Had he known less about her it wouldn't have mattered, but his interest in Billy Blake and James Streeter had led him to build up a file of press cuttings on her. The reasons for why he should have wanted to go out to her house and confront her were obscure, but they seemed to lie in his total confusion about whether he had hated or enjoyed the sex act. He wouldn't have gone at all had Deacon and Terry not filled him with dutch courage on Saturday night. Tight as a tick, he had waved them off in a taxi then called one for himself and told the driver to take him to the Thamesbank Estate.
He wasn't very sure now what his intentions were-certainly he hadn't expected to find her lights on-but at two o'clock in the morning he had stood in her garden and watched through her open curtains as she made love to a man on her sitting-room carpet. (Deacon asked him if he recognized the man, but Barry said no. Interestingly, he described him in detail but barely mentioned Amanda.)
"It was exciting," he said simply.
Yes, thought Deacon, it would have been. "But illegal," he said. "I'm not sure if you can be charged with voyeurism, but you can certainly be charged with trespass and indecent behavior. Why did you go back this morning, anyway? It was broad daylight, so you were bound to be spotted."
The simple explanation was that Barry had put the envelope of photographs on the ground the night before (to keep his hands free, Deacon guessed) and forgotten them. The more complex explanation seemed to concern his extraordinarily ambivalent attitude to living with his mother ("I don't want to go back," he kept saying), his barely remembered love of his father, and a half-understood desire to rekindle his excitement of a few hours earlier. But the house was clearly empty, and the only excitement left to him was to desecrate Amanda's photograph. "I'm so ashamed," he said. "I don't know why I did it. It just-happened."
"Well, if you want my opinion, it's a good thing the police caught you," said Deacon bluntly, squeezing the burning tip out of his cigarette. "Maybe it'll persuade you to wise up to the facts of life. You've got more going for you than to end up as some grubby little man who can only get a hard-on outside a window. Admittedly I'm no psychiatrist, but I'd say there are a couple of areas you need to sort out pretty damn quick. One, get out from under your mother and, two, come to terms with your sexuality. There's no sense in directing your anger against women if your preference is for men, Barry."
Helplessly, Barry shook his head. "What would my mother say?"
"A hell of a lot, I should imagine, if you're silly enough to tell her." Deacon clapped him on the back. "You're a grown man, Barry. It's time you acted like one." He smiled. "What were you planning to do, as a matter of interest? Wait till she was dead before you could be the person you wanted to be?''
"Yes."
"Bad plan. That person would have died long before she did." He stood up. "Are you going to let me tell the sergeant what you've told me? Depending on what he says, you may want a solicitor with you when he questions you. And you'd better be prepared for the fact that Glen Hopkins will be asked to confirm that he gave you those cards on Friday. Are you ready for all that?"
"Will they let me go if I tell the truth?"
"I don't know."
"Where will I go if they do? I can't go home." His eyes welled again. "I'd rather stay here than go home."
Godalmighty! Just don't say it, Deacon. "You can use my sofa while we sort something out." We-ell ... It was Christmas...
And...
Barry knew who Billy Blake was...
Harrison was skeptical. "You're being naive. I know the type. It's the classic profile of a sex criminal. A repressed loner with an unhealthy appetite for spying on people. Lives with his mother but doesn't like her. Can't make adult relationships. First offense is exposing himself in public. We'll be banging him up for rape and/or child molestation next."
"On that basis you'll be locking me up as well," said Deacon with a friendly smile. "I'm a loner. I disliked my mother so much that I didn't speak to her for five years. I can't make successful adult relationships-as evidenced by my two divorces-and the worst offense I ever committed, judging by the thrashing I received, was when I bought a pornographic magazine at the age of twelve and attempted to smuggle it into my house with the intention of admiring my erections in front of a mirror."
The sergeant chuckled. "It's a serious point, though. You were twelve, Barry's thirty-four. You were going to practice in your bedroom, he was practicing in somebody else's garden. At twelve, the damage you can do to someone else is hopefully limited by your size. At thirty-four, you're likely to be very dangerous indeed, particularly if you're thwarted."
"But you can't charge him with what he might do. At worst, you've got him for trespass and indecency, and that's not going to keep him off the streets for long. Look," he said persuasively leaning forward, "you can't label a man a pervert for one aberrant episode. It wouldn't have happened if Glen Hopkins had kept his stupid ideas to himself, or if Barry had had more sense than to try something he wouldn't enjoy. The poor guy's hopelessly confused. He loved his father, who died when he was ten, he's terrorized by his mother, and he's just paid a hundred quid to lose his virginity to a woman who treated him like a lump of meat. On top of all that, Terry and I got him drunk-for the first time in his life as far as I can make out-and he found himself watching live sex inadvertently." He gave a low laugh. "Then you turned up on his doorstep this morning and scared him out of his wits because he thought Amanda must have seen him. He only went back for his photographs, for God's sake, and had a quiet wank in her absence because he was still aroused. Is this really the profile of a classic sex criminal?"
Harrison tapped his pen against his teeth. "He was trying to break into Mrs. Powell's garage. Where does that fit in?"
Deacon frowned. "You haven't mentioned that before."
"It's how we caught him. Her neighbors reported a possible intruder, and we sent out a patrol car." He pushed a piece of paper across the table. "It's all there in black and white."
Deacon read the incident report. "This man's described as six feet tall, thin, and wearing a dark coat. Barry's about six inches shorter, fat, and the only coat I've ever seen him in is a blue anorak. It's in his cell at the moment."
The sergeant shrugged. "I wouldn't rely on that description. The neighbors are in their eighties."
Deacon studied him with amusement. "God help you if my mother heard you say that. Surely you can see there were two different men? You've nicked the easy one-the wally-my best advice, if you want a result, is to look for the tall guy."
"If he exists," said Harrison cynically.
Terry was bored to distraction by the time Barry and Deacon emerged from the inner recesses of the police station. "You've been two hours," he said crossly, pointing to the clock in the waiting area. ' 'What did Barry do, then? It must have been something pretty bad if it took this long to sort."
Deacon shook his head. "He was watching Amanda's house, and got nicked in mistake for a man who tried to break into her garage half an hour earlier. It's taken all this time to establish that he doesn't answer to the description of a tall, skinny bloke in a dark coat."
"No kidding! You want to get Lawrence on to it. He'd soon sort these bastards out. That's harassment, that is, banging up a bloke for no reason. You all right, Barry? You don't look too good."
Deacon shoved him through the front door into the freezing evening air before the desk sergeant could set him straight. "Barry's coming home with us," he murmured in Terry's ear. "His family kicked up rough because we sent Harrison round there this morning, so I've said he can sleep on the sofa for a day or two. Do you have a problem with that?"