The Roar of the Butterflies. Reginald Hill

problem. Where was the man anyway? He didn’t like to look at his own watch but he managed to cop a glance at the chunky gold Rolex on Latimer’s wrist and saw that it was after ten thirty.

      Bert, the steward, materialized at the table bearing a laden tray. He set it down and began distributing the drinks.

      ‘Your iced coffee, Mr Sixsmith,’ he said.

      ‘Right,’ said Joe, thinking, I’m only here five minutes and already the staff know my name.

      He sipped the coffee. It was delicious. This was the sort of thing people who joined the Royal Hoo knew from birth, he guessed. Luke-warm coffee tastes like ditchwater but, lose a few more degrees and you get this nectar.

      Latimer glanced at his watch.

      ‘What time are you meeting Chris?’ he asked.

      ‘Ten thirty.’

      ‘Passed that now. Bad form keeping a guest waiting, but Chris is always a bit of a law unto himself.’

      ‘In more ways than one,’ said Surtees shortly.

      ‘Now, now, Arthur,’ reproved Latimer. ‘But not to worry, Joe. Even if Chris does stand you up, we’ll see you don’t have a wasted journey. We were just trying to work up enough energy to play a couple of holes before lunch. We could do with a fourth. What do you say, fellows? Shall we persuade Joe to join us and show us his style?’

      ‘Only if he gives us half a dozen gotchas,’ said Surtees.

      This was evidently a joke. They all laughed immoderately and Joe joined in, partly to give the impression he knew what they were laughing about, but also because, as a naturally sociable man, he always found mirth infectious.

      But when the laughs died away, Latimer returned to the attack, ‘So that’s agreed. You’ll do us the honour then, Joe? If Chris doesn’t show?’

      They were all regarding him expectantly.

      ‘Love to,’ said Joe. ‘Only I haven’t brought my gear.’

      His long experience of trying to get out of Aunt Mirabelle’s arrangements, which usually involved meeting homely spinsters who’d reached the age where hope’s allegedly eternal springs were drying to a trickle, should have taught him that any excuse that wasn’t rock solid was tissue paper to a determined arranger.

      ‘No problem. Young Chip will fit you up in two minutes in the pro’s shop.’

      The rock-solid excuse produced after the sandy-based one has collapsed rarely sounds totally convincing, but Joe didn’t let such a consideration bother him. He hesitated only to decide between the urgent hospital appointment to discover if his recently diagnosed brain tumour was operable and the need to meet his wife and seven children who were arriving at Heathrow from Barbados mid afternoon.

      Then over Latimer’s shoulder he saw the air shimmer as if at the flutter of an angel’s wings and a moment later salvation appeared in the form of a YFG.

      ‘That’s most kind of you,’ he said. ‘I’d really love to play with you guys…’

      He paused to enjoy the shadow of surprise which ran across each of their faces, then he said, ‘But, hey, it will have to be some other time. Sorry. Here’s Chris now. Thanks for your hospitality.’

      He stood up as Porphyry reached the table.

      ‘Joe,’ he said. ‘So sorry I’m late.’

      ‘No problem,’ said Joe. ‘Your friends have been making me really welcome.’

      ‘That’s kind of them. We’re a welcoming club. Catch you later, Tom.’

      ‘Why don’t you and Joe join us?’ said Latimer pleasantly.

      ‘Thanks, but no. We’re a bit pressed for time and I wanted to show Joe round.’

      ‘Well, I hope you like what you see, Joe. And don’t forget. You’ve promised us a game so we can see your style.’

      Joe gave him the big grin.

      ‘No problem, Tom,’ he said. ‘That’s one promise I definitely won’t forget.’

      Meaning, if ever I come here again which at this moment don’t feel likely, I’m going to buy me a plaster cast from the Plastic Poo Joke Shop and wrap it round my leg!

      A Fortunate Lie

      As they descended the flight of stairs which led down from the terrace on to the course Christian Porphyry apologized again for his lateness, adding, ‘Still, you seemed to be managing very well on your own.’

      ‘Yeah,’ said Joe negligently. ‘Undercover work hones you up for pretty well every extremity, even sitting around drinking iced coffee on a hot day. Seemed nice guys, your three friends.’

      ‘The Bermuda Triangle?’ Porphyry laughed. ‘Yes, they’re very good company.’

      ‘So why do you call them that then?’

      ‘Well, Colin runs Rowe Estates, you’ve probably seen their boards. And Arthur’s a lawyer, while Tom is the boss of Latimer Trust, financial services and investment, that sort of thing. So, property, finance and the law – some members say if they suck you in, when you come out the other side, you don’t know which way’s up or down! Just a club joke. Means nothing.’

      They were walking along the side of a fairway. A buggy came towards them, pulling a small trailer. The driver brought it to a halt and got out.

      ‘I’d like a word, Mr Porphyry,’ he said.

      He was a small red-headed man with a face so savagely assaulted by the sun that it looked like a baked potato just plucked from the embers. He spoke with the kind of Scottish accent that Joe could only localize as more Glasgow Rangers than Edinburgh Festival.

      ‘What is it, Davie?’

      ‘It’s about a replacement for Steve Waring. It’s getting urgent.’

      ‘He still hasn’t shown up then?’

      ‘No, he hasna, and it means the rest of us are working like blacks to keep the course in nick.’

      Porphyry shook his head doubtfully. Maybe, thought Joe, he’s going to tell the guy that anyone who talks like he does should go easy on the racism. But all the YFG said was, ‘It’s really Mr Rowe you should be talking to, Davie. He’s chairman of the Greens Committee.’

      ‘Aye, I know and I’ve tried that, but he says that when it came up, you said let’s wait a wee while longer to see if Steve shows up.’

      ‘Did I? Yes, I believe I did. I mean, it’s only been…how long?’

      ‘A week.’

      ‘There you are then. Hardly any time. I know this job means a lot to Steve, and you yourself say he’s been a good worker. Probably something’s come up that he had to sort out, and he’ll show up again any time now. I’d just hate for him to come back and find his job had gone.’

      ‘It’s a credit to your hairt, Mr Porphyry,’ said Davie with only a small amount of discernible irony. ‘But I called round at his digs last night and there’s been no sign of him or word from him since last week. Landlady says he owes a month’s back rent. I reckon he’s done a runner and we won’t be seeing hide nor hair of him this side of Christmas. We need another pair of hands now, else things will start slipping.’

      ‘All right, Davie. I understand. I’ll have a word with Mr Rowe.’

      The