Not that Joe had looked like he needed much help in that line when he started. But somehow again and again after stumbling around like a shortsighted man in a close-planted pine forest on a dark night, he had emerged blinking with mild surprise into bright light and open country with everything lying clearly before him.

On more than one occasion Willie Woodbine had been nicely placed to take most of the credit. But the cop was clear-sighted enough to recognize it was Joe's success, not his own, and from time to time he reached out a protective hand, not so much to pay a debt as to protect an asset.

Reaching out the hand of patronage was something new.

"That what you told Mr. Porphyry about me, Willie?"

"No." Woodbine sighed. "I told him that in something like this, despite appearances, if anyone could get the job done, it was likely to be you. So don't you go letting me down, Joe. Or else…"

"Yeah yeah," said Joe, to whom a veiled threat was like a veiled exotic dancer. While you didn't know the exact proportions of what you were going to see when the veil came off, you knew you were unlikely to see anything you hadn't seen before. "But just what is the job, Willie?"

There was another voice in the background now, saying something Joe couldn't make out, but the tone was urgent.

"Joe, got to go. Keep me posted, OK?"

The phone went dead.

"Shoot," said Joe, draining his can of Guinness.

He hadn't got much further forward. What could a bit of bother at a golf club amount to? Taking a leak in a bunker, maybe. Or wearing shorts with parrots on.

There was mystery here, and maybe trouble. At least he had the consolation of knowing beneath the parrots he had two hundred quid of the YFG's money thawing in his pocket.

He looked at his watch. Just after three, but he might as well go home. He didn't anticipate getting any more business today.