The Echo Read online

  This was no exaggeration. In the ten months since Deacon had joined the staff, the circulation figures had begun to show a modest increase after fifteen years of steady decline. Even so, they were still only a third of what they had been in the late seventies and early eighties. It would require something more radical to revitalize The Street than the occasional publicity that one writer could generate, and in Deacon's view that meant a new editor with new ideas—a fact of which JP was very aware.

  His smile held all the warmth of a rattlesnake's. "If you'd written that story the way I told you to, we would have benefited from the scare stories and not the sodding tabloids. Why the hell did you have to be so coy about identifying the two children involved?"

  "Because I gave my word to their parents. And—" said Deacon with heavy emphasis—"I do not believe in using pictures of severely damaged children to sell copy."

  "They were used anyway."

  Yes, thought Deacon, and it still made him angry. He had taken great pains to keep the two families anonymous, but checkbook journalism had seduced neighbors and friends into talking. "Not because of anything I did," he said.

  "That's mealy-mouthed crap. You knew damn well it was only a matter of time before someone sold out."

  "I should have known," corrected Deacon, squinting through the smoke from his cigarette. "God knows I've spent enough time listening to your views on the subject. You'd sell your Granny down the river for one more reader on the mailing list."

  "You're an ungrateful bastard, Mike. Loyalty's a oneway street with you, isn't it? Do you remember coming here and begging me for a job when Malcolm Retter bad-mouthed you round the industry? You'd been out of work for two months and it was doing your head in." He leveled an accusing finger at the younger man. "Who took you on? Who prised you out of your flat and gave you something to think about other than the self-induced misery of your personal life?"

  "You did."

  "Right. So give me something in return. Smarten yourself up, and go chase pictures and quotes off a fat Tory. Put some spice into this article of yours." He slammed the door as he left.

  Deacon was half-inclined to pursue his irascible little boss and tell him that Malcolm Fletter had offered him his job back on The Independent less than two weeks previously, however he was too softhearted to do it. JP wasn't the only one who had a sense of chapters ending.

  Lisa Smith whistled appreciatively when Deacon met her outside the offices at seven-thirty. "You look great. What's the occasion? Getting married again?"

  He took her arm and steered her towards his car. "Take my advice, Smith, and keep your mouth shut. I'm sure the last thing you want to do is rub salt in raw wounds. You're far too sweet and far too caring to do anything so crass."

  She was a beautiful, boisterous twenty-four-year-old, with a cloud of fuzzy dark hair and an attentive boyfriend. Deacon had lusted after her for months, but was too canny to let her know it. He feared rejection. More particularly he feared being told he was old enough to be her father. At forty-two, he was increasingly aware that he'd been abusing his body far too long and far too recklessly. What had once been lean, hard muscle had converted itself into alcoholic ripples that lurked beneath his waistband and escaped detection only because pleated chinos disguised what skintight jeans had formerly enhanced.

  "But you're a different man when you take a little trouble, Deacon," she said with apparent sincerity. "The enfant terrible image was quite sweet in the sixties, but hardly something to cultivate into the nineties."

  He unlocked the doors and waited while she stowed her equipment on the backseat before folding her long legs into the front. "How's Craig?" he asked, climbing in beside her.

  She displayed a diamond ring on her engagement finger. "We're getting married."

  He fired the engine and drew out into the traffic. "Why?"

  "Because we want to."

  "That's no reason for doing anything. I want to screw twenty women a night but I value my sanity too much to do it."

  "It's not your sanity that would crack, Deacon, it's your self-esteem. You'd never find twenty women who were that desperate."

  He grinned. "I wanted to marry both of my wives until I'd gone through with it and discovered they paid more attention to my bank statements than they did to my body."

  "Thanks."

  "What for?"

  "The congratulations and the good wishes for my future."

  "I'm merely being practical."

  "No you're not." She bared her teeth at him. "You're being bitter—as usual. Craig is very different from you. Mike. For a start, he likes women."

  "I love women."

  "Yes," she agreed, "that's your problem. You don't like them but you sure as hell love them as long as you think there's a chance of getting them into bed." She lit a cigarette and opened her window. "Has it never occurred to you that if you'd actually been friends with either of your wives you'd probably still be married?"

  "Now you're sounding bitter," he said, heading towards Blackfriars Bridge.

  "I'm merely being practical," she murmured. "I don't want to end up as lonely as you." She held the tip of her cigarette to the crack in the window and let the slipstream suck out the ash. "So what's the MO for this evening? JP says he wants me to capture this woman's emotions while you ask her about some dead wino she found in her garage."

  "That's the plan."

  "What's she like?"

  "I've no idea," said Deacon. "The nationals ran the story in June but, bar her name which is Mrs. Powell and her address which is expensive, there were no other details. She did a vanishing act before the rat pack arrived and, by the time she came back, the story was dead. JP's hoping for late fifties, immaculate grooming, strong right-wing political affiliations, and a husband who's a stockbroker."

  Mrs. Powell was certainly immaculately groomed but she was twenty years short of late fifties. She was also far too controlled ever to display the sort of emotions that Lisa was hoping for. She greeted them with a brisk, professional courtesy before showing them into an impeccable sitting room, which smelled of rose-petal potpourri and had the clean, spare look of designer minimalism. She clearly liked space, and Deacon rather approved of the cream leather and chrome chairs and sofa that formed an island about a low glass coffee table in the middle of a russet-colored carpet. Beyond them an expanse of window, framed by draped, but undrawn, curtains, looked across the Thames to the lights on the other side. There was very little else in the room: only a series of glass shelves above tinted glass cabinets which clearly contained a stereo system; and three canvasses—one white, one grey, and one black—which adorned the wall opposite the shelves.

  He nodded towards them. "What are they called?"

  "The title's in French. Gravure a la maniere noire. It means mezzotint in English. They're by Henri Benoit."

  "Interesting," he said, glancing at her, although it wasn't clear if he was referring to the canvasses or to the woman herself.

  In fact, he was thinking that her taste in interior design sat rather oddly with her choice of house. It was an uninteresting brick box on a new estate in the Isle of Dogs which would probably be billed in estate agents' jargon as "an exclusive development of detached executive homes with views of the river." He guessed the house to be about five years old, with three bedrooms and two reception rooms, and put its value at well outside an average price range. But why, he wondered, would an obviously wealthy woman with interesting taste choose something so characterless when, for the equivalent money, she could have had a spacious flat anywhere in the heart of London? Perhaps she liked detached houses, he thought rather cynically. Or views of the river. Or perhaps Mr. Powell had chosen it.

  "Do sit down," she said gesturing towards the sofa. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  "Thank you," said Lisa, who'd taken an instant dislike to her. "Black coffee would be nice." In the scheme of feminine competition, Mrs. Powell oozed success. She appeared to have everything—even femininity—and L
isa looked around for something to criticize.

  "Mr. Deacon?"

  "Do you have anything stronger?"

  "'Of course. Whisky, brandy, beer?"

  "Red wine?" he suggested hopefully.

  "I've a 1984 Rioja open. Would that do?"

  "It would. Thank you very much."

  Mrs. Powell disappeared down the corridor, and they heard her filling the kettle in the kitchen.

  "What's with black coffee, Smith," murmured Deacon, "when there's alcohol on offer?"

  "I thought we were supposed to be behaving ourselves," she whispered. "And, for Christ's sake, don't start smoking. There are no ashtrays. I've already looked. I don't want you putting her back up before she agrees to the photographs."

  He watched her critical appraisal of the room. "What's the verdict?"

  "JP was right about everything except her age and her husband. She's the stockbroker. I'll bet the Mrs. is a courtesy title to give her some status in a male-dominated world. There's no sign of a man living here. It's all too uncomfortable and it doesn't half stink of roses. She probably sprayed the room before we arrived." She turned her mouth down. "I hate women who do that. It's a kind of one-upmanship. They want to prove their house is cleaner than yours."

  He lifted an amused eyebrow. "Are you jealous?"

  "What's to be jealous of>" she hissed.

  "Success," he murmured, holding a finger to his lips as they heard Mrs. Powell returning.

  "If you want to smoke," she said, passing a coffee cup to Lisa and a glass of red wine to Deacon, "I'll find you an ashtray." She put her own wineglass on the table near an armchair and looked at them both.

  "No thank you," said Lisa, thinking of JP's instruction.

  "Yes, please," said Deacon, doubting he could stand the scent of rose petals for an hour. He wished Lisa hadn't mentioned them. Once noticed, the smell was cloying, and he was reminded of the second Mrs. Deacon who had plundered his very mediocre fortune in order to douse herself in Chanel No. 5. It had been the shorter of his two marriages, lasting a mere three years before Clara had cleared off with a twenty-year-old boy toy and rather too much of her husband's capital. He took the china saucer Mrs. Powell handed him, then placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. The smell of burning tobacco immediately swamped the roses, and Deacon felt guilt and satisfaction in equal measures. He left the cigarette jutting from his mouth as he took a tape recorder and a notebook from his pocket and placed them on the table in front of him. "Do you mind if I record what you say?"

  "No."

  He set the tape in motion and reluctantly broached the subject of photographs. "We'd like a small visual to accompany the piece, Mrs. Powell, so have you any objections to Lisa photographing you?"

  She stared at him as she sat down. "Why would you want photographs of me if you're planning to write about Billy Blake, Mr. Deacon?"

  Why indeed? "Because in the absence of pictures of Billy, which we've established don't exist," he lied, transferring the cigarette to the ashtray, "I'm afraid you're the next best thing. Is that a problem for you?"

  "Yes," she said flatly. "I'm afraid it is. I've already told you I have no intention of being used by your magazine."

  "And, as I told you, Mrs. Powell, I don't make a habit of using people."

  She had ice-blue eyes which reminded him of his mother's, and that was a shame, he thought, because in other respects she was quite attractive. "Then surely you agree that it's absurd to illustrate an article on poverty and the homeless with a picture of a woman who lives in an expensive house in an expensive part of London." She paused for a moment, inviting him to speak. When he didn't, she went on: "In fact, there are pictures of Billy Blake. I have two which I'm prepared to lend you. One is a mug shot from when he was first arrested and the other was taken in the mortuary. Either would illustrate poverty better than a photograph of me."

  Deacon shrugged but didn't say anything.

  "You said you were interested in Billy."

  She sounded put out, he thought, and that made him curious for he'd been a journalist long enough to recognize that Mrs. Powell was keener to tell her story than he was to hear it. But why now, when she had refused to talk to the press at the time? That question intrigued him. "No pictures of you, no story, I'm afraid," he said, reaching forward to switch off the tape. "Editor's instructions. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mrs. Powell." He looked with regret at his untouched wine. "And your Rioja."

  She watched him as he began to gather his bits and pieces together, clearly weighing something in her mind. "All right," she said abruptly, "you can take your photographs. Billy's story needs to be told."

  "Why?" He shot the word at her as he depressed the record button a second time.

  It was a question she had prepared for. The words came out so fluently that he was sure she'd rehearsed the answer in advance. "Because we're in terrible trouble as a society if we assume that any man's life is so worthless that the manner of his death is the only interesting thing about him."

  "That's a fine sentiment," he said mildly, "but hardly very newsworthy. People die in obscurity all the time."

  "But why starve to death? Why here? Why does nobody know anything about him? Why had he told the police he was twenty years older than he actually was?" She searched his face intently. "Aren't you at all curious about him?"

  Of course! Curiosity wormed like a maggot in his brain, but he was far more interested in her than he was in the man who had died in her garage. Why, for example, did she take Billy's death so personally that she was prepared to be exploited in order to have his story publicized? "Are you sure you didn't know him?" he suggested with apparent indifference.

  Her surprise was genuine. "No. Why would I need answers if I'd known him?"

  He opened his notebook on his lap, and wrote: Why does anyone need answers about a complete stranger six months after his death? "Which would you prefer," he asked, "that Lisa takes her photographs before we talk or while we're talking?"

  "While."

  He waited as Lisa unzipped her bag and removed her camera. "Do you have a Christian name, Mrs. Powell?"

  "Amanda."

  "Do you prefer Amanda Powell or Mrs. Powell?"

  "I don't mind." She frowned into the camera lens.

  "A smile would be better," said Lisa. She snapped the shutter. Click. "That's great." Click. "Could you look at the floor? Good." Click. "Keep your eyes cast down. That's really touching." Click, click.

  "Go on, Mr. Deacon," said the woman curtly. "I'm sure you don't want me to be sick over my own carpet."

  He grinned. "I prefer Deacon or Mike. How old are you?"

  "Thirty-six."

  "What do you do for a job?

  She glanced at him as Lisa took another photograph. "I'm an architect."

  "On your own or with a firm?"

  "I'm with W. F. Meredith." Click.

  Not bad, he thought. Meredith was about as good as you could get. "What are your political affiliations, Amanda?"

  "None."

  "How about off the record?"

  She gave a faint smile which Lisa caught. "The same."

  "Do you vote?" She caught him watching her, and he looked away.

  "Of course. Women fought long and hard to give me that right."

  "Are you going to tell me which party you usually vote for?"

  "Whichever I think will do the least damage."

  "You seem to have little time for politicians. Is there a particular reason for that or is it just fin de siecle depression?"

  The faint smile again as she reached for her wineglass. "Personally, I'd hesitate to qualify a huge abstract concept like fin de siecle depression with 'just,' but for the purposes of your article it's as truthful as anything else."

  He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. "Are you married at the moment, Amanda?"

  "Yes."

  "What does your husband do?"

  She raised the glass to her lips, momentarily forgettin
g the camera lens pointing at her, then lowered it with a frown as Lisa took another photograph. "My husband wasn't here when I found the body," she said, "so what he does is irrelevant."

  Deacon caught the look of amused cynicism on Lisa's face. "It's human interest," he countered lightly. "People will want to know what sort of man a successful architect is married to."

  Perhaps she realized that his curiosity was personal, or perhaps, as Lisa had guessed, there was no Mr. Powell. In either case, she refused to expand on the matter. "It was I who found the body," she repeated, "and you have my details already. Shall we continue?"

  The pale eyes, so like his mother's, rested on Deacon's craggy face too long for comfort, and his mild fantasy about kissing her shifted from harmless fun to sadistic revenge. He could imagine what JP's reaction was going to be to the paucity of information that he'd managed to drag out of her so far. Name, rank, and number. And he had little optimism that the photographs would be any better. Her features were so controlled that she might as well be a poker-faced prisoner of war backed against a wall. He wondered if fires had ever burned in her cool little face, or if her life had been entirely passionless. Predictably, the idea excited him.

  "All right," he agreed, "let's talk about finding the body. You said you were shocked. Can you describe the experience for me? What sort of thoughts went through your mind when you saw him?"

  "Disgust," she said, careful to keep her voice neutral. "He was behind a stack of empty boxes in the corner and he'd covered himself in an old blanket. The smell was really quite awful once I'd pulled it away from him. Also, his body fluids had seeped out all over the floor." Her mouth tightened in sudden distaste and she blinked as the flash of the camera stung her eyes. "Afterwards, when the police told me that he'd died of self-neglect and malnutrition, I kept wondering why he'd made no attempt to save himself. It wasn't just that I found him beside my freezer—" she gestured unhappily towards the window—"everyone's so affluent on this estate that even the trash cans have perfectly edible food in them."