The Echo

by Minette Walters

  "Because he was a murderer?"

  "Maybe."

  "Did he say if it was a man or a woman that he killed?"

  Terry linked his hands behind his head. "I don't remember. "

  "Why did he tell you and not the others?"

  "How do you know he didn't tell them?"

  "I was watching their faces."

  "They're so drunk most of the time they don't remember nothing." Terry closed his eyes. "It might come back for a tenner."

  Deacon's snort of laughter fanned the corner of one of the posters. "I wasn't born yesterday, sunshine." He took a card from his wallet and flipped it onto Terry's chest. "Give me a ring any time you can come up with something I can verify, but don't ring me with crap. And the information had better be good if you want money for it." He stood up and looked down on the youthful face. "How old are you really, Terry?" Sixteen was his guess.

  "Old enough to recognize a tightfisted bastard when I meet one."

  On his return to the office, Deacon found a note from Barry Grover on his desk with the original prints of Billy Blake in a transparent plastic envelope. I cannot trace this man in my files, he'd written, but I've passed the negatives and fresh prints to Paul Garrety. He is seeing what he can do with them on the computer. B. G.

  Paul Garrety, the art editor, shook his head when Deacon sought him out and asked him how he was getting on with the Billy Blake pictures. JP had been persuaded to invest heavily in computer equipment for the art department on the promise that technology could do for Street style and design, and therefore improved sales, what an army of graphics artists had previously failed to do. But he was too attached to the old look of the magazine to give Paul free reign with the equipment, and Garrety, like Deacon, spent most of his working day at loggerheads with his boss.

  "You need an expert, Mike," he said now. "I can give you a hundred different versions of him, but it'll take someone with a knowledge of physiognomy to tell you which is the most accurate." He pointed to his computer screen. "Watch this. You can have a fuller face, which is just fattening up the whole thing. You can have fuller cheeks, which is puffing up the lower half. You can have double chins, you can have fleshy eyes, you can have thicker hair. The permutations are endless, and every one looks different."

  Deacon watched the alternatives appear on the screen. "I see what you mean."

  "It's a science. Your best bet is to find yourself a pathologist or an identikit artist who specializes in faces. We could choose any one of these variations but the chances are it'll look nothing like your dead guy."

  "Any hope of JP running the original alongside my copy?"

  Garrety laughed. "None at all, and for once I'd agree with him. It'd put the punters right off their breakfast. Be fair. Who wants to eat cornflakes looking at a shriveled old wino who died of starvation?"

  "He was only forty-five," said Deacon mildly. "Three years older than I am, and ten years younger than you. It's not so funny when you think of it in those terms, is it?"

  Michael Deacon's feature on poverty and homelessness appeared in that week's Street without any mention of Amanda Powell or Billy Blake. Indeed, the final draft was precisely as he had envisioned it at the outset. A thoughtful analysis of changing social trends which concentrated on causes and long-term solutions. JP doubted it would appeal to their readers. ("It's bloody boring, Mike. Where's the human interest, for God's sake?") But, without a decent photograph of either Billy or Mrs. Powell, there seemed little point in going with the uninspired statements that Mrs. Powell had made on the subject of homelessness in general. JP repeated his threats on the nonrenewal of Deacon's contract if he didn't recognize that political mudslinging was the magazine's stock in trade, and Deacon answered sarcastically that if the sales figures were anything to go by, The Street readership enjoyed having its intelligence insulted about as much as the rest of the electorate did.

  Amanda Powell, who had received her garage keys and the two photographs of Billy through the post with an anonymous Street complimentary slip, was disappointed, but not surprised, to find herself and Billy excluded from Deacon's article. But she read it with interest, particularly the paragraph describing a derelict warehouse and its community of mentally disturbed residents who were being cared for by a handful of old men and a young boy.

  There was a look of relief in her eyes as she laid the magazine aside.

  *5*

  A little research during a quiet afternoon produced the names and addresses of James Streeter's parents and brother, plus some imaginative—and deliberately libelous?— press releases from the Friends of James Streeter Campaign, which was based at the brother's address in Edinburgh. The last one was dated August, 1991.

  Despite twelve months of determined lobbying, not a single newspaper has followed up the claims of the Friends of James Streeter Campaign that James was murdered on the night of Friday, April 27, 1990, in order to protect a member of Lowenstein's Board and save the bank from the catastrophic collapse that would inevitably result from loss of confidence in its management. In the interests of justice, the following facts must be investigated:

  • James Streeter did not have the knowledge to work the fraud of which he's accused. It is alleged that he gained his computer skills while abroad in France and Belgium. The FoJSC has collected witness evidence from his previous employers and his first wife that he did not. (See enclosures)

  James Streeter had no access either to the progress of Lowenstein's in-house investigation or to Board decisions, therefore he could not have known the "ideal" date to leave the country. The FoJSC has witness statements to this effect from his secretary and members of his department. (See enclosures)

  James Streeter made reference to friends and colleagues in the six months before his disappearance about the incompetence of Nigel de Vriess, his line manager, who was a member of the Lowenstein Board in 1990 and who has since left the bank. The FoJSC has three sworn statements which testify that James said in January, 1990, that Mr. de Vriess was "at best incompetent and at worst criminally motivated." (See enclosures)

  Much reliance has been placed on the damaging allegations made by Amanda Streeter against her husband in a written statement to police. They were: 1) That James was having an affair with a woman who worked for a computer software company—name, Marianne Filbert, whereabouts unknown. 2) That he once remarked "any fool could work the system if someone told him which buttons to press." 3) That he was obsessed with wealth.

  The FoJSC refutes all three allegations. (1) and (3) depend entirely on the word of Amanda Streeter. (2) refers to a statement made by one of James's colleagues who has since admitted that he wasn't sure even in 1990 if it was James who made the remark.

  Further:

  •The FoJSC has obtained proof that it was Amanda herself who was having the affair and that her lover was Nigel de Vriess. We have photocopies of bills and eye witness statements which refer to two secret meetings the couple had in 1986 and 1989 at the George Hotel. Bath. The first occurred only weeks before her marriage to James, the second three years after it. (See enclosures)

  We accuse Amanda Streeter and Nigel de Vriess.

  James Streeter's murder has gone unpunished. Unless the Press shakes off its apathy and acts now, the guilty will continue to profit from an innocent man's death. The FoJSC urges, indeed demands, a proper inquiry into the activities of Nigel de Vriess and his lover, Amanda Streeter. Please fax or phone on the above numbers for assistance and/or further information. John and Kenneth Streeter are available for interview at any time.

  Two evenings later, and because he had nothing better to do, Deacon dialed John Streeter's number in Edinburgh. A woman answered.

  "Hello," she said in a soft Scottish accent.

  Deacon introduced himself as a London-based journalist who was interested in talking to a spokesman from the Friends of James Streeter Campaign.

  "Oh Lord!"

  He waited a moment. "Is this a problem for you?"

  "
No, it's just—well, to be honest, it's over a year since—look, just hang on a moment, will you?" A hand went over the receiver. "JOHN! JO-OHN!" The hand was removed. "It's my husband you need to talk to."

  "Fine."

  "I'm sorry I didn't catch your name."

  "Michael Deacon."

  "He'll be here in a minute." The hand again, and this time her voice was muffled. "For God's sake hurry. It's a journalist and he wants to talk about James. His name's Michael Deacon. No, you must. You promised your father you wouldn't give up." She came back, louder. "Here's my husband."

  "Hello," said a man's much deeper voice. "I'm John Streeter. How can I help you?"

  Deacon flicked the trigger on his ballpoint and pulled forward his notepad. "Does the fact that it's three and a half years since you sent out your last press release mean you've now accepted your brother's guilt?" he said bluntly.

  "Are you with a national newspaper, Mr. Deacon?"

  "No."

  "Then you're freelance?"

  "As far as these questions are concerned, yes."

  "Have you any idea how many freelancers I've spoken to over the years?" He paused, but Deacon didn't rise to the bait. "Approximately thirty," he went on, "and the number of column inches I've had out of them is nil because no editor would take the story. I'm afraid I'd be wasting both our time if I answered your questions."

  Deacon tucked the telephone more firmly under his chin and drew a spiral on his pad. "Thirty is nothing, Mr. Streeter. I've known campaigns like yours approach hundreds of journalists before they get anywhere. That apart, most of what you allege in your press releases is actionable. Frankly, you're lucky to have avoided a libel suit thus far."

  "Which proves something in itself, don't you think? If what we're claiming is defamatory, why does no one challenge us?"

  "Because your targets aren't that stupid. Why give your campaign the adrenaline of publicity when it's dying a death of its own accord? It would be a different matter if you managed to persuade an editor to go against his better judgment. Are you saying nothing has ever been published in defense of your brother?"

  "Only a grudging piece in a compilation of unsolved mysteries that came out last year. I spent two days talking to Roger Hyde, the author, only to have him write a bland summary which ended with his own half-baked conclusion that James was guilty." He sounded angry and frustrated. "I'm growing rather tired of beating my head against a brick wall."

  "Then perhaps you're less persuaded of your brother's innocence than you were five years ago?"

  There was a smothered obscenity. "That's all you lot ever want, isn't it? Confirmation of James's guilt."

  "Except I'm giving you an opportunity to defend him which you don't seem very keen to take."

  John Streeter ignored this. "My brother came from an honest, hardworking background, just as I did. Have you any idea what it's done to my parents to have their son labeled a thief? They're decent, respectable people and they can't understand why journalists like you won't listen to them." He drew another angry breath. "You're not interested in facts, only in trying to further destroy a man's reputation."

  "Aren't you playing the same game?" Deacon murmured unemphatically. "Unless I've misread your releases, your defense of James rests entirely on blackening Nigel de Vriess and Amanda Streeter."

  "With reason. There's no proof of her assertion that James was having an affair, but we've found evidence of hers with de Vriess. He stripped the bank of ten million and she aided and abetted him in pushing the blame onto her husband."

  "That's some accusation. Can you prove it?"

  "Not without access to their bank and investment accounts, but you only need to look at their respective addresses to realize there was an injection of cash from somewhere. Amanda bought herself a six-hundred-thousand-pound house on the Thames within months of James's disappearance and de Vriess bought himself a mansion in Hampshire shortly afterwards."

  "Do they still see each other?"

  "We don't think so. De Vriess has had at least five lovers in the last three years while Amanda's kept herself to herself and remained celibate."

  "Why do you think that is?"

  Streeter's voice hardened. "Probably for the same reason she's never sought a divorce. She wants to give the impression that James is alive somewhere."

  Deacon consulted some photocopies of the press releases. "Okay, let's talk about James's alleged affair with—" he isolated a paragraph—"Marianne Filbert. If there's no proof of its existence, why did the police accept Amanda's word on it? Who is Marianne Filbert? Where is she? What does she say about it?"

  "I'll answer those questions in order. The police accepted Amanda's word because it suited them. They needed a computer expert in the frame, and Marianne fitted the bill. She was part of a research and development team working for Softworks Limited in the mid-eighties. Softworks was commissioned to prepare a report for Lowenstein's Bank in 'eighty-six, although no one knows if Marianne Filbert was involved with that. She went to America in 'eighty-nine." He paused briefly. "She was employed for six months by a computer software company in Virginia before moving on to Australia."

  "And?" prompted Deacon when he didn't continue.

  "There's no trace of her after that. If she went to Australia, which now seems doubtful, she was using another name."

  "When did she leave the Virginia company?"

  "April 1990," said the other reluctantly.

  Deacon felt sorry for him. John Streeter wasn't a fool, and blind faith clearly made him uncomfortable. "So the police see a connection between your brother's disappearance and hers? He told her when to run in other words."

  "Except they haven't established that James and Marianne even knew each other." Streeter's furious indrawn breath was audible down the wire. "We believe it was de Vriess and Amanda who gave her the green light to disappear."

  "A three-way conspiracy then?"

  "Why not? It's just as plausible as the police theory. Look, it was Amanda who gave them Marianne Filbert's name and Amanda who told them she'd gone to America. Without that evidence, there'd have been no computer link and no way that James could have worked the fraud. The entire police case rests on James having access to expert knowledge, but Amanda's testimony about his alleged affair with Marianne has never been independently substantiated."

  "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Streeter. According to the newspapers, Amanda spent two days answering police questions, which means she was high on their list of suspects. It also means she must have had something more convincing than just a name to give them. What was it?"

  "It wasn't proof of anything," said John Streeter stubbornly.

  Deacon lit a cigarette while he waited.

  "Are you still there?" demanded Streeter.

  "Yes."

  "She couldn't prove a relationship between them. She couldn't even prove they knew each other."

  "I'm listening."

  "She gave the police a series of photographs, most of which were pictures of James's car parked outside the block of flats in Kensington where Marianne Filbert lived before she went to the States. There were three blurred shots of a couple kissing whom she claimed were Marianne and James, but frankly could have been anybody, and there was a back view of a man, wearing a similar coat to James's, entering the front door of the building. As I say it proves nothing."

  "Who took the photographs?"

  "A private detective hired by Amanda."

  The same one she consulted about Billy Blake? "Were they dated?"

  "Yes."

  "From when to when?"

  "January to August 'eighty-nine."

  "You say most of the pictures were of James's car. Was he in it when they were taken?"

  "Someone was, but the quality of the photographs isn't good enough to say whether or not it was James."

  "Perhaps it was Nigel de Vriess," murmured Deacon with an irony that was lost on the other man. He was beginning to think that John Streeter's obsessio
n to prove his brother innocent was even greater than Amanda's to establish Billy Blake's true identity. Did the seeds of paranoia find fertile ground in the aftermath of betrayal?

  "We certainly believe the man to have been de Vriess," said Streeter.

  "So they were deliberately setting your brother up as a fall guy?"

  "Yes."

  "That's one hell of a conspiracy theory, my friend." This time Deacon ladled the sarcasm into his voice. "You're saying these people worked out a year in advance of the event how they were going to murder a completely innocent man, irrespective of anything that might happen in the intervening period. And you feel happy with that scenario?" Ash dropped from the cigarette in his mouth, powdering the lapel of his jacket. "Is your sister-in-law a monster, Mr. Streeter? She would need to be, I think, to share a house indefinitely with a man whose murder she'd already planned. So? Who are we talking about here? Medusa?"

  Silence.

  "And what sort of idiot would rely on a status quo existing indefinitely? James was a free agent. He could have walked out on his wife or his job at any time, and where would the conspiracy have been then?" He paused, inviting the other to speak, but went on when he didn't: "The obvious explanation is the one the police have accepted. James was having an affair with Marianne Filbert, and Amanda put a stop to it by having him followed and photographs taken. She then brought pressure to bear which resulted in Marianne banishing herself, or being banished, to the States."

  "How could she tell the police where to find Marianne?"

  "Because she's not stupid. Part of the deal for rescuing the marriage would be proof that Marianne was out of harm's way. And the only proof worth having would be something verifiable, like an address or a legal contract with a company's name on it."