"I'm not surprised," said Terry. "Like Barry said, if you forget the difference in age, it takes a computer to tell them apart. Maybe she's shitting bricks right this minute because she's suddenly clicked that it might've been James after all."
"No," said Deacon slowly, "she didn't blink an eyelash when I suggested it to her. She's always known it wasn't him, so why throw a wobbly for Harrison?" He looked at his watch. "I'm going out," he said abruptly. "You two can watch a late movie till I get back."
"Where are you going?'' demanded Terry.
"Never you mind."
"You're planning a Peeping Tom act like old Barry, ain't you? You're going to sneak into her garden and drool while she gets rogered by Nigel."
Deacon stared him down. "You've got a grubby little mind, Terry. Unless Sergeant Harrison's blind as a bat, Nigel de Vriess is long gone." He leveled a finger at the boy. "I won't be more than a couple of hours, so behave yourself. I'll skin you alive if you try anything while I'm out of this flat."
Terry flicked a thoughtful glance in Barry's direction. "You can trust me, Mike."
The traffic was thin at that time of night, and it took only half an hour to drop down through the City and head east along the river to the Isle of Dogs. He kept a wary eye on his rearview mirror, regretting his decision to open the second bottle of wine. Lights blazed in Amanda's house, and he toyed with the idea of acting out Terry's fantasy by sneaking round the back and peeping through her sitting-room windows. The idea was more attractive than he liked to admit, but he abandoned it for fear of the consequences. Instead he fulfilled one of Billy's prophecies. "You will never do what you want because the tribe's will is stronger than yours.''
He rang the doorbell and listened to the sound of her footsteps in the hall. There was a brief silence while she put her eye to the peephole. "I'm not going to open this door, Mr. Deacon," she said from the other side, "so I suggest you leave before I call the police."
"I doubt they'll come," he said, stooping to smile amiably into the peephole. "They're bored with the both of us. At the moment they can't decide which of us is telling more lies, although you seem to have the edge. Sergeant Harrison's deeply put out by your refusal to admit that Nigel de Vriess was in this house last night."
"He wasn't."
"Barry saw him."
"Your friend's sick."
He leaned his shoulder against the door and took out a cigarette. "A little confused, perhaps, like me. I had no idea I'd frightened you so much on Thursday night, Amanda, not when you were so charming to me the next morning." He paused, waiting for an answer. "Sergeant Harrison's surprised you didn't call the police when I passed out on the sofa. It's what most women would have done when faced with a violent and abusive intruder."
"What do you want, Mr. Deacon?"
"A chat. Preferably inside, where it's warmer. I've found out who Billy was."
There was a long silence before the chain rattled and she opened the door. The light in the hall was very bright and he was taken aback by her appearance. She seemed unwell. Her face was drawn and colorless, and she looked nothing like the radiant woman in the yellow dress who had dazzled him three days ago.
He frowned. "Are you all right?"
"Yes." She was staring at him rather oddly, as if she expected to see a reaction in his eyes, and relaxed visibly when he showed none. She stepped back. "You'd better come in."
He looked around the hall and noticed a suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. "Going somewhere?''
"No. I've just come back from my mother's."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He followed her into the sitting room and noticed immediately that the scent of roses was absent. Instead, the window was open and the rotten smell of the exposed riverbanks seemed to be drifting in on the night air. "The tide must be out," he said. "You should have kept one of the flats in Teddington, Amanda. There's no tide above the locks."
What little color remained in her face leached out of it. "What are you talking about?"
"The smell. It's not very pleasant. You should shut your window." He lowered himself onto the sofa and lit his cigarette, watching her as she sprayed the room with air freshener before fluttering the potpourri between her fingers to disperse its scent.
"Is that better?'' she asked him.
"Can't you tell?"
"Not really. I'm so used to it." She took the chair opposite. "Are you going to tell me who Billy was?"
The tic was working furiously at the corner of her mouth, and he wondered why she was so agitated and why she looked so deathly pale. Whatever he may have told Harrison, it would take more than Barry's chance sighting of her with Nigel de Vriess to give credence to the Streeters' theories of conspiracy to murder. She had impressed him as a woman of cool composure, and he was puzzled by her lack of it now. The paradox was that he found her infinitely less attractive in despair-so much so that he wondered why he had ever lusted after her-but a great deal more likable. Vulnerability was a quality he recognized and understood.
"His name was Peter Fenton. You probably remember the story. He was a diplomat-believed to have been a spy-who vanished from his house in nineteen eighty-eight and was never seen again. Not as Peter Fenton, anyway."
She didn't say anything.
"You don't seem very impressed."
She pressed her hands to her lips for a moment, and he realized that her silence owed more to the fact that she couldn't speak than that she didn't want to. "Why did he come here?" she managed at last.
"I don't know. I hoped you would tell me. Did you or James know him?"
She shook her head.
"Are you sure? Do you know everyone James knew?"
"Yes."
Deacon took the Mail Diary piece on de Vriess from his pocket and handed it to her. "Billy read that three weeks before he ended up dead in your garage. Let's say he went to Halcombe House with the intention of getting Amanda Streeter's address out of Nigel because he didn't know you were calling yourself Amanda Powell, or that you lived and worked within a mile or so of where he was dossing." He thought for a moment, and, in the absence of an ashtray, tapped ash into his palm. "The fact that he arrived here meant Nigel must have told him how to find you, which makes your lover a bit of a bastard, Amanda. Firstly, for giving out your address to the first drunken bum who asks for it, and secondly, for not telling you to expect a visitor. He didn't, did he?"
She licked her lips. "How do you know Billy read this?"
Deacon lied. "One of the men at the warehouse told me. So what's it all about? Why should Peter Fenton be so intent on finding Amanda Streeter? And why would Nigel help him? Did they know each other?"
She rubbed her temples with trembling fingers. "I don't know.''
"Okay, try this. What might Peter have known about you that sent him chasing after you when he read your name in the newspaper? Maybe he had something on you and Nigel, and Nigel wriggled out by persuading him it was you he needed to talk to?"
She withdrew into her chair and closed her eyes. "Billy never spoke to me. I didn't know he was here until he was dead. I don't know who he was, or why he came to my house. Most of all, I don't know why-" She fell silent.
"Go on."
"I feel ill."
Deacon glanced towards the window. "Tell me about Nigel," he prompted. "Why would he give your address to Peter without telling you he'd done it?"
"I don't know." She gave a troubled shake of her head. "Why do you think he knew him as Peter Fenton? It was Billy Blake who died in my garage."
"Okay. Why give your address to Billy?"
"I don't know," she said again. "What sort of man was he?" Her eyes opened wide, and Deacon feared she was about to vomit.