"A few weeks. She'd paid for his cremation by then because she told us about it."
The engine fired and he put it into gear. "Why didn't you tell her Billy was still alive on the Tuesday?"
Terry stared despondently out of the window. "For the same reason I didn't tell you. I don't reckon he was, see. Matter of fact I don't like to think about it too much. I mean, d'you believe in ghosts?"
Deacon recalled the smell of death that had been in Amanda's house and wondered uneasily about the nature of Billy's deus ex machina .... I believe in hell ... I have nightmares sometimes where I float in black space beyond the reach of anyone's love ... only divine intervention can save a soul condemned forever to exist in the loneliness of the bottomless pit ... please, please don't stay away longer than is necessary...
DS Harrison slept badly. At the back of his mind all night was the disturbing knowledge that he had missed something. He was temporarily distracted by the mayhem of Christmas morning, as his excited children opened their presents and his wife set to work on the lunch preparations but, shortly after eleven o'clock, a call came through from the station relaying Deacon's message.
"He refused to explain what this matter of urgency was," said the desk sergeant, "and to be honest I didn't take it too seriously. But this name, Nigel de Vriess, has now come up in another connection. Hampshire and Kent are alerting forces across the South to watch out for him. Apparently, his Rolls-Royce was reported abandoned last night in a field inside Dover. What do you want me to do about it? Pass this Deacon's number on to the DCI?"
"No, I'm coming in. Tell the DCI I'm on my way."
"Amanda must've done something pretty bad to get old Billy worked up like that," said Terry suddenly. "I mean he didn't rate stealing and drugs too high, but he didn't lose his rag overly much at the guys who did them. Do you get what I'm saying? It were murder that made him go ape-shit and stick his hands in the fire and talk about sacrifices. Like the time Tom took the geezer's coat off of him and the geezer froze to death in the night. That's when Billy spent the night in the nude to take the blame on himself. He damn near died for it. It were only because Tom got really upset about what he'd done that we were able to get Billy back in his clothes again. So do you reckon she killed Billy by letting him starve to death?''
"No," said Deacon whose thoughts had been following similar lines. "Barry's right. She wouldn't have told me Billy's story if she was afraid of what I'd find out. In any case, I can't see Billy caring too much about his own death."
...my own redemption doesn't interest me...
"Whose, then?"
...I'm still searching for truth ... there's no way out of hell except through God's mercy ... I'm searching for truth ... why enter hell at all ... I'm searching for Verity...
"Verity's?" suggested Deacon.
Terry shook his head. "Verity murdered herself."
...you and I will be judged by the efforts we make to keep another's soul from eternal despair... do you enjoy suffering...? yes, if it inspires compassion ... there's no way out of hell except through God's mercy ... I'm searching for Verity...
"James?''
"Yeah." Terry nodded. "I reckon the bitch murdered her old man, and Billy watched her do it. He mentioned once that he dossed west of London before he came to the warehouse. But I didn't pay no mind. It weren't important then. It makes sense now though, doesn't it?"
"Yes," said Deacon slowly, thinking of the river above Teddington, where the water level remained constant because the lock gates held back the tides.
Harrison telephoned through to a Chief Superintendent Fortune in Hampshire. "I have a possible sighting of de Vriess on Saturday night," he told him. "He was with a woman called Amanda Powell, previously known as Amanda Streeter. She's the wife of James Streeter, who absconded in nineteen ninety with ten million pounds. According to my information, she and de Vriess have been intimately acquainted since the mid-eighties."
"Who's your informant?"
"A journalist called Michael Deacon. He's been investigating the Streeter disappearance."
There was a momentary silence. "He phoned de Vriess's house this morning, claiming to be a business colleague. We're sending someone up to question him. What's he like?"
"I think he's protecting his story. Look, I suggest your officer talks it through with me here first. The situation's fairly complicated, and it'll probably help to have me there when you question Deacon. He's not the only one involved." Briefly, he recounted Barry Graver's part in the proceedings. "He hasn't positively identified the man as Nigel de Vriess," he warned, "but he described him as having a birthmark on his shoulder, and that's mentioned as a distinguishing characteristic in your bulletin."
"Where can we find Grover?"
"He's staying with Deacon."
"What about Amanda Powell? You say she was in her house last night. Is she still there?"
"We're not sure. We've had a car in position across the road for about thirty minutes, but there's been no movement inside. We've also suggested that Kent police stake out her mother's house in Easeby. She was there most of yesterday, and only returned to London in the late evening."
"How far is Easeby from Dover?"
"Twenty miles."
"Right. There'll be two of us coming up." He reeled off a number. "I'll keep that line open for you. The traffic shouldn't be too bad so expect us between one and one-thirty."
Barry was in fine good humor when Deacon and Terry returned. Left to his own devices and with a clear goal in view, he had brought order to the proceedings, and appetizing smells drifted from the oven. He beamed at them happily as they came through the door, and Deacon was struck by how different he seemed from the unhappy man who haunted The Street offices.
"You're a genius," he said honestly, accepting a glass of chilled white wine.
"It's not so difficult, Mike. I remembered reading once about cooking turkeys in very hot ovens, and that's what I've chosen to do. It's important to keep the flesh moist, so I've stuffed bacon and mushrooms under the skin."
He used the same slightly overbearing tone as when talking about his talent with pictures, and Deacon felt sorry for him because he realized that Barry's self-esteem was so fragile that he could only blossom when he could prove to himself that he was better than his peers. On balance, he preferred Barry bossy to Barry in tears, so he kept to himself that Lawrence was Jewish and that bacon might prove difficult.
"And I've made extra roast potatoes for Terry."
"Wicked," said the boy admiringly.
"And if you'll pardon the liberty, Mike, I used your telephone to call my mother. It occurred to me she might be worried about what had happened to me."
"And was she?"
Barry's pleasure was unmistakable. "Yes," he said. "She's been worried out of her mind. It surprised me a little. She never shows any concern when I stay late at the office."
Deacon wanted to warn him-be objective ... mother love is jealous ... as loneliness becomes a memory for you, it becomes a reality for her ... she's using you-but he suspected that much of Barry's renewed confidence stemmed from his conversation with his mother, and he held his tongue.
Terry, untrameled by tact or sensitivity, jumped in with both feet. "Jesus, she's a two-faced bitch, isn't she? Doesn't lift a finger for you when you're in bother and then goes lovey-dovey on you when your mates help you out. I bet she's hopping mad Mike's offered you a bed. I hope you told her to bog off," he finished severely.
"She's not that bad," murmured Barry loyally.
"I don't suppose mine is, either," said Terry, "but you wouldn't know it from the way she's treated me. I like Mike's mum the best. She's a bit of an old dragon but at least she's straight." He took himself off to the bathroom.
Deacon watched the little man toy unhappily with the laid cutlery on the table. "Everything's black and white with him," he said. "He takes people at face value and assumes that what he sees is what he gets."
And all too often
it worked, he thought. Terry's conversation with his mother on the telephone had been a revelation. ("Hi, Mrs. D, Happy Christmas. Guess what? I'm going to stay with Mike for a while. I knew you'd be pleased. Yeah, of course we'II come and see you. How about next weekend? Sure thing. We'll have a New Year's Eve party." And his mother to him afterwards: "For once in your life, Michael, you've made a decision I agree with, but I shall be very angry if you're making promises that you can't keep. That child deserves better than to be tossed aside when something more attractive comes along.")
"Do you think he's right about my mother?" asked Barry. It was years since she had spoken to him with such warmth, and he longed for Deacon to hand him a straw of comfort.
But Deacon could only think of the little man's ambivalence in the police station when he had expressed fear and hatred of the woman in one breath, then wept for her in the next. Indeed, Harrison had been so concerned by Barry's peculiarity on the subject that he had sent a patrol car to check that Mrs. Grover was still alive.
"I don't know," he said honestly, clapping a friendly hand on Barry's shoulder, "but natural law determines that offspring must make their own way in life, so I'd keep your mother dangling if I were you. Apart from anything else, if she's this keen to see you after one night away she'll be eating out of your hand if you make her wait a week."
"I've nowhere else to go."
"You can stay here till we sort something out."
Barry turned away towards the oven, releasing himself from Deacon's comforting hold. "You make it sound so simple," he said rather wretchedly, opening the door and peering at the turkey.
"It is," said Deacon cheerfully. "Goddammit, if I can put up with Terry, I'm sure I can put up with you."
But Barry didn't want to be "put up with," he wanted to be loved.
"Frankly, we thought it more likely we were dealing with a kidnap," said Superintendent Fortune. "Neither de Vriess's wife nor his business colleagues report money problems, there's no history of depression, and while he has a fairly murky reputation with the ladies, the general view is that he hasn't strayed since his ex-wife returned to him in May. You can't put much reliance on her word, of course-her husband was hardly likely to keep her up-to-date with his affairs-but she's adamant that he's had no contact with Amanda Powell in the last seven months."
"Until Saturday," said Harrison. "Mind you, his wife's probably right about the seven-month abstinence. It's not that long if he was trying to make a go of it with his wife."
"So why break out on Saturday?"
Harrison shook his head. "I don't know, unless Michael Deacon triggered some kind of panic when he pushed his way in there on Thursday night."
"It's the time frame that worries me," said Harrison's DCI. "According to Kent, the Rolls-Royce was first spotted in the field at lunchtime yesterday but the farmer did nothing about it because he thought it was a courting couple. He only reported it after he saw it still there as it was getting dark and checked to find the doors unlocked and the car empty. But Mrs. Powell wasn't informed of the full extent of Barry Graver's Peeping Tom act until approximately five o'clock, therefore the two incidents can't be connected. Put simply, Nigel vanished from his car several hours before there was any evidence that he needed to."
"Assuming the two of them conspired to murder her husband in nineteen ninety?"
"Precisely. And there's no evidence that they did."
Fortune pondered for a moment. "To be honest, gentlemen, I'm not sure where we go from here. Before DS Harrison's phone call I had a man who'd been missing for two days and an abandoned Rolls-Royce in a Kent field. Now, I have him in the company of a former mistress thirty-six hours ago and the only motive for him to do a bunk or for her to get rid of him-which is always a possibility, I suppose-is ruled out because the car was abandoned too soon. I can't possibly justify using precious resources on a wild-goose chase. On the pooled evidence, we can't even point to a crime having been committed."
"There's still Michael Deacon," said Harrison.
"Yes," said his DCI. "There's also Amanda Powell's house. I think our resources will stretch to lawful entry in order to lay official concerns to rest vis-a-vis Mr. de Vriess's welfare, bearing in mind that was the last place he was seen alive."
Lawrence arrived with presents and had to be carried up three flights of stairs when he collapsed in breathless heaps on the doorstep. "Dear, dear, dear," he said, gripping Deacon's hand tightly as he lowered himself onto the sofa, "I'm not the man I used to be. I couldn't have managed on my own."
"That's what I told Mike," said Terry, omitting his own refusal to be the supporting arm, "in case the old poofter tries a grope on the way up. Can we open these now?" he demanded eagerly, tapping the presents. "We ain't got nothing for you, though."
The old man beamed at him. "You're giving me lunch. What more could I ask? Won't you introduce me to Barry first? I've been so looking forward to meeting him."
"Yeah, right." He grabbed the little man's arm and dragged him forward. "This is my mate, Barry, and this is my other mate, Lawrence. Stands to reason you two're going to like each other because you're both mates of me and Mike."
Lawrence, accepting this naive statement at face value, took Barry's hand in both of his and shook it joyfully. "This is such a pleasure for me. Mike tells me you're an expert on photography. I do envy you, my dear fellow. An artist's eye is a precious gift."
Deacon turned away with a smile as the ready flush of pleasure colored Barry's face. Lawrence's secret, he thought, was that he was incapable of sounding insincere, but whether his feelings were really as genuine as they appeared, it was impossible to say. "Whiskey, Lawrence?'' he asked, heading for the kitchen.
"Thank you." Lawrence patted the seat beside him. "Sit next to me, Barry, while Terry tells me who made such a wonderful job of the festive decorations."
"That was me," said Terry. "They're good, ain't they? You should've seen this place when I first got here. It was well unfriendly. No color, nothing. Do you know what I'm saying?"
"It lacked atmosphere?'' suggested the old man.
"That's the word."
Lawrence looked towards the mantelpiece, where Terry had arranged the objets d'art from his doss in the warehouse. There was a small plaster replica of Big Ben, a conch shell, and a brilliantly colored garden gnome squatting on a toadstool. He doubted they represented Deacon's taste in ornaments, so attributed them correctly to Terry. "I congratulate you. You've certainly made it very friendly now. I particularly like the gnome," he said with a mischievous glance at Deacon, who was returning with the whiskey.
"I'm glad you said that," murmured Deacon, putting the glass on a table at Lawrence's knee and retrieving his own. "I've been racking my brains for something to give you, and we wouldn't miss the gnome, would we, Terry?"
"Mike hates it," confided the boy, reaching it down, "probably because I nicked it out of somebody's garden. Here, it's yours, Lawrence. Happy Christmas, mate."
Deacon gave his evil grin. "I tell you what, if there's a mantelpiece in your sitting room, then that's the place for it. As Terry says, you can't go wrong with spots of bright color about the place." He raised his glass to their guest.
Lawrence placed it on the table. "I'm overwhelmed by so much generosity," he said. "First a party, then a present. I feel I don't deserve either. My gifts to you are so humble by comparison."
Deacon's lip curled. He had a nasty feeling the old buzzard was about to shame them.
"Can we open them now?" asked Terry.
"Of course. Yours is the largest one, Barry's is the one wrapped in red paper, and Michael's is in green paper."
Terry handed Deacon and Barry theirs and ripped open his own. "Shit!" he said in amazement. "What d'you reckon to this, Mike?'' He held up a worn leather bomber jacket with a sheepskin collar and the Royal Air Force insignia sewn onto the breast pocket. "These cost a packet down Covent Garden."
Deacon frowned as the boy thrust his arm into a sleeve, the
n glanced towards the old man with a questioning look in his eyes which said, Are you sure? Lawrence nodded. "You'd never find that in Covent Garden," Deacon said then. "That's the real thing. What did you fly?" he asked. 'Spitfires?"
Lawrence nodded again. "But it's a long time ago, and the jacket has been looking for a home for many years." He watched Barry finger his package on his lap. "Aren't you going to open yours, Barry?"
"I wasn't expecting anything," said the little man shyly.
"Then it's a double surprise. Please. I can't bear the suspense of not knowing if you like it."
Barry carefully slit the cellotape, as was his character, and unfolded the paper neatly to reveal a Brownie box-camera wrapped in layers of tissue paper. "But this is prewar," he said in amazement, turning it over with immense care. "I can't possibly accept this."
Lawrence raised his thin hands in protest. "But you must. Anyone who can tell the age of a camera just by looking at it should certainly possess it." He turned to Deacon. "Now it's your turn, Michael."
"I'm as embarrassed as Barry."
"But I'm delighted with my gnome." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "And I shall do exactly as you suggest and put it on the mantelpiece in my drawing room. It will look very well beside my collection of Meissen porcelain."
Deacon bit off a snort of laughter and pulled the wrapping from his present. He didn't know whether to be relieved or dismayed, for while the gift had no material value its sentimental value was clearly enormous. He turned the pages of a closely written diary, spanning many years of Lawrence's life. "I'm honored," he said simply, "but I'd rather you left it to me in your will as something to remember you by."
"Then there'd be no pleasure in it for me. I want you to read it while I'm alive, Michael, so that I shall have someone to reminisce with from time to time. As far as you are concerned, I have been entirely selfish in my choice of a present."
Deacon shook his head. "You've already hijacked my soul, you old bastard. What more do you want?''
Echo Page 28