heart of London? He leaned forward and stared into the water.
An elderly woman paused in her progress along the walkway. "Premature death is never a solution, young man. It raises far more questions than it answers. Have you taken into account that there may be something waiting for you on the other side, and that you may not be prepared yet to face it?"
He turned, unsure whether to be offended or touched. "It's all right, ma'am. I'm not planning to kill myself."
"Not today perhaps," she said, "but you've thought about it." She had a tiny white poodle on a lead, which wagged its stumpy tail at Deacon. "I can always tell the ones who've thought about it. They're looking for answers that don't exist because God has not chosen to reveal them yet."
He squatted down to scratch the little creature's ears. "I was thinking about a friend of mine who killed himself six months ago. I was wondering why he didn't drown himself in the river. It would have been a less painful way to die than the one he chose."
"But would you be thinking about him if he hadn't died painfully?"
Deacon straightened. "Probably not."
"Then perhaps that's why he chose the method he did."
He took out his wallet and removed the first photograph of Billy. "You might have seen him. He was a pavement artist here in the summers. He used to draw pictures of the nativity with 'blessed are the poor' written underneath. Do you recognize him?"
She studied the thin face for several seconds. "Yes, I think I do," she said slowly. "I certainly remember a pavement artist who drew pictures of the Holy Family, and I think this was the man."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No." She returned the photograph. "There was nothing I could say to him."
"You spoke to me," Deacon reminded her.
"Because I thought you'd listen."
"And you didn't think he would?"
"I knew he wouldn't. Your friend wanted to suffer."
On the off chance that Billy had been a teacher, and in the absence of a national register which he had established did not exist, Deacon wined and dined a contact at the National Union of Teachers' headquarters, told him what he knew, and asked him to search the union backlist for any English teachers whose subscriptions had lapsed in the last ten years without good reason.
"You're pulling my leg, I hope," said his acquaintance with some amusement. "Have you any idea how many teachers there are in this country and what the turnover is? At the last count there were upwards of four hundred thousand full-time equivalents in the maintained sector alone, and that's excluding the universities." He pushed his plate to one side. "And what does 'without good reason' mean anyway? Depression? That's very common. Physical disability inflicted by fifteen-year-old thugs? More common than anyone wants to admit. At the moment, I'd guess there are more inactive teachers than active ones. Who wants the hell of the classroom if there's something more civilized on offer? You're asking me to search for the needle in the proverbial haystack. You have also, and rather conveniently, forgotten the Data Protection Act which means I couldn't give you the information even if I could find it."
"The man's been dead six months," said Deacon, "so you won't be betraying any confidences, and his subscription was probably stopped at least four years before that. You'll be looking at lapsed membership between say, nineteen eighty-four and nineteen ninety." He smiled suddenly. "All right, it was a long shot, but it was worth a try."
"I can give you several more apt descriptions than long shot. Try damp squib, nonstarter, or absolute no-no. You don't know his name, where he came from, or even if he was a member of the NUT. He might have belonged to one of the other teacher unions. Or to no union at all."
"I realize that."
"Matter of fact you don't even know if he was a teacher. You're guessing he might have been because he could recite poems by William Blake." The man smiled amiably. "Do me a favor, Deacon,
An elderly woman paused in her progress along the walkway. "Premature death is never a solution, young man. It raises far more questions than it answers. Have you taken into account that there may be something waiting for you on the other side, and that you may not be prepared yet to face it?"
He turned, unsure whether to be offended or touched. "It's all right, ma'am. I'm not planning to kill myself."
"Not today perhaps," she said, "but you've thought about it." She had a tiny white poodle on a lead, which wagged its stumpy tail at Deacon. "I can always tell the ones who've thought about it. They're looking for answers that don't exist because God has not chosen to reveal them yet."
He squatted down to scratch the little creature's ears. "I was thinking about a friend of mine who killed himself six months ago. I was wondering why he didn't drown himself in the river. It would have been a less painful way to die than the one he chose."
"But would you be thinking about him if he hadn't died painfully?"
Deacon straightened. "Probably not."
"Then perhaps that's why he chose the method he did."
He took out his wallet and removed the first photograph of Billy. "You might have seen him. He was a pavement artist here in the summers. He used to draw pictures of the nativity with 'blessed are the poor' written underneath. Do you recognize him?"
She studied the thin face for several seconds. "Yes, I think I do," she said slowly. "I certainly remember a pavement artist who drew pictures of the Holy Family, and I think this was the man."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No." She returned the photograph. "There was nothing I could say to him."
"You spoke to me," Deacon reminded her.
"Because I thought you'd listen."
"And you didn't think he would?"
"I knew he wouldn't. Your friend wanted to suffer."
On the off chance that Billy had been a teacher, and in the absence of a national register which he had established did not exist, Deacon wined and dined a contact at the National Union of Teachers' headquarters, told him what he knew, and asked him to search the union backlist for any English teachers whose subscriptions had lapsed in the last ten years without good reason.
"You're pulling my leg, I hope," said his acquaintance with some amusement. "Have you any idea how many teachers there are in this country and what the turnover is? At the last count there were upwards of four hundred thousand full-time equivalents in the maintained sector alone, and that's excluding the universities." He pushed his plate to one side. "And what does 'without good reason' mean anyway? Depression? That's very common. Physical disability inflicted by fifteen-year-old thugs? More common than anyone wants to admit. At the moment, I'd guess there are more inactive teachers than active ones. Who wants the hell of the classroom if there's something more civilized on offer? You're asking me to search for the needle in the proverbial haystack. You have also, and rather conveniently, forgotten the Data Protection Act which means I couldn't give you the information even if I could find it."
"The man's been dead six months," said Deacon, "so you won't be betraying any confidences, and his subscription was probably stopped at least four years before that. You'll be looking at lapsed membership between say, nineteen eighty-four and nineteen ninety." He smiled suddenly. "All right, it was a long shot, but it was worth a try."
"I can give you several more apt descriptions than long shot. Try damp squib, nonstarter, or absolute no-no. You don't know his name, where he came from, or even if he was a member of the NUT. He might have belonged to one of the other teacher unions. Or to no union at all."
"I realize that."
"Matter of fact you don't even know if he was a teacher. You're guessing he might have been because he could recite poems by William Blake." The man smiled amiably. "Do me a favor, Deacon,
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