The Echo (30 page)

Harrison tapped his pen against his teeth. "He was trying to break into Mrs. Powell's garage. Where does that fit in?"

Deacon frowned. "You haven't mentioned that before."

"It's how we caught him. Her neighbors reported a possible intruder, and we sent out a patrol car." He pushed a piece of paper across the table. "It's all there in black and white."

Deacon read the incident report. "This man's described as six feet tall, thin, and wearing a dark coat. Barry's about six inches shorter, fat, and the only coat I've ever seen him in is a blue anorak. It's in his cell at the moment."

The sergeant shrugged. "I wouldn't rely on that description. The neighbors are in their eighties."

Deacon studied him with amusement. "God help you if my mother heard you say that. Surely you can see there were two different men? You've nicked the easy one-the wally-my best advice, if you want a result, is to look for the tall guy."

"If he exists," said Harrison cynically.
 

Terry was bored to distraction by the time Barry and Deacon emerged from the inner recesses of the police station. "You've been two hours," he said crossly, pointing to the clock in the waiting area. ' 'What did Barry do, then? It must have been something pretty bad if it took this long to sort."

Deacon shook his head. "He was watching Amanda's house, and got nicked in mistake for a man who tried to break into her garage half an hour earlier. It's taken all this time to establish that he doesn't answer to the description of a tall, skinny bloke in a dark coat."

"No kidding! You want to get Lawrence on to it. He'd soon sort these bastards out. That's harassment, that is, banging up a bloke for no reason. You all right, Barry? You don't look too good."

Deacon shoved him through the front door into the freezing evening air before the desk sergeant could set him straight. "Barry's coming home with us," he murmured in Terry's ear. "His family kicked up rough because we sent Harrison round there this morning, so I've said he can sleep on the sofa for a day or two. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Why would I?" asked the boy suspiciously.

"It'll be crowded with three of us."

"Do me a favor," he said scornfully. "The warehouse was
crowded
." He looked expectantly at Barry who had followed them out. "I hope you can cook, mate, because Mike's sodding useless. He can't even boil an egg without burning it."

Barry looked nervous. "Only self-taught, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, well, me and Mike ain't been taught at all, so you get the job." He jerked his head impatiently towards the car. "Let's get going, then, shall we? I'm starving. You realize we ain't had nothing to eat since seven o'clock this morning?''
 

While Terry escorted Barry into the kitchen and kept him captive there until he cooked something edible, Deacon took the telephone into his bedroom and made a call to Lawrence. "I'm sorry to keep bothering you," he said, "but I need some advice and I don't know who else to ask."

"I'm honored," said Lawrence.

"You haven't heard what the problem is yet." As briefly as he could he related the details of Barry's arrest. "I persuaded them he deserved a second chance, so they gave him one hell of a bollocking and released him. As long as nothing else comes to light, he's in the clear."

"So what's the problem?"

"I said he could stay here with me and Terry."

"Dear, dear. A latent homosexual who performs acts of gross indecency living cheek by jowl with a disturbed adolescent who will probably have no compunction at all about leading him on in order to blackmail him. You certainly have an appetite for trouble, Michael."

Deacon sighed. "I knew I could rely on you to be objective. So what do I do? Barry's under strict instructions not to tell Terry why he was arrested, but Terry's no fool and he'll have worked it out for himself by tomorrow."

Lawrence's happy laugh rippled down the wire. "Start praying?"

"Ha! Ha! How about this? Come to Christmas lunch tomorrow and help me keep the peace. Being a lonely old Jew without family who rarely feels useful, you can't possibly be doing anything. Can you?"

"Even if I were, my dear chap, I couldn't resist so charming an invitation."
 

DS Harrison was shrugging on his coat when a colleague popped his head round the door to say there was a Mrs. Powell to see him. "Tell her I've gone," he growled. "Dammit, I've already lost six hours' leave because of her blasted trespassers."

"Too late," said the colleague with a jerk of his head. "Stewart told her you're here, and she's waiting down the corridor."

"Damn!" He followed the other man out. "Detective Sergeant Harrison," he introduced himself to the woman. "How can I help you, Mrs. Powell?" She was quite a looker, he thought, a great deal more attractive in the flesh than in her photograph, and he wasn't surprised that watching her make love on her carpet had set Barry's hormones racing.

She gave an uncertain smile. "I'm frightened to go home," she said simply. "I live alone"-she gestured unhappily towards a window-"and it's dark. This man you caught in my garden? He is locked up, isn't he?"

Harrison shook his head. "We've released him pending other inquiries. But our understanding was that you wouldn't be home until after Christmas, and we asked Kent police to inform you of our decision together with our reasons for doing it. There's obviously been a breakdown in communications." He wiped a hand over his face in irritation. "I don't think you've anything to fear, Mrs. Powell. In our opinion, the man acted out of character after getting drunk and won't be troubling you again. He's currently staying with a friend of his, Michael Deacon, whom I think you know, and we don't anticipate any further trouble."

Her eyes opened wide in alarm. "But Michael Deacon forced his way into my house only four days ago when
he
was drunk." She shivered suddenly. "I don't understand. Why did no one talk to me about any of this? I've never heard of this man Barry Grover, but if he's a friend of Mr. Deacon's-" She caught at Harrison's sleeve. "I
know
someone's been watching me," she said urgently. "I've seen him at least twice. He's a short man with glasses and he wears a blue anorak. He was standing outside my house about ten days ago when I turned into my drive, and he walked away when he saw me. Is that the man you arrested?"

Harrison frowned uncomfortably. "It certainly sounds like him, but he claims he didn't go near your house until Saturday night."

"He's lying," she said flatly. "I saw him again about a week ago. It was very dark, but I'm sure it was the same person. He was standing under a tree at the entrance to the estate, and his glasses caught my headlamps as I drove in."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

She pressed trembling fingers to her forehead as if she had a headache. "You can't report every man who looks at you," she said. "It only becomes frightening when they start to behave oddly. According to the policeman who came to tell me about the arrest, he was exposing himself over a photograph of me." Her voice rose slightly. "If that's true, why aren't you prosecuting him? He's not going to stop now, not if he's been allowed to get away with it. By letting him go, you've given him the right to terrorize me."

Harrison turned back to his office and opened the door for her. "I'll need a statement from you, with details of when and where you saw him previously. And you'd better include this incident with Michael Deacon." He checked his watch surreptitiously and stifled a sigh. His wife would not forgive him for this.
 

Terry took his silver foil wad out of his pocket. "Who wants a spliff?" he asked.

"I told you to get rid of that," said Deacon.

"I did. Up my arse till the heat was off." He glanced at Barry. "Barry wants one, don't you, mate? Matter of fact, he deserves one after that meal," he told Deacon. "Bloody brilliant it was. Knocks spots off anything you've managed to produce." He set to work splitting the tobacco out of Deacon's Benson and Hedges. "So what were you doing round Aye-mander's place, Barry? I don't buy that cobblers you and Mike gave me earlier. Even the fuzz don't take six hours to tell the difference between a short, fat bloke and a tall, skinny one." He paused momentarily to fix his pale-and intimidating-gaze on the man opposite. "You looked shit scared when you came out."

Barry's small bubble of confidence over the success of his cooking shrank away. His fear of being thrown out of the flat if this adolescent boy found out what he'd done was greater than his fear of the police. "I-er-''

"He had every reason to be scared," said Deacon coldly, leveling a finger at Barry's face. "He's worked out who Billy is-he's even carrying a picture of him in his pocket-and he knew I'd rip his head off if the police got that information before I did." His voice hardened. "Jesus, you're such an arsehole, Barry. I still can't believe you'd jeopardize the work we've put into this sodding story just for the sake of seeing what that silly bitch looks like in real life."

"Leave off," said Terry, peeling cigarette papers from a Rizzla packet. "How could he know the old Bill was going to turn up? Come on then, Barry, who was he? Anyone I've heard of?"

Barry held Deacon's gaze for a moment, and there was a look of gratitude in his overdamp eyes. "I wouldn't think," he said then. "He went missing when you were seven years old." He took off his glasses and started to polish them. "You saw the photograph?" he asked Deacon. "And you're sure it's Billy?"

"Yes."

"But I showed another version of him to you yesterday, Mike, and you didn't even give him a second glance."

Deacon took a carving knife out of the table drawer and balanced it in the palm of his hand. "I wasn't joking when I said I'd rip your head off," he murmured. "Are you going to tell me who he is before Terry and I start wiping you off the floor?"
 

The WPC put her arms around a weeping Amanda and looked accusingly at the sergeant. "Be fair, Sarge, you swallowed that scumbag's story hook, line, and sinker. He said he watched her making love on her carpet and you believed him, but he was bound to say that or something similar. For your average pervert, a woman semiclothed or naked in her own house is justification for anything. 'It wasn't my fault, Guv, it was the woman's fault. She didn't pull her curtains. She knew I was out there and she wanted to excite me.' It sucks, for Christ's sake." She sounded very angry. "I'm sick to death of men trying to excuse themselves by smearing women. In any case, it doesn't make a blind bit of difference whether Amanda was having sex or not that night. It's still no reason for inadequate little men to jerk off afterwards over their photographs."

Wearily, Harrison held up his hands. "I agree. All right? I agree." He closed his eyes. "I was merely trying to establish some facts, and I am sorry if Amanda took offense at anything I said." When a man was wedged between a rock and a hard place, the only way out was to exploit a weakness.
 

Deacon read what Barry had on Peter Fenton, finishing with Anne Cattrell's piece, then propped his chin on his hands and stared in frustration at the cover of
Unsolved Mysteries of the Twentieth Century
. "It's all here-a hundred reasons for a man to abscond and live the rest of his life in torment-but no damn reason at all for choosing Amanda Powell's garage to die in." His own collection of notes was lying on the table beside him, and he picked out the clipping on Nigel de Vriess. "Why should this get him excited? Where's the connection between the Streeter story and the Fenton story?"

"Maybe there isn't one," said Barry. "You're only guessing that's what Billy read before he left the warehouse, because you want to establish a pattern, but I keep asking myself why Mrs. Powell told you Billy's story if she had anything to fear from what you might find out." He placed Billy's mug shot beside the photograph of the young James Streeter. "Superficially, there's a pattern here, but it takes a computer to show you there isn't." He smiled apologetically. "Perhaps it's a case of truth being stranger than fiction, Mike."

Terry, dreamily engaged in smoking the joint that the other two had rejected in favor of another bottle of wine, spoke through the blue haze that surrounded him. "That's the biggest load of crap I've ever heard. You're talking through your arse, mate."

"What's your theory?"

"Well, look at it this way. What happens to the average wife whose husband dumps her in the shit and vanishes with all the loot? She don't bloody come up smelling of roses, that's for sure."

"This one does," said Deacon thoughtfully. "Reeks of the damn things, as a matter of fact."

"There you are, then," said Terry owlishly, not too clear what Deacon was talking about.

"So what?"

"Means she's scored, doesn't it? Means she ain't no pushover." He sought to express himself. "Means she don't reckon men too high. Ah, shit!" he said, looking at their bewildered faces. "Don't you understand nothing?"

"We might if you spoke in words of more than two syllables," said Deacon dryly. "Man has not spent centuries developing sophisticated language to have it reduced to grunts, glottal stops, and endless double negatives that convey absolutely nothing. Work out what you want to say and try again."

"Jesus, you're a poncy git sometimes," said Terry scathingly, but he made an effort to collect his thoughts. "Okay, try this. Even when he were drunk, Billy had reasons for what he did. They may not have been
good
reasons, but they were reasons. Do you understand that?"

The two men nodded.

"Right, next point. Amanda's done pretty well for herself, never mind her husband's a criminal and dropped her in it. That makes her a clever, bloody bitch. Do you understand that?"

Two more nods.

"So put those two together, and what do you get? You get Billy going to Amanda's house for a reason, and Amanda using her brains afterwards."

Deacon ground his teeth. "Is that it?"

Terry sucked the cannabis deep into his lungs. "My money's on Amanda. If she's cleverer than you and Billy put together, she's going to win, isn't she?"

"Win what?"