'Well remembered, Joe,' said Porphyry, regarding him proudly. 'Only here two minutes and you know more about things than I do. Colin. I've just been talking to Davie. He reckons Steve Waring's bilked his landlady and done a runner. Can't believe it of the lad myself, but Davie's really keen to get a replacement.'

'OK, I'll give him the go-ahead, though where we'll get someone any good in the middle of the summer, heaven knows,' said Rowe.

'Bye, Joe,' said Latimer. 'Don't forget that game you've promised us.'

'You bet I won't. Keep listening for them b.u.t.terflies, boys,' said Joe, light-hearted at the thought that this was probably the last time he'd see the Triangle.

His attempt at a golfing joke produced only polite smiles, but what the shoot did he care? He was out of here. But he soon found his sense of finality wasn't shared.

As they made their way towards the car park, Porphyry said, 'Sorry you have to go, Joe. Hoped you'd stay for a spot of lunch. But Willie warned me you were in great demand. So, what's our next move?'

His tone held nothing of despondence. It was the voice of a man confident in the expertise of the man he'd hired to help him.

Joe sighed. It was beginning to feel like disillusioning this guy would involve a full refund after all. And Willie Woodbine wouldn't be pleased. Presumably his application for membership would be buried in blackb.a.l.l.s if his sponsor got done for cheating.

But it wasn't the antic.i.p.ated wrath of the policeman that bothered Joe most, it was the look of bewildered disappointment that his turn-down would probably bring to the Young Fair G.o.d's young fair features.

Best to do it when he was already in his car, ready for a quick take-off before he could weaken.

To pa.s.s the time till he did the deed, he said, 'So what happens now?'

'It's in the hands of the Four Just Men that's what we call our Rules Committee. They'll consider the evidence at their next meeting in a fortnight's time, then hand down their vedict. I know I'll get a fair hearing, but as things stand ...'

That note of uncertainty caught at Joe's heart, but his mind was made up. He'd got a plan and he was going to stick to it. In the car, hand back the money, say sorry, and off! It was the best thing for all concerned.

But like a lot of Joe's plans, it didn't turn out as easy as that.

The Morris's resemblance to a tramp who had strayed into the Royal Enclosure at Ascot was now underscored by the fact that its front offside tyre was completely flat.

'Oh shoot,' said Joe, not realizing he was on the edge of another 'fonly or he might have set off walking down the drive.

'Oh dear,' said Porphyry. 'How long have you got, Joe?'

'What?'

It took a moment to work out this wasn't an enquiry about his general state of health but a reference to his mythical urgent appointment.

He made a show of looking at his watch and said, 'Five minutes. I'm going to be late.'

'No problem,' said Porphyry. 'Here, take mine.'

Again it required a little time to grasp his precise meaning, which not even the sight of the car keys in Porphyry's outstretched hand could affirm absolutely.

'You mean,' said Joe turning his gaze to rest on the Volante, 'you mean, like, I should drive your car?'

'Yes. I'll get yours sorted, we can meet and exchange later.'

Joe's heart was full. This was like the moment when Rev Pot asked him to sing the Priest in Gerontius, or the first time Beryl Boddington asked him to babysit her young son. This was big trust time. OK, so Porphyry must be loaded to afford such wheels, but he didn't seem the kind of plonker who drove a Volante just to tell the world how rich he was. He'd bought the car because he loved it, and Joe didn't doubt for a moment that the club terrace was full of folk the YFG wouldn't have dreamt of offering his keys. It was certainly full of folk who wouldn't dream of offering their keys to Joe Sixsmith!

How could he tell a guy like this there was no way to prove he wasn't a lousy cheat?

His other equally urgent problem was to resist the temptation to accept the loan of the Aston. He could see himself driving slowly round the streets of Luton, waving casually to his jaw-dropped acquaintance, letting Merv check out the engine, inviting Beryl out for a spin ...

Then as on a split screen his mental projector ran parallel footage of him crushing one of those immaculate wings against a concrete bollard, or coming out of his office to find that some lowlife had scratched his envy across the bonnet with a Stanley knife.

His mind said No but his hand was stretched to receive the keys when Chip appeared pushing a mobile hydraulic jack before him.

'Hi, Mr Sixsmith,' he said cheerily. 'Checked back to see how that tyre was doing and when I saw it had really gone, I looked for you on the terrace to get your key so that I could put your spare on. No sign of you, so I thought I'd make a start anyway and get the wheel off.'

'Hey, man, this is real service,' said Joe.

'That's what we aim to give our members, right, Mr Porphyry?'

'That's right, Chip. Well done,' said the YFG. 'Joe, if five minutes is going to make a difference, my offer still stands.'

'No thanks, Chris,' said Joe reluctantly. 'It'll be fine.'

'If you're sure. I'll leave you in Chip's safe hands then. By the by, Chip, you've not seen anything of Steve Waring recently, have you? Not round here he hasn't shown for work since last week I meant in one of those clubs or pubs you wild young things frequent, maybe?'

'No, sorry, Mr Porphyry. I'll keep my eyes open though.'

'Thanks, Chip.'

He put his arm round Joe's shoulder and led him a few steps away.

'You'll ring me later, let me know how things are going, Joe? It's such a load off my mind, knowing I've got you on the case.'

He smiled as he spoke. Now was the moment to put him straight. But it would have been like telling the sun not to rise.

He turned back to the young a.s.sistant pro who already had the wheel off.

As he helped Chip manoeuvre the spare into place, Joe said, 'Nice chap.'

'Mr Porphyry? Oh yes, one of the best.'

'Yeah. Pity about this bother ...'

'Bother?' said Chip. 'Oh, that. Nothing to worry about there, Mr Sixsmith. Anyone who knows Mr Porphyry knows there's as much chance of him cheating as there is of Ian Paisley becoming Pope. But I don't need to tell a close friend that, do I?'

'No, well, there's close and close,' b.u.mbled Joe. 'I mean, we're pretty close, I suppose ...'

'He was going to let you drive his car, wasn't he?' laughed Chip. 'Now that's what I call close.'

'He's a generous man,' said Joe.

'You don't need to tell me,' said Chip. 'He's really pushing the boat out on my tour fund and where he goes, the rest will follow.'

'Must like you.'

'Yeah, but he's like that with all the staff.'

'Certainly seems bothered about this guy, Waring,' said Joe. 'What's all that about?'

Before Chip could answer, a voice said, 'Hi there, Joe. Need any help?'

He turned to see Colin Rowe had come up behind him, his open friendly face wreathed in smiles.

'No. Chip here's doing a grand job.'

'Glad to hear it. We have high hopes of young Chip, but you don't get to be Open champion without being willing to get your hands dirty, right, Chip?'

'Right, Mr Rowe.'

'You go in for vintage, do you, Joe?' said Rowe, examining the Morris. 'Lovely old girl, this. Grand for running around locally, eh? Means you can save the big gas-guzzler for the motorway.'

'Yeah, that's right,' agreed Joe.

Rowe moved away and got into a silver Audi A8 Quattro. He'd evidently come out to make a phone call. Good rule that, thought Joe. All the big money people who were members of the Hoo, it could be like the belfry at St Monkeys if they didn't make them switch their phones off.

He stood and watched as the young a.s.sistant pro completed the job with graceful efficiency and placed the wheel with the flat in the boot.

'There you go, Mr Sixsmith. Done and dusted,' said Chip.

Joe said, 'Thanks a lot. That's real service.'

'That's what Hoo members pay for,' grinned the youth.

'Yeah, but I'm not a member.'

'Anyone with Mr Porphyry behind them can order his tie straightaway,' said Chip confidently.

Rowe had finished his call and got out of the Audi.

'All done? Good. Chip, any word on that new travel case I ordered?'

'Should be here tomorrow, Mr Rowe.'

'Why don't we go up to the shop and you can check with the suppliers?'

He began to walk away with the youngster, then glanced back over his shoulder and called, 'Don't forget that game you promised us, Joe. Look forward to seeing you again soon.'

'Who can tell?' said Joe.

And as he drove away he heard Aunt Mirabelle's usual response to that question.

Only the Lord, and sometimes He speaks awful soft and low.

A Royal Summons.

Aunt Mirabelle had imprinted in Joe's heart a faith in a benevolent deity that it would have taken surgery to remove, but when it came to everyday practicalities, he paid as much attention to Sod's as G.o.d's Law.

All that stuff about the lilies of the field and taking no thought for the morrow was fine, but any fool knew that a man driving around with a flat in his boot was bound to have another blow-out pretty d.a.m.n quick, so on his way back to town he pulled into Ram Ray's garage on the ring road. Ram wasn't around, and he had to deal with the head mechanic, Sc.r.a.pyard Eddie, who'd got his nickname because it was said that if you fell out with him, that was where your vehicle was likely to end up. Joe had recently been foolish enough to second-guess Eddie on a fuel pump fault in the old Morris, and now the mechanic seemed disinclined to admit the possibility of fixing the spare before the weekend.

Fortunately Ram's highly efficient and very desirable secretary, Eloise, who had a soft spot for Joe, came out to say h.e.l.lo. When she heard his problem she said, 'Do it, Eddie,' in a tone which reduced the mechanic to fawning co-operation, and invited Joe into the office for a cool cola.

'Don't you just love this weather, Joe?' she asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, a manoeuvre which made Joe glad he already had an excuse for sweating.

'Yeah, it's got its attractions,' he said. High among which was Eloise's abandonment of outerwear just this side of decency, or a long way that side if you were Aunt Mirabelle.

'So how's business?' she asked.

'So so. And how's George? Saw him demolish Ernie Jagger last month. He's on a real winning streak!'

George was Eloise's boyfriend. A rising star in the boxing world, he stood two metres high, about the same across the shoulders, with fists like bunches of petrified bananas. Known in the sporting columns as Jura.s.sic, the image of George was a good thing to keep in mind when talking to Eloise.

'Not with me, he ain't,' said Eloise. 'All that training, he takes it so seriously. Me, I like a sporting guy, but not when it turns him into a monk. No, George is out. Got myself a new sport, only Chip don't let it interfere with his time off.'

'Chip?' said Joe. 'So what's his game?'

'Golf, among other things,' laughed Eloise. 'He's a.s.sistant pro out at the Royal Hoo.'

Joe wasn't particularly surprised. Coincidences that would have had others running to the parapsychologists he took in his stride. Butcher had once said to him, 'Sixsmith, you're in a job you've got no particular talent for, and you go at it in a half-a.s.sed way, but you've got a strike rate Willie Woodbine would die for. Serendipity, that's what it's called. That's what you've got, Joe.'

'Can I get treatment on the NHS?' he'd asked.

'Don't joke about it!' she'd retorted sternly. 'It's probably the only thing keeping you alive!'

Joe had thought about it later, then he'd sent it to the Recycle Bin to join all the other stuff that looked likely to stretch the period between his head hitting the pillow and sleep hitting his head by more than five seconds.

'Chip Harvey,' he said. 'I've just been talking to him. Nice lad.'

'You've been to the Royal Hoo?' said Eloise. She was too nice to make cracks about getting a job in the kitchen or sweeping up leaves from the course, but Joe's musical ear detected the harmonics of surprise in her tone.

It occurred to him he'd have done better to keep his mouth shut. But no point crying over spilt milk, said Mirabelle.

Anyway, as Whitey added, may be spilt milk to you, but it's manna from heaven to me.

'Yeah. I'm on a case. Working for a member called Porphyry. Look, he's told people he was showing me around with a view to applying for membership, so that's what Chip thinks. When you talk to him, make sure he keeps it to himself, OK?'

A lesser man might have tried to swear Eloise to secrecy, but Joe had had it drummed into him as a child, never ask for what you know you can't get!

The young woman didn't seem to have heard his plea.