Echo

shocked by the events of the last eight days and has given the police as much assistance as she can in their search for her husband. Now that she has been ruled out of the investigation, she asks to be left in peace. There is nothing she can add to the information that is already in the public domain.'

The allegations against James Streeter are that, over a period of five years, he used his position at Lowenstein's to falsify accounts and steal over ten million pounds. The alleged irregularities came to light some six weeks ago but the details were kept 'in-house' to avoid panicking the bank's customers. When it became clear that the bank's own investigation was going nowhere, the Board decided to call in the police. Within hours of the decision being taken, James Streeter disappeared. Charges are being brought against him in his absence.

'I recognized her face.'

Deacon hadn't heard Barry return and was startled by the sudden, breathy voice in the silence. He watched the man's fat finger push the clipping to one side and point to a grainy photograph underneath.

'That's her with her husband before he ran. Lisa called her Mrs. Powell, but it's the same woman. You probably remember the case. He was never caught.'

Deacon stared down at the photograph of Amanda Powell-Streeter, aged thirty-one. She was wearing glasses, her hair was shorter and darker, and her face was in three-quarter profile. He wouldn't have recognized her, yet, knowing who it was, he saw the similarities. He looked thoughtfully at the husband for a moment or two, searching for a resemblance with Billy Blake, but nothing in life was ever that easy. 'How do you do it?' he asked Barry.

'It's what I'm paid for.'

'That doesn't explain how you do it.'

The other man smiled to himself. 'Some people say it's a gift, Mike.' He placed the contact sheets on the desk. 'Lisa's done a lousy job with these. There are only five or six that are good enough to pass muster. She needs to do them again.'

Deacon held the sheets to the light and examined them closely. They were uniformally bad, either out of focus or so poorly lit that Amanda Powell's face looked like granite. There were six perfect shots of an empty garage at the end of the sequence. He stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray on Barry's desk which was placed beside a prominent notice saying: In the interests of my health please don't smoke. 'How the hell did she manage to produce crap like this?' he asked crossly.

Fastidiously, Barry emptied the ashtray into his wastepaper basket. 'Obviously there's something wrong with her camera. I'll call it in for service tomorrow. It's a shame. She's usually very reliable.'

Considering how bad Lisa's photographs were, it was even more extraordinary that Barry had been able to make the connection. Deacon fished his notebook from his coat pocket and isolated the two photographs of Billy Blake. 'I suppose you don't recognize him?'

The little man took the prints and placed them side by side on his desk. He examined them for a long time. 'Maybe,' he said at last.

'What do you mean, 'maybe'? Either you do or you don't.'

Barry looked put out. 'You don't know anything about it, Mike. Supposing I played a bar or two of Mozart to you, you might be able to identify it as Mozart, but you'd never be able to say which of his works it came from.'

'What's that got to do with identifying a photograph?'

'You wouldn't understand. It's very complicated. I shall have to work on it.'

Deacon felt suitably put in his place. And not for the first time that night. But thoughts of Barry were less likely to haunt him than thoughts of a woman who reminded him of his mother. 'How about making some good negatives for me? The chances are he looked nothing like this when he was fit and healthy, but we might be able to do something on the computer to flesh out the face a bit. That would give you a better base to start from, wouldn't it?'

'Possibly. Where did the prints come from?'

'Mrs. Powell. He died in her garage under the name of Billy Blake, but she doesn't think that was his real name.' He gave Barry a quick summary of what Amanda had told him. 'She has a bee in her bonnet about trying to identify him and trace his family.'

'Why?'

Deacon touched the newspaper clippings. 'I don't know. Perhaps it has something to do with what happened to her husband.'

'I can make the negatives easily enough. When do you want them?'

'First thing tomorrow?'

'I'll do them for you now.'

'Thanks.' Deacon glanced at his watch as he stood up and saw with surprise that it was after ten o'clock. 'Change of plan,' he said abruptly, reaching for Barry's coat from a hook behind the door. 'I'm taking you for a drink instead. Christ, man, this bloody magazine doesn't own you. Why the hell don't you tell us all to get stuffed occasionally?'

Barry Grover allowed himself to be drawn along the pavement by Deacon's insistent hand on his shoulder, but he was a reluctant volunteer. He had been on the receiving end of such spontaneous invitations before. He knew the routine, knew he had been invited only because Deacon's irregular conscience had struck, knew he would be forgotten and ignored within five minutes of entering the pub. Deacon's drinking cronies would be lining the bar, and Barry would be left to stand at the side, unwilling to intrude where he wasn't wanted, unwilling to draw attention to himself by leaving.

Yet, as usual, he was prey to a terrible ambivalence as the pub drew closer, because he both feared and yearned to go drinking with Deacon. He feared inevitable rejection, yearned to be accepted as Deacon's friend, for Deacon had shown him more casual companionship since he'd arrived at The Street than Barry had known in years. He told himself that to be accepted just once would suffice. It was such a small ambition for a man to hold, after all. To feel part of a social group for a single night, to tell a joke and raise a laugh, to be able to say the next morning: I went for a drink with a mate.