‘Young kids are vulnerable. They find a friendly ear to pour things into which, a couple of years later as they grow up, they wish maybe they hadn’t. So then they look for a reason to split.’

‘Thought you and Zak parted by mutual consent ’cos she wanted to go stateside and you wanted to take this job at the Plezz?’

‘I was talking in general, Joe, not about me and Zak,’ said Hardiman coldly. ‘Listen, Joe, you tread carefully here, right? Last thing I want is some family row blowing up in the Plezz, so save your dramatic revelations till Zak’s on her way back to the States.’

‘Should’ve thought the last thing you wanted was Zak coming last,’ said Joe.

Hardiman shook his head and sighed deeply.

‘Joe,’ he said. ‘The Grand Opening isn’t about Zak, it’s about the Plezz. After it’s over, then the real work begins, and it doesn’t matter if during the course of the ceremonies the mayor gets fighting drunk, the visiting dignitaries all fall into the pool, or Zak Oto gets run into the track by a no-name from nowhere. In fact if one or all of those happen, we’d probably get much more publicity than if everything goes to plan. This time next week, the mayor will be sober, the dignitaries dry, and Zak long gone to sunny Virginia. And all of us back here will be settling down to the long hard struggle to make this place pay.’

He paused and Joe digested the speech.

‘So you’re not bothered about Zak?’ he said finally.

‘Of course I’m bothered about Zak!’ said Hardiman indignantly. ‘I put years into that girl, the important years. I’m looking forward to a good decade of watching her tear up the record books, and all the while I’ll be thinking, it was me who got you started, girl! And I’ll tell you one thing, Joe. Doesn’t matter what some nutter might be saying, once Zak gets out on that track, she’ll run to win. She doesn’t know any other way. I guarantee that, ’cos it was me that put it there!’

Good speech, thought Joe. But when you’re watching her winning Olympic Gold, won’t you be thinking, it should be me there at trackside, me she’s running up to with the big thank-you hug for all to see on worldwide telly?

He recalled vaguely that last summer when Zak had announced she was definitely heading west, some of the tabloids had tried to whip rumours of an acrimonious parting into a full-blown row. Both of the notional participants, however, had been at pains to play things down. Zak, looking so lovely you’d have believed it if she’d told you she could fly, had talked about her gratitude to Jim and his total support for her decision that the American option was best for her, both personally and athletically. And Hardiman had completed the smother job by announcing that he was taking up the post of sports director at the Plezz. ‘With Zak’s talent, coaching her was a full-time commitment and I was never going to be able to combine it with getting things off the ground at the Pleasure Dome,’ he’d said, cleverly suggesting that if any dumping had been done, he was the dumpster.

‘Now let’s see if I can find Zak for you. I think she’ll be in the café with the others.’

‘Others?’

‘Didn’t she say? Her agent, her Yank trainer, and of course big sister are all here.’

He made them all sound like a gang of freeloading hangers-on.

‘So what exactly happens on New Year’s Day?’ asked Joe as they set off walking once more.

‘Well, there’s an official opening of the stadium, flashing lights, boys and girls dancing, that sort of thing, followed by the competition, with Zak’s race as the highlight, of course. Then in the evening there’s a civic reception in the art gallery to inaugurate the other facilities, Zak will be asked to unveil a plaque, everyone will get noisily pissed, and the ratepayers will foot the bill. The luminaries of Luton are fighting for invites. If you don’t have a ticket, you’re dead.’

‘I’m dead,’ said Joe.

Hardiman laughed and pushed open a door which led into a self-serve café, gaily decorated in the bistro style and tiered down to a plate-glass wall which let every table have a view of the track below. There was no food on offer yet, but on the serving counter a coffee machine bubbled away.

‘Won’t this be the place to eat though?’ said Hardiman proudly. ‘Gobbling up your grub, while down there they’re gobbling up world records.’

‘Pretty optimistic, aren’t you?’ said Joe.

‘We’ve got the fastest boards and the most generous indoor bends in Europe,’ boasted Hardiman. ‘They’ll soon catch on, anyone after a world record, Luton’s the only place to be. There’s Zak down there.’

Joe had already spotted the girl sitting at a table on the lowest tier with three people, two men and a woman. These three were drinking coffee. Zak was sucking on a bottle of her beloved Bloo-Joo which she removed from her mouth and waved as they approached.

‘Hi, Joe,’ she said. ‘Glad you could make it. You guys, this is Joe I was telling you about. Joe, meet my sister Mary, my agent Doug Endor, and my coach, Abe Schoenfeld.’

Schoenfeld was late twenties, athletic of build and glistening with what looked like spray-on health. He said, ‘Hi, Joe,’ in a Clint Eastwood accent. Endor, who was about thirty, tall, craggily handsome, and wearing an eat-your-heart-out-paupers mohair suit, offered his hand and said, ‘Glad to know you, Joe.’ Sister Mary didn’t even look at him. She was shorter than Joe and muscularly built. He tried to see a resemblance to Zak and couldn’t.

‘Grab a seat, Joe,’ said Zak.

He sat. Hardiman said, ‘Catch you later, Joe,’ and walked away.

Sulking because he hadn’t been asked to stay? Or maybe you didn’t invite directors to sit in their own sports centres.

‘So tell me, Joe, what’s your line?’ said Abe Schoenfeld.

Joe glanced uneasily at Zak. She’d intro’d him as Joe I was telling you about. Presumably she’d given the agreed story about taking pity on the out-of-work uncle of an old friend. But what work was he out of?

Zak said, ‘Abe means, what’s your physical thing, Joe. He reckons everyone is some sort of athlete, even if it’s only second-hand.’

‘Like watching, you mean?’ said Joe. ‘I’ve got a season ticket for the Town.’

‘That’s soccer, right? You play?’

‘Used to kick a ball around when I was at school.’

‘But not now? Nothing else? Tennis? Maybe not. Rock climbing? Swimming?’

‘Go to a judo class,’ he said.

‘Knew there was something,’ said Schoenfeld. ‘You can always tell the guys who haven’t dropped right through. You should do weights. Right body shape, good shoulders, heavy legs.’

‘You’re right about the legs,’ said Joe. ‘Feel heavier every time I go upstairs.’

‘Abe is always looking for new talent,’ laughed Zak. ‘OK, you guys, I’m going to show Joe around, let him know what he’s going to be doing.’

She stood up. Joe followed suit. So did Mary.

Endor said, ‘Mary, doll, spare a mo? Couple of fings I need to talk over.’

Professional Cockney, Hardiman had said. Sounded real enough to Joe.

‘I’ll be back in the office next week,’ said Mary coldly. ‘Just now I’m on vacation, remember?’

She walked away with the faintest hint of a limp.

‘Mary works for your agent, does she?’ asked Joe as he followed Zak out of the restaurant area.

‘That’s right. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Joe, surprised by the sharpness of her tone, ‘She don’t look very happy.’

‘Well, that’s her business, wouldn’t you say?’ said Zak coldly.

Joe took a deep breath. One of the early maxims in the so far very slim Joe Sixsmith Book of Advice to Would-be Detectives was, if you’re going to quarrel with your client, get it over with before the bill mounts up.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s my business if I’m going to work for you. I need to be able to ask you anything I like and get a straight answer.’

There it was. She was frowning. She was a nice kid but seeing her with her entourage had underlined that she was also, if not yet a queen, certainly a princess getting used to the deference of her own court.

Could be it was off-with-his-head time.

Instead she suddenly smiled and said, ‘OK. You do the press-ups or you change your coach. Right?’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Joe. ‘Talking of which, you did change your coach last summer. Or rather by going to America you cut off your connection with Hardiman. Any hard feelings?’

Always best to get all versions of a story.

‘You’ve been reading the wrong papers, Joe,’ she said. ‘No, it was pretty painless, the right move for both of us at the right time.’

‘Well, that was handy,’ said Joe.

‘Things sometimes work like that,’ said Zak, with all the confidence of one who hadn’t yet received too many half bricks in the neck from life. ‘If we hadn’t stayed good friends, you don’t think I’d be here now? When Jim heard I was coming home for Christmas, it was him got the idea of boosting the official opening of the Plezz by having an athletics meeting with me running an exhibition. I wouldn’t have done it for anybody else.’

‘How did Abe react?’

‘No problem. He reckoned I’d be ready for a real tester about now.’

‘So this is a real race? Not just an exhibition run?’ Thinking, it would be a lot easier for you to ‘lose’ in a real race.

‘It’s a real race. Lots of top trackers who wouldn’t mind showing me their bums. Abe wouldn’t have come across if he didn’t think he was needed.’

‘He’s staying with you?’

‘No way,’ she laughed. ‘We’re all full up at home, and I try not to track my business into the house anyway. No, Abe’s very comfortable at the Kimberley.’

Joe whistled. ‘With their prices, I should hope he is.’

The Kimberley was one of Luton’s top hotels.

‘He says it’s OK,’ said Zak, coming to a halt and opening a door marked Women’s Locker Room. ‘Come on in. I’ve got the place to myself at the moment. This here’s my locker.’

‘Oh yes. Great. Nice locker.’

‘Where I found the second note,’ she said gently.

He examined it carefully because that’s what she seemed to expect him to do.

‘No sign of forcing,’ he said professionally.

‘No. I checked. What about fingerprints.’

‘Left the powder in the office,’ he said. Then, recalling another of his maxims, don’t get smart with the clients, he added, ‘What I mean is, no point. Key in, turn, pull open with the key, drop the note inside, push, turn, remove key, and you’re away without laying a finger on the door. Anyone else using the Dome before it officially opens?’

‘I know the Spartans, that’s my old club, have been using the track evenings for training to help it settle. Plus there’s the workmen putting finishing touches. Plus people using other bits of the Plezz could easily stroll in here. Shouldn’t you concentrate on who’s got access to the spare keys? Can’t be too many of them.’

Oh dear, thought Joe. Like a good princess, she wasn’t going to be shy about telling the help what they ought to be working at.

He said, ‘Got your key handy?’

She passed it over. Joe moved along the wall of metal lockers. They came in blocks of eight. Zak’s was second from the left. He counted two in the next block and inserted the key. The door opened. He did the same with the next block:

‘This way the manufacturers only need eight variations on locks and keys instead of an infinity,’ he explained.

‘But it’s lousy security!’ she protested angrily.

‘Saves ratepayers’ money,’ said Joe with civic sternness. ‘As for security, your crook’s got to work it out first.’

‘You worked it out,’ she said not unadmiringly.

‘That’s my job,’ he said modestly, not thinking it worthwhile to reveal that the lockers at Robco Engineering where he’d worked nearly twenty years had suffered from the same deficiency which he’d worked out after ten.

‘So that means there’s my key, and the duplicate key and the master key plus the keys for every second locker in every block in every changing room in the complex?’

‘That’s right,’ said Joe. ‘The note that landed on your pillow is a better bet.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.

‘Because,’ he said patiently, ‘getting into a house is a lot harder than getting into a changing room. Who else was in the house that night?’

She said, ‘Mum, dad, Eddie, my kid brother, and Mary.’

‘Oh yes. You were telling me about your sister but we got diverted.’

Polite way of putting it.

She looked ready to renew her objections to answering questions about her family, then she took a deep breath and said, ‘Mary’s four years older than me. When I was a kid, I hung around her all the time. Must have driven her mad but she never showed it. When I got into junior athletics she was really supportive, took me along to her gym to work out, came and shouted for me when I was running.’

‘She was into sport too?’ asked Joe.

‘Oh yes. She’s got a great eye. Squash was her thing. She won lots of junior trophies and her first season when she moved up to senior level, she got to the national semis. She was going places.’

‘But?’

‘But two years ago she was in a car accident. Her knee got busted pretty bad. They put it together again fine, but not so they felt it would stand up to the strain of training for and playing top-level squash. Otherwise though it’s completely normal.’

‘I thought she had a bit of a limp.’

‘Oh yes. No physical reason according to the doctors, but it comes on from time to time.’

Especially when you’re around? wondered Joe. But he thought it better to leave it for now.

‘She start working for Endor before he became your agent or after?’ he asked.

‘Oh, after, I think,’ she said vaguely. ‘She’s doing really well.’

‘Yeah? Take you over on her own account eventually?’

‘Could be. Main thing is she’s off work now till the New Year so it’s great we can spend time together.’

‘That’s right. Family’s important,’ said Joe. ‘Any chance I can take a look at your house?’

Take a look at the rest of your family, he meant.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to finish my day’s schedule here. Why don’t you come back about four, pick me and my gear up and drive me home? That way you’ll look like you’re working for your living.’

‘OK,’ said Joe. ‘By the way, what’s happened to Starbright?’

‘Missing him already, are you?’ grinned Zak. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be around.’

He was. First person Joe saw as he walked away from the locker room was the cuboid Celt.

‘Hi there,’ said Joe. ‘Thought you were supposed to be a minder?’

‘Thought you were supposed to be a detective,’ sneered Starbright in his high-pitched voice. ‘Saw you arrive. Didn’t report straight to Miss Oto though, did you? Had a long chat with Hardiman first.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Joe, for some reason feeling as defensive as a preacher spotted going into a cathouse. ‘Turns out he’s an old schoolfriend.’

‘Very cosy,’ said the Welshman. ‘Share a cell, did you?’

Joe was getting a bit tired of this.

‘I’m a PI,’ he said. ‘I do my job by talking to people. Thought you did yours by sticking close to whoever you’re being paid to look after. What if there’d been a mad axeman in the locker room?’

‘Had you to look after her in there, didn’t she?’ said Starbright. ‘It’s a mad axeman you’re expecting then?’

How much does he know about what’s going on? wondered Joe. Maybe as official minder he should be brought up to speed, but that was Zak’s call.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘What she tells you is her business, OK? But believe me, my business has got nothing to do with your business. Breaking bones, I mean.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Starbright.

Zak had come out of the locker room and was walking away from them down the corridor. Even from the back she looked beautiful. Starbright went after her. Even in retreat he looked menacing.

Funny the way the Lord doled out his gifts, thought Joe Sixsmith a touch enviously.

But not enough for it to touch his tranquillity more than the moment it took to turn and start towards the car park, which, though he did not know he’d got it, was perhaps a greater gift than either menace or beauty.

Back in the car, Whitey was still in a deep sulk, manifested by lying on his back on the passenger seat, breathing shallowly and twitching intermittently in the hope of persuading some bleeding-heart passer-by to ring the RSPCA. Joe’s return signalled failure, so he opted for deep sleep. But when the car stopped and Joe got out, the cat leapt to full awakeness, a single sniff telling him they were at Ram Ray’s Garage, and Ram was always good for certain little Indian sweetmeats Whitey was very partial to.

‘Good morning, Joe. Car still running well, I see. That engine sounds sweet as a temple bell. Make me a fair offer and it’s yours for keeps.’

Ram Ray was six foot tall, with silky black moustaches, melting brown eyes, and a sales patter which could sell veal-burgers to a vegan. Particularly a female vegan.

‘Fair offer would be you giving me the car plus a monkey for the work I’ve done on it,’ said Joe.

‘Always the merry quip,’ said Ram, leading the way into the office where Eloise, his nubile secretary, switched her radio off and the kettle on. Whitey, recognizing the source of good things, rubbed himself against her legs, purring like a Daimler. Not a bad life being a cat, thought Joe. Zak’s bosom, Eloise’s legs – he’d be purring too. Or more likely, have a heart attack.

‘So, Joe, what’s new?’ asked Ram. ‘Heard from Penthouse yet?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard,’ said Joe. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

He’d been tempted to let the bad news keep till the New Year, but whatever he felt about the Magic Mini, letting him have it on extended rent-free loan had been an act of kindness which deserved honest dealing.

He showed Ram the letter.

‘I’m going to fight,’ he said. ‘But it means no money for the Morris for a long time, maybe never.’

‘Don’t let it worry you, Joe,’ said Ram. ‘You have a good lawyer, I hope? You need a specialist to deal with these bastards.’

Joe thought of Peter Potter.

‘It’s in hand,’ he said. ‘So it’s OK to hang on to the Mini?’

‘My pleasure,’ said Ram.

‘And what about a respray …?’

‘Please, Joe. Not again. It has a value over and above its trade price. Those are original stencils. It is a piece of genuine sixties memorabilia. One of the exhibitions they are planning for the new gallery at the Plezz is concerned with the psychedelic era and already I am getting some interested enquiries.’

‘I get interested enquiries all the time,’ said Joe. ‘Like where did I get such a big box of chocolates? Or can I have three iced lollies, please?’

‘You see?’ said Ram, pleased. ‘People notice. A Ram Ray loan car. Excellent for business.’

This was the fatal flaw in Ram Ray’s otherwise amiable character. If it was excellent for business, he would have tattoed his name on his own grandmother.

Joe didn’t bother repeating his old plea that being the cynosure of attention in motion or at rest was far from excellent for his business, but turned to accept a cup of tea from Eloise, who, with a herald’s instinct for precedence, had seen to Whitey’s needs first.

Like the Mini, the tea was rather too flowery for Joe’s taste and he was ready for an antidote mugful of basic Luton leaf by the time he got back to his office.

He hefted the kettle to make sure there was water in it then kick-started the skirting-board switch with his toe.

Next moment he found himself sitting against the wall at the far side of the room. He had no idea how he’d got there, though from the ache in his back it must have been at sufficient speed to cause a substantial collision. His right hand was still clutching the Bakelite handle of his electric kettle, though the kettle itself was no longer attached. Through the blanket ache covering his back, a small pinpoint of sharper more localized pain was shining which he finally traced to his little finger. With difficulty he opened his hand to release the handle and saw that the end of his little finger was burned.

‘Oh shoot,’ said Joe.

Reassured by the sound, Whitey emerged, saucer-eyed, from the refuge of his drawer.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ said Joe. ‘Help me up.’

After plunging his finger into cold water then plastering it with ointment from his biscuit-tin first-aid kit and devising a makeshift finger stall with some insulation tape, he opened a can of medicinal Guinness. Then he set to work. In the mechanical field his detective skills were excellent and it didn’t take him long to track the trouble to the switch in the ruined kettle. The internal connections had worked loose so that when he switched the power on the whole of the kettle became live. If it hadn’t had a Bakelite handle … if more than the tip of his little finger had been touching the metal … if he hadn’t been wearing thick-soled trainers …

If, if, if … word was only good for testing things that could happen, not frightening your mind with things that might have happened. He fixed the blown fuses, dumped the ruined kettle and made a note to buy himself another. A detective could get by without most things, but not the wherewithal to brew tea.

The phone rang.

He picked it up gingerly as though afraid it too might hurl him across the room.

‘Sixsmith? Is that you? What the hell have you been doing?’

‘Butcher, how was Cambridge? You get to stroke the college eight?’

It was a joke which had had to be explained to him when he first heard it in a speech made by the Labour candidate at the last election, as had the subsequent debate as to whether the fact that the Labour candidate was a woman and the Tory opponent she’d been mocking was a homophobic father of six made it politically correct.

‘Shut up, Sixsmith. Is it true? I get back to hear that not only is Peter Potter dead, but Sandra Iles too.’

‘That’s right,’ said Joe. ‘But it’s nothing to do …’

‘Nothing ever is,’ she said with a hurtful sarcasm. ‘Look, you get yourself round here right away and bring me up to date with what’s going on, OK?’

Joe glanced at his watch. He should be on his way to the Plezz to pick up Zak. He still felt a bit groggy, but a man couldn’t let a little thing like near electrocution get between him and his only paying customer.

Besides, it was something of a pleasure to be able to say, ‘Sorry, can’t fit you in just now, Butcher. Why don’t I drop by later? Between six and seven, say?’

He put the phone down on her cry of outrage.

Traffic was heavy and he was a few minutes late getting to the Plezz. Zak was waiting for him impatiently.

‘Come on, Joe. I say four, I mean four.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s the sales …’

‘Wish I had time to go shopping,’ she said. ‘Grab my bag. Might as well make it look good, huh?’

Joe picked up her sports bag and staggered. What the shoot did she have in here? Weights? He saw Starbright’s tramline lips twitch in a saturnine smile but he had his revenge a moment later as they approached the Mini.

‘If I’d known you were coming I’d’ve got a roof rack,’ said Joe.

But his tiny triumph was immediately subsumed in amazement as he heard Zak cry, ‘Joe, is this yours? This is just the most fabulous thing I ever saw. A real sixties icon.’

‘You like it?’ he said.

‘I love it!’

Perhaps Ram Ray had been right, he thought. Perhaps it’s just us old Philistines who miss the beauty of clapped-out cars and piss-printed cat trays!

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