The Roar of the Butterflies

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Maybe I’ve got more important things than gossip columns to fill my mind.’

  ‘Such as?’ she demanded, looking around the office. ‘So much dust on that filing cabinet, don’t think it’s been opened since Christmas.’

  ‘So you’re a detective now,’ said Joe. ‘First thing you should learn is, the real important cases, nothing goes down on paper.’

  ‘What real important cases?’ she laughed.

  ‘Like the one I’m meeting Mr Porphyry, Chris, to discuss over lunch tomorrow,’ he said triumphantly.

  It worked. For a moment she looked impressed.

  Then she shrugged and said, ‘Well, that’s a pity, ’cos that’s why I dropped in to see you. I’ve got to break our date tonight. They’re short-staffed at the hospital and need me to do an extra shift. I was going to suggest that maybe if you could find time in your busy schedule we could go somewhere nice and cool for a drink and a sandwich tomorrow lunch, but seeing as how you’re engaged, I’d better look elsewhere. Bye, Joe.’

  She headed for the door. He tried to think of something to say to halt her.

  ‘I can always cancel,’ he said.

  ‘Let Chris Porphyry down? Don’t be stupid, Joe.’

  But she was obviously touched by the thought that he’d do this for her and when he moved forward to kiss her, she didn’t back off even though she was right about the shorts. But her mind was still dwelling on the YFG.

  ‘You must be on the up, Joe, getting clients like that. Where are you meeting him?’

  ‘Some club I never heard of called the Who. You any idea where it is?’

  She thought a moment then began to laugh.

  ‘That’s not a club like you think of a club, Joe. That will be the Hoo, aitch oh oh, the Royal Hoo Golf Club. That is seriously posh.’

  ‘Yeah? A posh golf club?’ He considered the idea dubiously. ‘Any idea how I get there?’

  ‘You could try bank robbery and a skin graft. Sorry. Head out on the Upleck road till you hit the bypass, then get off at the big roundabout; it’s along one of those little roads no one ever uses, don’t recollect which one, but you’ll know you’re getting close by the watch towers and the big signs saying No Hawkers, Vendors or Racial Minorities. They’re par -ticular what people wear too, I dare say.’

  She glanced significantly at his shorts, which were resuming normal service.

  ‘He said there was a dispensation in the hot weather,’ protested Joe.

  ‘For those you don’t need a dispensation, more like a disposal unit,’ said Beryl. ‘You ever play golf, Joe?’

  ‘May have done,’ said Joe, reluctant to admit that what he knew about the game could have been written on the point of a tee peg. Football was the only sport he had any real interest in, and nowadays his active participation there consisted of shouting advice at his beloved Luton City FC and singing Songs from the Shows on Supporters’ Club social nights.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said. ‘So what’s your handicap, Tiger? Apart from not being able to see the ball over your belly.’

  She didn’t wait for a response but ran laughing down the stairs.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be a good golfer?’ Joe called after her, stung by the reference to his waistline. ‘Lot of things about me you don’t know.’

  Which, considering Beryl’s intimacy with his Aunt Mirabelle, wasn’t likely to be true, but a man was entitled to his dignity.

  His musings were interrupted by the screech of the office phone.

  He picked it up and said, ‘Sixsmith Investigations. We’re here to help you.’

  ‘Today it’s me helping you, Joe,’ said a man’s voice.

  Joe recognized the voice, not because it was distinctive, but because it was Detective Superintendent Willie Woodbine’s, which was a good voice to recognize. He hesitated a moment before he replied. His relationship with the Super was a bit like his relationship with Beryl. Not that he had any ambition to get in bed with the guy, but sometimes it was man to man, sometimes boss to man, sometimes first name, sometimes not. Trick was to read the signals and decide if this was a Willie day. Same with Beryl, if you thought about it.

  He decided to sit on the fence.

  ‘Hi there, how’re you doing?’ he said.

  ‘That could depend on you, Joe. I was ringing to tell you that I’ve pushed a possible client your way. Christian Porphyry. You heard of him?’

  ‘Didn’t I see his picture in the paper recently?’ said Joe. ‘Got arrested or something?’

  He didn’t see the need to tell Woodbine Porphyry had been and gone. Might be some chance of getting a bit of info from the horse’s mouth.

  ‘Got engaged, Joe. Not the same thing. Though, come to think of it, maybe you’re right.’

  He chuckled. His voice was quite friendly. Looked like this might be a Willie day, which probably meant he wanted something. Woodbine was the kind of ambitious cop whose gaze was fixed on the high ground. He only glanced down in search of small change that someone else had dropped. In his mind, professional and social upward mobility marched hand in hand and he’d married accordingly. But popular judgement was that he’d need to become Lord High Executioner before his wife would reckon she’d been compensated for her noble condescension.

  He stopped chuckling and went on, ‘The thing is, Joe, I’ve given you a good write-up, and I just wanted to make sure you won’t let me down.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Willie, no sir, you can rely on good old Joe.’

  He’d over-hammed it. Woodbine said sharply, ‘This is serious, Joe. I hope you’re going to take it seriously.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ said Joe in his serious voice. ‘Might help, though, if you gave me a hint what it is I’m being serious about?’

  ‘It’s nothing, storm in a teacup, really. Mr Porphyry, Christian, has got himself a bit of bother at the golf club. He mentioned it to me, asked my advice. I gave it some thought, and I told him, Sorry, Chris, but this doesn’t get close to being a police matter. You know me, Joe, always willing to stretch things a bit for a friend, but in this case I really couldn’t see how anything in the official machinery could be of any use. But I hate to let a chum down. And it struck me, what he really needed was someone so unofficial, you’d pay him no heed. Someone so unlikely, no one would worry about him. Someone you’d not lay good money on to know his arse from his elbow. Someone like you, Joe.’

  It wasn’t exactly a glowing testimonial. But Joe knew that he probably only survived in Luton because Willie Woodbine felt able to give it.

  Very few cops like private eyes. Most view them with grave suspicion. And a few hate their guts and would love to put them out of business.

  Not that Joe had looked like he needed much help in that line when he started. But somehow again and again after stumbling around like a short-sighted man in a close-planted pine forest on a dark night, he had emerged blinking with mild surprise into bright light and open country with everything lying clearly before him.

  On more than one occasion Willie Woodbine had been nicely placed to take most of the credit. But the cop was clear-sighted enough to recognize it was Joe’s success, not his own, and from time to time he reached out a protective hand, not so much to pay a debt as to protect an asset.

  Reaching out the hand of patronage was something new.

  ‘That what you told Mr Porphyry about me, Willie?’

  ‘No,’ sighed Woodbine. ‘I told him that in something like this, despite appearances, if anyone could get the job done, it was likely to be you. So don’t you go letting me down, Joe. Or else…’

  ‘Yeah yeah,’ said Joe, to whom a veiled threat was like a veiled exotic dancer. While you didn’t know the exact proportions of what you were going to see when the veil came off, you knew you were unlikely to see anything you hadn’t seen before. ‘But just what is the job, Willie?’

  There was another voice in the background now, saying something Joe couldn’t make out, but the tone was urgent.

  �
��Joe, got to go. Keep me posted, OK?’

  The phone went dead.

  ‘Shoot,’ said Joe, draining his can of Guinness.

  He hadn’t got much further forward. What could a bit of bother at a golf club amount to? Taking a leak in a bunker, maybe. Or wearing shorts with parrots on.

  There was mystery here, and maybe trouble. At least he had the consolation of knowing beneath the parrots he had two hundred quid of the YFG’s money thawing in his pocket.

  He looked at his watch. Just after three, but he might as well go home. He didn’t anticipate getting any more business today.

  He tossed the can towards the waste bin, missed, rose wearily and went out to brave the heat of the Luton dog days.

  Blackball

  As Joe drove the Morris through Bullpat Square, he saw a familiar figure coming out of the wide-open door of the Law Centre. Tiny enough for even a vertically challenged PI to loom over, from behind she could have been taken for a twelve-year-old, but that wasn’t an error anyone persisted in once they’d looked into those steely eyes and even less after they’d listened to the words issuing out of that wide, determined mouth, usually borne on a jet of noxious smoke from a thin cheroot.

  This was Cheryl Butcher, founder and leading lawyer of the Centre, which offered a pay-what-you-can-afford legal service to the disadvantaged of the city.

  Joe slowed to walking pace and pulled into the kerb.

  ‘Hey, Butcher,’ he called. ‘You looking for action?’

  She didn’t even glance his way.

  ‘What the hell would you know about action, Sixsmith?’

  ‘Enough to know you walk too far in this heat, you’re going to melt away. Like a lift?’

  Wise-cracking was an area of traditional gumshoe activity Joe didn’t usually bother with. It required from-the-hip rapid-fire responses and he was honest enough to recognize himself as an old-fashioned muzzle-loader. But his relationship with Butcher somehow seemed to stimulate him to make the effort. Maybe it was the certainty that in their mutual mockery there was a lot of respect.

  ‘You heading to Rasselas?’

  The Rasselas Estate was a collection of sixties high-rise blocks which would probably have been demolished years ago if a determined Residents’ Committee, led by Major Sholto Tweedie, ably assisted by such powerful personal -ities as Joe’s Aunt Mirabelle, hadn’t succeeded in making it a place fit for humans to live in.

  ‘I surely am.’

  ‘Then you can drop me at Hermsprong,’ said Butcher, opening the car door and stepping in, which you could do with the old Morris Oxford if you were only as big as the lawyer.

  Architecturally, Hermsprong was a mirror image of Rasselas built on the other side of the canal. And, like a mirror image, it showed everything back to front.

  Unlike reconstructed Rasselas, every cliché of depressed urban high-rise living could be found on Hermsprong.

  Crack-houses, corner dealers, lifts that were moving urinals when they moved at all, underpasses which were rats’ alleys where you could lose more than your bones, the highest break-in rate, the lowest clear-up rate, more hoodies than a monastery, and so on, and so on. If ever a place should have been razed to the ground, Hermsprong was it. But paradoxically it survived because of Rasselas’s success. How could you say an experiment had failed when you could produce evidence only a mile away that it could succeed? Or to put it another way, why should you demolish Hermsprong and relocate its inmates to the lovely new small well-planned developments the council was building to the east when the inhabitants of Rasselas were so much more deserving?

  These were the arguments the sophists of the City Council produced in order to postpone a decision which was going to put an intolerable strain on their already overstretched budget.

  Joe knew that to ask why Butcher was heading for Hermsprong would be like asking a bank robber why he robbed banks. ’Cos that’s where my clients are, stupid.

  Instead he said, ‘You’re not going to light that thing in my car, are you?’

  Referring to the cheroot which Butcher had inserted between her lips.

  ‘Jesus, Sixsmith, you should watch more old movies. You can’t be a proper PI unless you chain smoke!’

  ‘Like you can’t be a proper lawyer ’less you wear a wig and charge five hundred pounds a minute?’

  ‘Don’t insult me. I’m worth more than that.’

  But she put the cheroot away then asked, ‘So, business is so bad you’ve shut up shop and decided to spend the rest of the day watching mucky videos?’

  ‘Wrong, as usual. Matter of fact, I’m going home to do some research on the very important client I’ll be lunching with at his club tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh yes? And I’m going to meet the Lord Chancellor to talk about becoming a High Court judge!’

  This provoked Joe to telling her all about his encounter with the YFG.

  She listened with interest. He tried to conceal his ignor -ance of what the case was all about by claiming client confidentiality but she saw through that straightaway.

  ‘You mean you haven’t got the faintest idea, don’t you? How many times do I have to tell you, Sixsmith? Always find out what you’re getting into before you get into it. Interesting though that the sun doesn’t shine all the time, not even on Golden Boy.’

  ‘You know Porphyry?’

  ‘Not personally, but professionally I had occasion to do some research on the family three, four years back in connection with a compensation case.’

  ‘Shoot. And that was against Porphyry?’ said Joe, feeling illogically dismayed.

  ‘Against the Porphyry Estate, which makes it the same thing. One of their employees died. Coroner said accident, no one to blame, but that’s what they appoint coroners for, isn’t it? To make sure the Porphyrys of this world never get blamed. There was a widow and a son. I reckoned they deserved better.’

  ‘And did they get it?’

  ‘Unhappily the mother didn’t survive her husband long enough for things to run their course. If there is a God, he’s a member at Royal Hoo and looks after His own.’

  ‘I thought Chris was OK,’ Joe protested.

  ‘And you’ve got O-levels for character judgement, right? I’m sure he’s a very likeable guy. In the class war, the ones that make you like them are the worst, Joe. He might seem to be trailing clouds of glory, but he’s also trailing a couple of centuries of unearned privilege. And if you get to thinking he’s different from the rest, remind yourself he’s just got engaged to a fluff-head whose father runs some of the most fascist imprints of our mainly fascist press.’

  To Joe this sounded a bit unfair on the Bugle, but po -l i tical debate with Butcher was a waste of time.

  ‘All I know is the guy’s got some kind of trouble,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Yes, and that is good news,’ said Butcher. ‘But what’s really puzzling is why he’s looking for help from you of all people.’

  Indignantly he retorted, ‘’Cos I was recommended, that’s why?’

  ‘Recommended?’ she said incredulously. ‘Who by? The Samaritans?’

  ‘By Willie Woodbine, no less.’

  Which meant he had to tell her all that part of the story too.

  To his surprise she nodded as if it all made perfect sense.

  ‘Poor Willie,’ she said. ‘Must be in a real tizz. And you’re his last resort.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘You don’t know anything, do you, Joe?’ she said. He knew she was going to be really patronizing when she called him Joe, but he didn’t mind. Folk could rarely be patro n -izing without telling you stuff you didn’t know just to show how much more they knew than you did.

  She said, ‘Willie Woodbine’s dad used to buttle for the Porphyrys…’

  ‘Battle?’ interrupted Joe. ‘You mean, like he was a minder or something?’

  ‘He was their butler, for God’s sake. Willie must be three or four years older than Chris, just the age gap for a bit of hero wo
rship, young master being shown the ropes by the butler’s worldly-wise son. Boot on the other foot when they grew up, of course, but there’s a relationship there which begins to assume at least the appearance of equality when Willie joins the police force and starts his rapid climb up the ladder. If he gets to be chief constable, he might even get invited round to dinner.’

  ‘Miaow,’ said Joe, who might have observed, had he been given to self-, social-, psycho-, or indeed any kind of analysis, how interesting it was that folk from nice bourgeois backgrounds like Butcher were much more inclined to get hot under the collar about the inequalities of class than natural-born plebs like himself.

  She ignored him and went on, ‘So it’s not surprising that Willie, with his eyes on the top, should want to do the young master a service, particularly in this area.’

  ‘You’re losing me,’ said Joe.

  ‘It’s finding you that’s the problem,’ she sighed. ‘The golf club. The Royal Hoo. Getting into the Hoo is the ultimate accolade in Luton high society. If your face doesn’t fit, you’ve more chance of getting into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot wearing shorts like yours!’

  Now Joe did feel hurt. Class didn’t bother him but snipes at his fashion sense did, ’less they came from a rich client or a gorgeous in-out girlfriend. He refused to let himself be diverted, however, and asked, ‘So you don’t just go along and pay your admission fee?’

  ‘No! They need to look you over, check your family and friends then move on to your bank balance, your tailor and your table manners. After that if you’ve got someone to propose you, second you and probably third and fourth you, they take a vote…’

  ‘Who’s this they?’

  ‘Some committee,’ she said dismissively. ‘And it just takes one blackball and you’ve had it.’

  ‘Black ball?’ said Joe. ‘Don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Don’t go vulgar on me, Joe,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry. So Chris is putting Willie up for membership, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘So I’d guess. And of course if you want to get into the Hoo, then getting yourself proposed by Christian Porphyry is just about the closest thing you can get to a guarantee of success.’