Read Online The Echo by Minette Walters - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Minette Walters
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Deacon's educated diction. "Hi. My name's R. S. Hole. I'm a bum." He took a cigarette. "Ta. I'll save it for drinkies before dinner if you've no objections." "None at all, Mr. Hole. Seems a shame to wait for dinner, though."
The lad had a thin, washed-out face beneath a crudely shaven head. "The name's Terry. What are you after, you bastard?"
He really was very young, thought Deacon, but there was street wisdom in the aggressive tilt of his jaw and a terrible cynicism in the narrowed eyes. With a slight shock, it occurred to him that Terry thought he was a middle-class homosexual in search of a rent-boy. "Information," he said matter-of-factly. "About a man called Billy Blake who used to doss here when he wasn't in prison."
"Who says we knew him?"
"The woman who paid for his funeral. She tells me she came here and got answers to some of her questions."
"Aye-mander," said one of the others. "I remember 'er. Saw 'er on the corner not so long ago and she gave me a fiver."
Terry cut him off with an impatient hand. "What does a reporter want with Billy? He's been dead six months."
"I don't know yet," said Deacon honestly. "Maybe I just want to prove that Billy's life had value." He clamped his hands over the bottle. "Whichever one of you can tell me something useful gets the whiskey."
The older men watched the bottle, Terry watched Deacon's face. "And what exactly does 'useful' mean?" he asked with heavy irony. "I know he couldn't give a shit about anything. Is that useful?"
"I could have guessed that, Terry, from the way he died. Useful means anything I don't know already, or anything that will lead me towards someone who might have information on him. Let's start with his real name. Who was he before he became Billy Blake?"
They shook their heads.
"E did pavement paintings," said one old man. " 'Ad a pitch down near the cruisers."
"I know about that. Amanda tells me he always painted the same nativity scene. Does anyone know why?"
More shakes of heads. They were like something out of a Star Wars film, thought Deacon irrelevantly. Wizened little monkey-men, swathed in overcoats that were too big for them, but with bright, beady eyes that spoke of a cunning he would never possess.
"It were just a picture of a family that everyone would recognize," said Terry. "He weren't stupid, and he needed money. He wrote 'blessed are the poor' underneath then lay beside it. He looked so fucking ill most of the time that people felt guilty when they saw the painting and read the message. He did pretty well out of it and he were only aggressive when he'd had a skinful and started preaching at the punters. But that just frightened them off, and he'd come home skint those days and have to sober up."
The faces around him split into grins of reminiscence.
" 'E was a good artist when 'e was sober," said the same old man who'd spoken before. "Bloody awful when 'e was drunk." He cackled to himself, his leathery skin creasing inside the frame of a matted balaclava. "Drew 'eaven when 'e was sober and 'ell when 'e was pissed."
"You mean he did two different pictures?"
" 'E did 'undreds, s'long as 'e could get the paper." The old head jerked towards the office blocks. "Used to take piles of old letters out of the bins of an evening, draw his pictures all night on the backs, then abandon 'em in the morning."
"What happened to them?"
"We burned 'em the next day."
"Did Billy mind?"
"Nah," said another. "He needed to keep warm like the rest of us. Matter of fact, it used to make him laugh." He screwed his finger into his forehead. "He was mad as a sodding hatter. Always screaming about hellfire and being cleansed by the devil's flames. Stuck his hand in the middle of a mound of blazing paper once and kept it there for ages before we dragged him off."
"Why did he do that?"
A shrug of indifference rippled round the group like a muted Mexican wave. There was no logic to the actions of a madman seemed to be their common thinking.
"He were
The lad had a thin, washed-out face beneath a crudely shaven head. "The name's Terry. What are you after, you bastard?"
He really was very young, thought Deacon, but there was street wisdom in the aggressive tilt of his jaw and a terrible cynicism in the narrowed eyes. With a slight shock, it occurred to him that Terry thought he was a middle-class homosexual in search of a rent-boy. "Information," he said matter-of-factly. "About a man called Billy Blake who used to doss here when he wasn't in prison."
"Who says we knew him?"
"The woman who paid for his funeral. She tells me she came here and got answers to some of her questions."
"Aye-mander," said one of the others. "I remember 'er. Saw 'er on the corner not so long ago and she gave me a fiver."
Terry cut him off with an impatient hand. "What does a reporter want with Billy? He's been dead six months."
"I don't know yet," said Deacon honestly. "Maybe I just want to prove that Billy's life had value." He clamped his hands over the bottle. "Whichever one of you can tell me something useful gets the whiskey."
The older men watched the bottle, Terry watched Deacon's face. "And what exactly does 'useful' mean?" he asked with heavy irony. "I know he couldn't give a shit about anything. Is that useful?"
"I could have guessed that, Terry, from the way he died. Useful means anything I don't know already, or anything that will lead me towards someone who might have information on him. Let's start with his real name. Who was he before he became Billy Blake?"
They shook their heads.
"E did pavement paintings," said one old man. " 'Ad a pitch down near the cruisers."
"I know about that. Amanda tells me he always painted the same nativity scene. Does anyone know why?"
More shakes of heads. They were like something out of a Star Wars film, thought Deacon irrelevantly. Wizened little monkey-men, swathed in overcoats that were too big for them, but with bright, beady eyes that spoke of a cunning he would never possess.
"It were just a picture of a family that everyone would recognize," said Terry. "He weren't stupid, and he needed money. He wrote 'blessed are the poor' underneath then lay beside it. He looked so fucking ill most of the time that people felt guilty when they saw the painting and read the message. He did pretty well out of it and he were only aggressive when he'd had a skinful and started preaching at the punters. But that just frightened them off, and he'd come home skint those days and have to sober up."
The faces around him split into grins of reminiscence.
" 'E was a good artist when 'e was sober," said the same old man who'd spoken before. "Bloody awful when 'e was drunk." He cackled to himself, his leathery skin creasing inside the frame of a matted balaclava. "Drew 'eaven when 'e was sober and 'ell when 'e was pissed."
"You mean he did two different pictures?"
" 'E did 'undreds, s'long as 'e could get the paper." The old head jerked towards the office blocks. "Used to take piles of old letters out of the bins of an evening, draw his pictures all night on the backs, then abandon 'em in the morning."
"What happened to them?"
"We burned 'em the next day."
"Did Billy mind?"
"Nah," said another. "He needed to keep warm like the rest of us. Matter of fact, it used to make him laugh." He screwed his finger into his forehead. "He was mad as a sodding hatter. Always screaming about hellfire and being cleansed by the devil's flames. Stuck his hand in the middle of a mound of blazing paper once and kept it there for ages before we dragged him off."
"Why did he do that?"
A shrug of indifference rippled round the group like a muted Mexican wave. There was no logic to the actions of a madman seemed to be their common thinking.
"He were
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