teams with the two big men, Potter and Naysmith, always side by side. In fact, it was a pretty sporting kind of study, with an oar high up across one wall and a stuffed fish on another, with rods, reels and lines everywhere, plus a practice putting cup on the carpet and a bag of golf clubs standing in a corner.
Endo Venera would probably have taken the opportunity of going through the desk drawers, but Joe's thoughts were elsewhere. Why the image of a dead woman should so affect him he didn't know. None of this had anything to do with him. No one was paying him, he'd only become involved by accident and the clever thing was to follow Butcher's advice and put as much space between himself and the investigation as possible.
But he felt involved. Personally and seriously. Ain't no such thing as an accident, his Aunt Mirabelle and Sigmund Freud were agreed on this at least, though they parted company on their explication of the thesis. But whether he was here because of some Higher Purpose or whether it was just another fine mess the working of his own subconscious had got him into, he knew he was definitely involved and he'd like some answers.
The door opened and Woodbine came back in. He looked a wreck.
Joe said, 'I'm really sorry your holiday got messed up.'
Being a hard-nosed cop, he peered at Joe in search of irony, but finding nothing there other than genuine sympathy, he sighed and said, 'I'd rather have been on point duty at Market Cross during rush hour in a thunderstorm.'
'And Mrs. Woodbine, is she well?'
It was as diplomatically phrased as he could manage. Joe had met Georgina Woodbine and knew from personal experience what it felt like to be within the penumbra of her wrath.
There was a moment of shared awareness, then Woodbine said, 'As well as can be expected. OK, Joe. Sorry you got caught up in this lot. You can push off now. Unless you've got any ideas you'd like to run past me?'
One thing about Willie Woodbine, he didn't let pride or prejudice get in the way of pragmatism. Joe, he'd come to realize, got to places that normal CID methods couldn't reach, and the superintendent had no objection to hitching a free ride.
Time he learned to pay for his ticket, thought Joe.
'None I can think of,' said Joe. 'Maybe if you told me what Naysmith said they talked about on the phone, it would get me started.'
'They just arranged to meet,' said Woodbine unconvincingly.
'Was that all? Not much help then. All I can think of is, maybe you ought to get some protection arranged for Darby Pollinger and Victor Montaigne.'
'I think Sergeant Chivers has got that one worked out,' said Woodbine, implying by his intonation even Sergeant Chivers. 'No problem. Mr. Montaigne's away skiing in the French Alps. And Mr. Pollinger's got the kind of house that our Crime Prevention Unit visits to pick up tips.'
'But you will be wanting to talk to them?' 'Very likely, Joe. Very likely. Anything else you want to say before you go?'
'Only, welcome home, Willie,' said Joe Sixsmith.
Ten.
Beacon Heights had returned to its customary peace and quiet when Joe emerged.
The police vehicles were still there but no longer pulsating light or sound. The SAS neighbour's guests had all gone back to their party. There was a bedroom light on in the Woodbine house, but it snapped off as Joe watched. Presumably Georgie Woodbine had unpacked, cleaned up, and was now going to catch up on her beauty sleep.
'Spare room for you tonight, Willie,' said Joe. 'You OK, Whitey?'
There was no reply as he got back into the Mini, and he recalled that he'd left the Glit in such a rush he'd completely forgotten about Whitey under his stool at the bar.
'Oh shoot! I'll kill that Dick Hull if he's let him get stoned again!'
He started the car and set off down the hill.
It really was ghost-town time out here in the posh suburbs, hardly any traffic even, just him and that motorcyclist a couple of hundred yards back.
As he retraced his route into town, he noted that the guy on the bike kept pace with him. So what? If he was going downtown too, this was the route to take. But even when he left the quiet suburbs behind and got into a bit of slow traffic on the urban freeway, the guy didn't take the chance to show off the advantages of a bike in these conditions and weave his way forward through the drift, he still hung back two or three cars behind.
Funny, thought Joe, and took a turn off the freeway half a mile before his purposed exit.
The bike headlight followed.
Joe crossed a light at amber, did a sharp left, came up close behind a VW Polo which had just pulled out of a driveway, hit the brake, reversed into the same driveway and killed his lights.
Thirty seconds later, the motorbike reared past. He just had time to glimpse its red-helmeted rider, bulky in leathers, before it vanished up the street in pursuit of the distant lights of the Polo.
At least he assumed that was what it was doing. Or maybe he was just getting paranoid.
Anyway, he was glad he had an excuse to go to the Glit.
Two excuses, in fact, but one of them, Merv the Taxi, was nowhere in sight.
The other, Whitey the Alcohol, was on public display, curled up around the cash till, snoring.
The manager, Dick Hull, anticipating Joe's indignation, said, It's OK, I got to him before he went too far. You can't blame folk, Joe. When it comes to bumming drinks, he could make a Rechabite relent.'
