"That's good," said Terry, raising two thumbs in salute, "Cheers, Barry. Just make sure you do loads of roast potatoes. They're my favorite, they are."
Deacon caught him by the collar and hoicked him through the door before their chef vanished in a puff of spontaneously combusted smoke.
"Where are we going?" asked Terry as they climbed into the car. "We've got three hours to kill."
"Let's muddy some waters first." Deacon reached for his mobile and dialed Directory Assistance. "Yes, the number of N. de Vriess, please, Halcombe House, near Andover. Thank you." He took a pen from his inner pocket and wrote the number on his shirt cuff before switching off the telephone.
"What are you going to do?"
"Phone him and ask him what he was doing at Amanda Powell's house on Saturday night."
"Supposing his wife answers?"
"The conversation will be even more interesting."
"You're cruel, you are. It's Christmas Day."
Deacon chuckled. "I shouldn't think anyone will answer. It'll be his secretary's number. Guys like de Vriess don't make their private numbers public." He squinted at his cuff as he punched the digits. "In any case I'll hang up if Fiona answers," he promised, putting the phone to his ear. "Hello?" He sounded surprised. "Am I speaking to Nigel de Vriess? ... Is he there? ... He's away? Yes, it is important. I've been trying to contact him on a business matter since Friday ... My name's Michael Deacon ... No, I'm phoning from a mobile ..." A long pause. "Would it be possible to speak to his wife? ... Can you give me a number where I can find Nigel?... Then perhaps you can give me an idea of when he'll be back? ... My home number? Yes, I should be there from midday onwards. Thank you." He gave his telephone number at the flat, then disconnected and frowned thoughtfully at Terry. "Nigel's gone away for a few days and his wife is too unwell to speak to anyone."
"Jesus, what a bastard! I bet'cha he's ditched the poor cow for Amanda."
Deacon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Except I'd put every cent I've got on that being a policeman who answered the phone, and you don't call in the police just because your notorious husband is shagging another woman."
"What makes you think he was old Bill?"
"Because he was too damned efficient. He cut me off after I gave my name in order to see if it meant anything to whoever was in the room with him."
"Could of been a butler. You're likely to have a butler if you live in a mansion."
Deacon fired the engine. "Butlers speak first," he said, "but there was silence on that line till I asked for Nigel de Vriess." He drew out into the road. "You don't think he's done a bunk, do you?"
"Like James?''
"Yes."
"Why'd he want to do that?"
"Because Amanda warned him that Barry saw him in her house and he's decided to run."
"Then why hasn't she gone, too?"
Deacon recalled the suitcase that he'd seen in her hall. "Maybe she has," he said rather grimly. "That's what we're going to find out."
They drove into the Thamesbank Estate and parked across the road from Amanda's house. It had a deserted look about it. The curtains were open, but, despite the greyness of the morning, there were no lights inside and the car was gone from in front of her garage.
"She could be at church," said Terry without conviction.
"You stay here," Deacon said. "I'm going to have a look through her sitting-room windows."
"Yeah, well, just don't forget what happened to Barry when he did that,'' said the boy morosely. "If the neighbors see you, we'll be carted off to the flaming nick to answer more bloody questions, and I ain't going without my lunch two days in a row."
"I won't be long." True to his word he was back in five minutes. "No sign of her," he said, easing in behind the wheel and fishing out his cigarettes. "So what the hell do I do about it?"
"Nothing," said Terry firmly. "Let the old Bill work it out for themselves. I mean you're gonna look a right plonker if you go steaming in with stories about Nigel and Amanda scarpering when all that's happened is they've holed up in a hotel somewhere to hump each other. You've got a real thing about her, except I can't decide whether you fancy her something rotten or think she's a hard-nosed bitch. On balance, I reckon you fancy her because you sure as hell don't like the fact she's still fucking Nigel." He cast a mischievous glance at Deacon's profile. "You look like you're sucking lemons every time the subject comes up."
Deacon ignored this. "All these houses are identical and hers is the tenth. Why did Billy choose hers?"
"Because the garage door was open."
"Number eight's open now."
"So what? It weren't open when Billy came here."
Deacon looked at him. "How do you know?"
There was a momentary pause before Terry answered. "I'm guessing. Look, are you planning to sit here all day. or what? Barry ain't gonna like it one little bit if Lawrence turns up and we ain't back."
Despite Terry's protests, Deacon dropped in at the police station to request Sergeant Harrison's home telephone number. Sir was joking, of course. Did he think private numbers were given out to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who asked for them? Had he forgotten that it was Christmas Day and that policemen, like ordinary mortals, welcomed the peace and quiet of the precious little time they spent with their families? Deacon persisted, and finally compromised on the officer's promise to phone Harrison "at a reasonable time" to relay the message that Michael Deacon needed to talk to him on a matter of urgency regarding Amanda Streeter and Nigel de Vriess.
"It's ten-thirty," said Deacon, tapping his watch. "Why isn't this a reasonable time?"
"Some people go to church on Our Lord's birthday" was the sharp response.
"But most people don't," murmured Deacon.
"More's the pity. A God-fearing society has fewer criminals."
"And so many whited sepulchres that you can't believe a word anybody says."
"Do you want me to make this phone call, sir?"
"Yes, please," said Deacon meekly.
When they were within a mile of the flat, Deacon drew the car into a curb and killed the engine. "You've been lying to me," he said pleasantly. "Now I'd like the truth."
Terry was deeply offended. "I ain't lied to you."
"I'll hand you back to social services if you don't start talking pretty damn quick."
"That's blackmail, that is."
"Exactly."
"I thought you liked me."
"I do."
"Well, then."
"Well, then, what?" asked Deacon patiently.
"I want to stay with you."
"I can't live with a liar."
"Yeah, but if I told the truth, would you let me stay?"
It was a strange little echo of what Barry had said yesterday ... "Will they let me go if I tell the truth?" ... But what was truth? ... Verity?... "You mean, heads you win, tails I lose."
"I don't get you."
"Presumably you've spent the last three days trying to weasel your way in by not telling me the truth." Deacon toyed with the idea of revisiting Terry's behavior of last night, but thought better of it. He knew from his own experience that postmortems were bitter affairs which achieved little beyond continuing warfare.
"I reckoned you needed time to get to know me. It took Billy a couple of months before he realized I was the next best thing to sliced bread. Anyway, you can't kick me out. Not yet. I ain't learnt to read, and I want to earn that money you promised to pay me."
"You've already cost me a fortune."
"Yeah, but you're rich. Your ma's house alone has gotta be worth a bob or two, so you can easily afford another mouth to feed."