"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.
"Bog off, Mike!" He glared from Deacon to the two policemen. " 'Course we didn't share a sodding bed. I'm no pillow biter, and he's no sausage jockey. Got it? He were in his bed and I were in mine, but that don't mean I buggered off in the middle of the night to go torching the guys at the warehouse. We didn't get back here till round two, and I was out like a light the minute I hit the sack."
"We've only your word on that."
"Ask Mike. He's the one pushed me through the door of my room. Ask Barry, if it comes to that. We said good night to him at past one, and he'll tell you I was too rat-arsed to go looking for the warehouse in the middle of the night. And while you're about it, ask the taxi driver who gave us a ride. He only brought us back because it was on his way home and Mike paid up front and over the odds in case him and me puked all over the sodding seats. Which we didn't." He drew breath. "Shit! Why'd I want to set fire to anyone, anyway? The old geezers there are looking after my mattress."
"Who's Barry?"
"Barry Grover," said Deacon. "He works for The Street magazine and lives in Camden somewhere. We were with him from eight-thirty to one-fifteen."
"Was it a black cab or a mini cab?"
"Black cab. The driver was about fifty-five, grey-haired, skinny, and wearing a green sweater. He picked us up on the corner of Fleet Street and Farringdon Street."
"You were lucky," said Harrison dryly. "Black cabs are usually pretty thin on the ground at Christmas time."
Deacon just nodded. He didn't think it necessary to mention that he'd climbed on the taxi's hood at a traffic light and refused to budge until the driver agreed to a fifty-quid fee. It was a rip-off but preferable to passing out in the gutter.
"Do you mind if we look around your flat, sir?'' Harrison asked next.
Deacon eyed him curiously. "Why would you want to do that?"
"To satisfy ourselves that your beds were slept in last night."
"You should make them get a search warrant," Terry said.
"What on earth for?" asked Deacon.
"The old Bill aren't allowed to go poking round people's private things just when they fancy it."
"Well, I've no objection at all to them looking at my room, but if you've got a problem-" He broke off with a shrug.
" 'Course I ain't got a problem," said Terry crossly.
"Then what are you bellyaching about?" Deacon stood up. "This way, gentlemen."
The two sergeants accepted a cup of coffee and relaxed enough to join Deacon and Terry in a smoke. "Terry fits the description of a youth seen running from the scene after the incident," Harrison told them.
"So do a million others," said Deacon.
"How would you know, sir?"
"We heard the description on the radio."
"I thought you might have done. May I ask who alerted you?"
"My solicitor, Lawrence Greenhill," said Deacon. "He heard the bulletin and warned us to expect a visit from you."