Echo

He set the tape in motion and reluctantly broached the subject of photographs. 'We'd like a small visual to accompany the piece, Mrs. Powell, so have you any objections to Lisa photographing you?'

She stared at him as she sat down. 'Why would you want photographs of me if you're planning to write about Billy Blake, Mr. Deacon?'

Why indeed? 'Because in the absence of pictures of Billy, which we've established don't exist,' he lied, transferring the cigarette to the ashtray, 'I'm afraid you're the next best thing. Is that a problem for you?'

'Yes,' she said flatly. 'I'm afraid it is. I've already told you I have no intention of being used by your magazine.'

'And, as I told you, Mrs. Powell, I don't make a habit of using people.'

She had ice-blue eyes which reminded him of his mother's, and that was a shame, he thought, because in other respects she was quite attractive. 'Then surely you agree that it's absurd to illustrate an article on poverty and the homeless with a picture of a woman who lives in an expensive house in an expensive part of London.' She paused for a moment, inviting him to speak. When he didn't, she went on: 'In fact, there are pictures of Billy Blake. I have two which I'm prepared to lend you. One is a mug shot from when he was first arrested and the other was taken in the mortuary. Either would illustrate poverty better than a photograph of me.'

Deacon shrugged but didn't say anything.

'You said you were interested in Billy.'

She sounded put out, he thought, and that made him curious for he'd been a journalist long enough to recognize that Mrs. Powell was keener to tell her story than he was to hear it. But why now, when she had refused to talk to the press at the time? That question intrigued him. 'No pictures of you, no story, I'm afraid,' he said, reaching forward to switch off the tape. 'Editor's instructions. I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Mrs. Powell.' He looked with regret at his untouched wine. 'And your Rioja.'

She watched him as he began to gather his bits and pieces together, clearly weighing something in her mind. 'All right,' she said abruptly, 'you can take your photographs. Billy's story needs to be told.'

'Why?' He shot the word at her as he depressed the record button a second time.

It was a question she had prepared for. The words came out so fluently that he was sure she'd rehearsed the answer in advance. 'Because we're in terrible trouble as a society if we assume that any man's life is so worthless that the manner of his death is the only interesting thing about him.'

'That's a fine sentiment,' he said mildly, 'but hardly very newsworthy. People die in obscurity all the time.'

'But why starve to death? Why here? Why does nobody know anything about him? Why had he told the police he was twenty years older than he actually was?' She searched his face intently. 'Aren't you at all curious about him?'

Of course! Curiosity wormed like a maggot in his brain, but he was far more interested in her than he was in the man who had died in her garage. Why, for example, did she take Billy's death so personally that she was prepared to be exploited in order to have his story publicized? 'Are you sure you didn't know him?' he suggested with apparent indifference.

Her surprise was genuine. 'No. Why would I need answers if I'd known him?'

He opened his notebook on his lap, and wrote: Why does anyone need answers about a complete stranger six months after his death? 'Which would you prefer,' he asked, 'that Lisa takes her photographs before we talk or while we're talking?'

'While.'

He waited as Lisa unzipped her bag and removed her camera. 'Do you have a Christian name, Mrs. Powell?'

'Amanda.'

'Do you prefer Amanda Powell or Mrs. Powell?'

'I don't mind.' She frowned into the camera lens.

'A smile would be better,' said Lisa. She snapped the shutter. Click. 'That's great.' Click. 'Could you look at the floor? Good.' Click. 'Keep your eyes cast down. That's really touching.' Click, click.

'Go on, Mr. Deacon,' said the woman curtly. 'I'm sure you don't want me to be sick over my own carpet.'

He grinned. 'I prefer Deacon or Mike. How old are you?'

'Thirty-six.'

'What do you do for a job?

She glanced at him as Lisa took another photograph. 'I'm an architect.'

'On your own or with a firm?'

'I'm with W. F. Meredith.' Click.

Not bad, he thought. Meredith was about as good as you could get. 'What are your political affiliations, Amanda?'

'None.'

'How about off the record?'

She gave a faint smile which Lisa caught. 'The same.'

'Do you vote?' She caught him watching her, and he looked away.