"You would," he said. "She agreed with everything you said."
"Which shows how intelligent she was."
"Terrified, more like. She used to quake every time she came into the house." He dropped a wink in Terry's direction. "Ma viewed every girl I brought home as potential marriage material, and she used to put them through the mill to find out if they were suitable. Who were their parents? Which school did they go to? Was there a history of insanity in their families?''
"If there had been, it would have been pointless your marrying them," declared Penelope tartly. "Both sets of genes would have been so tainted, your children wouldn't have stood a chance."
"We'll never know, will we?" said Deacon equally tartly. "Every time you brought up the so-called insanity on our side, the girls did a runner. It probably explains why Julia and Clara balked at having children."
Terry grinned. "That can't be right, Mike. I mean, okay, I've only lived with you for a couple of days, but it don't take that long to see you're not a nutter."
"Who asked you to interfere?"
Terry was sitting on the floor, stroking an ancient, moth-eaten cat that had been around so long no one knew how old it was. It purred with raucous pleasure at Terry's ministrations, which Penelope said was unusual because senility had made it irritable with strangers.
"Yeah, but you need your heads knocking together," said the boy. "I mean you should listen to yourselves. Argue, argue, argue. Don't you never get tired of it? There might be some sense if it were going somewhere, but it isn't, is it? Me, I think Mrs. D probably said a load of things she shouldn't've done about you killing your Dad, but you've got to admit she weren't far off in what she said about your wives. I mean they can't have been much cop-either of them-or you'd still be married to them. Know what I'm saying?"
The contents of Barry's pockets and the envelope he'd been carrying were spread out in front of him on the table of an interview room, and sergeants Harrison and Forbes stared at them in perplexity. There were the prostitutes' cards, a stiffened condom that told them, without benefit of forensic analysis, what it had been used for. There were a dozen head shots of different men, some fully exposed, some underexposed, a paperback entitled Unsolved Mysteries of the Twentieth Century, and a folded newspaper clipping. There was the sodden photograph of Amanda Powell, now discreetly wrapped in cellophane to preserve the evidence of Barry's shame, a leather wallet containing money and credit cards, and a dog-eared snap of Barry cradling a toddler in his arms.
The tape had been running for fifteen minutes, and Barry hadn't said a word. Tears of humiliation ran from his eyes, and his flaccid cheeks wobbled pathetically.
"Come on, Barry, for God's sake talk to us," said Harrison. "What were you doing at Mrs. Powell's house? Why her?" He poked at the photographs. "Who are all these men? Do you wank on them as well? Who's this child you're holding? Maybe you've got a thing about kids? Are we going to find pictures of children all over your walls when we go searching your mother's house? Is that what you're so worried about?"
With a sigh, Barry slid off his chair in a dead faint.
The police doctor accompanied Harrison into the corridor. "He's certainly not dying," he said, "but he's scared out of his wits. That's why he fainted. He says he's thirty-four but I suggest you take twenty years off that to get an approximation of his emotional age. My best advice is to ask a parent or a friend to sit with him while you ask him questions, otherwise he'll probably collapse again. Work on the basis that you're dealing with a juvenile, and you might get somewhere."
"His mother's not answering the phone and, judging by the shrine she's made to her grandparents in the front room of their house, she's barking mad anyway."
"Which would explain his delayed development."
"What about a solicitor?"
The doctor shrugged. "My professional opinion, for what it's worth, is that a solicitor will terrify him even more. Find a friend-he must have some-otherwise you'll end up with a false confession. He's the type, Greg, believe me, so don't expect me to stand up in court and say anything different."
The telephone rang in the kitchen. A few seconds later Siobhan popped her head round the sitting-room door. "It's for you, Michael. A Sergeant Harrison would like a few words."
Deacon and Terry exchanged glances. "Did he say why?"
"No, but he made a point of stressing that it has nothing to do with Terry."
With a shrug in the boy's direction, Deacon followed the woman out.
"Michael seems to be developing quite a relationship with the police," Penelope remarked dryly. "Is this a recent thing?"
"If you're asking, is it my fault, then I guess it is, sort of. The old Bill wouldn't even know his name if it weren't for me. But you don't need to worry about him getting into trouble, Mrs. D. He's a good bloke. He don't even drink and drive." He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "He's been well kind to me, bought me clothes and such, taught me stuff I didn't know. A hundred other guys wouldn't've given me the time of day."
She didn't say anything, and Terry plowed on doggedly.
"So I reckon it wouldn't do no harm to show him you're pleased to see him. I remember this old geezer I used to know-he were a bit of a preacher-telling me a story about a rich bloke who took half his dad's loot, spent it all on women and gambling, and ended up on the streets. He was really poor, and really miserable, until he remembered how nice his old dad had always been to him before he left home. Then he thought, why am I bumming crusts off strangers when dad'll give them to me with no questions asked? So he took himself home, and his dad was that pleased to see him he burst into tears because he thought the silly bastard had died years ago."
Penelope smiled slightly. "You've just related the parable of the prodigal son."
"D'you get the point, though, Mrs. D? Never mind what sort of mess the bloke made of his life, his dad was over the moon to see him."
"But for how long?" she asked. "The son hadn't changed, so do you think his father would still be pleased to have him around when he started making a mess of his life again?''
Terry thought about it. "I don't see why not. Okay, maybe they'd have the odd spat now and then, and maybe they couldn't live in the same house, but the dad wouldn't never be so unhappy as when he thought his son was dead."
She smiled again. "Well, I'm not going to burst into tears of joy, Terry. Firstly, I'm far too crabby to do anything so sentimental and, secondly, poor Michael would be appalled. He can't cope with weepy women which is why both his wives walked off with so much of his money despite the fact neither of them had children. Certainly Julia knew how to turn on the waterworks when it mattered, and I've no doubt Clara was equally adept. In any case, I think you'll find he already knows I'm pleased to see him, otherwise he wouldn't be talking as freely as he is."
"If you say so," said Terry doubtfully. "I mean, you seem like too straight-up types to me and let's be honest, if I were looking for a mum-which I ain't," he pointed out carefully, "I'd as soon have you as the nurse out there who can't keep her paws off of me. Plus, she don't half talk a lot. Yabber, yabber, yabber. I reckon I heard her entire life history while I was looking for the gin." He laid a gentle hand on the cat's head and drew forth another rumbling purr. "What's a pickled egg, anyway? It sounded right horrible."
Penelope was laughing as Deacon came back into the room and he was surprised to see how young she looked. He remembered a Jamaican friend telling him once that laughter was the music of the soul. Was it also the fountain of youth? Would Penelope live longer if she learned to laugh again?