The Echo (16 page)

Terry caught up with him as he was unlocking his car door. "They're saying I have to go down the nick and make a statement."

"Is that a problem?"

"Yeah. I don't want to go."

Deacon glanced beyond Terry to the policeman who had followed him. "You can't have it both ways, you know. If you want your rights respected, then you have to show willing in return."

"I'll go if you come with me."

"There'd be no point. Lawyers are the only people allowed in interview rooms." He searched the lad's anxious face. "Why the change of heart? You were all fired up to make a statement twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, but not down the nick on my own."

"Tom'll be there."

A terrible disillusionment curled the boy's lip. "He doesn't give a toss about me or Walt. He's only interested in licking the Sergeant's arse and getting home to his Mrs. He'll drop me in the shit, quick as winking, if it suits him."

"What does he know that the rest of us don't?"

"That I'm only fourteen, and that my name's not Terry Dalton. I ran away from care at twelve and I ain't going back."

Jesus wept!
"Why not? What was so bad about it?''

"The bastard in charge was a sodding shirt-lifter, that's what." Terry clenched his fists. "I swore I'd kill him if I ever got the chance, and if they send me back that's what I'm gonna do. You'd better believe that." He spoke with intense aggression. "Billy believed it. It's why he watched out for me. He said he didn't want another murder on his conscience."

Deacon relocked his car door. "Why do I get the feeling my fate is inextricably linked with Billy Blake's?"

"I don't get you."

"Does death by starvation sound familiar?" He cuffed the boy lightly across the back of the head. "There's no food in my flat," he grumbled, "and I was planning to do all my shopping this afternoon. It'll be bedlam tomorrow." He steered Terry towards the policeman. "Don't panic," he said more gently as he felt him tense, "I won't abandon you. Unlike Tom, I have no desire to see either of my wives again."

"Is that you, Lawrence? It's Michael-Michael Deacon ... Yes, as a matter fact, I do have a problem. I need a respectable lawyer to tell a couple of little white lies for me ... Only to the police." He held his mobile telephone away from his ear. "Look, you're the one who told me to get a pet so I reckon you owe me some support here ... No, it's not a dangerous dog and it hasn't bitten anyone. It's a harmless little stray ... I can't prove ownership so they look like impounding him over Christmas ... Yes, I agree. It's a shame ... That's it. All I need is a sponsor ... You will? Good man. It's the police station on the Isle of Dogs. I'll reimburse the taxi fare when you get here."

Terry was hunched in the passenger seat of Deacon's car in an East End backstreet. "You should've told him the truth. He'll blow a fuse when he gets here and finds I'm a bloke. There's no way he's going to tell lies for someone he doesn't know." He put his fingers on the door handle. "I reckon I should take off now while the going's good."

"Don't even think about it," said Deacon evenly. "I promised Sergeant Harrison you'd be at the nick by five o'clock, and you're going to be there." He offered the boy a cigarette and took one himself. "Look, no one's forcing you to make this statement, you're volunteering it, so you won't be put through the third degree unless Tom decides to drop you in it. Even then, you'll be treated with kid gloves because children aren't allowed to be interviewed without an adult present. I guarantee it won't even come to that, but if it does Lawrence will get you out."

"Yeah, but-"

"Trust me. If Lawrence says your name's Terry Dalton and you're aged eighteen, then the police will believe him. He's very convincing. He looks like a cross between the Pope and Albert Einstein."

"He's a fucking lawyer. If you tell him the truth, he'll have to pass it on to the cops. That's what lawyers do."

"No, they don't," said Deacon with more conviction than he felt. "They represent their client's interests. But, in any case, I won't tell Lawrence anything unless I have to."

Terry was grinning broadly as he left the interview room. "You coming?" he asked Deacon and Lawrence as he passed them in the waiting room on his way out.

They caught up with him in the street. "Well?" demanded Deacon.

"No problem. It never crossed their minds I wasn't who I said I was." He started to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"They warned me off you and Lawrence because they reckoned you were a couple of chutney ferrets after my arse. Otherwise, why'd you be hanging around when all I was doing was making a statement?"

"God almighty!" snarled Deacon. "What did
you
say?"

"I said they needn't worry because I don't do that kind of stuff."

"Oh, great! So our reputations go down the pan while you come out smelling of roses."

"That's about the size of it," said Terry, retreating behind Lawrence for safety.

Lawrence chuckled joyfully. "To be honest, I'm flattered anyone thinks I still have the energy to do anything so active." He tucked his hand into Terry's arm and drew him along the pavement towards a pub on the corner. "What was the term you used? Chutney ferret? Of course I'm a very old man, and not at all in touch with modern idiom, but I do think gay is preferable." He paused in front of the pub door, waiting for Terry to open it for him. "Thank you," he said, gripping the boy's hand to steady himself as he carefully mounted the step at the entrance.

Terry threw an anguished glance over his shoulder at Deacon which clearly said-
this old guy's got his hand in mine, and I think he's a fucking woofter
-but Deacon only bared his teeth in a savage smile. "Serves you right," he mouthed, following them inside.
 

Barry Grover looked up rather guiltily as the security guard opened the cuttings' library door and stepped inside. "All right, son, let's have you out of here," said Glen Hopkins firmly. "The office is closed and
you
are supposed to be on holiday."

He was a blunt-spoken, retired Chief Petty Officer, and after much deliberation, and having listened to the vicious gossip about Barry that came from the women, he had decided to take the little man in hand. He knew exactly what his problem was, and it was nothing that a little practical advice and straight speaking couldn't put right. He had come across Barry's type in the Navy, although admittedly they were usually younger.

Barry covered what he was doing. "I'm working on something important," he said priggishly.

"No you're not. We both know what you're up to, and it's not work."

Barry took off his glasses and stared blindly across the room. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, yes, you do, and it isn't healthy, son." Glen moved heavily across the floor. "Listen to me, a man of your age should be out having fun, not shutting himself away in the dark looking at snapshots. Now, I've a few cards here with some addresses and telephone numbers on them, and my best advice to you is to choose the one you like and give her a ring. She'll cost a bob or two and you'll need a condom, but she'll get you up and running if you follow my drift. There's no shame in having a helping hand at the start." He placed the prostitutes' cards on the desk, and gave Barry a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "You'll find the real thing's a damn sight more fun than a boxful of pictures."

Barry blushed a fiery red. "You don't understand, Mr. Hopkins. I'm working on a project for Mike Deacon." He uncovered the pictures of Billy Blake and James Streeter. "It's a big story."

"Which explains why Mike's at the other desk helping you, I suppose," said Glen ironically, "instead of out on the town as per usual. Come on, son, no story's so important that it can't wait till after Christmas. You can say it's none of my business, but I'm a good judge of what a man's problems are and you're not going to solve yours by staying here."

Barry shrank away from him. "It's not what you think," he mumbled.

"You're lonely, lad, and you don't know how to cure it. Your mum's the nosy type-don't forget it's me who answers the phone if she rings of an evening-and if you'll forgive the straight-speaking, you'd have done better to get out from under her apron strings a long time ago. All you need is a little confidence to get started, and there's no law that says you shouldn't pay for it." His lugubrious face broke into a smile. "Now, hop to it, and give yourself the sort of Christmas present you'll never forget."

Thoroughly humiliated, Barry had no option but to pick up the cards and leave, but the shame of the experience brought tears to his eyes, and he blinked forlornly on the pavement as the front door was locked behind him. He was so afraid that Glen would quiz him on how he'd got on that he finally made his way to a phone booth and called the first number in the pile that the man had selected for him. Had he known that, in the simplistic belief that sex cured all ills, Glen habitually passed prostitutes' cards to any male colleague whom he deemed to be going through a bad patch, Barry might have thought twice about what he was doing. As it was, he assumed his virginity would become common gossip if he didn't fulfill Glen's ambitions for him, and it was more in dread of being the butt of office jokes than in anticipation of pleasure that he agreed to pay one hundred pounds for Fatima: the Turkish Delight.
 

"Now," said Lawrence, when they were settled at a table with drinks in front of them, "perhaps Terry would like to tell me why I'm here."

Terry ducked the question by burying his nose in his pint of beer.

"It's quite simple-" began Deacon.

"Then I should like Terry to explain it," said the old man with surprising firmness. "I'm a lover of simplicity, Michael, but so far you've only confused me. I am very doubtful that Terry is who he says he is, which means you and I could be in the invidious position of accessories after the fact to a crime he committed previously."

A resigned expression settled on Terry's face. "I knew this were a bad idea," he told Deacon morosely. "For a kickoff I don't understand a bleeding word he says. It were like listening to Billy. He was always using words the rest of us had never heard of. I told him once to speak fucking English, and he laughed so much you'd of thought I'd just told the best joke in the world." His pale eyes fixed on Lawrence. "People get hung up on names," he said fiercely, "but what's so important about a fucking name? If it comes to that, what's so important about a person's age? It's the age you act that matters not the age you are. Okay, maybe my name isn't Terry and maybe I'm not eighteen, but I like 'em both because they give me respect. One day, I'm gonna
be
somebody, and people like you will want to know me whatever I'm calling myself. It's me that's important-" he tapped his chest above his heart-"not my name."

Deacon passed Terry a cigarette. "There's no crime involved, Lawrence," he said matter-of-factly.

"How do you know?"

"What did I tell you?" demanded Terry aggressively. "Fucking lawyers. Now he's calling me a liar."

Deacon made a damping motion with his hand. "Terry ran away from care two years ago at the age of twelve, and he doesn't want to be sent back because the man in charge is a pedophile. To avoid that happening he's added four years to his age and has been living under an alias in a squat. It's as simple as that."

Lawrence clicked his tongue impatiently, unintimidated by Terry's seething anger beside him. "You call it simple that a child has been living in dreadful circumstances without education or loving parental control during two of the most important years of his life? Perhaps I should remind you, Michael, that it's only five hours since you were telling me you wanted to be a father." He raised a thin, transparent hand towards Terry. "This young man is no harmless stray who can be left to his own devices now that you've prevented the police from exercising their responsibility towards him. He's in need of the care and protection that a civilized society-"

"There were Billy," broke in Terry fiercely. "He were caring."

Lawrence looked at him for a moment then took the photograph Deacon had given him from his wallet. "Is this Billy?"

Terry glanced at the haggard face then looked away. "Yeah."

"It must have grieved you to lose him."

"Not so's you'd notice." He lowered his head. "He weren't that bloody brilliant. Half the time he were off his head so it were
me
looking after
him
.''

"But you did love him?"

The boy's hands clenched into fists again. "If you're saying me and Billy were sodding poofs, I'll belt you one."

"My dear boy," murmured the old man gently, "such a thing never crossed my mind. I dread to think what kind of world you inhabit where men are frightened to express their fondness for each other because of what others might think. There are a thousand ways to love a person, and only one of them is sexual. I think you loved Billy as a father and, from the way you describe him, he loved you as a son. Is that so shameful that you have to deny it?"

Terry didn't say anything and a silence developed. Deacon broke it eventually because it was becoming uncomfortable.

"Look, I don't know about anyone else," he said, "but I had a terrible night last night, and I wouldn't mind calling it a day. My personal view is that Terry's a streetwise kid with a hell of a lot going for him-he's certainly got more brains than I had at his age-but there's a spare bed in my flat, I look to be spending a miserable Christmas on my own, and I'd welcome some company. What do you say, Terry? My place or the warehouse for the next few days? You and I can enjoy ourselves while Lawrence does the worrying about the future."

"I thought you said there was no food," he muttered ungraciously.

"There isn't. We'll grab a takeaway tonight and go looking for turkey tomorrow."

"Except you don't really want me. It's only because Lawrence reckons you'd make a lousy father that you thought of it."

"Right. But I
have
thought of it, so what's the answer?" He looked at the bowed head. ' 'Listen, you miserable little sod, I haven't done badly by you so far today. Okay, I don't know the first damn thing about parenting but a small thank-you for the efforts I
have
shown wouldn't go amiss."