Echo

'Don't be too sure,' JP had warned prophetically. 'You may not have shared my ideas on what made a good story, but you were always free to write it in any way you chose.' He picked up Deacon's copy on Peter Fenton, which was lying on the desk, and isolated the final two pages which discussed why Billy Blake had died in Amanda Powell's garage. 'I can guarantee you won't get these last seven hundred words into print. I know you want to go public on why and how the poor bastard died, but there's no way the new lot will risk being sued, and particularly not by a prisoner on remand. It's too damned contentious. It almost certainly infringes the sub judice rules and it's bound to damage Amanda's rights to a fair trial for the murder of de Vriess. And that's not to mention the trouble you'll have with de Vriess's family when you accuse him of being a multiple rapist.'

'Would you have risked it?'

'Of course. I'd argue that the matter isn't sub judice yet because Amanda hasn't been charged with James's murder.' His expression grew cynical. 'And won't be, unless the boffins can come up with a cause of death. Is it true she's withdrawn her confession?' Deacon nodded.

'Even more reason to publish and be damned. Then if and when we raised enough steam to force a prosecution, I'd make hay out of the fact that our efforts resulted in her being convicted of both murders instead of walking away scot-free as she looks like doing at the moment.'

'And if the magazine got taken to the cleaners for libel?'

'We'd have served a kind of justice, both on her and that bastard de Vriess.' JP chuckled. 'It's why they've kicked me out, of course. It's all about profit these days, and social consciences like mine come expensive.'

Deacon pressed the messages button on his answering machine. 'Barry's been arrested again,' said Greg Harrison's unemotional voice. 'Drunk and disorderly right on our doorstep this time. His mother's adamant she won't have him back, so he wants to give your address in case he's bound over. You're going to have to sort this, Mike. He says he only gets drunk because he's in love with you.' There was a short pause. For laughter? Deacon wondered sourly. 'Look, call me back when you can.'

Lawrence's voice next. 'I'm so sorry, my dear fellow. I see your article has had its teeth drawn. How very disappointing for you. I know how much you wanted to demonstrate that Billy's life had a purpose. Is it any consolation to think of him as Terry's mentor? In the end, surely, that is where Billy's true value lay.'

As the messages came to an end, the emptiness of the flat began to make itself felt. Picasso's Woman in a Chemise had gone, along with the television and the stereo that Terry had moved from the bedroom into the sitting room. Big Ben and the conch shell no longer stood on the mantelpiece, and Turner's The Fighting Temeraire was just a memory on a blank wall. Deacon went into the kitchen and inspected the biscuit jar. It contained a folded piece of paper.

Cheers, mate. I reckon I've earned what I've taken by learning to read and write. Anyway, it's a lot less than the five hundred quid I could have had off you at the beginning. Give my love to Lawrence and Mrs. D. They're good people. You, too. I'll look you up some time. Your friend, Terry

P.S. Tell that editor to get stuffed and concentrate on book-writing. Do your own thing, mate. I mean, like Billy always said: Any man who dies in chains probably deserves to.