Deacon reflected on the homeless youngsters he'd interviewed already for his article, and realized he'd have trouble describing any particular individual. It depressed him to admit it, but she was right. Through sheer embarrassment, one never looked too long on the destitute. "All right," he said, "let's say it was pure coincidence that Billy chose your garage to die in, then someone must have seen him. If he was walking along the road looking for a place to hide, particularly on an estate like this, he couldn't have gone unnoticed. Did any of your neighbors come forward as witnesses?"
"No one's mentioned it."
"Did the police ask?"
"I don't know. It was all over in three or four hours. As soon as the doctor arrived and pronounced him dead, that was effectively it. The doctor said he'd died of natural causes, and the PC who answered my nine-nine-nine call claimed they'd all known it was only a matter of time before Billy Blake turned up as a bundle of rags somewhere. His words were: "The silly old sod has been committing slow suicide for years. People can't live the way he did and expect to survive."
"Did you ask him what he meant by that?"
"He said the only time Billy ate properly was when he was in prison. Otherwise he survived on a diet of alcohol."
"Poor bastard," said Deacon, eyeing her glass. "I suppose life under anaesthetic was more bearable than life without."
If she understood the personal import of his remark, she didn't show it. "Yes" was all she said.
"You suggested Billy Blake wasn't his real name, but one he adopted four years ago when he was first arrested. So where did he get the money to buy the alcohol? He'd need to register to get welfare payments."
She shook her head again. "I asked the old men in the warehouse about that, and they said he survived on charity rather than government handouts. He used to draw pavement paintings down on the Embankment near the river cruisers, and he earned enough from the tourists to pay for his drink. It was only in the winter when the sightseers dried up that he resorted to stealing and, if you look at his prison record, you'll find that all his stretches were done during the winter months."
"It sounds as though he had his life pretty well organized. "
"I agree."
"What sort of things did he draw? Do you know?"
"He did the same picture each time. From the way the men describe it, he drew the nativity scene. He also used to preach to the passersby about the damnation to come for all sinners."
"Was he mentally ill?"
"It sounds like it."
"Did he use the same pitch each time?"
"No. I gather he was moved on fairly regularly by the police."
"But he only drew the one picture?"
"I believe so."
"Was it any good?"
"The old men said it was. They described him as a real artist." Unexpectedly she laughed, and mischief brightened her eyes. "But they were drunk when I spoke to them, so I'm not sure how valid their artistic judgment is."
The mischief vanished as quickly as it came, but once again Deacon fell prey to his fantasies. He persuaded himself that she was ignorant of real desire and that she needed an experienced man to release her passion ... "What else have you managed to find out?"
"Nothing. I'm afraid that's it."
He reached forward to switch off his tape recorder. "You said Billy's story needs to be told," he reminded her, "but everything you know about him will fit into two or three sentences. And if I'm honest I'd say he doesn't justify even that much space." He reflected for a moment, collating the information in his head. "He was an alcoholic and a petty criminal who lied about his age and used an alias. He was running away from someone or something, probably a wife and an unhappy marriage, and he descended into destitution because he was either inadequate or mentally ill. He had some ability as an artist, and he died in your garage because you live near the river and the door happened to be open." He watched his abandoned cigarette expire in a long curl of ash in the saucer. "Have I missed anything?"
"Yes." The movement at the side of her mouth became suddenly more pronounced. "You haven't explained why he was starving himself to death or why he burnt his hands to claws."
He made a gesture of apology. "That's what chronic alcoholics with severe depression do, Amanda. They drink instead of eating, which is why the pathologist included self-neglect as a cause of death, and they mutilate themselves as a way of externalizing their anguish about a life that holds no hope for them. I think your Billy was clinically ill and, because he drank to make himself feel better, he ended up dead in your garage."
He could see from the resigned expression on her face that he hadn't told her anything she hadn't already worked out for herself, and his curiosity about her increased. Why this idee fixe about Billy Blake's life? There was something much deeper driving her, he thought, than simple compassion or high-minded sentiment about a man's value to society. "I couldn't get anyone even remotely interested in trying to find out who he might have been," she murmured, bending her head to the bowl of potpourri and sifting the petals idly between her fingers. "The police were polite but bored. I've written to my MP and to the Home Office, asking for some attempts to be made to trace his family, and had replies saying it's not their responsibility. The only people who were at all sympathetic were the Salvation Army. They have his description in their files now and have promised to contact me if anyone tries to trace him, but they're not optimistic about it." She looked very unhappy. "I simply don't know what else to do. After six months, I've reached a dead end."
He watched her for several moments, fascinated by the play of expressions that crossed her face. He guessed that her look of unhappiness probably translated as deep despair for someone more demonstrative. "If it's that important, why don't you hire a private detective?" he suggested.
"Have you any idea how much they charge?"
"You've explored the possibility then?"
She nodded. "And I could never justify the expense. I was told it could take weeks, even months, and there's no guarantee of success at the end of it."
"But we've already established that you're a rich woman, so who would you be justifying the expense to?"
A flicker of emotion-embarrassment?-crossed her face. "Myself," she said.
"Not your husband."
"No."
"Are you saying he wouldn't mind if you spent a fortune trying to trace a dead stranger's family?" The elusive Mr. Powell intrigued him.
She didn't say anything.
"You've already recognized Billy's worth by paying for his funeral. Why isn't that enough for you?"
"Because it's life that matters, not death."
"That's not a good enough reason, or not for the kind of obsession you've developed."
She laughed again, and the sound startled Deacon. It was pitched far too high, but he couldn't decide if it was drink-or fear?-that had introduced the note of hysteria. She made a visible effort to bring herself under control. "You know about obsession, do you, Mr. Deacon?"
"I know there's something else to this story that you haven't told me. You seem to be going to extraordinary lengths to try to identify Billy Blake and trace his family. Almost," he said thoughtfully, "as if you felt under an obligation. I think you did speak to him, and I think he asked you to do something. Am I right?"
She stared through him with the same expression of disappointment that his mother had shown the last time he saw her. He had wished so often that he'd tried for a reconciliation then that he reached out now, in a strange, confused transposition, to do for a stranger what he hadn't done for Penelope. He put a sympathetic hand on Amanda's arm but her skin was cold and unresponsive to his touch, and if she noticed the gesture at all, she didn't show it.
Instead she leaned her head against the back of her chair to stare at the ceiling, and Deacon had a sense of doors closing and opportunities lost. "Could you retrieve my garage keys when you return to your office?" she asked politely. "Unless your friend is still out there, she's taken them with her."