"You're an ungrateful bastard, Mike. Loyalty's a oneway street with you, isn't it? Do you remember coming here and begging me for a job when Malcolm Retter bad-mouthed you round the industry? You'd been out of work for two months and it was doing your head in." He leveled an accusing finger at the younger man. "Who took you on? Who prised you out of your flat and gave you something to think about other than the self-induced misery of your personal life?"
"You did."
"Right. So give me something in return. Smarten yourself up, and go chase pictures and quotes off a fat Tory. Put some spice into this article of yours." He slammed the door as he left.
Deacon was half-inclined to pursue his irascible little boss and tell him that Malcolm Fletter had offered him his job back on The Independent less than two weeks previously, however he was too softhearted to do it. JP wasn't the only one who had a sense of chapters ending.
Lisa Smith whistled appreciatively when Deacon met her outside the offices at seven-thirty. "You look great. What's the occasion? Getting married again?"
He took her arm and steered her towards his car. "Take my advice, Smith, and keep your mouth shut. I'm sure the last thing you want to do is rub salt in raw wounds. You're far too sweet and far too caring to do anything so crass."
She was a beautiful, boisterous twenty-four-year-old, with a cloud of fuzzy dark hair and an attentive boyfriend. Deacon had lusted after her for months, but was too canny to let her know it. He feared rejection. More particularly he feared being told he was old enough to be her father. At forty-two, he was increasingly aware that he'd been abusing his body far too long and far too recklessly. What had once been lean, hard muscle had converted itself into alcoholic ripples that lurked beneath his waistband and escaped detection only because pleated chinos disguised what skintight jeans had formerly enhanced.
"But you're a different man when you take a little trouble, Deacon," she said with apparent sincerity. "The enfant terrible image was quite sweet in the sixties, but hardly something to cultivate into the nineties."
He unlocked the doors and waited while she stowed her equipment on the backseat before folding her long legs into the front. "How's Craig?" he asked, climbing in beside her.
She displayed a diamond ring on her engagement finger. "We're getting married."
He fired the engine and drew out into the traffic. "Why?"
"Because we want to."
"That's no reason for doing anything. I want to screw twenty women a night but I value my sanity too much to do it."
"It's not your sanity that would crack, Deacon, it's your self-esteem. You'd never find twenty women who were that desperate."
He grinned. "I wanted to marry both of my wives until I'd gone through with it and discovered they paid more attention to my bank statements than they did to my body."
"Thanks."
"What for?"
"The congratulations and the good wishes for my future."
"I'm merely being practical."
"No you're not." She bared her teeth at him. "You're being bitter-as usual. Craig is very different from you. Mike. For a start, he likes women."
"I love women."
"Yes," she agreed, "that's your problem. You don't like them but you sure as hell love them as long as you think there's a chance of getting them into bed." She lit a cigarette and opened her window. "Has it never occurred to you that if you'd actually been friends with either of your wives you'd probably still be married?"
"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."