Butcher said, 'It's OK. I'm Joe's lawyer.'

'Yeah?' Now Chip was seriously alarmed and seriously angry. 'Mr Sixsmith, you said this would be confidential ...'

'It will be,' said Butcher. 'I'm the one who makes sure Joe doesn't go around shooting his mouth off. You're Deb Harvey's nephew, right?'

'You know Aunt Deb?'

'I was able to help her out with a problem she had with a credit company.'

'You're that lawyer, the one from Bullpat Square,' said Chip, sounding impressed.

'The same. Butcher's the name.'

And butcher's the game, thought Joe. Chip was mincemeat in her hands.

'Aunt Deb says you're great,' he said.

'That's nice. So you were saying that all that worries the members about Mr Porphyry is what happens when he pa.s.ses on?'

'Why should that bother anyone?' demanded Joe, a bit miffed that Butcher had a.s.sumed front-line duty without even a beg-pardon.

'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 c.o.c.kernhoe who lost the match concerned. It was in the scratch knock-out compet.i.tion for the Vardon Cup that's the club's top award, everyone wants their name on that. But I heard Mr c.o.c.kernhoe 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 p.i.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage of Eloise carrying a tray with a pint of Guinness and two other gla.s.ses 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 k.u.mquat in the Guinness to sweeten it up. h.e.l.lo. 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 k.u.mquat 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 c.o.c.kernhoe 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 Sc.r.a.pyard 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 he 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-a.s.s.'

'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 cla.s.ses 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.'