Deacon shook his head when Harrison finished. "I really don't know much about Barry," he said. "I don't think anyone does. He never talks about his home life." He looked in distaste on the besmirched photograph of Amanda Powell, which had been cast like an island into the middle of the table. "As far as I know, his only connection with Mrs. Powell was when he developed some film after an interview I did with her. One of our photographers took some shots"-he jerked his chin at the table-"and that was the best of them."
"Why did you interview her?"
"I was writing a piece on the homeless, and she was in the news in June when a man called Billy Blake died of starvation in her garage. We thought she might have general views on the subject, but she didn't."
Light dawned in Harrison's eyes. "I knew her name was familiar, but I couldn't place it. I remember that incident. So why is Barry still interested in her?"
Deacon lit a cigarette. "I don't know, unless it's something to do with the fact that he's been trying to help me identify Billy Blake." He took one of his own prints of the dead man from his inside pocket and handed it across. "That's him when he was arrested four years ago. We think Billy Blake was an assumed name and that he may have committed a crime in the past. He used to doss in the warehouse with Terry Dalton and Tom Beale."
Harrison lifted an envelope from the floor and emptied its contents onto the table. "So these head shots are your possible suspects?" He isolated the underexposed print of Billy's mug shot. "And this is the dead guy?"
Deacon nodded. He unfolded a photocopy and flattened it on the table. "This one's pretty close."
Although Deacon was looking at it upside down, he knew Billy's face like the back of his hand and the shock of recognition was enormous.
Shi-it!
It was an enlarged copy of the picture of Peter Fenton that had accompanied Anne Cattrell's piece.
The little bastard had been holding out on him!
"It's close," he agreed, "but you need a computer to be sure." He'd fucking KILL Barry if the police got the story before he did! "Do you remember James Streeter?" Harrison nodded. "We're more interested in him." Disingenuously, he turned the graduation picture of James to face Harrison, and lined it up beside Billy's mug shot. "That's probably why Barry's so interested in Amanda Powell. She was Amanda Streeter before James stole ten million pounds and left her to face the music alone."
The sergeant's smile would have done credit to a cat. "It's the same bloke."
"Looks like it, doesn't it?"
"So what are you saying? James came back with his tail between his legs, and she starved him to death in her garage?"
"Could be."
Harrison pondered for a moment. "It still doesn't explain why Barry was in her garden wanking on her photograph." He fingered idly through the prostitutes' cards. "Guys with this kind of thing in their pockets worry me. And why does he carry a picture of himself with a kid? Who was the child and what happened to it?''
Deacon ran his thumbnail down the side of his jaw. "You say he hasn't opened his mouth since he got here?"
"Not a dicky bird."
"Then let me talk to him. He trusts me. I'll persuade him to give you what you want."
"Even if it means he gets charged?"
"Even if it means he gets charged," agreed Deacon rather savagely. "I don't like perverts any more than you do, and I certainly don't want to work with one."
*16*
Barry's spectacles had been removed, giving him a naked look. He sat on the cell bed, head hanging forward, shoulders slumped in defeat. Deacon was told later that there a fear he might break the lenses and try to cut his wrists-he was deemed a suicide risk-which also explained his lack of belt and shoelaces. He peered blindly towards the cell door when it opened, more like a sad-faced clown than a cockroach, and his plump little body shook with dread.
"Visitor for you," said the custody sergeant, ushering Deacon in and leaving the door open. "Ten minutes."
Deacon watched the policeman walk away, then lowered himself onto the bed next to Barry. He expected to feel his usual antipathy but found himself pitying the man instead. It wasn't hard to imagine the sort of nightmare Barry was going through. There was precious little dignity to be found a police cell at the best of times, none at all when your first experience of it was after committing a lewd act in public.
"It's Mike Deacon," he said, wondering how much Barry could see without his glasses. "Sergeant Harrison phoned me, told me you were in need of a friend." He fished out his cigarettes. "Are you going to let me smoke?" He watched the other's eyes fill with tears and punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Is that a yes?''
Barry nodded.
"Good man." He bent his head to the lighter. "We haven't much time so you're going to have to talk to me if you want my help. Let's start with the easy stuff first. You had a photograph of a man holding a child. The sergeant thinks the man's you, but I think it might be your father holding you as a toddler. Who's right?"
"You," whispered Barry.
"You could be his double."
"Yes."
"Okay, next question. Why do you carry prostitutes' cards in your pocket? Is that how you spend your time when you're not working?"
Barry shook his head.
"Then why were they in your pocket?" He paused for an answer, but went on when he didn't get one. "Talk to me," he said kindly. "You're not the first man in the world to be caught wanking, Barry, and you certainly won't be the last, but the police are putting the worst interpretation on it because they think you spend your time sniffing round toms."
"Glen Hopkins gave them to me on Friday," whispered Barry.
"Why?"
"He said there was no shame paying for it." Distress flowed in waves from the quivering body. "But I was ashamed. I didn't like it." He started to weep.
"I'm not surprised," Deacon said matter-of-factly. "I suppose she had one eye on the clock and the other on your wallet. We've all been there, Barry." He smiled slightly. "Even the Nigel de Vriess's of this world have to pay for it. The only difference is they call their toms lovers and their shame becomes public property." He sat forward with his hands between his knees, matching Barry's own body language. "'Look, does it make you feel any better if I tell you Glen tosses those cards about like bloody confetti? He gave me some a couple of months back when he decided my bad temper was due to lack of sex. I told him to ram them up his arse, where they belonged." He glanced sideways. "He caught you on a bad day, and you got ripped off. My best advice is to put it down to experience, and tell Glen to get stuffed the next time he tries it on you."
"He said it was-unhealthy"-it clearly hurt him to say the word-"looking at photographs. He said the real thing was more fun. But-'' His voice tailed off.
"It wasn't?" suggested Deacon, offering him a handkerchief to dry his tears.
"No."
Deacon reflected on his first sexual encounter at the age of sixteen when he had fumbled his way through the act of intercourse without caring too much about satisfying the girl because his own arousal was so intense that every thought in his head was concentrated on not ejaculating before he got inside. To this day, he couldn't think of his and Mary Higgins's loss of virginity without embarrassment. She had claimed it was the worst experience of her life and never spoke to him again.
"You're not unusual," he said sympathetically. "Most men find their first time pretty humbling. So what happened this morning? Why did you go to Amanda's house?"
The story was muddled but Deacon made what he could of it. After Barry's humiliation at the hands of the prostitute, his anger which should have been directed against Fatima-or even Glen-became fixated on Amanda instead. (There was a strange logic to it. He had been studying pictures of her when Glen had accused him of unhealthy practices, and in his mind's eye she had assumed the proportions of a Jezebel.)