Part 6 (2/2)

'Must like you.'

'Yeah, but he's like that with all the staff.'

'Certainly seems bothered about this guy, Waring,' said Joe. 'What's all that about?'

Before Chip could answer, a voice said, 'Hi there, Joe. Need any help?'

He turned to see Colin Rowe had come up behind him, his open friendly face wreathed in smiles.

'No. Chip here's doing a grand job.'

'Glad to hear it. We have high hopes of young Chip, but you don't get to be Open champion without being willing to get your hands dirty, right, Chip?'

'Right, Mr Rowe.'

'You go in for vintage, do you, Joe?' said Rowe, examining the Morris. 'Lovely old girl, this. Grand for running around locally, eh? Means you can save the big gas-guzzler for the motorway.'

'Yeah, that's right,' agreed Joe.

Rowe moved away and got into a silver Audi A8 Quattro. He'd evidently come out to make a phone call. Good rule that, thought Joe. All the big money people who were members of the Hoo, it could be like the belfry at St Monkeys if they didn't make them switch their phones off.

He stood and watched as the young a.s.sistant pro completed the job with graceful efficiency and placed the wheel with the flat in the boot.

'There you go, Mr Sixsmith. Done and dusted,' said Chip.

Joe said, 'Thanks a lot. That's real service.'

'That's what Hoo members pay for,' grinned the youth.

'Yeah, but I'm not a member.'

'Anyone with Mr Porphyry behind them can order his tie straightaway,' said Chip confidently.

Rowe had finished his call and got out of the Audi.

'All done? Good. Chip, any word on that new travel case I ordered?'

'Should be here tomorrow, Mr Rowe.'

'Why don't we go up to the shop and you can check with the suppliers?'

He began to walk away with the youngster, then glanced back over his shoulder and called, 'Don't forget that game you promised us, Joe. Look forward to seeing you again soon.'

'Who can tell?' said Joe.

And as he drove away he heard Aunt Mirabelle's usual response to that question.

Only the Lord, and sometimes He speaks awful soft and low.

A Royal Summons.

Aunt Mirabelle had imprinted in Joe's heart a faith in a benevolent deity that it would have taken surgery to remove, but when it came to everyday practicalities, he paid as much attention to Sod's as G.o.d's Law.

All that stuff about the lilies of the field and taking no thought for the morrow was fine, but any fool knew that a man driving around with a flat in his boot was bound to have another blow-out pretty d.a.m.n quick, so on his way back to town he pulled into Ram Ray's garage on the ring road. Ram wasn't around, and he had to deal with the head mechanic, Sc.r.a.pyard Eddie, who'd got his nickname because it was said that if you fell out with him, that was where your vehicle was likely to end up. Joe had recently been foolish enough to second-guess Eddie on a fuel pump fault in the old Morris, and now the mechanic seemed disinclined to admit the possibility of fixing the spare before the weekend.

Fortunately Ram's highly efficient and very desirable secretary, Eloise, who had a soft spot for Joe, came out to say h.e.l.lo. When she heard his problem she said, 'Do it, Eddie,' in a tone which reduced the mechanic to fawning co-operation, and invited Joe into the office for a cool cola.

'Don't you just love this weather, Joe?' she asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, a manoeuvre which made Joe glad he already had an excuse for sweating.

'Yeah, it's got its attractions,' he said. High among which was Eloise's abandonment of outerwear just this side of decency, or a long way that side if you were Aunt Mirabelle.

'So how's business?' she asked.

'So so. And how's George? Saw him demolish Ernie Jagger last month. He's on a real winning streak!'

George was Eloise's boyfriend. A rising star in the boxing world, he stood two metres high, about the same across the shoulders, with fists like bunches of petrified bananas. Known in the sporting columns as Jura.s.sic, the image of George was a good thing to keep in mind when talking to Eloise.

'Not with me, he ain't,' said Eloise. 'All that training, he takes it so seriously. Me, I like a sporting guy, but not when it turns him into a monk. No, George is out. Got myself a new sport, only Chip don't let it interfere with his time off.'

'Chip?' said Joe. 'So what's his game?'

'Golf, among other things,' laughed Eloise. 'He's a.s.sistant pro out at the Royal Hoo.'

Joe wasn't particularly surprised. Coincidences that would have had others running to the parapsychologists he took in his stride. Butcher had once said to him, 'Sixsmith, you're in a job you've got no particular talent for, and you go at it in a half-a.s.sed way, but you've got a strike rate Willie Woodbine would die for. Serendipity, that's what it's called. That's what you've got, Joe.'

'Can I get treatment on the NHS?' he'd asked.

'Don't joke about it!' she'd retorted sternly. 'It's probably the only thing keeping you alive!'

Joe had thought about it later, then he'd sent it to the Recycle Bin to join all the other stuff that looked likely to stretch the period between his head hitting the pillow and sleep hitting his head by more than five seconds.

'Chip Harvey,' he said. 'I've just been talking to him. Nice lad.'

'You've been to the Royal Hoo?' said Eloise. She was too nice to make cracks about getting a job in the kitchen or sweeping up leaves from the course, but Joe's musical ear detected the harmonics of surprise in her tone.

It occurred to him he'd have done better to keep his mouth shut. But no point crying over spilt milk, said Mirabelle.

Anyway, as Whitey added, may be spilt milk to you, but it's manna from heaven to me.

'Yeah. I'm on a case. Working for a member called Porphyry. Look, he's told people he was showing me around with a view to applying for members.h.i.+p, so that's what Chip thinks. When you talk to him, make sure he keeps it to himself, OK?'

A lesser man might have tried to swear Eloise to secrecy, but Joe had had it drummed into him as a child, never ask for what you know you can't get!

The young woman didn't seem to have heard his plea.

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