The Echo

by Minette Walters

  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?"

  "How the hell should I know? You're the one who's playing the game with her, not me. I'm just along for the ride."

  *17*

  When the doorbell rang unexpectedly the three men showed varying degrees of alarm. None of them doubted it was the police. Terry bolted for the lavatory and belatedly flushed his guilt into the sewers; Deacon flung open the kitchen window and sought frantically for an air freshener; but Barry, showing more composure than either of them, turned the gas up under the dirty frying pan, crushed garlic into the sizzling fat, and started chopping onions. "I've been expecting them," he said in resignation. "I'll not forgive myself if they arrest you, too, Mike. None of this is your fault."

  Harrison grew tetchy when it seemed clear that Deacon intended to keep him indefinitely on the front step of the ruts. "If you carry on like this," he warned him, "I'll be back in half an hour with an arrest warrant for the whole damn lot of you. Come on, let me in. I need to talk to Barry again, and you're just making me suspicious with these delaying tactics. What the hell's going on up there? Is Barry shafting that little boyfriend of yours?"

  Deacon let him pass. "Maybe it's time you retired," he said dispassionately. "Even I wouldn't stoop so low as to make a remark like that, and I'm a journalist."

  Harrison surveyed him with weary amusement. "You're an amateur, Mr. Deacon. A raw recruit could get past you." The smell in the flat was revolting, a mixture of burnt fat, garlic, onions, and, overall, the exotic reek of Jazz aftershave, which Terry had sprinkled liberally over Deacon's sofa. The kitchen door was shut and Terry and Barry were sitting, none too relaxed, watching the television in the corner.

  The sergeant stood on the threshold for a moment, then took out his cigarettes and offered one to Deacon. "Interesting atmosphere," he said mildly.

  Deacon agreed. He accepted a cigarette with some relief. "DS Harrison has a few more questions for Barry," he announced to the room in general. "So maybe Terry and I should make ourselves scarce for ten minutes."

  Harrison closed the door of the flat. "I'd rather you stayed, Mr. Deacon. I have some questions for you, too."

  "Not Terry, though." He took five pounds from his pocket and jerked his head at the boy. "There's a pub on the corner. We'll join you there when we've finished."

  Terry shook his head. "No way. What'll I do if you never turn up?"

  "Why wo
uldn't we?"

  Terry flicked a suspicious glance at the sergeant. "He ain't come round to pass the time of day, Mike. My guess is he's going to arrest Barry again over that Powell woman. Am I right, Mr. Harrison?"

  The sergeant shrugged noncommittally. "I want some answers to a few more questions, that's all. As far as I'm concerned, you're not involved, so you can go or you can stay. I'm easy either way."

  "But I'm not," said Deacon firmly, reaching the spare key off a shelf by the door. "Come on, lad, hop it. If we don't join you in half an hour you can let yourself back in."

  "No," said the boy stubbornly. "I'm staying. Billy were a mate, same as you and Barry are, and you don't walk out on mates when they need you."

  "Let's get on with it," said Harrison impatiently, lowering himself into a chair and leaning forward to stare at Barry. "Mrs. Powell tells a different story from you, my friend. According to her, you've been stalking her for a couple of weeks, and you're terrifying her out of her wits. She's seen you on at least two occasions, described you down to what color shoes you wear, and denies absolutely that anyone was with her last night or that she was making love on her sitting-room carpet at two o'clock in the morning. She wants you locked up because, until you are, she's too frightened to stay in her house." He switched his gaze to Deacon. "She has also described in meticulous detail how your friend here forced his way in on Thursday night and refused to leave. She says he was drunk, violent, and abusive, and refused to explain at any point why he was there. So? What the hell's going on with you two and this woman?"

  There was a short silence.

  "She's very beautiful," Deacon said slowly, "and I was very drunk, but she's relying on the fact that I told her the next morning I couldn't remember anything." He strolled across to the television and switched it off before leaning his back against the wall beside it. "It was true at the time, but not after a decent breakfast and several cups of coffee. She can almost get away with saying I forced my way in, because I leaned on her door when she opened it and it would have been difficult for her to shut me out at that point. But I wasn't violent and I wasn't abusive, and there was nothing to stop her calling the police if she was afraid of me. We had a brief conversation before I passed out on her sofa, and the next morning she made me drink a cup of coffee before she let me go. I said sorry so many times that it started to get on her nerves, and when I asked her if I'd frightened her, she said she was long past being frightened of anything." He smiled slightly. "She can accuse me of lousy timing and lousy technique—" his eyes narrowed— "but she can't accuse me of anything else. I hardly ever become aggressive under the influence of alcohol, Sergeant. Merely embarrassing."

  "That's true," said Terry. "He told me and Barry he wanted babies when he got drunk last night. He were weeping all over the bloody shop."

  Deacon looked at him with disfavor. "I was not weeping."

  "Near enough," said Terry with a wicked smile.

  Harrison ignored this exchange and turned to Barry. "You swore you hadn't been near Mrs. Powell's house before last night."

  Barry flushed guiltily. "I hadn't."

  "I don't believe you."

  The little man shook with nerves. "I hadn't," he repeated.

  "She described you in detail, told me where you were standing when she saw you. How could she do that if she didn't see you?"

  "I don't know," said Barry helplessly.

  "Did she say when she saw him?" asked Deacon.

  "She's not sure of the exact dates, but the first occasion was about ten days ago, and the second two or three days later." He took a notebook from his pocket and flipped over the pages. "She described him as a short man with glasses, wearing a blue anorak, grey slacks, and light-colored shoes which were probably suede. She said he was standing outside her house when she approached it in her car, but walked away when she turned into her drive. Do you still deny that it was you, Barry?"

  "Yes." He looked in desperation towards Deacon. "It can't have been me, Mike. I never went there before "

  Deacon frowned. "It sounds like you," he pointed out wondering if he had been wrong and Harrison right "It's one hell of an accurate description."

  "Jesus, it's a good thing I didn't go for that drink " said Terry scornfully. "You two'd be lost without me." He turned aggressively on Barry. "What was it I said to you in the kitchen? Sad people wear anoraks, but really sad people wear suede shoes. And what did you say to m? It's a pity you didn't meet me on Thursday, because that's when you bought the shoes. I told you that bitch was clever. She's got one of those coppers to give her a description of you and fed it back to Mr. Harrison here. If you paid for those shoes with a credit card, mate, you're in the clear, ain't you? There's no way you could've been wearing them ten days ago."

  Barry's sad face brightened. "I did," he said. "I've even got the receipt. It's in my room at home."

  "And how many other pairs of suede shoes do you own?" asked Harrison, unimpressed by Terry's reasoning.

  "None," said Barry with rising excitement. "I bought these as a Christmas present to myself because all my shoes are black. Mike knows that. He's the one who told me black shoes were boring."

  "Yes," said Deacon thoughtfully, "I did." He bent to flick ash into the ashtray on the coffee table, using the pause for some rapid thinking. "Give me a description of the man she was with last night, Barry," he said, "the one she's denying was there."

  "I've already told you," said Barry uncomfortably.

  "Tell me again."

  "Fair, good-looking—" he petered into an embarrassed silence, unwilling to revisit his shameful voyeuristic excitement. The thrill of the experience had long since vanished for him.

  "The description Barry gave me this afternoon," Deacon told Harrison, "was toff, slim, blond, tanned, and with a tattoo or birthmark on his right shoulder blade. He didn't recognize him, and I don't recognize the description, but let's say that I can prove to you that such a man exists and that Amanda Powell is well acquainted with him?"

  Harrison wasn't against the proposition. He still smarted from the drubbing he had received when he dared to question her denial. But... "What difference would it make?"

  It might persuade you to ask her why she's lying about him being there."

  "I repeat what difference does it make? There's no law against her having a man in her house, and Barry could have seen him on one of the other occasions she says he was there. In itself, the man's existence proves nothing."

  "But just for the moment, assume Barry's telling the truth. Accept that he hadn't been to Mrs. Powell's house before and that he did see a man there last night. Aren't you curious about why she's lying? I know I am."

  Harrison held his gaze for a moment. "Mrs. Powell is very—" he sought for a word—"convincing." He looked as if he were about to say something else, then thought better of it.

  "Too convincing?" Deacon suggested.

  "I didn't say that."

  Deacon stubbed out his cigarette, then moved to the telephone and consulted the address book beside it. He dialed a number. "Hello, Maggie, it's Mike Deacon here. Yes, I know it's late but I really do need to talk to Alan rather urgently." He waited, then smiled into the receiver. "Yes, you old buzzard, it's me again. How are you feeling?" He laughed. "She let you have a Bell's? Things are looking up, then. A small favor over the phone, that's all. I'm going to switch over to the loudspeaker because there are three other people in the room, and they're all interested in what I hope you're about to say. I want you to describe Nigel de Vriess for me." He pressed the loudspeaker button and replaced the handset.

  "What he looks like, you mean?" barked Alan Parker's gravelly voice.

  "Yes. You might just confirm that you've never given me a description of him before."

  "Only if you tell me what this is all about. I may be on my last legs, but I'm still a journalist. What's the oily toad been up to?"

  "I'm not sure yet. You'll be the first to know after me."

  "And pigs might f
ly." Alan chuckled. "All right, I've never given you his description before. To the best of my recollection he's about my height—which is five-eleven—and has blond hair which he dyes to cover the grey. He's always impeccably dressed in dark suits, probably from Harrod's. Wears a white carnation in his buttonhole. Good-looking, suave. Think of Roger Moore as James Bond, and you won't go far wrong. Anything else you want to know?"

  "We were given a description of a man we believe to be him." Deacon's grin reflected itself in his voice. "But he was ballock-naked at the time so how he dresses doesn't help us much. He was described as having an all-over body tan and a tattoo or a birthmark on his right shoulder blade. Can you verify either of those facts?' '

  "Hah! I can't speak for the tan, but he certainly has a birthmark on his shoulder blade. Legend has it, put about by him, of course, that it's shaped in the devil's number—six-six-six—which is why he was a millionaire by the age of thirty, the devil looking after his own and all that twaddle. But one of his floozies described it as looking more like a dog's pizzle. Never seen it myself, so can't say either way." His voice took on a wheedling tone. "Come on, Mike. What is all this? I'll have your hide if DVS is on the skids, and you've kept it to yourself. I've got shares in the bloody thing."

  "To the best of my knowledge, this has nothing to do with his business, Alan." With renewed promises to keep his old friend posted, Deacon cut the line and lifted an eyebrow in Harrison's direction. "Amanda's in-laws have been claiming for five years that she and Nigel de Vriess conspired to defraud Lowenstein's Bank of ten million pounds, then made a scapegoat of her husband by murdering him. No one, including the police, has ever taken the claims seriously because there was no evidence that Nigel and Amanda had anything to do with each other after she married James."

  Harrison digested this in silence for a moment. "There still isn't," he pointed out. "Everything your friend said is presumably in the public domain. What was to stop you or Barry from looking it up and then using it to compromise Mrs. Powell?"