The Echo (25 page)

"And if it is?'' Deacon prompted him.

"Well-" Barry marshaled his thoughts-"Pan was a Roman god, but if I remember correctly 'the angel with the key to the bottomless pit' comes from the Book of Revelation which is of Judaeo-Christian inspiration. So Billy seems to have believed that it was the
pagan
gods who ensnared men into sin, but the
Judaeo-Christian
gods who exacted punishment. Which must have left him very confused about where salvation lay. Should he placate the pagan gods, as he seems to have done with this business of burning his hand, or the Christian God through his preaching?"

"Where does the 'one descending in clouds' fit in?"

"I think that's his symbolic view of salvation. He talks about waiting 'in vain' so he obviously doesn't believe in it-or not for himself anyway-but if it does happen it will be in the form of a
deus ex machina
, a sudden amazing apparition who reaches into the bottomless pit to raise him up."

"Poor bastard," said Deacon with feeling. "I wonder what sort of murder it was that made him think he was beyond the pale of salvation?" He shivered suddenly and noticed that Terry was rubbing his hands in an effort to keep warm. "Come on, it's damn cold in here. Let's go and get that drink."

Barry watched Terry play the fruit machines with money supplied by Deacon. "He's a nice lad," he said.

Deacon lit a cigarette and followed his gaze. "He's been living on the streets since he was twelve years old. It sounds as if he has Billy to thank for the fact that he's as straight as he is."

"What will you do with him when Christmas is over?"

"I don't know. He needs educating but I can't see him agreeing to going back into care. It's a bit of a poser really, one of those bridges you only cross when you come to it." He turned back to Barry. "Was he helpful on the photographs?"

"A little quick to discard the improbables, but it doesn't seem to register with him that Billy was much younger than he looked. I had to rescue one or two." He took an envelope from his pocket which contained various prints. He spread them across the table. "What do you think of these?"

Deacon isolated a high-quality photocopy of a young fair-haired man staring directly into the camera. "I recognize this one. Who is he?"

Barry tittered happily. "That's James Streeter, taken twenty-odd years ago when he graduated from Durham University. He was brought up in Manchester so, out of interest, I applied to the local newspapers and one of them produced that. It's extraordinary, isn't it?"

"He's a dead ringer for Billy."

"Only because he was thinner and appears to have had his hair bleached."

Deacon took out his print of Billy and laid it beside the young James Streeter. "Have you compared these two on the computer?"

"Yes, but they're not the same man, Mike. It's a closer match because we're looking at a similar relationship between camera angle and subject, but the differences are still obvious. Most notably the ears." He picked up the cigarette packet and placed it across the bottom half of Billy's face with the upper edge touching the bottom of an earlobe. "It
is
all about angle, of course, but Billy's lobes are larger than James's and their bottom edge is roughly in line with his mouth." He moved the packet to the other photograph and placed it in the same relative position. "James has hardly any lobe at all, and the bottom edge is in line with his nostrils. If you synchronize the eyes, nose, and mouth on the computer, the ears immediately part company, and if you tilt the angles to synchronize the earlobes then the rest parts company."

"You're pretty good at this, aren't you?"

Pleased color tinged Barry's plump cheeks. "It's something I enjoy doing." He nudged the other prints, artfully isolating a profile shot of Peter Fenton. "Do you recognize anyone else?"

Deacon shook his head. He took a last look at James Streeter, then pushed the photographs aside. "It's a wild-goose chase," he said dispiritedly. "I'm beginning to think Billy's a side issue, anyway."

"In what way?"

"It depends what Amanda Powell's agenda was when she told me about him. She must have known I'd find out about James, so whose story am I supposed to be investigating? Billy's or James's?" He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. "And where does Nigel de Vriess fit in? Why would he give Amanda's address to a complete stranger?"

"Perhaps he doesn't like her," said Barry, tacitly disclosing his own prejudices.

"He did once. He left his wife for her. In any case, however much you dislike someone, you don't give their address to any old nutter who turns up." He eyed Barry curiously. "Do you?"

"No." Barry looked uncomfortably at the photograph of Peter Fenton. "I suppose it's possible they knew each other from before."

Deacon followed his gaze. "Nigel and Billy?"

"Yes."

He looked skeptical. "Wouldn't he have told Amanda who he was? Why talk to me if Nigel could have given her his name?"

"Maybe they're no longer in contact."

Deacon shook his head. "I wouldn't bet on that. She's not the type a man could forget very easily. And de Vriess likes women."

"Do you like her, Mike?"

"You're the second person to ask me that"-he held the other's gaze for a moment-"and I don't know the answer. She's out of the ordinary, but I don't know whether that makes her likable or ruddy peculiar." He grinned. "She's damn fanciable. I'll say that for her."

Barry forced himself to smile.
 

Terry had turned on the overhead light in Deacon's bedroom and was prodding the slumbering man's shoulder aggressively. Deacon opened one eye and looked with extreme disfavor on his protege. "Stop-doing-that," he said slowly and clearly. "I am not a well man." He rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep again.

"Yeah, right, but you've got to get up."

"Why?"

"Lawrence is on the phone."

Deacon struggled to a sitting position and groaned as his hangover hit him behind the eyes. "What does he want?''

"Don't ask me."

"Why didn't you leave the machine to take a message?" growled Deacon, glancing at his clock and seeing that it was six-fifteen in the morning. "That's what it's for."

"I did-the first four times-but he just kept ringing back. How come you didn't hear it? Are you deaf or what?"

With muttered imprecations, Deacon stumbled through to the sitting room and picked up the receiver. "What's so mportant that you have to wake me at the crack of dawn on Christmas Eve, Lawrence?"

The old man sounded worried. "I've just been listening to the radio, Michael. I sleep so little these days. I'm guessing that either you or I or both of us can expect a visit from the police shortly. I know Terry's there because he answered the telephone, but can you vouch for his movements last night?"

Deacon rubbed his eyes vigorously. "What's this about?"

"Another incident at what I assume is Terry's warehouse. Look, find a news bulletin on your radio and listen to it. I may be completely wrong, but it sounds to me as if the police are looking for your lad. Call me back as soon as you can. You may need me." He rang off.

It was the top story, with details breaking as the newscaster was on air. Following an attempted murder and the arrest of a suspect on Friday afternoon, further trouble had erupted among the homeless community in a docklands' warehouse in the early hours of Christmas Eve, when several men had been doused with gasoline and their clothes set alight. The police were looking for a youth, five feet eleven inches tall, shaven-headed and wearing a dark coat, who was seen running from the warehouse following the incident. Although they had not released his name, the police were looking for a known suspect who was believed to hold a grudge against the warehouse community, following the attempted murder on Friday.

For all Terry's surface bravura, he was only fourteen years old. He stared at the radio in tearful panic. "Someone's grassed me up," he stormed. "What am I gonna fucking do? The police'll crucify me."

"Don't be an idiot," said Deacon sharply. "You've been here all night."

"How would you know, you bastard?'' demanded Terry angrily, his fear sparking further aggression. "I could have gone and come back without you knowing anything about it. Shit, you didn't even hear your phone ringing."

Deacon pointed at the sofa. "Sit down while I phone Lawrence back."

"No chance. I'm out of here." He bunched his hands into fists. "I ain't gonna let the fucking pigs anywhere near me."

"SIT DOWN," roared Deacon, "BEFORE I GET REALLY ANGRY!" Afraid that Terry would bolt if he left the room to search out Lawrence's number, he switched to the loudspeaker, pressed one-four-seven-one to give him a voiced number recall of the last person who had phoned him, then pressed three to dial that person back. "Hi, Lawrence, it's Michael and Terry on the speakerphone. We think you're right. We think the guys at the warehouse have grassed Terry, and we think the police will come knocking. So what do we do?''

"Can you vouch for his movements?"

"Yes and no. We got back here at about two o'clock in the morning, courtesy of a taxi. I abandoned my car in Fleet Street because I was over the limit. We were with a chap called Barry Grover until about one-fifteen a.m. We were pissed as rats. The last thing I remember is telling Terry to stop giggling like a schoolgirl and go to bed. I crashed out immediately, and the next thing I knew was Terry giving me grief because you were on the phone. I can't swear he was here between two and when he woke me"-he squinted at his watch-"which means four and a quarter hours are unaccounted for. It's a hypothetical possibility that he went out, but a practical no-no. He could hardly stand when I pushed him into his bedroom, and I am one hundred percent certain that he's been there ever since."

"Can you hear me, Terry?''

"Yeah."

"Did you leave Michael's flat after you got back to it at two o'clock this morning?"

"No, I fucking didn't," said the boy sullenly. "And I've got a fucking headache, so I'm not answering fucking questions about what I didn't fucking do."

Lawrence's dry laughter floated into the room. "Then I'm sure we're worrying unnecessarily-perhaps there are two shaven-headed youths known to the police after Friday-but I do urge you to purify the flat. Our friends in the police force tend to react unfavorably to anything that requires chemical identification. Let me know if you run into trouble, won't you?"

"Why can't he speak English occasionally?" asked Terry ungraciously, as Deacon put the phone down. "What was he saying? That I'm guilty of something?"

"Yes. Possessing a class C drug. How much cannabis have you got left?"

"Hardly any."

"None"-Deacon banged the table-"as of now. It's going straight down the bog." He fixed the boy with a gaze that would have pinned butterflies to a board. "Do it, Terry."

"Okay, okay, but it cost me a fortune, you know."

"Not half as much as it's going to cost me if it's found here."

Terry's natural ebullience resurfaced. "You're more scared than I am," he said with a knowing leer. "Ain't you never wanted to live a little? See how much bottle you've got when the cops've got you pinned to the canvas?"

Deacon chuckled as he made for his bedroom. "I tell you what, Terry, I'm more interested to see how much bottle you've got. You're the one they'll be using for target practice, so I wouldn't give them too much to aim at if I were you."

They were fully dressed and eating breakfast when the police arrived half an hour later in the shape of two detective sergeants, one of whom was DS Harrison. When Deacon answered the door and agreed that he did know where Terry Dalton was-sitting at his kitchen table, as it happened- Harrison expressed surprise that they were up so early on a Sunday morning.

"It's Christmas Eve," said Deacon, taking them through the flat. "We're visiting my mother in Bedfordshire, so we wanted to make an early start." He resumed his place and tucked into his cereal again. "What can we do for you, Sergeant? I thought Terry gave you a statement on Friday."

Harrison glanced at the boy who was happily engaged on his third bowl of cornflakes. "He did. We've come about a different matter. Can you tell us where you were at three o'clock this morning, Mr. Dalton?"

"Here," said Terry.

"Can you prove that?"

"Sure. I were with Mike. Why'd'you want to know, anyway?"

"There's been another incident at the warehouse. Five comatose men were saturated with gasoline, then set alight. They're all in hospital and two of them are critical. We wondered if you knew anything about it."

"Not fucking likely," said Terry indignantly. "I ain't been near the place since Friday night. Ask Mike."

Harrison turned back to Deacon. "Is that right, sir?''

"Yes. I invited Terry to spend Christmas with me after he made his statement to you. We stopped off at the warehouse on our way home on Friday to pick up a few of his things, and he's been in my company ever since." He frowned. "When you say you wonder if Terry might know something, are you suggesting he was involved?"

"We're not suggesting anything at this stage, sir, just making inquiries."

"I see."

There was a short silence while Deacon and Terry continued with their breakfast.

"When you said you were with this gentleman last night," Harrison asked Terry, "what did you mean exactly?"

"What d'you think I meant?"

"Let me put it in another way, sir. If you and Mr. Deacon shared a bed last night, then it's doubtful you could have left the bed without him noticing. Is that what you meant when you said you were with him?" The sergeant's expression was neutral, but there was a look of amusement on his colleague's face.

A stillness settled on the boy which Deacon interpreted as anger, but when Terry raised his head there was cunning in his eyes. "I reckon it's down to Mike to answer that," he said offhandedly. "This ain't my pad. He's the one calls the shots around here."

Deacon located the youngster's naked toe under the table and ground his metal-tipped shoe heel into the unprotected flesh. "Sorry," he murmured as Terry yelped. "Did I hurt you? My foot slipped, sweetheart." He pursed his lips into a rosebud and prepared to blow a kiss in Terry's direction.