E-Book Content
THE
ROAR
Butterflies OF THE T HE
REGIINALD HILL
For WRECKING CREWS the world over. (You know who you are!)
Contents 1 ’Fonlies
1
2 Enter a YFG
3
3 A Willie Day
10
4 Blackball
18
5 Tiger
28
6 Pastures New
34
7 A Fortunate Lie
49
8 Trust
63
9 A Royal Summons
76
10 Favors
89
11 Knobbly Scones and Lipton’s Tea
93
12 The Hole
106
13 Legal Advice
116
14 What’s Become of Waring?
122
15 Twitch
133
16 Wondrous Regiment
143
17 A Message from Frank
150
18 A Patch of Oil
160
19 Go with the Garbage
168
20 Lightning Strikes Twice
180
21 Frozen Broccoli
193
22 The Right Price
199
23 Pillow Talk
210
24 A Saving Bell
220
25 Last Breakfast
233
26 Pain
237
27 End of Play
250
About the Author Praise Other Books by Reginald Hill Cover Copyright About the Publisher
1
’Fonlies
Joe Sixsmith was adrift in space. Light years beneath him gleamed the tiny orb he was supposed to make contact with, but he knew it was an impossible dream. His muscles had melted, his lungs were starved of oxygen, and the only part of his mind not paralyzed by terror was the bit that dealt with ’fonlies. ’Fonly I’d done this . . . ’fonly I’d done that . . . “No use messing with ’fonlies,” Aunt Mirabelle used to say. “ ‘Fonlies don’t get your homework done, Joseph. You miss your football Saturday morning, you’ve got no one to blame ’cept yourself.” How right she was! No one to blame ’cept himself . . . except maybe Willie Woodbine for being such a social climber . . . and Beryl Boddington maybe for standing him up . . . and definitely Merv Golightly for having a mouth like the Channel Tunnel . . . but first
2
REGINALD HILL
and last and as usual, himself, Joseph Gaylord (even Mirabelle kept quiet about that) Sixsmith for always going boldly half-assed where nobody had ever come back from before!
2
Enter a YFG
Way it started was this. Monday afternoon, day before yesterday, though it seemed a lot longer ago, he’d been sitting in his office, minding his own business, which didn’t take much minding this time of year. Summer had parked its anticyclone firmly over Luton and fused the days and nights of July together with a heat too enervating to start a race riot in, let alone perpetrate any of the crimes that might send the distressed citizenry in search of a PI. Ice creams melted before they could reach your mouth, birds huddled beneath cats for shade, and flies buzzed with relief into spiders’ webs whose owners felt the tremor along the line and thought that maybe next Friday they’d stroll down there to take a look. The plus side was that Joe too felt as energetic as a poached egg and couldn’t whip up much concern at the lack of client incentive to head off down the mean streets.
4
REGINALD HILL
So clad in an off-white singlet and Bermuda shorts patterned with scarlet parrots sinking their beaks into rainbow-striped pumpkins, Joe sat at his desk and relaxed with his favorite book, Not So Private Eye, the reminiscences of Endo Venera, the famous Mafia soldier turned gumshoe. This was Joe’s bible. Everything you needed to know about being a PI was here, except maybe how to stay awake. His head nodded, and he slipped into a dream in which he and Beryl Boddington were sliding naked down an iceberg, and he wasn’t at all pleased to have his descent interrupted by a voice saying, “Mr. Si