Читать книгу The Roar of the Butterflies - Reginald Hill - Страница 16

Trust

Now the Young Fair God fell silent, clearly reliving what even Joe with his weak grasp on the finer points of the game could see must have been a devastating moment.

But just to be quite sure he said, ‘So if that was your ball went into the swimming pool, no way you could have found it sitting nice and handy right at the edge of the fairway. No way except one, that is?’

‘Except one?’

The YFG was regarding him with hope brightening his face. Poor sod thinks I’m going to pull a rabbit out of the hat, thought Joe. Willie Woodbine must really have sold him the notion I’m some kind of voodoo priest. Well, it was disillusion time.

He said, ‘The except one being that you put it there.’

The light died.

‘Of course. That’s the obvious conclusion everyone reached.’

‘Not everyone, surely?’

‘Oh, one or two like Jimmy tell me they find it impossible to believe, but I wouldn’t blame them if even they had doubts. Let’s face it, what other explanation can there be?’

‘Only that you were fitted up,’ said Joe.

‘Fitted up?’

It was hard to believe in this wall-to-wall TV cop-show age that anybody could still be ignorant of the jargon.

‘That it’s a fix,’ said Joe. ‘That someone wants you to be accused of cheating.’

‘Oh,’ said the YFG, sounding disappointed again. ‘That’s what Willie suggested.’

‘Willie Woodbine? You called in the police?’

‘Good lord, no. I didn’t do anything. I really thought it was so absurd it would just go away, some simple explanation would present itself, we’d all have a laugh and that would be that. But as the days went by, it became clear it wasn’t going away.’

‘People were accusing you, you mean?’

‘Of course not. No, it was people coming up to me and assuring me they didn’t believe a word of it that made me realize how much everyone was talking. I’d invited Willie along for a game on Saturday – I’m putting him up for membership, you know – and while we were playing, it just sort of came up. I suppose I was hoping his professional expertise might be able to show me a way out. He was very sympathetic, but didn’t see how he could help officially. That was when he recommended you, Joe. So that’s why I came to see you yesterday.’

‘Yeah. Great. But Willie did reckon it might be an attempt to frame you?’

‘Or a bad joke, perhaps, that went wrong. That’s what he said. Told me to ask myself who might be capable of doing such a thing.’

‘And?’

‘I haven’t been able to think of a soul.’

‘You got no enemies then?’ said Joe doubtfully.

‘Not that I know of.’

That figured. Joe too had once had a similar sunny confidence in human kind, till his chosen profession showed him flaws in his argument. Now he knew, sadly, that the fact that Porphyry thought everyone loved him would be enough to make those who didn’t hate him even more.

So no help with who? Which meant that the poor sod wasn’t going to be much help with why? either. How? was the easy one. Porphyry hit his ball into the wood. A lurking plotter hurled a similar ball into Postgate’s swimming pool, then placed the original one, or a third ball, if he couldn’t find the original, on the fringe of the fairway.

Or maybe this guy Postgate himself had orchestrated the whole thing. That would make life a lot simpler.

A few minutes later Joe was scrubbing this particular theory.

Porphyry now led him to Penley Farm, entering the long rear garden by a wicket gate. A man was dozing on a cane chair by a small swimming pool. He had a mop of vigorous white hair and a sun-browned complexion. As they got near, Porphyry called out, ‘Hello, Jimmy,’ and the man opened his eyes, looking rather disorientated and extremely ancient. But when he saw who it was, a smile lit up his face, reducing him to a healthy eighty-year-old, and he rose to greet them.

‘Chris, good to see you,’ he said, shaking the YFG’s hand vigorously.

‘You too, you’re looking well, Jimmy. This is Joe Sixsmith. He’s a private detective. Joe, meet Jimmy Postgate, last of his kind – more’s the pity.’

Joe, who’d been expecting his role as prospective member to be maintained everywhere in the club, was a bit taken aback by Porphyry’s sudden attack of directness, but Postgate seemed to take it in his stride.

‘Private detective, eh?’ he said. ‘Never met one of them before. You look a bit overheated to me, Joe. Fancy a glass of lemonade? Or do you chaps only drink straight bourbon?’

‘Lemonade would be great,’ said Joe.

They sat by the pool and drank their lemonade which was home-made and delicious, but it soon became apparent to Joe that it was going to be the only profitable part of the visit, unless you could count Postgate’s uncompromising assertion of his undentable belief in Porphyry’s innocence. Coming from a man who had inadvertently provided the cornerstone of the case against him, this struck Joe as a bit of a paradox, which he defined as something that didn’t make sense or made more sense than at first appeared, but whether it helped or hindered him he couldn’t say so he sent it to the Recycle Bin.

Invited to offer an alternative explanation of events, Postgate just shook his head and repeated, ‘No, it beats me. Beats me. All I know is that young Chris here doesn’t have a dishonest bone in him. Now, what can I do to help?’

Change your story, thought Joe. Though it was probably too late for even that to help.

He said, ‘Could you explain exactly what happened?’

‘I was sitting in my chair here, reading my evening paper, when there was a splash, and when I looked into the pool I saw a ball. Fished it out and recognized it as one of Chris’s. No surprise there.’

‘You weren’t surprised?’ said Joe, puzzled.

‘No! Takes a big hitter and Chris is one of the longest hitters in the club. It’s a carry of at least three hundred yards. Even though it was well off line, I thought Chris would be quite chuffed to hear he’d got that distance when I tossed the ball back to him in the clubhouse. If I’d known the bother it was going to cause, I’d have kept my mouth shut!’