with the white hair?'
'You get one out of three,' said Butcher. 'That's Darby Pollinger and he's neither nice nor gentle. He's the senior partner and he eats widows and orphans for breakfast.'
'And the guy with the whiskers?'
'Victor Montaigne. Half French and wholly freebooter. Known in the business as Blackbeard the Pirate.'
Subtle these lawyers, thought Joe. Which left the blond Aryan as Naysmith, the living half of the second-row partnership. He stuck the photo back in his pocket.
That's it then, I hope,' said Butcher. 'Some of us have work to do.'
'All of us. Thanks, Butcher.'
'For nothing, unless you've stolen something,' she said. 'Get out of here.'
Joe had been tempted to tell her about Zak, but that was paid work and also he felt he'd already slipped over the bounds of client confidentiality in his conversation with Hardiman. In any case, Butcher probably wouldn't be all that sympathetic. Watching people running, jumping and throwing things she rated a waste of time only slightly less culpable than watching people kick balls. As for the Plezz, her indignation became almost a medical condition when she started on about the waste of public money and the incentive to local-authority corruption involved in the project.
Merv was the man to turn to if you wanted the sporting inside track. He loved games of all kinds, and worshipped the ground Zak Oto ran on.
Seeing Merv gave him an excuse to go to the Glit. Whitey indicated he had no objection, which was not surprising. Here he was a star.
Dick Hull said Merv hadn't been in yet. Leaving him to draw his Guinness, Joe went out to the lobby phone and, using the Sexwith flier he had in his pocket, he dialled Merv's mobile. No answer, which didn't surprise him. Merv's electronic equipment tended to come from nervous men in pub car parks after nightfall, and they didn't offer extended care contracts.
Now he tried Merv's home number.
It chimed different from what he remembered, but that didn't surprise him. Merv was a natural Bedouin, moving from oasis to oasis, which in his case were marked not by the presence of palm trees but widows of independent means. Whenever he moved in, he always imagined permanency, but it never worked out that way. Presumably he was still with Molly who had the dyslexic daughter in stationery, but there was no absolute guarantee.
'Yes?' snapped a voice in his ear.
It was male and not Merv. Time to box clever. Merv owed him, but that was no reason to drop a friend in the clag.
'I'm ringing on behalf of my firm to say that if you ever felt in need of a confidential enquiry service
Even as he began his ingenious cover-up, it occurred to him he could be in a fix if this guy tried to employ him to check up on his woman who was being balled by Merv ... 'Who the hell is this?' demanded the man.
'My name's Joe Sixsmith,' he said. 'Look, if this is a bad time ...'
'Bad time, of course it's a bad time, you bastard. How did you get this number? Did the police give it to you?'
The man sounded even more agitated than a bit of unwanted cold-calling should warrant.
'No, why should they ... ? Look I'm sorry, perhaps I got a wrong number, who am I talking to here?'
'This is Naysmith, Felix Naysmith, who the hell did you think it was? The police told me about you, Sixsmith. What the hell do you want?'
'Oh yes, Mr. Naysmith,' said Joe, completely bewildered. 'From Poll-Pott? I mean, from the law firm ... what are you doing there .. ? I mean, just where are you, Mr. Naysmith?'
'At home, of course. Are you drunk, or what? And what is it you want?'
'Well, just to talk, perhaps we could meet, I thought it might help or something,' bur bled Joe, trying to get his act together.
'You did, did you? Can you hold on a moment. There's someone at the back door.'
Joe's mind which, like a small lift, had strict passenger limitations, was suddenly crowded with thoughts.
By what amazing coincidence had he managed to mis dial and get through to Felix Naysmith's home? And why was the guy there when his wife was expecting him back in Lincolnshire?
And who on a dark midwinter's night went prowling round the rear of a house to knock on the back door ... ?
At last the surplus weight was dumped and the lift went shooting up his cerebrum.
'Mr. Naysmith!' he yelled. 'Don't open that door!'
But it was too late. He'd heard the bang as the phone was dropped on to a table, and now he could hear distantly a bolt being drawn and a door opened, then Naysmith's voice saying, 'Good Lord, what the hell are you doing here?' And then the sound he most feared, which was no sound at all for a long amazed second, then the silence violently broken by a confusion of noise, gaspings, groanings, scufflings, broken words, choked-off cries ... 'Joe, my man. Not doing the heavy breathing to the nurses' home, I hope!'
A heavy hand clapped on to his shoulder. He looked up to see Merv's beaming face satelliting above him.
There were questions to ask but not now.
He thrust the phone into the taxi driver's huge hand and cried, 'Merv, dial 999, tell them to get round to the
