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.
*9*
"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."