There was a short silence.
"She's very beautiful," Deacon said slowly, "and I was very drunk, but she's relying on the fact that I told her the next morning I couldn't remember anything." He strolled across to the television and switched it off before leaning his back against the wall beside it. "It was true at the time, but not after a decent breakfast and several cups of coffee. She can almost get away with saying I forced my way in, because I leaned on her door when she opened it and it would have been difficult for her to shut me out at that point. But I wasn't violent and I wasn't abusive, and there was nothing to stop her calling the police if she was afraid of me. We had a brief conversation before I passed out on her sofa, and the next morning she made me drink a cup of coffee before she let me go. I said sorry so many times that it started to get on her nerves, and when I asked her if I'd frightened her, she said she was long past being frightened of anything." He smiled slightly. "She can accuse me of lousy timing and lousy technique-" his eyes narrowed- "but she can't accuse me of anything else. I hardly ever become aggressive under the influence of alcohol, Sergeant. Merely embarrassing."
"That's true," said Terry. "He told me and Barry he wanted babies when he got drunk last night. He were weeping all over the bloody shop."
Deacon looked at him with disfavor. "I was not weeping."
"Near enough," said Terry with a wicked smile.
Harrison ignored this exchange and turned to Barry. "You swore you hadn't been near Mrs. Powell's house before last night."
Barry flushed guiltily. "I hadn't."
"I don't believe you."
The little man shook with nerves. "I hadn't," he repeated.
"She described you in detail, told me where you were standing when she saw you. How could she do that if she didn't see you?"
"I don't know," said Barry helplessly.
"Did she say when she saw him?" asked Deacon.
"She's not sure of the exact dates, but the first occasion was about ten days ago, and the second two or three days later." He took a notebook from his pocket and flipped over the pages. "She described him as a short man with glasses, wearing a blue anorak, grey slacks, and light-colored shoes which were probably suede. She said he was standing outside her house when she approached it in her car, but walked away when she turned into her drive. Do you still deny that it was you, Barry?"
"Yes." He looked in desperation towards Deacon. "It can't have been me, Mike. I never went there before "
Deacon frowned. "It sounds like you," he pointed out wondering if he had been wrong and Harrison right "It's one hell of an accurate description."
"Jesus, it's a good thing I didn't go for that drink " said Terry scornfully. "You two'd be lost without me." He turned aggressively on Barry. "What was it I said to you in the kitchen? Sad people wear anoraks, but really sad people wear suede shoes. And what did you say to m? It's a pity you didn't meet me on Thursday, because that's when you bought the shoes. I told you that bitch was clever. She's got one of those coppers to give her a description of you and fed it back to Mr. Harrison here. If you paid for those shoes with a credit card, mate, you're in the clear, ain't you? There's no way you could've been wearing them ten days ago."
Barry's sad face brightened. "I did," he said. "I've even got the receipt. It's in my room at home."
"And how many other pairs of suede shoes do you own?" asked Harrison, unimpressed by Terry's reasoning.
"None," said Barry with rising excitement. "I bought these as a Christmas present to myself because all my shoes are black. Mike knows that. He's the one who told me black shoes were boring."
"Yes," said Deacon thoughtfully, "I did." He bent to flick ash into the ashtray on the coffee table, using the pause for some rapid thinking. "Give me a description of the man she was with last night, Barry," he said, "the one she's denying was there."
"I've already told you," said Barry uncomfortably.
"Tell me again."
"Fair, good-looking-" he petered into an embarrassed silence, unwilling to revisit his shameful voyeuristic excitement. The thrill of the experience had long since vanished for him.
"The description Barry gave me this afternoon," Deacon told Harrison, "was toff, slim, blond, tanned, and with a tattoo or birthmark on his right shoulder blade. He didn't recognize him, and I don't recognize the description, but let's say that I can prove to you that such a man exists and that Amanda Powell is well acquainted with him?"
Harrison wasn't against the proposition. He still smarted from the drubbing he had received when he dared to question her denial. But... "What difference would it make?"
It might persuade you to ask her why she's lying about him being there."
"I repeat what difference does it make? There's no law against her having a man in her house, and Barry could have seen him on one of the other occasions she says he was there. In itself, the man's existence proves nothing."
"But just for the moment, assume Barry's telling the truth. Accept that he hadn't been to Mrs. Powell's house before and that he did see a man there last night. Aren't you curious about why she's lying? I know I am."
Harrison held his gaze for a moment. "Mrs. Powell is very-" he sought for a word-"convincing." He looked as if he were about to say something else, then thought better of it.
"Too convincing?" Deacon suggested.
"I didn't say that."
Deacon stubbed out his cigarette, then moved to the telephone and consulted the address book beside it. He dialed a number. "Hello, Maggie, it's Mike Deacon here. Yes, I know it's late but I really do need to talk to Alan rather urgently." He waited, then smiled into the receiver. "Yes, you old buzzard, it's me again. How are you feeling?" He laughed. "She let you have a Bell's? Things are looking up, then. A small favor over the phone, that's all. I'm going to switch over to the loudspeaker because there are three other people in the room, and they're all interested in what I hope you're about to say. I want you to describe Nigel de Vriess for me." He pressed the loudspeaker button and replaced the handset.
"What he looks like, you mean?" barked Alan Parker's gravelly voice.
"Yes. You might just confirm that you've never given me a description of him before."
"Only if you tell me what this is all about. I may be on my last legs, but I'm still a journalist. What's the oily toad been up to?"
"I'm not sure yet. You'll be the first to know after me."
"And pigs might fly." Alan chuckled. "All right, I've never given you his description before. To the best of my recollection he's about my height-which is five-eleven-and has blond hair which he dyes to cover the grey. He's always impeccably dressed in dark suits, probably from Harrod's. Wears a white carnation in his buttonhole. Good-looking, suave. Think of Roger Moore as James Bond, and you won't go far wrong. Anything else you want to know?"
"We were given a description of a man we believe to be him." Deacon's grin reflected itself in his voice. "But he was ballock-naked at the time so how he dresses doesn't help us much. He was described as having an all-over body tan and a tattoo or a birthmark on his right shoulder blade. Can you verify either of those facts?' '
"Hah! I can't speak for the tan, but he certainly has a birthmark on his shoulder blade. Legend has it, put about by him, of course, that it's shaped in the devil's number-six-six-six-which is why he was a millionaire by the age of thirty, the devil looking after his own and all that twaddle. But one of his floozies described it as looking more like a dog's pizzle. Never seen it myself, so can't say either way." His voice took on a wheedling tone. "Come on, Mike. What is all this? I'll have your hide if DVS is on the skids, and you've kept it to yourself. I've got shares in the bloody thing."