One thing you couldn’t say about the Royal Hoo, however, was that it was ostentatious.
Joe had once been retained to look into a suspected fiddle in the kitchen of a very exclusive restaurant. He had walked by it three times before spotting the entrance. When he’d suggested to the owner that a sign invisible till you got within six feet wasn’t going to bring in much passing trade, the man had winced and replied, ‘The kind of people who don’t know where we are, why would I want to tell them?’
The Hoo clearly worked on the same principle. Not that the entrance itself was understated. Eventually the wall was interrupted by a massive granite archway on which he wouldn’t have been surprised to find listed the dead of both world wars.
Instead all he found after getting out of the car to do a recce was a sign as discreet as that of a Harley Street pox doctor. It didn’t declare but rather murmured that this was indeed the Royal Hoo Golf Club.
Slightly more prominent on the left-hand pillar was a notice suggesting that tradesmen and others of the ilk might care to continue another half-mile till they encountered a lane on the left which would take them to the rear of the clubhouse. Joe was momentarily tempted. But he hadn’t changed into his best blue slacks and yellow polo shirt for nothing, so he boldly sent the Morris rolling between a pair of gates containing enough wrought iron to make a small battleship.
Instantly he knew he was in a different country. Luton might be only fifteen minutes drive away, but this was somewhere else.
The driveway wound along an avenue of tall and probably ancient trees. Horticulture wasn’t one of Joe’s areas of expertise and the best he could say about them was that they weren’t silver birches, palms, or monkey puzzles. Between their huge trunks he could see sweeping lengths of manicured greensward and from time to time he got glimpses ahead of what looked like the kind of stately home the proles were permitted to rubberneck around for a substantial fee a couple of days a week during the summer. Presumably this was the clubhouse. Eventually as he got closer, the driveway forked. Another of those signs so discreet he’d have missed it if he’d been doing more than five mph indicated that cars should bear to the right.
The car park, screened from the house by a colourful shrubbery, was full of serious machinery. You parked a Beamer here, you were anonymous. Couple of Rollers, lovely old Daimler, a vintage Bugatti, at least three autograph Range Rovers, Jags across the spectrum, a scarlet Ferrari that you tiptoed round in case you woke it up, several other sports jobs of varying degrees of flashness. But nowhere any sign of Porphyry’s Volante.
Not surprising. He was deliberately early. It was something he’d read in Not So Private Eye, his PI Bible. When a meet’s been set up on ground you don’t know, get there first to suss things out.
He got out of his car and strolled over to the Bugati to take a closer look.
‘Morning, sir? That your Morris?’
He turned to see a fresh-faced youngster of eighteen or nineteen coming towards him. At least it wasn’t a heavy in a security uniform alerted by CCTV that a dodgy-looking character was prowling round the car park, but it probably amounted to the same thing.
‘That’s right,’ said Joe. ‘Not in the wrong car park, am I?’
Maybe at the Hoo they had auto-apartheid.
‘Oh no, this is fine. Nice motor, but I think you could do with a bit of air in your front offside.’
‘Could all do with a bit of air,’ said Joe, checking it out. The kid was right.
‘Wouldn’t be Mr Sixsmith by any chance, would it, sir?’
‘That’s me, yeah.’
‘Mr Porphyry mentioned you might be coming,’ said the youth. ‘I’m Chip Harvey, assistant pro.’
He held out his hand. Joe shook it. The kid seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
‘First time here, is it, sir?’ he said. ‘I hope you like the look of us. It’s a lovely course. It would make a marvellous championship venue, but as I’m sure you know if you’re looking to join us, the membership here doesn’t care for that sort of public exposure. Let me show you to the clubhouse.’
If you’re looking to join us, thought Joe. Said without the slightest hint of some hope! In the light of morning, the doubts sown by Merv had withered considerably. Porphyry had struck him as straight and he was used to backing his own judgement. However daft the membership story might play to outsiders, what was the guy supposed to say? That he was bringing a PI to lunch with a view to casing the joint!
Really he would have preferred to hang around the car park till Porphyry appeared, but that would have looked a bit odd, so he let himself be guided through the shrubbery.
Close up, the clubhouse had even more of the feel of a stately home about it. French windows opened on to a long terrace spotted with parosoled tables. No plastic DIY superstore stuff these, but the kind of old-fashioned, twisty wrought-iron jobs you’d look to find in the gardens of folk who didn’t have to buy their own furniture. Not that Joe spent much time among such people, but he was a great fan of heritage movies. Come to think of it, the scatter of people drinking coffee or long fruit drinks in elegant glasses could have been carefully arranged there by Messrs Merchant and Ivory. Of course these days, when class can be cloned as easy as sheep, anyone could buy the gear and walk the walk and talk the talk. But there’s always a pea under the mattress, and to Joe’s keen eye, where real kiss-my-ass class showed through was in the way your born-to-its sat easy. Folk like him either slumped or, at best, lolled. Somewhere towards the top of the heap you learned the art of reclining gracefully. Most of these folk here either had it, or were working very hard at getting it.
One end of the terrace overlooked a huge circle of lawn only slightly smaller than Kensington Gardens. From the numbered flag at its centre he deduced it was the eighteenth green. Green was the right word. It was so green it could have played for Ireland. Considering there’d been a hosepipe ban in the Luton area for a fortnight, reducing most gardens and public parks to dustbowls that would have made a dromedary cough, Joe couldn’t understand why everyone here wasn’t under arrest. And it wasn’t just the actual green. The undulating crescent of tree-lined fairway stretching into the distance didn’t look like it was dying of thirst either. Maybe here at Royal Hoo they had their own special cloud which sprinkled a little rain during the hours of darkness.
Chip Harvey sat him at a table and said, ‘This do you, sir?’
‘Yeah, this is fine,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t have Mr Porphyry’s – Chris’s – number, do you? I could give him a bell, see if there’s a hold up?’
He pulled out his mobile. The young man grimaced and said, ‘No can do, I’m afraid, sir. Use of mobiles is strictly forbidden on the course or in the clubhouse. Heavy fine even if it just rings! You’d need to go back to your car to use it, but I’m sure Mr Porphyry will be here soon. Relax, have a drink. The steward will be along in a minute. Enjoy your day, sir.’
Nice boy, thought Joe, taking in his surroundings. This was OK, this was the real deal. Comfy seat under a parasol, lovely view, four crisp new monkeys in his pocket, steward would be along in a moment, even a breath of what must be the only breeze in the whole county, what more could a man ask? Envy and resentment didn’t play a large part in Joe’s outlook. Social injustices and inequalities had to be personalized before they hit his indignation button. If as he sat here he saw another black, balding, middling aged, vertically challenged, slightly overweight, redundant lathe-operator being given the runaround because of all or any one of these conditions, he would have groaned regretfully, stood up, and taken sides with the guy. But long as these folk didn’t mind him, he certainly wasn’t going to mind them. He’d learned his Bible the hard way, meaning Aunt Mirabelle’s way, and that meant it stuck, especially her favourite