His voice was quite friendly. Looked like this might be a Willie day, which probably meant he wanted something. Woodbine was the kind of ambitious cop whose gaze was fixed on the high ground. He only glanced down in search of small change that someone else had dropped. In his mind, professional and social upward mobility marched hand in hand and he'd married accordingly. But popular judgment was that he'd need to become Lord High Executioner before his wife would reckon she'd been compensated for her noble condescension.

He stopped chuckling and went on, "The thing is, Joe, I've given you a good write-up, and I just wanted to make sure you won't let me down."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Willie, no sir, you can rely on good old Joe."

He'd over-hammed it. Woodbine said sharply, "This is serious, Joe. I hope you're going to take it seriously."

"Of course I am," said Joe in his serious voice. "Might help, though, if you gave me a hint what it is I'm being serious about?"

"It's nothing, storm in a teacup, really. Mr. Porphyry, Christian, has got himself a bit of bother at the golf club. He mentioned it to me, asked my advice. I gave it some thought, and I told him, 'Sorry, Chris, but this doesn't get close to being a police matter.' You know me, Joe, always willing to stretch things a bit for a friend, but in this case I really couldn't see how anything in the official machinery could be of any use. But I hate to let a chum down. And it struck me, what he really needed was someone so unofficial, you'd pay him no heed. Someone so unlikely, no one would worry about him. Someone you'd not lay good money on to know his arse from his elbow. Someone like you, Joe."

It wasn't exactly a glowing testimonial. But Joe knew that he probably only survived in Luton because Willie Woodbine felt able to give it.

Very few cops like private eyes. Most view them with grave suspicion. And a few hate their guts and would love to put them out of business.