Part 11 (2/2)

'I surely did,' he said. 'No need to sound so surprised either. Look, what I'm ringing for is, I have to be away for a couple of days, wondered if you and Desmond could keep an eye on Whitey for me. Usual: top up the water and food, don't let the tray get too disgusting.'

Desmond was Beryl's young son, who loved the cat.

'Couple of days?'

'Till the weekend maybe.'

'That's four days.'

'Hey, three, four, no need to get hung up on counting.'

'When I'm doling out your pills in the geriatric ward, you'll want me to get hung up on counting, believe me.'

'I surely will as you'll likely be in the next bed,' said Joe ungallantly.

'I certainly won't be in the same bed.'

This wasn't going too well.

He said, 'Will you do it? Please.'

'Course I will. You don't think I'd let a dumb animal suffer. And I worry about Whitey, too.'

This was better.

'Well, thanks. You've got a key, right?'

'Yeah, if I can recall where I put it. When are you leaving?'

'Five tomorrow morning.'

'Jeez, Joe. What's Mr Porphyry offering you to get you up so early?'

'This ain't that job. This one, I'm working for Mr Ratcliffe King.'

There was a moment's shocked silence then she said, 'Oh Joe, Joe, all these high-up people, don't be getting out of your depth.'

'Hard with high-up people,' he joked.

'Then don't be getting above yourself. Gotta go now. Bye, Joe.'

'Bye,' he said reluctantly.

As he ended the call, the phone rang again.

'Sixsmith,' he said.

'Joe, it's Chris. You said you'd let me know how you were getting on.'

There was no reproach in the voice, just hope. No, worse than hope. Confidence.

'Making progress, Chris,' said Joe.

'Yes?'

He cast around for something rea.s.suring to say and all that came to mind was Butcher's obscurely jokey, What's become of Waring?

He said, 'That lad, Waring, the a.s.sistant greenkeeper, still no word of him?'

'No. Why do you ask?'

'Just think there might be a connection,' lied Joe. 'You being so concerned about him and all.'

It sounded so feeble that he antic.i.p.ated the long silence that followed must signal the inevitable onset of doubt about his competence.

Instead ...

'Oh, Joe, Joe,' said Porphyry. 'What Willie said about you is true. You don't say much, but nothing gets past that razor-sharp mind of yours.'

'Eh?' said Joe, thinking there must be a crossed line or something.

'Yes, I take a special interest in Steve, but I don't see how it can be connected with this business. Thing is, Steve's local. Sally, his mother, used to work for my parents. Housemaid. I remember her well, pretty little thing ... I recall telling her I wanted to marry her ...'

He paused as if in reminiscence.

Joe thought, Oh shoot! He's not going to tell me Butcher was right, is he?

Then Porphyry laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. Young Fair G.o.ds aren't made for sorrow.

'She said, ”Thank you kindly, Master Chris, but my George has got first refusal.” Then she took me to the kitchen and gave me a huge slice of cook's chocolate fudge cake. Best adhesive known for mending an eight-year-old's broken heart. She got married soon after, handed in her notice when she got pregnant with Steve.'

Joe heaved a silent sigh of relief and said, 'This George ...'

'George Waring. Worked on the estate. Sort of general dogsbody. Could turn his hand to anything. Might have made something of himself if he hadn't been such a devil for the drink. Killed him in the end, poor blighter.'

'He died of alcoholic poisoning?'

'Not exactly. He was rolling home one summer evening with a few mates, took a shortcut over the fields that involved crossing a stream by a single plank bridge. He lost his balance and fell off. A fall of hardly a couple of feet, next to no water in the brook, but he banged his head on a stone and when his mates went to pick him up, they found he was dead.'

'How? Why?' asked Joe. It was totally irrelevant, but it was better than trying to explain he had no leads on the cheating case and not much hope of developing any.

'Turned out he had an abnormally thin skull. You and me might have had a b.u.mp, nothing worse. Poor old George cracked his head wide open and that was that. It was an unfortunate accident, no one's fault, but Sally, his wife, got embroiled with some ambulance-chasing lawyer who said it was the estate's responsibility and wanted her to launch a huge compensation claim.'

'That would be Ms Butcher,' said Joe, relis.h.i.+ng the ambulance-chasing bit.

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