Echo

A plainclothes policeman intervened. 'I'm Detective Sergeant Harrison, sir. Perhaps I can be of assistance.' He was a pleasant-looking individual in his thirties, solidly built and with thinning blond hair which lifted in the breeze from the warehouse doorway. His eyes creased in an amiable smile.

'You could begin by explaining what's going on here.'

'Certainly, sir. We are asking these gentlemen to clear the site of an attempted murder. As the only free area is outside we have requested them to vacate the building.'

Deacon raised the camera again, pointed the lens the length of the warehouse, and took a photograph of its vast interior. 'Are you sure about that, Sergeant? There seems to be acres of free space in here. As a matter of interest, when did the police adopt this policy?''

'What policy's that, sir?'

'Forcing people to leave their homes when a crime's been committed inside? Isn't the normal procedure to invite them to sit in another part of the house, usually the kitchen, where they can have a cup of tea to calm their nerves?''

'Look, sir, this is hardly run-of-the-mill, as you can see for yourself. It's a serious crime we're investigating. There are no lights. Half these guys are comatose on drink or drugs. The only way we can find out what's been going on is to move everyone out and introduce some order.'

'Really?'' Deacon continued to take pictures. 'I thought the more usual first step was to invite witnesses to come forward and make a statement.'

Briefly, the sergeant's guard slipped and Deacon's camera caught his look of contempt. 'These guys don't even know what cooperation means. However-'' He raised his voice. 'A man was stabbed in here in the last hour. Would anyone who saw the incident or has information about it, please step forward?' He waited a second or two, then smiled good-humoredly at Deacon. 'Satisfied, sir? Now perhaps you'll let us get on.'

'I saw it,' said Terry, sliding out from behind Deacon's back. His eyes searched the darkness for Tom. 'And I weren't the only one, though you'd think I was for all the guts the rest of them are showing.'

Silence greeted this remark.

'Jesus, you're pathetic,' he went on scathingly. 'No wonder the old Bill treat you like dirt. That's all you know, isn't it, how to lie down in the gutter while anyone who wants to walks all over you.' He spat on the floor. 'That's what I think of men who'd rather let a psycho loose on the streets than stand up and be counted once in their fucking lives.'

'Okay, okay,' said a disgruntled voice from the middle of the crowd. 'Leave off, son, for Christ's sake.' Tom shouldered his way to the front and glared malignantly at Terry. 'Anyone'd think you were the Archbishop of flaming Canterbury the way you're carrying on.' He nodded at the sergeant. 'I saw it, too. 'Ow's tricks, Mr. 'Arrison?'

The demeanor of the Detective Sergeant changed. He gave a broad grin. 'Good God! Tom Beale! I thought you were dead. Your old lady did, too.'

Tom's face creased into lines of disgust. 'I might as well be for all she cared. She told me to bugger off the last time you got me sent down, and I never saw 'er or 'eard from 'er again.'

'Bull! She was on my back for months after you were released, pressuring me to find you. Why the hell didn't you go home like you were supposed to?'

'There weren't no point,' said Tom morosely. 'She made it clear she didn't want me. In any case, the silly cow went and died on me. I thought I'd pay 'er a visit a couple of years ago, and there were a load of strangers in the 'ouse. I were that upset, you wouldn't believe.'

'That doesn't mean she's dead, for God's sake. The council moved her into a flat six months after you scarpered.'

Tom looked pleased. 'Is that right? You reckon she wants to see me?'

'I'd put money on it.' The DS laughed. 'How about we get you home for Christmas? God only knows why, but you're probably the present your old lady's been waiting for.' He turned his watch face towards the light. 'Better than that, if we can get this mess sorted out PDQ, we'll have you home in time for supper. What do you say?'

'You're on, Mr. 'Arrison.'

'Okay, let's start with names and descriptions of everyone involved.'

'There were only the one.' Tom nodded towards the sleeping man and the policeman standing over him. 'That's the bastard you want. Name of Denning. 'E's out for the count at the moment because 'e wears 'isself out with 'is rages, but you want to be careful 'ow you tackle 'im. Like Terry says, 'e's a psycho and 'e's still got the knife on 'im.' He cackled again and produced a cigar from one of his pockets. 'We don't want no accidents, not when we're all getting along so well. I tell you what, Mr. 'Arrison, I've never been so pleased to see the old Bill in my life. 'Ere, 'ave a cigar on me.'

Because he was a professional, Deacon caught the presentation on film and made a few pounds out of the picture by selling it to a photographic agency. It appeared after Christmas in one of the tabloids with the caption: havana nice cigar and a sentimental version of Tom's reunion with his wife, together with Sergeant Harrison's part in the little drama. It was a parody of the truth, glossed up by a staff reporter to stimulate good feeling for the New Year, for the facts were that Tom preferred the company of men, his wife preferred her cat, and Sergeant Harrison was furious when he discovered the cigar was part of a consignment stolen from a hijacked truck.

The whole episode left a sour taste in Deacon's mouth. It offended him that police evenhandedness should turn on the warmth that one Sergeant felt for one destitute man. This wasn't reality. Reality was Terry's shithole of a warehouse, where dereliction ruled and the manner of a man's death was the most interesting thing about him.

Terry caught up with him as he was unlocking his car door. 'They're saying I have to go down the nick and make a statement.'

'Is that a problem?'

'Yeah. I don't want to go.'

Deacon glanced beyond Terry to the policeman who had followed him. 'You can't have it both ways, you know.