The Echo

by Minette Walters

  Terry grinned. "That can't be right, Mike. I mean, okay, I've only lived with you for a couple of days, but it don't take that long to see you're not a nutter."

  "Who asked you to interfere?"

  Terry was sitting on the floor, stroking an ancient, moth-eaten cat that had been around so long no one knew how old it was. It purred with raucous pleasure at Terry's ministrations, which Penelope said was unusual because senility had made it irritable with strangers.

  "Yeah, but you need your heads knocking together," said the boy. "I mean you should listen to yourselves. Argue, argue, argue. Don't you never get tired of it? There might be some sense if it were going somewhere, but it isn't, is it? Me, I think Mrs. D probably said a load of things she shouldn't've done about you killing your Dad, but you've got to admit she weren't far off in what she said about your wives. I mean they can't have been much cop—either of them—or you'd still be married to them. Know what I'm saying?"

  The contents of Barry's pockets and the envelope he'd been carrying were spread out in front of him on the table of an interview room, and sergeants Harrison and Forbes stared at them in perplexity. There were the prostitutes' cards, a stiffened condom that told them, without benefit of forensic analysis, what it had been used for. There were a dozen head shots of different men, some fully exposed, some underexposed, a paperback entitled Unsolved Mysteries of the Twentieth Century, and a folded newspaper clipping. There was the sodden photograph of Amanda Powell, now discreetly wrapped in cellophane to preserve the evidence of Barry's shame, a leather wallet containing money and credit cards, and a dog-eared snap of Barry cradling a toddler in his arms.

  The tape had been running for fifteen minutes, and Barry hadn't said a word. Tears of humiliation ran from his eyes, and his flaccid cheeks wobbled pathetically.

  "Come on, Barry, for God's sake talk to us," said Harrison. "What were you doing at Mrs. Powell's house? Why her?" He poked at the photographs. "Who are all these men? Do you wank on them as well? Who's this child you're holding? Maybe you've got a thing about kids? Are we going to find pictures of children all over your walls when we go searching your mother's house? Is that what you're so worried about?"

  With a sigh, Barry slid off his chair in a dead faint.

  The police doctor accompanied Harrison into the corridor. "He's certainly not dying," he said, "but he's scared out of his wits. That's why he fainted. He says he's thirty-four but I suggest you take twenty years off that to get an approximation of his emotional age. My best advice is to ask a parent or a friend to sit with him while you ask him questions, otherwise he'll probably collapse again. Work on the basis that you're dealing with a juvenile, and you might get somewhere."

  "His mother's not answering the phone and, judging by the shrine she's made to her grandparents in the front room of their house, she's barking mad anyway."

  "Which would explain his delayed development."

  "What about a solicitor?"

  The doctor shrugged. "My professional opinion, for what it's worth, is that a solicitor will terrify him even more. Find a friend—he must have some—otherwise you'll end up with a false confession. He's the type, Greg, believe me, so don't expect me to stand up in court and say anything different."

  The telephone rang in the kitchen. A few seconds later Siobhan popped her head round the sitting-room door. "It's for you, Michael. A Sergeant Harrison would like a few words."

  Deacon and Terry exchanged glances. "Did he say why?"

  "No, but he made a point of stressing that it has nothing to do with Terry."

  With a shrug in the boy's direction, Deacon followed the woman out.

  "Michael seems to be developing quite a relationship with the police," Penelope remarked dryly. "Is this a recent thing?"

  "If you're asking, is it my fault, then I guess it is, sort of. The old Bill wouldn't even know his name if it weren't for me. But you don't need to worry about him getting into trouble, Mrs. D. He's a good bloke. He don't even drink and drive." He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "He's been well kind to me, bought me clothes and such, taught me stuff I didn't know. A hundred other guys wouldn't've given me the time of day."

  She didn't say anything, and Terry plowed on doggedly.

  "So I reckon it wouldn't do no harm to show him you're pleased to see him. I remember this old geezer I used to know—he were a bit of a preacher—telling me a story about a rich bloke who took half his dad's loot, spent it all on women and gambling, and ended up on the streets. He was really poor, and really miserable, until he remembered how nice his old dad had always been to him before he left home. Then he thought, why am I bumming crusts off strangers when dad'll give them to me with no questions asked? So he took himself home, and his dad was that pleased to see him he burst into tears because he thought the silly bastard had died years ago."

  Penelope smiled slightly. "You've just related the parable of the prodigal son."

  "D'you get the point, though, Mrs. D? Never mind what sort of mess the bloke made of his life, his dad was over the moon to see him."

  "But for how long?" she asked. "The son hadn't changed, so do you think his father would still be pleased to have him around when he started making a mess of his life again?''

  Terry thought about it. "I don't see why not. Okay, maybe they'd have the odd spat now and then, and maybe they couldn't live in the same house, but the dad wouldn't never be so unhappy as when he thought his son was dead."

  She smiled again. "Well, I'm not going to burst into tears of joy, Terry. Firstly, I'm far too crabby to do anything so sentimental and, secondly, poor Michael would be appalled. He can't cope with weepy women which is why both his wives walked off with so much of his money despite the fact neither of them had children. Certainly Julia knew how to turn on the waterworks when it mattered, and I've no doubt Clara was equally adept. In any case, I think you'll find he already knows I'm pleased to see him, otherwise he wouldn't be talking as freely as he is."

  "If you say so," said Terry doubtfully. "I mean, you seem like too straight-up types to me and let's be honest, if I were looking for a mum—which I ain't," he pointed out carefully, "I'd as soon have you as the nurse out there who can't keep her paws off of me. Plus, she don't half talk a lot. Yabber, yabber, yabber. I reckon I heard her entire life history while I was looking for the gin." He laid a gentle hand on the cat's head and drew forth another rumbling purr. "What's a pickled egg, anyway? It sounded right horrible."

  Penelope was laughing as Deacon came back into the room and he was surprised to see how young she looked. He remembered a Jamaican friend telling him once that laughter was the music of the soul. Was it also the fountain of youth? Would Penelope live longer if she learned to laugh again?

  "We have to go back to London," he told Terry. "I'm a bit hazy on the details, but Harrison says Barry's been arrested for acting suspiciously in Amanda Powell's garden. Barry won't say a word, and they want to know if I can shed any light on some photographs he has in his possession." He frowned. "Did he say anything to you about going to see her?"

  Terry shook his head. "No, but if he don't want to talk, that's his business. Don't see why we have to go stirring things up just because the old Bill says jump."

  "Except there's something very odd going on, and I want to know what it is. According to Harrison, they had to call in a doctor because Barry collapsed in a dead faint the minute they started asking him questions." He turned to his mother. "I'm sorry about this, Ma, but I do need to go. It's a story I've been working on for weeks. It's how I met Terry."

  "Ah, well," she said with a sigh of resignation. "It's probably for the best. Emma and her family are due sometime this afternoon, and I've no doubt there'll be a terrible row if you're still here when they arrive. You know what you and she are like."

  Nobly, her son bit his tongue. More often than not it was Penelope's stirring that had set her children at each other's throats. "I'm a reformed character," he said. "I stopped arguing with my nearest and dea
rest five years ago." He stooped to peck her on the cheek. "Look after yourself."

  She caught his hand and held on to it. "If I sell this house and move into a nursing home," she said, "there'll be nothing for you when I die, particularly if I live as long as the doctors say I'm going to."

  He smiled. "You mean the threats of disinheritance if I married Clara were hogwash?"

  "She was a golddigger," said Penelope bitterly. "I hoped they'd put her off."

  "They might have done if I'd ever repeated them to her." He gave her hand a quick squeeze. "Is this the only thing that's stopping you from moving?"

  She didn't answer directly. "It worries me that Emma will have had so much and you will have had so little. Your father always intended you to have the house, and I made that clear to Emma when I set up the trust. Now she's pressing me to sell the wretched place, put aside a similar amount for you as she's already had, and use the balance to pay for a nursing home."

  "Then do it," said Deacon. "It sounds fair to me."

  "Your father wanted you to have the house," repeated Penelope stubbornly, withdrawing her hand from his in irritation. "It's been owned by Deacons for two centuries."

  He looked down on her fluffy white hair and had a sudden urge to bury his nose in it as he had done as a child. He suspected he had just heard the nearest thing she would ever make to an apology for tearing up his father's will. "Then don't sell it," he said.

  "That's hardly helpful."

  "Sorry," he said with an indifferent shrug, "but it's no skin off my nose if you bankrupt your daughter and spend the rest of your life with a series of nurses so that I can flog the place the minute you're gone. Let's face it, I've never shared your passion for living on the motorway, so I'd use the money to buy myself somewhere decent in London." He dropped another sly wink at Terry. "If anything's pissed me off about my divorces it's ending up in a miserable rented flat after losing two perfectly good houses."

  "Which is a very good reason not to let you have this one," said Penelope, rising obligingly to the bait. "Easy come, easy go. That's your philosophy, Michael."

  "Then take that into the equation when you decide what to do. If you want another two centuries of Deacons living here, Ma, then you'd better leave the house to the Wimbledon branch of the family. I seem to remember they gave birth to a son about ten years ago." He glanced at his watch. "We really must go, I'm afraid. I promised the sergeant we'd be there in under two hours."

  She smiled a little bitterly. "As I said, easy come, easy go." She held out a hand to Terry who had stood up. "Goodbye, young man. I've enjoyed meeting you."

  "Yeah, me too. I hope things work out for you, Mrs. D."

  "Thank you." She raised her eyes to look at him, and he was startled by how blue they suddenly became in the sunlight shafting through the window. "What a pity your mother is lost to you, Terry. She'd be proud of the man her son is becoming."

  "Do you think she's right?" Terry asked, after several minutes of subdued thought in the car. "Do you think my mum would be proud of me?''

  "Yes."

  "It don't make no difference, though, does it? She's probably dead of an overdose by now, or banged up in a nick somewhere."

  Deacon stayed silent.

  "She'll've forgotten all about me, anyway. I mean, she wouldn't've got rid of me if I mattered to her." He looked despondently out of the window. "Don't you reckon?"

  Yes, thought Deacon, but he said: "Not necessarily," as he drove up the access road onto the motorway. "If you were put into care because she went to prison, that doesn't mean you didn't matter to her. It only means she wasn't in a position to look after you."

  "Why didn't she come searching after she got out, then? I were there for nigh on six years, and she can't have been banged up that long, not unless she killed someone."

  "Perhaps she thought you were better off without her."

  "I could go looking for her, I suppose."

  "Is that what you'd like to do?"

  "I think about it sometimes, then I get frightened she and me'll hate each other. I just wish I could remember her. I don't want some old tart with a drug problem whose frigging door's always open to any man as wants a shag."

  "What do you want?"

  Terry grinned. "A rich bitch with a fast Porsche, and no one to leave it to."

  Deacon laughed. "Join the queue," he said, moving into the fast lane and putting his foot down. "But I don't want mine for a mother."

  Amanda Powell opened the door of Claremont Cottage and frowned inquiringly at the Kent policeman on the doorstep. The frown deepened as she listened to what he said. "I don't know anyone called Barry Grover, and I've no idea why he had a photograph of me. Did he succeed in breaking into my garage?"

  "No. According to the information we've been given, he was arrested in your garden, but there were no signs of forced entry to any of the buildings."

  "Are the London police expecting me to go back and answer questions about this?"

  "Not unless you want to. We were merely requested to pass on the information."

  She looked worried. "All I told my neighbors was that I was spending a few days with my mother in Kent, so who gave you this address?"

  The policeman consulted a piece of paper. "Apparently Grover gave his name as Kevin Powell of Claremont Cottage, Easeby, when he was first arrested. We were asked to check the address, and we discovered that a Mrs. Glenda Powell lived here. It seemed likely she was your mother." He frowned in his turn. "He does seem to have a lot of information on you. Are you sure you don't know who he is?"

  "Quite sure." She pondered for a moment. "Why might I know him? What does he do?"

  He checked the paper again. "He works for a magazine called The Street." He heard her indrawn breath and looked up. "Does that mean something to you?"

  "No. I've heard of it, that's all."

  He wrote on a page of his notebook and tore it out. "The investigating officer in London is DS Harrison and you can reach him on the top number. I'm PC Colin Dutton and my number's the bottom one. There's probably nothing to worry about, Mrs. Powell. Grover's in custody, so he certainly won't be bothering you for a while, but if you're at all concerned, then phone Sergeant Harrison or myself. Happy Christmas to you."

  She watched him walk past her BMW to the gate, and smiled brightly when he turned for a last look at her. "Happy Christmas, Constable," she said.

  "What's wrong?" called her mother on a note of anxiety from the sitting room.

  "Nothing," said Amanda calmly, taking the brooch from her lapel and driving the pin under her thumbnail. "Everything's fine."

  Deacon shook his head when Harrison finished. "I really don't know much about Barry," he said. "I don't think anyone does. He never talks about his home life." He looked in distaste on the besmirched photograph of Amanda Powell, which had been cast like an island into the middle of the table. "As far as I know, his only connection with Mrs. Powell was when he developed some film after an interview I did with her. One of our photographers took some shots"—he jerked his chin at the table—"and that was the best of them."

  "Why did you interview her?"

  "I was writing a piece on the homeless, and she was in the news in June when a man called Billy Blake died of starvation in her garage. We thought she might have general views on the subject, but she didn't."

  Light dawned in Harrison's eyes. "I knew her name was familiar, but I couldn't place it. I remember that incident. So why is Barry still interested in her?"

  Deacon lit a cigarette. "I don't know, unless it's something to do with the fact that he's been trying to help me identify Billy Blake." He took one of his own prints of the dead man from his inside pocket and handed it across. "That's him when he was arrested four years ago. We think Billy Blake was an assumed name and that he may have committed a crime in the past. He used to doss in the warehouse with Terry Dalton and Tom Beale."

  Harrison lifted an envelope from the floor and emptied its contents onto the table.
"So these head shots are your possible suspects?" He isolated the underexposed print of Billy's mug shot. "And this is the dead guy?"

  Deacon nodded. He unfolded a photocopy and flattened it on the table. "This one's pretty close."

  Although Deacon was looking at it upside down, he knew Billy's face like the back of his hand and the shock of recognition was enormous.

  Shi-it!

  It was an enlarged copy of the picture of Peter Fenton that had accompanied Anne Cattrell's piece.

  The little bastard had been holding out on him!

  "It's close," he agreed, "but you need a computer to be sure." He'd fucking KILL Barry if the police got the story before he did! "Do you remember James Streeter?" Harrison nodded. "We're more interested in him." Disingenuously, he turned the graduation picture of James to face Harrison, and lined it up beside Billy's mug shot. "That's probably why Barry's so interested in Amanda Powell. She was Amanda Streeter before James stole ten million pounds and left her to face the music alone."

  The sergeant's smile would have done credit to a cat. "It's the same bloke."

  "Looks like it, doesn't it?"

  "So what are you saying? James came back with his tail between his legs, and she starved him to death in her garage?"

  "Could be."

  Harrison pondered for a moment. "It still doesn't explain why Barry was in her garden wanking on her photograph." He fingered idly through the prostitutes' cards. "Guys with this kind of thing in their pockets worry me. And why does he carry a picture of himself with a kid? Who was the child and what happened to it?''

  Deacon ran his thumbnail down the side of his jaw. "You say he hasn't opened his mouth since he got here?"

  "Not a dicky bird."

  "Then let me talk to him. He trusts me. I'll persuade him to give you what you want."

  "Even if it means he gets charged?"

  "Even if it means he gets charged," agreed Deacon rather savagely. "I don't like perverts any more than you do, and I certainly don't want to work with one."