Chip said, 'No, it's OK. Look, I'd like to help Mr. Porphyry, only there's some of the others who'd get me sent down the road if they knew I'd been talking to you.'
'Because they wouldn't want to help Mr. Porphyry, you mean? Who's got it in for him then? You can talk to me, Chip. This is off the record, won't go no further.'
Even with this reassurance it was clearly going to be hard to get names out of the young man.
'Everyone likes Mr. Porphyry,' he insisted. 'He's very popular. Only some of the members worry about what it might be like if he wasn't such a nice guy…'
'Sorry? You mean they're worried about a personality change?'
'More like a personnel change, I think,' said a new voice.
Joe had been aware of the Hole filling up in the last few minutes but hadn't noticed that one of the new arrivals standing close to their table was Butcher. The background music, which was background like the sound of falling water at Niagara, and the general chatter level had seemed to guarantee protection from eavesdropping, but as Joe knew to his cost, Butcher had the kind of directional hearing that cost you serious money down Tottenham Court Road.
She sat down in the chair vacated by Eloise. Chip looked at her in amazement then at Joe in anger.
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 passes on?' 'Why should that bother anyone?' demanded Joe, a bit miffed that Butcher had assumed 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, Six- smith, 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. Cockernhoe who lost the match concerned. It was in the scratch knock-out competition for the Vardon Cup-that's the club's top award, everyone wants their name on that. But I heard Mr. Cockernhoe 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 balls 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 pissed 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 passage of Eloise carrying a tray with a pint of Guinness and two other glasses containing the kind of frothy bluey-green liquid that turned you into something in a fantasy movie.
Eloise flowed toward 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 kumquat in the Guinness to sweeten it up. Hello. 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 kumquat 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. Cockernhoe 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 Scrapyard Eddie.
He said, 'On Aunt Mirabelle's grave, I swear.'
Though she wasn't dead, invoking Mirabelle in an oath beat bibles.
