The Echo Read Online Free PDF

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."
    He lifted an amused eyebrow. "Are you jealous?"
    "What's to be jealous of>" she hissed.
    "Success," he murmured, holding a finger to his lips as they heard Mrs. Powell returning.
    "If you want to smoke," she said, passing a coffee cup to Lisa and a glass of red wine to Deacon, "I'll find you an ashtray." She put her own wineglass on the table near an armchair and looked at them both.
    "No