Echo

by Minette Walters

  Deacon gave a snort of laughter. "I think Hugh was wondering if you were related to my second wife, Terry."

  "Oh, right. Why didn't he say that, then?"

  Deacon turned to the wall and banged his head against it for several seconds. Finally, he took a deep breath, mopped his eyes with his handkerchief, and faced the room again. "It's a touchy subject," he explained. "My family didn't like Clara very much."

  "What was wrong with her?"

  "Nothing," said Hugh firmly, afraid that Deacon was going to embarrass him and Terry with references to tarts and slots. "What are you both having? Lager?'' He escaped to the bar while they divested themselves of their coats and sat down.

  "You can't hit him,'" said Terry. "Okay, he's a pillock, but he's about six inches shorter than you and ten years older. What did he do, anyway?"

  Deacon propped his feet on a chair and placed his hands behind his head. "He insulted me in my mother's house and then ordered me out of it." He smiled slightly. "I swore I'd deck him the next time I saw him, and this is the next time."

  "Well, I wouldn't do it if I were you. It don't make you any bigger, you know. I felt well gutted after what I did to Billy." He nodded his thanks as Hugh returned with their drinks.

  There was a painful silence while Hugh sought for something to say and Deacon grinned at the ceiling, thoroughly enjoying his brother-in-law's discomfort.

  Terry offered Hugh a cigarette which he refused. "Maybe if you apologized, he'd forget the beating," he suggested, lighting his own cigarette. "Billy always said it were harder to hit someone you'd had a natter with. That's why guys who do violence tell people to keep their mouths shut. They're scared shitless of losing their bottle."

  "Who's Billy?"

  "An old geezer I used to know. He reckoned talking was better than fighting, then he'd get rat-arsed and start attacking people. Mind, he were a bit of a nutter, so you couldn't blame him. His advice was good, though."

  "Stop meddling, Terry," said Deacon mildly. "I want some answers before we get anywhere near an apology." He lowered his feet from the chair and leaned across the table. "What's going on, Hugh? Why am I so popular suddenly?"

  Hugh took a mouthful of lager while he weighed up his answer. "Your mother isn't well," he said carefully.

  "So Emma told me."

  "And she's keen to bury the hatchet with you."

  "Really?" He reached for the cigarette packet. "Would that explain the daily phone messages at my office?"

  Hugh looked surprised. "Has she?"

  "No, of course she hasn't. I haven't heard a word from her in five years, not since she accused me of killing my father. Which is odd, don't you think, if she wants to bury the hatchet?" He bent his head to the match.

  "You know your mother as well as I do." Hugh sighed. "In sixteen years I've never heard her admit being wrong about anything, and I can't see her starting now. I'm afraid you're expected to make the first move."

  Deacon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This isn't what Ma wants, is it? It's what Emma wants. Is she feeling guilty about stripping Ma of her capital? Is that what this is about?"

  Hugh toyed unhappily with his beer glass. "Frankly, I've had about as much of your family squabbles as I can take, Michael. It's like living in the middle of a war zone being married to a Deacon."

  Deacon gave a low chuckle. "Be grateful you weren't around when my father was alive then. It was worse." He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. "You might as well spit it out. I'm not going anywhere near Ma unless I know why Emma wants me to."

  Again, Hugh appeared to weigh his answer. "Oh, to hell with it!" he said abruptly. "Your father did make a new will. Emma found it, or should I say the pieces, when she was sorting through your mother's things while she was in the hospital. She asked us to pay her bills and keep everything ticking over while she was off games. I suppose she'd forgotten that the will was still sitting there although why she didn't burn it or throw it away-" He gave a hollow laugh. "We stuck it back together again. His first two bequests were made out of duty. He left the cottage in Cornwall to Penelope, plus enough investments to provide her with an income of ten thousand a year, and he left Emma a lump sum of twenty thousand. The third bequest was made out of love. He left you the farmhouse and the residue of the estate because, and I quote, 'Michael is the only member of my family who cares whether I live or die.' He made it two weeks before he shot himself, and we assume it was your mother who tore it up as she's the only one who benefited under the old will."

  Deacon smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two. "Did he appoint David and Harriet Price as executors?''

  "Yes."

  "Well, at least that vindicates poor old David." He thought back to the furious row his mother had had with their then next-door neighbors when David Price had dared to suggest that Francis Deacon had talked about making a new will with him as executor. "Show it to me," she had said, "tell me what's in it." And David had had to admit that he had never seen it, only agreed in principle to act as executor should Francis revoke his previous will. "Who drew it up?"

  "We think your father did it himself. It's in his handwriting."

  "Is it legal?"

  "A solicitor friend of ours says it's properly worded and properly witnessed. The witnesses were two of the librarians in Bedford general library. Our friend's only caveat was whether your father was in sound mind when he made it, bearing in mind he shot himself two weeks later." He shrugged. "But, according to Emma, he had been right as rain for months prior to his suicide and only became really depressed the day before he pulled the trigger."

  Deacon glanced at Terry, who was wide-eyed with curiosity. "It's a long story," he said, "which you don't want to hear."

  "You can shorten it, can't you? I mean, you know all about me. Seems only fair I should know a bit about you."

  It was on the tip of Deacon's tongue to say he didn't even know what Terry's real name was, but he decided against it. "My father was a manic depressive. He was supposed to take drugs to control the condition, but he wasn't very reliable and the rest of us suffered." He saw that Terry didn't understand. "Manic depression is typified by mood swings. You can be high as a kite in a manic phase-it's a bit like being stoned-and suicidal in a depressed phase." He drew on his cigarette then ground the butt out under his heel. "On Christmas Day, nineteen seventy-six, while depressed, my father put his shotgun in his mouth at four o'clock in the morning and blew his head away." He smiled slightly. "It was very quick, very loud, and very messy, and it's why I try to forget that Christmas even exists."

  Terry was impressed. "Shit!" he said.

  "It's also why Emma and Michael are so difficult to live with," said Hugh dryly. "They're both scared to death they've inherited manic depression, which is why they resist feeling happy about anything and view mild unhappiness as the onset of clinical depression."

  "It's in the genes, then, is it? Billy were big on genes. He always said you couldn't escape what your parents programmed into you."

  "No, it's not in the genes," said Hugh crossly. "There's evidence suggesting hereditary predisposition, but innumerable other factors would have to come into play to precipitate the same condition in Emma and Michael as occurred in Francis."

  Deacon laughed. "That means I'm not a nutter yet," he told Terry. "Hugh's a civil servant so he likes to be precise in his definitions."

  Terry frowned. "Yeah, but why'd your mother accuse you of killing your dad if he topped himself?"

  Deacon drank his lager in silence.

  "Because she's a bitch," said Hugh flatly.

  Deacon stirred himself, "She said it because it's true. He told me at eleven o'clock on Christmas Eve that he wanted to die, and I gave him the go-ahead to do it. Five hours later, he was dead. My mother thinks I should have persuaded him out of it."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Because he asked me not to."

  "Yeah, but-" The boy's puzzled eyes searched Deacon's face. "Didn't you mind if he died? I wa
s well gutted every time Billy tried to hurt himself. I mean you feel responsible like."

  Deacon held his gaze for a moment then looked down at his glass. "It's a good expression-gutted. It's exactly how I felt when I heard the shot. And, yes, of course I minded, but I'd stopped him before, and this time he said he was going to do it anyway and would rather do it with my blessing than without. So I gave him my blessing." He shook his head. "I hoped he wouldn't go through with it, but I wanted him to know I wouldn't condemn him if he did."

  "Yeah, but-" said Terry again. He was more disturbed by the story than Deacon would have expected, and he wondered if there were resonances in it of his friendship with Billy. Had Terry lied about Billy not trying to kill himself? he wondered. Or perhaps, like Deacon, he had lost interest and had aided and abetted a suicide through apathy?

  "But what?" he asked.

  "Why didn't you say something to your Mum, give her a chance like to stop him?"

  He looked at his watch. "How about we leave that question till later?" he suggested. "We've still got food to buy, and I haven't settled what I'm going to do to Hugh's nose yet." He lit another cigarette and studied his brother-in-law through the smoke for a second or two. "Why didn't Emma throw the pieces of this will away when she found them?'' He smiled rather cynically at Hugh's expression. "Let me guess. She didn't realize he'd only left her twenty thousand until she'd stuck it back together again, by which time you and your girls had seen it, too."

  "She was curious. She'd have brought it home, anyway. But, yes, she hoped-we both hoped-that he'd left her enough to wipe out the debt we owe your mother. As things stand, Penelope's used money that's rightfully yours, so we're actually in debt to you. And I swear to you, Michael, it's not money we even asked for. Your mother went on and on and on about how she wanted to do something for the only grandchildren she was going to have, then I mentioned one day that we were worried about Antonia's poor grades, and that was it. Penelope set up an educational trust and Antonia and Jessica were in private boarding school within a couple of months."

  Deacon took that with a pinch of salt. Knowing Hugh and Emma, there would have been endless little hints until Penelope paid up. "Are they doing well?"

  "Yes. Ant's doing A levels and Jesse's doing GCSEs." He rubbed a worried hand across his bald head. "The trust was set up to pay the equivalent of twelve years' schooling-five years for Ant because she was two years older when it started, and seven for Jesse-and they've already had nearly ten between them. We're talking a lot of money, Michael. You've probably no idea how expensive private boarding education is."

  "Let me guess. Upwards of a hundred and fifty thousand so far?" He lifted an amused eyebrow. "You obviously didn't read my piece on selective education. I researched the whole subject in depth, including cost. Has it been money well spent?"

  Hugh shrugged unhappily, forced to consider his daughters' merits. "They're very bright," he said, but Deacon had the impression he would like to have said they were nice. "We need to sort this out, Michael. Frankly, it's a nightmare. As I see it, the situation is this: Your mother deliberately tore up your father's will and stole her children's inheritance, for which she will be prosecuted if the whole thing's made public. She has materially altered your father's estate by selling the cottage in Cornwall and by setting up a trust fund for the girls. Against that, had you inherited what Francis left you, presumably Julia would have taken half its value in her divorce settlement and Clara would have taken half what was left in hers, leaving you with a quarter share of what you inherited. For all I know, they may still be entitled to do that." He raised his hands in a gesture of despair. "So where do we go from here? What do we do?"

  "You've left out your resentment at paying through the nose for Ma's private nursing care," murmured Deacon. "Doesn't that play a part in this complicated equation?"

  "Yes," Hugh admitted honestly. "We accepted the trust money in good faith, believing it to be a gift, but the quid pro quo seems to be that Emma and I must fork out indefinitely for a live-in nurse, which we can't afford. Your mother claims she's dying, which means the expenditure won't go on for very much longer, but her doctors say she's good for another ten years." He pressed finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "I've tried to explain to her that if we could afford that level of private nursing care we wouldn't have had to use her money to pay the girls' school fees, but she won't listen to reason. She refuses to sell her nouse, refuses to come and live with us. She just makes sure the weekly bill is sent to our address." His voice hardened. "And it's driving me mad. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd have put a pillow over her mouth months ago and done us all a favor."

  Deacon studied him curiously. "What do you expect me to achieve by talking to her? If she won't listen to you, she certainly won't listen to me."

  Hugh sighed. "The obvious way out of the mess is for her to sell the farm, invest the capital, and move into a nursing home somewhere. But Emma thinks she's more likely to accept that suggestion if it comes from you."

  "Particularly if I hold Pa's will over her head?"

  Hugh nodded.

  "It might work." Deacon reached for his coat and stood up. "Assuming I was remotely interested in helping you and Emma out of your hole. But I have a real problem understanding why you think you're entitled to so much of Pa's wealth. Here's an alternative suggestion. Sell your own house and pay Ma back what you owe her." His smile was not a friendly one. "At least it means you'll be able to look her in the eye the next time you call her a bitch."

  *12*

  Deacon selected a frozen turkey and chucked it into the supermarket cart. He had been like a bear with a sore head since they'd left the pub, and Terry had been careful not to antagonize him further since remarking in the car that it wasn't surprising Deacon's old man had shot himself if all the women in his family were such cows.

  "What would you know about it?'' Deacon had asked in an icy voice. "Did Billy make life so difficult for you that no one wanted to know you? Would it have mattered anyway? You can't get much lower than the gutter in all conscience."

  They hadn't spoken for half an hour, but now Deacon leaned on the cart and turned to the youngster. "I'm sorry, Terry. I was out of order. It doesn't matter how angry I was, it was no excuse for rudeness."

  "It were true, though. You can't get no lower than the gutter, and it ain't rude to tell the truth."

  Deacon smiled. "There's a lot lower than the gutter. There's the sewer and there's hell, and you're a long way from both." He straightened. "You're not in the gutter, either, not while you're under my roof, so choose your favorite foods and we'll eat like kings."

  After five minutes, he returned to something that had been nagging at him. "Did Billy ever tell you how old he was?"

  "Nope. All I know is, he was old enough to be my grandfather."

  Deacon shook his head. "According to the pathologist, he was somewhere in his mid-forties. Not much older than me in fact."

  Terry was genuinely astonished. He stood openmouthed with a box of cornflakes in his hand. "You've gotta be joking. Shit! He looked well ancient. I reckoned he was the same age as Tom, near enough, and Tom's sixty-eight."

  "But he said it was good to be young in the seventies." He knocked the cornflakes out of the boy's hand into the cart. "And the seventies were only twenty years ago."

  "Yeah, but I wasn't born then, was I?"

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "It means it was a long time ago."

  "Why did Billy say truth was dead?" asked Deacon, as they drove home after packing the boot with food. "What's that got to do with a postcard?" He recalled a line from Billy's interview with Dr. Irvine: "I am still searching for truth."

  "How the hell should I know?"

  Deacon held on to his patience with difficulty. "You lived with the man for two years on and off but, as far as I can see, you never questioned a single damn thing he said. Where was your curiosity? You ask me enough bloody questions."
>
  "Yeah, but you answer them," said Terry, smoothing the front of his work jacket with satisfaction. "Billy got really angry if I said 'why' too many times, so I gave up asking. It wasn't worth the aggro."

  "Presumably he said it in the present tense?"

  "What?"

  "Truth is dead so nothing matters anymore."

  "Yeah. I already told you that."

  "Another word for truth is 'verity,' " mused Deacon, gnawing at it like a dog with a bone. "Verity is a girl's name." He glanced sideways. "Do you think V stood for Verity? In other words when he said 'truth is dead' did he mean 'Verity is dead'?" I am still searching for Verity? "And don't say: 'how the hell should I know?' because I might be inclined to stop the car and ram the turkey down your throat."

  "I'm not a fucking mind reader," said Terry plaintively. "If Billy said truth is dead, I reckon he meant truth is dead."

  "Yes, but why!" growled Deacon. "Which truth was he talking about? Absolute truth, relative truth, plain truth, gospel truth? Or was he talking about one particular truth-say the murder-where the truth had never been uncovered?"

  "How the-" Hastily Terry bit his tongue. "He didn't say."

  "Then I'm going with V for Verity," said Deacon decisively. He drew up at a traffic light. "I'll go further. I'm betting she looked like the woman in Picasso's painting. Do you think that's a possibility? You said he loved the postcard and kissed it when he was drunk. Doesn't that imply she reminded him of someone?''

  "Don't see why," said Terry matter-of-factly. "I mean one of the guys has a picture of Madonna. He's always slobbering over her, but in his wildest dreams he never had a bird like that. I reckon it's the only way he can get a hard-on."

  Deacon let out the clutch. "There's a difference between a photograph of a living woman who enjoys exploiting male fantasies and a portrait painted nearly a hundred years ago."

  "There probably wasn't at the time," said Terry, after giving the matter some serious thought. "I bet Picasso had a hard-on when he was painting his bird, and I bet he hoped other blokes'd get one, too, when they looked at her. I mean, you have to admit she's got nice tits."