Echo

Deacon's expression was neutral. 'We're still working on it. As I told you this afternoon, the most likely explanation is that Billy was her husband. But we can't prove it.'

There was a long pause while Harrison considered the implications of what Deacon had told him.

'If Billy was James, then her in-laws are wrong,' he pointed out. 'She and de Vriess couldn't have murdered him five years ago if he was still alive in June.'

Deacon grinned. 'Even we amateurs worked that one out, so I'm beginning to think it's the crux of the whole thing. It's so blindingly obvious, after all.'

He resumed his position against the wall and told Harrison at length how he believed Amanda had seized upon the fortuitous death of a strange man in her garage, who bore an odd resemblance to her husband, to clear herself of lingering suspicions of murder and at the same time formalize her position as a widow. 'My only role, as I see it, was to be the objective observer who generated official interest,' he finished. 'But she must be very worried now if she thinks Barry saw her and Nigel together. She can't afford doubts being raised about her relationship with him.'

Harrison clearly found the arguments convincing and asked if he could borrow the photographs of Billy's mug shot and the young James Streeter. 'How would you expect her to react when I show her these?' he queried, tucking them into his coat pocket.

But Deacon shook his head. 'I've no idea,' he said honestly, remembering how her nails had dug into his chin when he had made the suggestion himself.

'Why didn't you tell Mr. Harrison about Billy being this Fenton geezer?' asked Terry after the DS had gone.

'Do you know what a scoop is?'

'Sure.'

'That's why I didn't tell him.'

'Yeah, but you just gave him a load of bull instead. I mean, Amanda ain't stupid, is she? She can't never have thought it'd be that easy to have James declared dead. The old Bill'd need loads more proof than a couple of snapshots.'

Deacon grinned. 'She called me a clever man when I put the theory to her.'

'Do you fancy her?'

'What on earth makes you think that?''

'Why else'd you want to pass out on her sofa?'

Deacon rubbed his jaw. 'She has the same blue eyes as my mother,' he said reflectively. 'I felt homesick.'

Harrison dropped in at the station before going on to Amanda's house. He made a few inquiries of his colleagues, then put through a call to PC Dutton in Kent. Had Mrs. Powell been informed of Barry Grover's release? Yes. And how much information had Dutton given her about him? A full description, was the answer, and details of when he had been outside her house. Was this wrong? There had been nothing on the faxed information requesting confidentiality, and Mrs. Powell had pointed out quite reasonably that she needed to know who to look for in case he troubled her again.

Harrison had worked himself into a fine fury by the time he reached the Thamesbank Estate.

The WPC, who was minding Amanda pending Harrison's return from reinterviewing Barry, answered the door. 'Where is she?'' demanded the sergeant, pushing past her.

'In the sitting room.'

'Right. I want a witness to this. You'll make notes of everything she says and if you bat one eyelid at what I say, you'll damn wish you hadn't. Have you got that?' He shouldered open the door to the sitting room and sat himself squarely on the sofa facing Amanda. 'You've been lying to me, Mrs. Powell.'

She drew away from him.

'There was a man in this house last night.'

She leaned forward to sift the rose-petal potpourri, scattering the scent through her slender fingers. 'You're quite wrong, Sergeant. I was on my own.'

Harrison ignored this. 'We've tentatively identified your-' he chose the next word carefully-'companion-as Nigel de Vriess. Will he also deny being here?''

Something shifted at the back of her eyes, and he felt his vestigial hackles rise in response. She reminded him suddenly of a bad-tempered Siamese cat his grandmother had once owned. As long as it was left alone, it had been beautiful; touched, it had clawed and spat. When it tore deep tramlines in her face one day, his grandmother had had it put down. 'Beauty is as beauty does,' she had remarked without regret.

'I would imagine so,' Amanda remarked.

'When did you last see him?'

'I've no idea. It's so long ago I couldn't possibly say.'

'Before or after your husband went missing?'

'Before.' She shrugged. 'Long before.'

'So if I ask his partner where Nigel was last night, she'll probably say he was at home with her?'

The tip of her pink tongue played across her lips, moistening them. 'I wouldn't know.'

'I will be asking her, Mrs. Powell, and I'm sure she'll ask me why I'm asking.'

She shrugged again. 'I have no interest in either of them.'