He quickly put the lid on such speculations.
Keep it simple, Joe, he urged himself. Play it dumb. You're a poor, over-stretched PI who don't know shoot! Which was the truth of it because you couldn't call some foolish idea slowly rolling over in the murky basin of his subconscious knowing.
But those cold eyes, focused unblinkingly on his face, felt as if they had the power to penetrate beyond the bewildered openness of his expression into those dark depths he was trying to ignore.
The wise words of his guru, Endo Venera, came into his mind.
You find yourself on the wrong end of a gun, you gotta put yourself one step ahead of the guy holding it, which means seeing where he is going and letting him think he's one step ahead of you.
No gun here, but there might as well be one. Best he could hope if Hardman tried to push him over the edge was to delay matters by grabbing hold of the guy so that if he went, they both went. But he didn't doubt that Hardman had a dozen easy moves to dislodge an overweight under-fit middling-aged PI.
But playing it dumb didn't mean you had to come on like the village idiot. If, as he thought, he was in the situation because King Rat thought he was smart, then he had to act smart, but not so smart as they were!
He said, 'Hey, I was wondering, this guy in Spain I was meant to be watching, he wouldn't be Waring using another name, would he? All fits: get him out of the country, then get me out there to watch him. Kind of neat trick I can see Mr. King pulling.'
Hardman stared for a moment then laughed.
'Joe, it's true what they say about you. You're a lot smarter than you look.'
Was this mockery because he'd been fooled? Or was it a genuine compliment, meaning Good try, but now I'm going to kill you?
A few more seconds should tell.
Then a phone rang. Not the Hallelujah chorus but the theme from Star Wars, for God's sake!
Hardman took out a phone, glanced at the display then said, 'Yeah?'
He listened, looked at Joe, said, 'Yeah, that's right.'
He listened again for some time, then said a third and final, 'Yeah, I think so.'
A final period of listening, and he said, 'OK. Will do,' and switched off.
'Joe,' he said. 'Nice talking to you. That was Mr. King. Needs me elsewhere so I've got to love you and leave you, Joe. Listen, I wanted to say, sorry about that business in your flat earlier. Mr. King was pissed at you letting him down about the Spanish job, so he asked me to go round and make it clear, and I got a bit carried away. But he's over it now. He says if I see you to tell you, no hard feelings. But he'd like his stuff back, you know, the tickets and the euros. You got them with you?'
'In the car,' said Joe.
'I'll pick them up now then.'
Together they walked back toward the fence. With every step Joe took away from the lock basin, Leck's Bottom assumed a different aspect and began to feel like a very good place to be alive in.
When they reached the Morris, Joe dug out the green file and handed it over.
'Thanks,' said Hardman. 'One thing more, Joe. Don't know what it means myself, but Mr. King says he'd heard on the grapevine that some little job you were doing out at the Royal Hoo Golf Club was going to turn out OK for your client. So all's well that ends well. Mr. King says he's really impressed by what he's heard about the way you handled things there, and he looks forward to employing your services again some time in the future. Could mean you're a made man if Mr. King puts the word around, capisce?'
Capisce? and Star Wars as his ring tone? This guy was a joke, thought Joe. But he decided to laugh later.
'Tell him I'm truly grateful,' said Joe. 'Truly, truly.'
He didn't have to try and fake it. His gratitude was real. But it was limited to that phone call that had taken the decision away from Hardman.
Who clearly took it as going a lot further.
'Glad to have you on board again, Joe,' he said. 'Live well.'
He walked away toward his own car, a Mazda RX-8, bright red naturally, parked twenty yards further back.
Now would have been a good time to ponder. Better still would have been to ponder in the company of Butcher, and of Beryl, and even of Merv, and see how much their disparate views overlapped with his own assessment of what all this meant.
But this was one of those dreadful times in a PI's life when time didn't permit him to spread the burden. He had to act as if he was absolutely certain, which to a man whose genuine absolute certainties often turned out to be completely wrong was not a pleasant prospect.
As the Mazda drove away, he took out his mobile.
His first call was to Directory Inquiries. He asked for the number of the Royal Hoo and a few moments later he heard Bert Symonds' voice say, 'Royal Hoo Golf Club' in a tone that would have got him a butler's job anywhere.
'Bert,' he said. 'This is Joe Sixsmith. Listen, are the Bermuda Triangle there?'
The steward didn't pretend not to know who he meant.
'Yes, out on the terrace with everybody else. It's another scorcher.'
'Not where I am,' said Joe, glancing round at the dank shades of the Bottom. 'Bert, I need a favor. Any phone calls come through for the Triangle, like someone asking one of them to ring back urgently, don't pass it on.' There was a long silence. 'Just had a call for Mr. Latimer,' said Bert finally. 'Was on my way to give the message when you rang.' 'Don't. Specially if the message is to give Mr. King a bell.' Another silence. 'How'd you know that?' 'Never mind. Will you help me?' 'It's my job if Mr. Latimer finds out,' said the steward. 'Who'd you rather rely on for your job, Tom Latimer or Chris Porphyry? Is he there, by the way?' 'Oh yes. Toughing it out. You know the Rules Committee are meeting tonight?' 'Yeah, no problem. That's all fixed.' 'You mean-' 'Never mind that. I'll explain everything later. Will you help?' 'OK, but I-' 'Good. Is Mr. Postgate on the terrace?' 'No. Too hot for him. I imagine he's at home in the shade.' 'You got his number handy?' 'Sure.' After Joe had noted it down he said, 'One last thing. Can you tell Mr. Porphyry discreetly that I'll be on my way shortly? See him in the car park in say half an hour. OK?' 'OK. But if this goes wrong, Joe, you'd better be able to afford a well-paid assistant, because I'll be on your payroll, believe me!' Joe switched off. That had been close. If the Triangle hadn't been on the terrace, held incommunicado by the Hoo rules on mobiles, or if Bert had already delivered King Rat's message, then his plan would be worthless. On the other hand, he'd have had plenty of time to try to put some flesh on the very skimpy bones of his theory before he made a call to the one man in Luton he really didn't want to piss off.
But needs must when the devil drives, and rehearsing in his mind the tones of absolute certainty, he turned to his phone again.
He didn't need to ask Inquiries for the number this time.
When the phone was answered he said, 'Hi. My name's Joe Sixsmith. I'd like to speak to Detective Superintendent Woodbine, please.'
25
Last Breakfast
Joe stood outside No. 15 Lock-keeper's Lane and rang the doorbell with some trepidation. To his relief it was the boy Liam who opened the door. Joe glanced at his watch. It was half past three. Joe said, 'Hi, Liam. Back from school already?' 'Exams,' said the boy lugubriously. 'You want to see Mum?' Not if I don't have to, thought Joe. He said, 'Just wondered, that morning Steve left, did he actually eat his breakfast?' 'Yeah, Steve always ate his breakfast,' said Liam wonderingly. 'He really liked Mum's cooking!' Recalling the burned offering he'd seen on his previous visit, Joe understood Liam's wonderment, but he wasn't sure the boy had fully understood the question. 'Don't mean generally,' he said. 'I mean, that specific Wednesday morning, did he definitely have breakfast before he went?' Now the boy understood him. He turned away and yelled, 'Mum! It's for you!' Then he vanished up the
