Echo

'Now you're sounding bitter,' he said, heading towards Blackfriars Bridge.

'I'm merely being practical,' she murmured. 'I don't want to end up as lonely as you.' She held the tip of her cigarette to the crack in the window and let the slipstream suck out the ash. 'So what's the MO for this evening? JP says he wants me to capture this woman's emotions while you ask her about some dead wino she found in her garage.'

'That's the plan.'

'What's she like?'

'I've no idea,' said Deacon. 'The nationals ran the story in June but, bar her name which is Mrs. Powell and her address which is expensive, there were no other details. She did a vanishing act before the rat pack arrived and, by the time she came back, the story was dead. JP's hoping for late fifties, immaculate grooming, strong right-wing political affiliations, and a husband who's a stockbroker.'

Mrs. Powell was certainly immaculately groomed but she was twenty years short of late fifties. She was also far too controlled ever to display the sort of emotions that Lisa was hoping for. She greeted them with a brisk, professional courtesy before showing them into an impeccable sitting room, which smelled of rose-petal potpourri and had the clean, spare look of designer minimalism. She clearly liked space, and Deacon rather approved of the cream leather and chrome chairs and sofa that formed an island about a low glass coffee table in the middle of a russet-colored carpet. Beyond them an expanse of window, framed by draped, but undrawn, curtains, looked across the Thames to the lights on the other side. There was very little else in the room: only a series of glass shelves above tinted glass cabinets which clearly contained a stereo system; and three canvasses-one white, one grey, and one black-which adorned the wall opposite the shelves.

He nodded towards them. 'What are they called?'

'The title's in French. Gravure a la maniere noire. It means mezzotint in English. They're by Henri Benoit.'

'Interesting,' he said, glancing at her, although it wasn't clear if he was referring to the canvasses or to the woman herself.

In fact, he was thinking that her taste in interior design sat rather oddly with her choice of house. It was an uninteresting brick box on a new estate in the Isle of Dogs which would probably be billed in estate agents' jargon as 'an exclusive development of detached executive homes with views of the river.' He guessed the house to be about five years old, with three bedrooms and two reception rooms, and put its value at well outside an average price range. But why, he wondered, would an obviously wealthy woman with interesting taste choose something so characterless when, for the equivalent money, she could have had a spacious flat anywhere in the heart of London? Perhaps she liked detached houses, he thought rather cynically. Or views of the river. Or perhaps Mr. Powell had chosen it.

'Do sit down,' she said gesturing towards the sofa. 'Can I get you something to drink?'

'Thank you,' said Lisa, who'd taken an instant dislike to her. 'Black coffee would be nice.' In the scheme of feminine competition, Mrs. Powell oozed success. She appeared to have everything-even femininity-and Lisa looked around for something to criticize.

'Mr. Deacon?'

'Do you have anything stronger?'

''Of course. Whisky, brandy, beer?'

'Red wine?' he suggested hopefully.

'I've a 1984 Rioja open. Would that do?'

'It would. Thank you very much.'

Mrs. Powell disappeared down the corridor, and they heard her filling the kettle in the kitchen.

'What's with black coffee, Smith,' murmured Deacon, 'when there's alcohol on offer?'

'I thought we were supposed to be behaving ourselves,' she whispered. 'And, for Christ's sake, don't start smoking. There are no ashtrays. I've already looked. I don't want you putting her back up before she agrees to the photographs.'

He watched her critical appraisal of the room. 'What's the verdict?'

'JP was right about everything except her age and her husband. She's the stockbroker. I'll bet the Mrs. is a courtesy title to give her some status in a male-dominated world. There's no sign of a man living here. It's all too uncomfortable and it doesn't half stink of roses. She probably sprayed the room before we arrived.' She turned her mouth down. 'I hate women who do that. It's a kind of one-upmanship. They want to prove their house is cleaner than yours.'

He lifted an amused eyebrow. 'Are you jealous?'

'What's to be jealous of>' she hissed.

'Success,' he murmured, holding a finger to his lips as they heard Mrs. Powell returning.

'If you want to smoke,' she said, passing a coffee cup to Lisa and a glass of red wine to Deacon, 'I'll find you an ashtray.' She put her own wineglass on the table near an armchair and looked at them both.

'No thank you,' said Lisa, thinking of JP's instruction.

'Yes, please,' said Deacon, doubting he could stand the scent of rose petals for an hour. He wished Lisa hadn't mentioned them. Once noticed, the smell was cloying, and he was reminded of the second Mrs. Deacon who had plundered his very mediocre fortune in order to douse herself in Chanel No. 5. It had been the shorter of his two marriages, lasting a mere three years before Clara had cleared off with a twenty-year-old boy toy and rather too much of her husband's capital. He took the china saucer Mrs. Powell handed him, then placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. The smell of burning tobacco immediately swamped the roses, and Deacon felt guilt and satisfaction in equal measures. He left the cigarette jutting from his mouth as he took a tape recorder and a notebook from his pocket and placed them on the table in front of him. 'Do you mind if I record what you say?'

'No.'