A Suitable Vengeance (31 page)

Lynley was staring at the carpet, lost in thought. He roused himself to say, “Nothing, I should guess. It’s just what he feels.”

“About John?”

“Yes. Peter as well. If there’s guilt to be assessed, Jasper knows where it should lie.” Lynley had never felt so incapable of either action or decision. It seemed as if his life were spinning out of control and all he could do was watch the various pieces fly haphazardly into space. All he could say was, “He wouldn’t take the boat. Not in this weather. Where would he go? And why?”

He heard St. James move and looked up to see the compassion on his face. “Perhaps he’s still somewhere on the estate, Tommy. Perhaps he doesn’t even know what’s happened and his disappearance is altogether unconnected to Justin Brooke.”

“And to the cameras?”

“To those as well.”

Lynley looked away, to the pictures on the wall, all those generations of Lynleys who fit the mould, did their crewing at Oxford, and took their places at Howenstow without a single howl of protest.

“I don’t believe that, St. James. Not for a moment. Do you?”

His friend sighed. “Frankly? No.”

CHAPTER

16

H
eavens, to what depths have we managed to slither?” Lady Helen said. She dropped her suitcase, sighed, and let her handbag dangle forlornly from her fingertips. “Lunching at Paddington Station. Behaviour so utterly reprehensible that I can hardly believe I allowed myself to engage in it.”

“It was
your
suggestion after all, Helen.” Deborah set her own luggage on the floor and looked round the bed-sitting room with a smile of contentment. It felt unaccountably good to be home, even if home was only a single room in Paddington. At least it was her own.

“I plead utter guilt. But when one is in the absolute throes of starvation, when demise is the probable consequence of even a moment’s epicurean snobbery, what
is
one to do but rush madly towards the first cafeteria that comes into sight?” She shuddered, as if stricken by the recollection of what she’d found heaped upon her luncheon plate. “Can you imagine a more despicable thing to do to a sausage?”

Deborah laughed. “Would you like a restorative? A cup of tea? I’ve even got a recipe for a health drink you might like. Tina gave it to me. A pick-me-up, she called it.”

“No doubt ‘picked up’ is just what she needed after an encounter with Mick Cambrey, if his father’s to be believed,” Lady Helen said. “But I’ll forego that pleasure for now, if I may. Shall we pop next door with his picture?”

Deborah pulled it from her shoulder bag and led the way. The corridor was narrow, lined with doors on both sides, and the floor gave off the sharp scent of a carpet that was relatively new. It also served to muffle their footsteps, and as if this damper upon their approach encouraged other caution, Deborah rapped upon Tina’s door softly.

“Tina’s…well, she’s a night owl, I suppose,” she explained to Lady Helen. “So she may not be up yet.”

That appeared to be the case, as Deborah’s knocking brought no response. She tried a second time, a bit louder. And then a third, calling, “Tina?”

In answer, the door opposite opened and an elderly woman peered out. She wore a large checked handkerchief over her head, tied under her chin like a babushka. It served to cover her hair, which was tightly pinned in what appeared to be an infinite number of grey curls.

“She’s not ’ere.” The woman clutched to her chest a thin purple dressing gown, printed in a design of hideous orange flowers and palmate green leaves that were enough to make one eschew travelling in the tropics forever. “Been gone two days.”

“How distressing,” Lady Helen said. “Do you know where she’s gone?”

“I’d like to know, wouldn’t I?” the woman said. “She’s borrowed my iron and I could do with it back.”

“No doubt,” Lady Helen said with complete sympathy as if the woman’s manner of dress in the middle of the afternoon—deshabille with a vengeance—had been provoked solely by the loss of her iron. “Shall I see if I can get it for you?” She turned to Deborah. “Who manages the building?”

“There’s a caretaker on the ground floor,” Deborah said and added in a low voice, “But, Helen, you can’t—”

“Then I’ll pop down directly, shall I?” She fluttered her fingers and walked to the lift.

The old woman watched their exchange suspiciously. She eyed Deborah from head to toe. Nervously, Deborah smiled, trying to think of a casual remark about the building, the weather, or anything else that might keep the woman from wondering why Lady Helen was so charmingly intent upon fetching an iron for a complete stranger. She gave up the effort when nothing came to mind, retreating to her own flat where Lady Helen joined her in less than ten minutes, in victorious possession of the key to Tina’s door.

Deborah was astonished. “How on earth did you manage it?”

Lady Helen laughed. “Don’t you think I look the smallest bit like Tina’s only sister, come all the way from Edinburgh to spend a few days catching up on sororal chitchat?”

“You convinced him of that?”

“It was such a performance, I almost convinced myself. Shall we?”

They returned to the flat. Deborah felt a bit weak at the thought of what Lady Helen clearly proposed to do.

“This can’t be legal,” she said. “Aren’t we breaking and entering?”

“Entering perhaps,” Lady Helen replied cheerfully as she inserted the key in the lock without the slightest hesitation. “But hardly breaking. After all, we’ve got the key. Ah. Here we are. And not even a squeak to alert the neighbours.”

“I
am
the neighbours.”

Lady Helen laughed. “How convenient.”

The flat was identical in size and shape to Deborah’s, although it contained more furniture, each piece an indication of considerable expense. No chintz-covered three-piece suite for Tina Cogin; no second-hand tables; no cheap prints on the walls. Instead, gleaming hardwoods filled the room—oak and mahogany, rosewood and birch. Beneath them lay a hand-loomed rug while above them a tapestry on the wall had the look of having been crafted by an experienced artisan. Clearly, the room’s occupant had a penchant for luxury.

“Well,” Lady Helen said as she looked all this over, “there must be something to be said for her line of work. Ah, there’s the iron. Let’s not forget to take that with us when we leave.”

“Helen, aren’t we leaving now?”

“In a moment, darling. First, just a peek here and there to get a feeling for the woman.”

“But we can’t—”

“We’ll want something to tell Simon when we phone him, Deborah. As things stand now, if Tina’s not back by evening, we’ll have nothing to report but a knock gone unanswered at her door. What a waste of everyone’s energy that would be.”

“What if she walks in on us? Helen! Really.”

Every moment anticipating Tina’s return and wondering what on earth they would say to her when she walked in the door and found them making fast and loose with her belongings, Deborah followed Lady Helen into the tiny kitchen and watched in an agony of nerves as she blithely opened the cupboards. There were only two, both containing the barest necessities in the smallest sizes available: coffee, salt, sugar, condiments, a package of savoury biscuits, a tin of soup, another of grapefruit segments, another of cereal. On one shelf sat two plates, two bowls, two cups, and four glasses. On the work top beneath was a bottle of wine, previously opened and two-thirds full. Beyond a small tin coffee pot, a dented pan, and an enamel kettle, the kitchen contained nothing else. And even what there was provided little enough information about Tina Cogin herself. Lady Helen summed it up.

“She doesn’t seem to cook her meals here, does she? Of course, there are dozens of take-aways on Praed Street, so I suppose she could be bringing food in.”

“But if she entertains men?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Well, there’s the bottle of wine. Perhaps that’s all the entertainment she provides before she and her caller get down to business. Let’s see what else we have.”

Lady Helen crossed to the wardrobe and pulled it open to reveal a row of evening and cocktail dresses, half a dozen wraps—one of which was fur—with an array of high-heeled pumps lined beneath them. A top shelf held a collection of hat boxes; a middle shelf contained a stack of folded negligees. The bottom shelf was empty, but it had collected no dust, giving the impression that something had been kept there regularly.

Lady Helen tapped her cheek and gave a quick inspection to the chest of drawers. “Just her underclothes,” she told Deborah after a cursory glance inside. “They appear to be silk, but I shall draw the line at fingering my way through them.” She pushed the drawers closed and leaned against the chest, arms crossed in front of her, frowning at the wardrobe. “Deborah, there’s something…just a moment. Let me see.” She went into the bathroom and called out behind her, “Why don’t you have a go with the desk?”

The medicine cabinet opened, a drawer scraped against wood, a catch clicked, paper rustled. Lady Helen murmured to herself.

Deborah looked at her watch. Less than five minutes had passed since they’d entered the flat. It felt like an hour.

She went to the desk. Nothing was on its top save a telephone, an answering machine, and a pad of paper which Deborah, feeling ridiculously like a celluloid detective yet all the time lacking any better idea of what to do with herself, held up to the light to check for the indentations that previous writing might have made. Seeing nothing save the single pressure point of a full stop or a dot of an
i
, she went on to the drawers but found two of them empty. The third held a savings passbook, a manila folder, and a solitary index card. Deborah picked this up.

“Odd,” Lady Helen said from the bathroom doorway. “She’s been gone two days, according to your neighbour, but she’s left all her make-up behind. She’s taken none of her evening clothes, but every ordinary garment she owns is missing. And there’s a set of those dreadful fingernail tips in the bathroom. The kind one glues on. Why on earth would she take her fingernails off? They’re such hell to put on in the first place.”

“Perhaps they’re spares,” Deborah said. “Perhaps she’s gone to the country. She might be somewhere she won’t need fancy clothes, where artificial fingernails would get in the way. The Lake District. Fishing in Scotland. To see relatives on a farm.” Deborah saw where her trail of ideas was leading. Lady Helen completed it.

“To Cornwall,” she said and nodded at the index card. “What have you there?”

Deborah examined it. “Two telephone numbers. Perhaps one is Mick Cambrey’s. Shall I copy them?”

“Do.” Lady Helen came to look over her shoulder. “I’m beginning to admire her. Here I am, so attached to my appearance that I wouldn’t even consider venturing anywhere without at least one vanity case crammed to the brim with cosmetics. And there she is. The all-or-nothing woman. Either casual to a fault or dressed to…” Lady Helen faltered.

Deborah looked up. Her mouth felt dry. “Helen, she couldn’t have killed him.” Yet even as she said it, her discomfort grew. What, after all, did she know about Tina? Nothing really, beyond a single conversation which had revealed little more than a weakness for men, an affinity for nightlife, and a concern about ageing. Still one could certainly
sense
evil in people, no matter their attempts to disguise it. One could certainly sense the potential for rage. And none of that had been present in Tina. Yet as she considered Mick Cambrey’s death and the very fact of his presence in Tina Cogin’s life, Deborah had to admit that she wasn’t so sure.

She reached blindly for the folder as if it contained a verification of Tina’s lack of guile.
Prospects
was printed across the tab. Inside, a clip held together a sheaf of papers.

“What is it?” Lady Helen asked.

“Names and addresses. Telephone numbers.”

“Her client list?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Look. There are at least a hundred names. Women as well as men.”

“A mailing list?”

“I suppose it might be. There’s a savings book as well.” Deborah slid this out of its plastic folder.

“Tell all,” Lady Helen said. “Is her lifestyle profitable? Shall I change my line of work?”

Deborah read the list of deposits, flipped back to the name. She felt a rush of surprise. “This isn’t hers,” she said. “It belongs to Mick Cambrey. And whatever he was doing, it was wildly profitable.”

“Mr. Allcourt-St. James? This
is
a pleasure.” Dr. Alice Waters rose from her chair and shooed off the lab assistant who had shown St. James to her office. “I thought I recognised you at Howenstow this morning. Hardly the time for introductions, however. What brings you to my den?”

It was an apt choice of words, for the office of Penzance CID’s forensic pathologist was little more than a windowless cubicle on the verge of being overcome by bookshelves, an ancient roll-top desk, a medical school skeleton wearing a World War II gas mask, and stacks of scientific journals. All that remained of the floor space was a trail that led from the doorway to the desk. A chair sat next to this—curiously out of place and intricately carved in a design of flowers and birds that was more suggestive of a country house dining room than a department of forensic pathology—and after offering St. James her hand in a cool, firm shake, she waved him into it.