Part 15 (1/2)

'You did?' said Joe, feeling the not unfamiliar feeling that another promising theory might be on the point of crumbling. 'When was that?'

'I don't know, week back maybe.'

'Morning, night? Weekend, weekday? Before the heatwave started, after the heatwave started?'

'Don't remember,' said the boy with that indifference to temporal matters which is one of the blessings of childhood and one of the penalties of age.

'So where was this?' said Joe, moving from time to place.

It was a clever move. Suddenly he got precision.

'Coming down Plunkett Avenue from the bypa.s.s about half a mile away,' said Liam. 'I'd been round at my mate Trent's ...'

'So this was evening?' interrupted Joe.

'That's right, late on, still light but fading ...'

'So nine-ish?' said Joe.

'Bit later. Mum got real ratty, says I should be in by nine on a school day. Anyway, this silver Audi goes by and there's Steve in the pa.s.senger seat. I gave him a wave, thought I might get a lift, but he didn't see me.'

'So did you mention this next time you saw him?'

Liam's face went slack, which in another age might have been taken as evidence of incipient idiocy, but which Joe recognized as signifying the modern teenager's entry into deep-thought mode.

'No,' said the boy finally. 'Didn't mention it 'cos I didn't see him again.'

'You mean ...?'

'Yeah. He was up in his room when I got back, and next morning must have been the day he took off. What do you think I should do about the picture?'

'Best keep it safe,' advised Joe. 'You a Chelsea fan?'

'No,' said the boy indignantly. 'Luton!'

'Good lad!' said Joe. 'Could be a cracking season ahead, specially with Sir Monty coming up with the cash to sign the Croat kid.'

'Mebbe,' said the boy with that natural scepticism which marks the true Luton supporter. 'Tell you next April.'

Joe's musically attuned ear told him the dining-room duet was reaching its climax. It didn't sound as if Mrs Tremayne was going to return in a better temper than when she left, which was an excellent reason to be on his way. He'd got all he was going to get here, though as usual he'd no idea whether it was worth the effort.

'Mebbe see you at the ground some time, Liam,' he said. 'Say goodbye to your mum for me.'

He made his way out, glancing at his watch. Still a couple of hours before he needed to think about getting to the airport. His visit to Lock-keeper's Lane had proved more productive than he'd antic.i.p.ated, but he refused to let himself get carried away, mainly because his limited imaginative powers couldn't picture any destination he might be carried away to.

But he did know where it was worth looking for a silver Audi 8 Quattro.

He paused at the mini-roundabout at the top end of Lock-keeper's Lane to work out the best route to the Royal Hoo.

Straight across was going to be quickest, he decided.

And it was little surprise to discover after he'd negotiated the roundabout that he was driving along Plunkett Avenue.

A Patch of Oil.

It occurred to Joe as he was parking his car that on this occasion he didn't have the protective cover of an invitation from the YFG.

On the other hand, no one here was going to know that, he told himself, and in any case he wanted to keep a low profile.

He checked his gear. He was dressed for his Spanish trip. If it had been a holiday he would definitely have travelled in the parrot shorts, but as it was business he'd opted for canary yellow chinos, green T-s.h.i.+rt and blue deck shoes. Nothing there to cause offence in a place where plus-fours and tartan trews were regarded as sharp gear.

It was still early, but golfers must like an early start for there was already an impressive array of high-price metal on display in the car park, including two silver Audi 8's.

The first he looked at was the 3-litre diesel model.

'Some poor sod on the bread-line,' mused Joe, making for the other.

This was the big boy, the Quattro 6. He strolled round as if admiring the lines. No sign of Waring's belongings inside. Must be still in the boot. He noticed that the tyre had picked up some mud which was quite a feat round Luton during the heatwave. Except of course he was in Royal Hoo mini-climate land where you could probably summon the steward and order mud.

'Mr Sixsmith.'

He looked up to see Chip Harvey approaching carrying what looked like a portable mummy case.

The young man didn't look happy to see him. It was understandable. Last time they'd met here, he'd been the YFG's guest and a well-heeled prospective member. After last night he was just old Joe, the snoop.

He said, 'Hi, Chip. How're you doing? Have a good time last night?'

'OK,' grunted Chip, which didn't come across as the modest disclaimer of a guy who had raved it up round the clubs before being taken to the bosom and wherever else he fancied of the gorgeous Eloise. Maybe things hadn't panned out.

He said, 'Just admiring the Audi. Nice wheels.'

'OK if you like that sort of thing,' said Chip with the disdain of youth to whom Vorsprung durch Technik means dull in any language.

Then to Joe's surprise he reached down and started to unlock the boot.

'Hey, this isn't your machine, is it?'

'Don't be silly,' said Chip as the lid slowly rose allowing Joe to see that he'd got another guess completely wrong. The boot was empty except for a piece of dark blue carpeting of a quality Joe couldn't afford for his living room.

Chip's sharp young eyes spotted an imperfection that Joe had missed.

He reached in and touched the carpet with his index finger. He raised it to reveal the tip was oily. Frowning, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his finger and then rubbed the linen square vigorously over the offending piece of carpet. It took a lot of rubbing till he was satisfied, by which time his handkerchief was ruined.

'You do car-valeting too?' enquired Joe.

'These things cost too much to get them dirty,' said Chip, laying the mummy case gently inside. It was made of a rich black leather with a zipper and some strap buckles that looked like they could be real old gold.