butcher's interpretation would be sharp, incisive, intellectually rigorous, and indelibly marked with her law training on the one hand and her political philosophy on the other.
Merv Golightly's response would be direct and pragmatic, almost you might say simplistic, and marked with a taxi driver's cynicism about the purity of human motives which had left him so ready to believe the worst that it tended to be the first thing he looked for.
Beryl Boddington, on the other hand, was the personification of common sense. Her job as a nurse had given her the ability to recognize when someone was terrified either because of what their body was doing to them or what they thought their doctor might be about to do to them, and the capacity to deal with this. In all other areas she tended to see what was clear and say what was obvious, though in Joe's case the clarity and the obviousness often only became apparent after she'd pointed them out to him.
It was Beryl he needed to talk to.
He headed back to Rasselas and took the lift up to her floor.
After ringing her bell twice he began to think she must be out. Then the door opened on the security chain and she peered through the crack at him.
"Joe, what do you want?"
"Hi, Beryl," he said. "Can I come in and have a talk?"
The eye he could see regarded him dubiously, then she said, "I suppose."
When he got into the flat he saw why she'd taken so long. Nurses work odd hours and catch their sleep when they can. His detective expertise put together the clues of her mussed-up hair, the dressing gown she was wearing and the fact she kept on yawning and arrived at the conclusion that she must have not long before arrived home from her shift and he'd woken her up.
Normally he would have been full of apology, but his sense of urgency was such that he just plunked himself down on a chair and started filling her in on what had happened since their last encounter early that morning.
She stretched out on the sofa opposite him. The dressing gown had fallen open above her knees revealing enough leg to have set Joe's blood bubbling through his veins at a dizzying speed normally, but today he had other concerns, or maybe the damage Hardman had done to his nether region had been more serious than he'd realized.
He went on talking, but not even his sense of urgency or his possible injury could prevent him registering when the dressing gown slipped down her left shoulder revealing the upper curve of her full and darkly smooth breast.
But that wasn't what he'd come here in hope of today. In any case, having forced his way in more or less and woken her from sleep after her hard labors, it would be unmannerly to try to take advantage. And besides, Beryl was a woman well able to take care of herself.
So he carried on and it wasn't until she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular and her grip slackened altogether on her dressing gown, letting it fall apart to reveal beyond all doubt that she was quite naked underneath it, that his sense of professional urgency diminished at the same rate as his feeling of incapacity, and he began to lose the thread of his talk and eventually stuttered to silence.
It was Beryl who broke it.
"Well," she said in a low husky voice, "you just gonna look, or are you gonna do something about it?"
It occurred to Joe to wonder as he approached the high point of doing something about it whether he would have got Beryl into bed if his reaction to getting her out of it had been grovelling apology and averted eyes, rather than apparent indifference to her deshabille. Perhaps inadvertently he'd hit upon the perfect scoring technique! But he was far too clever to even dream of suggesting this and in any case as he spiraled toward the aforementioned high point, all his expressive baritone could produce as counterpoint to her coloratura trills was an increasingly atonal series of rumbling, roaring, profundo groans. Finally there was silence. They rolled over so that they lay side by side, face to face. And Beryl said, "So now we've established what's important, what was it you wanted to tell me?" He told her everything, in order and in detail, and she never interrupted once, which roused in him the suspicion that he'd bored her to sleep. But when he raised his head so that he could see her face clearly, her eyes were wide open and she was looking at him so lovingly he would have been happy to forget his professional responsibilities for a second time. She said, "This Christian, he's a lucky guy to have someone like you working for him, Joe." "You reckon?" said Joe, his heart ready to burst with pride at getting praise from this most precious of sources. "I do," she said, then spoiled things by adding, "Not that you've been able to help him, of course." "Eh?" "He hired you to prove he didn't cheat. Can you prove it?" "No, but I can show what's really going on here…" "Can you, Joe? Have you got one tiny little bit of hard evidence to back up this theory?" "Well, no, but I've got lots of circumstantial… quite a lot anyway… some…" "Yeah. So you've got nothing to prove Chris is innocent and even less to prove there's some complicated plot going on. Right?" "Right," he admitted glumly. Here was where he'd been able to get by himself. On the one hand (which was caressing her left buttock), it was disappointing that Beryl's commonsense and clear vision wasn't going to take him any further. On the other hand (which was cupping her right breast), no way the visit had been wasted.
"Joe, you forget about that for the time being," she commanded. "And don't look so downhearted. What you got to ask yourself is this. If you're getting nowhere with proving the cheating was a set-up, why are they so keen to get you off the job? I mean, why not just let you go bumbling around in full view of everyone so they can say, Look at how Christian Porphyry even smuggled a private detective into the club to try to find a way out of his trouble, but what did he come up with? Nothing! No. Trying to bounce you off the case one way or another was a bad move, an unnecessary move, but they still did it. So you gotta ask, Why?"
"I'm asking, I'm asking," said Joe. "What do you think I'm doing here?"
"Don't know what you call it, but you did it well enough for me to wonder where you're getting the practice. Listen, Joe, it's obvious. You go to the Hoo to meet Christian. Those three guys-what did you call them…?"
"The Bermuda Triangle."
"Right. The Triangle's waiting for you. They chat you up, check you out, probably decide you're no problem…"
"Hold on. How did they know I was coming?"
"Sir Monty," she said in exasperation. "You said Merv was shooting his mouth off at the Supporters', right? And Sir Monty took an interest. Don't matter if he knows the cheating is a set-up or not, he'd be straight on the phone to King Rat asking, What's going off here? This going to make any difference to our deal? The Rat says, No way. Be still. I'll sort it, and gets on to this Latimer guy and warns him to look out for you. Not that you were going to be hard to spot. But Porphyry might have got away with it if it hadn't been for Merv's mouth. I mean, no one's going to think Christian's so stupid as to hire a black PI who knows nothing about golf to go undercover at the Hoo!" She laughed so heartily at the notion that her breast joggled interestingly beneath his hand. But he forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying. "So you have an iced coffee with them, and they have a bit of a laugh with you. Then you go on a walkabout with Chris. You visit the guy with the pool…" "Jimmy Postgate." "No trouble there. Either he knows nothing or they've got him all tied up." Joe shook his head. "Knows nothing, I'd say," he said. "That's what makes the case so strong. He's such a big admirer of Chris, for him to give evidence against him is a real big strike." "Whatever. So nothing here to make them worry. But there was something else during your visit, wasn't there?" "Was there?" "Yes, you told me!" she cried in exasperation. "You talked to this greenkeeper, Davie." "Chris did most of the talking," said Joe. "Yes, and what about? He was asking about the lad who'd gone missing, Steve Waring, right? Then you say when you got back on the terrace, Christian actually mentioned him to one of the Triangle…" "Rowe, yeah, he's in charge of the Greens Committee or something." "Never mind that stuff. Did you say anything about him then?" "Might have done. Just protecting my cove
r."
"Cover!" She snorted. "Then while Chip, the assistant pro, changed your wheel, you talked to him too about Waring, right?"
"Just passing the time," said Joe.
"Yeah, and someone probably passed the time with Chip after you'd gone and heard what you'd been saying and reminded the boy he should be discreet when talking about club matters with non-members."
Joe nodded and said, "Rowe came into the car park to make a call from his car phone while Chip was changing the wheel. Went off with him later. That could explain why Chip got so uptight with Eloise about me coming to the Hole."
"Good! You do have a brain as well as… other things. So someone, probably this Rowe, passed all this on to King Rat and he thought, This guy's a no-hoper but better not to take chances, let's get him out of town for a few days. So he calls you in and makes you an offer you couldn't refuse. And if Jurassic George hadn't got the wrong idea about you and that Eloise-it was the wrong idea, wasn't it, Joe…?"
Her grip tightened on a part of his body which put him in mind of Hardman's assault that morning.
"Yeah, definitely wrong."
"Good. But if George hadn't got so jealous, you'd have been sipping pina coladas in sunny Spain with that Mimi this moment, and Christian would be facing them Four Just Men with no help pending."
"Oh yeah. Jesus, the poor bastard. I said I'd see him at the club before the meeting… but what can I tell him, Beryl?"
Now she did give a painful tug and said, "Joe Six- smith, don't you listen? You ask questions about this kid, Waring. You've no idea why you're asking questions, but they don't know how stupid you are. So they decided to ship you off to Spain. Only you don't go. Instead you go round to Waring's lodgings and ask questions there…"
"Hold on. How they know that?"
"You said this Rowe's car was pulling away as you arrived. That old tank of yours is going to get you recognized, isn't it?"
Joe was hurt by old tank, but couldn't fault her logic.
"Yeah, right."
"So now they decide to break your legs or something. Only George gets in the way again. Look, it's obvious. This is what's bothering them. You being interested in Steve Waring!"
"Yeah, yeah, I've got that," said Joe. "But what I haven't got is why? You're so clever, tell me that, why don't you?"
This was less gracious than a man in his position who'd just received such favors both physical and detective ought to have been, but the playful twist she'd given him had been more painful than she realized. And besides, for all her admittedly clever analysis he didn't feel any further forward.
She said, "Way I see it from what you told me, Waring must have seen something."
"Like what?"
"Maybe he'd been working round there somewhere and heard Christian's ball clatter among the trees. Goes to look for it and next thing he sees this Rowe guy placing a ball nice and handy on the edge of the fairway."
"Wouldn't he have said something?"
"To one member helping another out? None of his business. He'd tiptoe away and forget all about it till later he hears that his friend Mr. Porphyry has been accused of cheating on that selfsame hole. Now he's interested. He buttonholes Rowe and asks him what's going on. Rowe realizes the whole scheme could unravel completely if Waring starts talking to anyone else. He doesn't know what to do. So he tells Waring to hang around a couple of minutes and he'll explain everything. Then he goes off and rings King Rat."
"Who says what?"
"What do you think? This is the Rat we're talking about. Everyone's got his price. Bribe him. Rowe says it may not work, he knows how much Waring respects Porphyry. So Rowe goes to plan B. If money doesn't get what you want, add a bit of sheer bloody terror. But he knows that's probably beyond Rowe so he sends reinforcements."
"Hardman."
"I'd bet on it. Rowe offers young Steve a ride home. Somewhere en route, this hard case Stephen is standing by the roadside. Rowe pulls over to give him a lift. Young Steve's probably already made it clear he's not interested in money. One look at Stephen tells him that this is something else and he decides that getting things out in the open is the safest option so he tries to ring Christian. When the hard man realizes what he's doing he takes the phone off him."
"And then?"
"I don't know, do I?" said Beryl. "I'm just making up a story here. Maybe they really did make young Steve an offer he couldn't refuse. He's just a kid, right. OK, he wasn't about to accept money to keep quiet about something that would affect Christian, but when the hard man made it clear that the alternative was several months in traction, he thought, What the hell. Grab the money and run. So next morning that's what he did: got up, ate his breakfast, and took off. Didn't need to take anything with him 'cos he had enough money coming to buy him all he needed brand new." "Couldn't buy his Frank Lampard picture," said Joe. "Sorry?" "Doesn't matter. Beryl, I gotta go. Thanks a bundle. You've been a great help." "That what you call the best lay you've ever had, a great help?" said Beryl, pouting. Pouting lips are made to be kissed and Joe obliged. "You know what I mean. As for the other, some things go way beyond thanks." "Tell me about it," she said invitingly. "Oh, I will, I will. But not now." He dressed quickly before he could change his mind. As he left, she called after him, "Joe, don't know what you're going to do, but it will be the right thing. Be sure you come back and tell me about that too." His heart was singing as he drove away. Suddenly he had a feeling it was all going to be all right.
24
A Saving Bell
Joe's joy slowly evaporated as he drove into Upleck.
It wasn't a bad suburb as suburbs go. The houses were spick and span, the well-tended gardens brandished a rich variety of bold colored summer flowers at the sun, the streets were relatively litter free, and in daylight at least it looked like a place where a man could go for a stroll and expect to come back with his pocket and his person intact.
But the cord of memory that linked him to Beryl's lovely body stretched more and more tautly till finally it snapped as he turned into Lock-keeper's Lane.
As he approached No. 15, he recalled his visit this morning when the silver Audi 8 had pulled out ahead of him and he'd gratefully turned into the vacated space.
Now most of the parked cars had gone and there was ample room to stop. But he drove on past 15, following the route the Audi must have taken that morning.
Soon the houses had petered out and the road grew narrower as it ran into an area of scrubby countryside. A couple of lane ends made him slow down but they were so overgrown that it was plain no vehicle had forced a way through there recently, and in any case the brambles would have left their mark on the silver paintwork.
Finally the road came to the end promised by the sign two miles back which read No Thoroughfare, but he kept going after the tarmac ran out, following a track that at first was broad and not too rough, but gradually became muddy and bumpy as it ran into a copse of sun-stealing alder and willow where eventually further progress was barred by a high rusting metal fence. This was the area known as Leck's Bottom. In The Lost Traveller's Guide (the best-selling series devoted to places you were unlikely to visit on purpose) it merited a single paragraph. Leck's Bottom is a stretch of boggy land covering approximately five hectares and acting as a sink for all the waste moisture of the surrounding area. Its unattractive ambience and noisome effluvia did not, however, daunt the Victorian engineers creating the Luton-Bedford Canal and for a while this useful waterway ran through the Bottom. Indeed, one of its most important locks was situated here. But such a situation required high maintenance and once the canal had outlived its usefulness the Bottom rapidly reverted to what it had been, or perhaps, because of the unsavory traces of man's interference, something rather worse. A man would have to be a psychopath or a social historian to want to linger here. Certainly to find an example of the non-picturesque rural ruin more dreary and depressing than the old lock would be difficult, even in central Iraq.
Joe got out of the Morris.
It was clear now where the mud on the Audi's tires and Rowe's shoes had come from. Not even the week-long heatwave had been able to suck all the moisture out of this ground, and though the air was warm it still had a clammy feel that made your skin crawl.
Ahead behind the fence he could see what remained of the l ock-keeper's cottage. There was no history of any dreadful event having taken place here, nothing to hang a ghost story on, but Joe recalled that according to Aunt Mirabelle, who had a great store of spine-chilling bedtime tales, some places could be haunted by their futures as well as their pasts. "Like Mrs. Orlando's bungalow in Brook Street. Even when she was cutting me a slice of her cherry cake and chattering away merrily about that doctor brother of hers in Freetown, I could feel she was haunting her own life, and that was five years or more before that psycho on early release broke in and slit her throat with the cake knife."
On the fence was a sign, Fly Tippers Will Be Prosecuted. The good people of Luton like the good people of most other towns in England cannot see a hollow of any size from a ditch to a canyon without wanting to chuck their unwanted household rubbish into it. Joe sometimes felt that if ever he reached the end of the world and looked over, the first thing he'd see would be an old fridge. A few years ago, tipping at Leck's Bottom had become such a health hazard that the Council had moved in, cleared all the rubbish out and erected the fence and the warning sign. But there is nothing your true- Brit fly-tipper likes more than a challenge, and despite the fact that the Council had its own efficient bulk-waste collection service and easily accessible landfill site, and though the fence was kept in good repair, hardly a week passed without some devotee of the sport hacking his way through with a pair of wire cutters, then dragging his defunct TV or washing machine twenty yards or so across rough boggy ground in order to drop it into the old lock basin.
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