The Echo (12 page)

"Then what happened to him?" asked the older man in despair. "He wasn't a thief, Mr. Deacon. He was brought up to earn money honestly, and it simply wouldn't have occurred to him to take shortcuts. You see, he wanted the status that wealth brings, just as much as he wanted wealth itself, so theft and the danger of imprisonment would never have attracted him." He gave another bewildered frown. "At the time he disappeared, he and Amanda had just sunk all their capital into an old school on the Thames at Teddington which they were planning to develop into luxury flats, and James was as excited about it as she was. They stood to make a handsome profit if the project went through. But why would he be excited by half a million if he was already sitting on ten?"

Because it represented a legitimate way to start laundering the rest,
thought Deacon cynically. "What happened to the project?"

"It was completed in 'ninety-two by a construction firm called Lowndes, but we can't find out if Amanda saw it through herself or whether Lowndes bought the property from her. We've written several letters of inquiry, but we've never had an answer. Either way, we'd like to know how she put together enough money to buy her present house in 'ninety-one. If she sold the school first, she couldn't have raised more than the four hundred thousand she and James put towards the purchase of it. But it was probably a great deal less after nine months' interest on bank loans, and certainly not enough to buy into an expensive estate on the Thames. If she didn't sell the school but saw the project through, then she'd have had no capital at all in 'ninety-one." He smiled unhappily. "You see now why we're so suspicious of her."

"Perhaps she and James had other investments which they never told you about."

But Kenneth wouldn't accept that. Four hundred thousand was already more spare capital than most young couples could lay their hands to, he pointed out, and it was honestly earned. James had cashed in his stocks and shares to support the project. Deacon acknowledged the point with a smile while his mind pursued its own line of thought. It would explain why Amanda hadn't wanted a divorce. If the investments were jointly owned, she had access to everything as long as she didn't dissolve the partnership before he could be legally presumed dead after seven years. And if there were other investments in James's name-
dishonestly earned?
-then she had another two years to wait before she could inherit as his widow.

How much simpler if he'd died in her garage six months ago...

"'Do you have a photograph of James that you could lend me, Mr. Streeter? Preferably a full-face one. I can let you have it back by Tuesday."

...and how frustrating if she couldn 't prove it...

"The police must have searched James's bank accounts at the time he disappeared," he said, taking the snapshot Kenneth Streeter produced for him. "Did they find anything that shouldn't have been there?"

"Of course not. There was nothing to find."

"Have you told them your suspicions about Amanda's newfound wealth?"

A look of weariness crossed the older man's face. "So regularly that I've had an official caution for wasting police time. It's harder than you think to prove a man's innocence, Mr. Deacon."
 

He phoned an old colleague, now retired, who had spent most of his working life on the financial desks of different newspapers, and arranged to meet him that evening in a pub in Camden Town. "I'm supposed to be off the bloody booze," growled Alan Parker down the wire, "so I can't invite you here. There's not a drop worth drinking in the house."

"Coffee won't kill me," said Deacon.

"It's killing
me
. I'll see you in the Three Pigeons at eight o'clock. Make mine a double Bells if you get there first."

Deacon hadn't seen Alan for a couple of years and he was shocked by the sight of his old friend. He was desperately thin and his skin had the yellow tinge of jaundice. "Should I be doing this?'' Deacon asked him as he paid for their whiskies.

"You'd better not tell me I look like death, Mike."

He did, but Deacon just smiled and pushed the Bells towards him. "How's Maggie?" he asked, referring to Alan's wife.

"She'd have my guts for garters if she knew where I was and what I was doing." He raised the glass and sampled a mouthful. "I can't get it through to the silly old woman that I'm a far better judge of what's good for me than the blasted quacks."

"So what's the problem? Why have they ordered you off the booze?"

Alan chuckled. "It's the newest form of tyranny, Mike. No one's allowed to die anymore so you're expected to live out your last months in misery. I mustn't smoke, drink, or eat anything remotely tasty in case it kills me. Apparently, dying of boredom is politically correct while succumbing to anything that gives you pleasure isn't."

"Well, don't peg out here, for God's sake, or Maggie will have
my
guts for garters. Where does she think you are as a matter of interest? Church?"

"She knows exactly where I am, but she's a tyrant with a soft center. I'll be hauled over the coals for this when I get back, but in her heart of hearts she'll be glad I was happy for half an hour. So? What did you want to talk to me about?"

"A man called Nigel de Vriess. The only information I have on him is that he lives in a mansion in Hampshire which he bought in 'ninety-one, and was on the board of Lowenstein's Merchant Bank, which he's since left. Do you know him? I'm interested in where he got the money to buy the mansion."

"That's easy enough. He didn't buy it because he already owned it. If I remember right, his wife took the marital home in Hampstead and he took Halcombe House, although I can't recall now if it was his first divorce or his second. Probably the second because it was a clean-break settlement. It was the first marriage that produced the kids."

"I was told he bought it."

"He did, when he made his first million. But that was twenty-odd years ago. He went belly-up in the eighties when he invested in a transatlantic airline that went bust during the cartel war, but he managed to hang on to the properties. The only reason he joined Lowenstein's was to buy a period of stability while the market recovered. In return for a damn good salary, he expanded their operations in the Far East and gave them footholds round the Pacific rim. He did well for them, too. They owe their place on the map to de Vriess."

"What about this guy, James Streeter, who ripped them off for ten million?"

"What about him? Ten million's chicken feed these days. It took eight
hundred
million to bring down Baring's Bank." Alan took another mouthful of whisky. "The mistake Lowenstein's made was to force the guy to run and bring the whole thing into the open. They recouped their ten million within forty-eight hours trading on the foreign-exchange markets but the bad publicity set them back six months in terms of credibility."

Deacon took out his cigarette packet and proffered it to Alan with a lift of his eyebrows. "I won't tell Maggie if you don't."

"You're a good lad, Mike." He took a cigarette and placed it reverently between his lips. "The only reason I stopped was because the silly old cow kept crying. Would you believe that? I'm dying in misery so she won't be miserable watching me die. And she always said I was the most selfish man alive."

Deacon found a laugh from somewhere-
though God only knew where
. "She's right," he said. "I'll never forget that time you invited me out to dinner, then made me pay because you claimed you'd left your wallet at home."

"I had."

"Bullshit. I could see the bulge it was making in your jacket."

"You were very young and green in those days, Mike."

"Yes, and you took advantage of it, you old sod."

"You've been a good friend."

"What do you mean,
been
a good friend? I still am. Who bought the whiskey?" He saw a cloud pass over Alan's face and changed the subject abruptly. "What's de Vriess doing now?"

"He bought a computer software company called Softworks, renamed it de Vriess Softworks or DVS, sacked half the staff, and turned the damn thing round in two years by producing a cheaper version of Windows for the home-computer market. He's an arrogant S.O.B., but he has a knack for making money. He started with a paper route at thirteen and he's never looked back."

"You said he became a cropper in the eighties," Deacon reminded him.

"A temporary blip, Mike, hence the job with Lowenstein's. Now he's back to where he was before the crash. Shares have recovered, and he's found a nice little earner in DVS."

"There was a woman who used to work for Softworks called Marianne Filbert. Does that name mean anything to you?"

Alan shook his head. "What's the connection with de Vriess?''

Briefly, Deacon explained John Streeter's theory about the conspiracy against James. "I suspect his whole argument is based on wishful thinking, but it's interesting that de Vriess bought the company where James Streeter found his computer expert."

"It's highly predictable if you know de Vriess. I imagine Softworks was put under a microscope to see if the bank's money had found its way into their books, and in the process de Vriess spotted an opportunity. He's as sharp as a bloody ferret."

"You sound as if you admire him."

"I do. The guy has balls. Mind, I don't like him much-few people do-but he doesn't lose sleep over trifles like that. Women love him, which is all he cares about. He's a randy little toad." He gave another chuckle. "Rich men often are. Unlike the rest of us, they can afford to pay for their mistakes."

"You always were a cynical bastard," said Deacon affectionately.

"I'm dying of liver cancer, Mike, but at least my cynicism remains healthy."

"How long have you got?"

"Six months."

"Are you worried about it?"

"Terrified, old son, but I cling to Heinrich Heine's dying words. 'God will forgive me. It's His job.' "
 

Barry Grover held the snapshot of James Streeter under the lamplight and examined it carefully. "It's a better angle," he said grudgingly. "You'll have more chance of making comparisons with this than with the other one."

Deacon perched casually on the edge of the desk, looming over Barry in a way the little man hated, and planted a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. "You're the expert," he said. "Is that Billy or not?"

"I'd rather you didn't smoke in here," muttered Barry, poking fussily at his
"In the interests of my health please don't smoke"
notice. "I have asthma and it's not good for me."

"Why didn't you say so before?"

"I assumed you could read." He shoved a folder against Deacon's hip in an attempt to dislodge him from the desk, but Deacon just grinned at him.

"The smell of cigarette smoke is preferable any day to the smell of your feet. When did you last buy yourself a new pair of shoes?''

"It's none of your business."

"The only color you ever wear is black and, believe me, if I've noticed that then the whole damn building's noticed it. I'm beginning to think you only have one pair which probably explains your asthma."

"You're a very rude man."

Deacon's grin broadened. "I suppose you were out on the razzle last night? Hence the lousy mood."

"Yes," lied the little man bitterly. "I went for a drink with some friends."

"Well, if it's a hangover I've got some codeine in my office, and if it's not, then buck up for Christ's sake, and give me an opinion on this picture. Does it look like Billy to you?"

"No."

"They're pretty alike."

"The mouths are different."

"Ten million buys a lot of plastic surgery."

Barry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ' 'If you want to identify someone, you don't just compare a couple of photographs and dismiss anything that doesn't fit as plastic surgery. It really is a little more scientific than that, Mike."

"I'm listening."

"Lots of people look like each other, particularly in photographs, so you have to examine what you know about them as well. It's quite pointless finding similarities in faces if one belongs to a man in America and the other to a man in France."

"But that's the whole point. James went missing in nineteen ninety, and Billy didn't surface at a police station until 'ninety-one, with his fingers like claws because he'd been burning off his prints. It's certainly possible that they're one and the same."

"But highly improbable." Barry looked at the photograph again. "What happened to the rest of the money?"

"I don't follow."

"How could he become a penniless derelict within months of having his face altered by plastic surgery. What happened to the rest of the money?''

"I'm still working on that." He interpreted Barry's expression correctly as one of scathing disbelief, although as usual it looked rather silly on the owlish face. "Okay, okay. I agree it's improbable." He stood up. "I promised to send that snapshot back today. Do you have time to make a negative for me?"

"I'm busy at the moment." Barry shuffled pieces of paper around his desk as if to prove the point.

Deacon nodded. "No problem. I'll find out how Lisa's placed. She can probably do it for me."

After he'd gone, Barry drew his own full-face photograph of James Streeter from his top drawer. If Deacon had seen this version, he thought, there'd have been no stopping him. The likeness to Billy Blake was extraordinary.
 

Purely out of curiosity, Deacon phoned Lowndes Building and Development Corporation and asked to speak to someone about a block of flats they'd converted on the Thames at Teddington in 'ninety-two. He was given the address of the flats, but was told there was no one available to discuss the mechanics of the conversion. "To be honest," said a flustered secretary, "I think it may have been Mr. Merton who saw it through, but he was sacked two years ago."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure. Someone said he was on cocaine."

"Any idea how I can contact him?"

"He emigrated somewhere, but I don't think we have his address."

Deacon penciled Mr. Merton in as someone to follow up after Christmas, alongside Nigel de Vriess.