A Suitable Vengeance (40 page)

“Islington-London?” he asked. “Are you sure of that, St. James?”

“Helen went there. Why? Does it mean something to you?”

Warily, Lynley glanced back into the drawing room. His mother and Cotter were chatting together quietly as they looked through a family album which lay between them.

“Tommy? What is it?”

“Roderick Trenarrow. He works for Islington-Penzance.”

PART V

IDENTITIES

CHAPTER

20

T
hen Mick must have left both of those telephone numbers in Tina Cogin’s flat,” St. James said. “Trenarrow’s as well as Islington’s. That explains why Trenarrow didn’t know who Tina was.”

Lynley didn’t reply until he’d made the turn onto Beaufort Street, to head in the general direction of Paddington. They had just dropped Cotter at St. James’ Cheyne Row house where he’d greeted the sight of that brick building like a prodigal son, scurrying inside with a suitcase in each hand and undisguised, wholehearted relief buoying his footsteps. It was ten past one in the afternoon. Their drive into the city from the airfield in Surrey had been plagued by a snarl of slow-moving traffic, the product of a summer fete near Buckland which apparently was drawing record crowds.

“Do you think Roderick’s involved in this business?”

St. James took note not only of the dispassionate tone of Lynley’s question but also of the fact that he’d deliberately phrased it to leave out the word
murder
. At the same time, he saw the manner in which his friend attended to the driving as he spoke, both hands high on the steering wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. He knew only the barest details of Lynley’s past relationship with Trenarrow, all of them circling round a general antipathy that had its roots in Lady Asherton’s enduring relationship with the man. Lynley would need something to compensate for that dislike if Trenarrow was even tangentially involved in the deaths in Cornwall, and it seemed that he’d chosen scrupulous impartiality as a means of counterbalancing the animosity that coloured his long association with the man.

“I suppose he could be, even if only unconsciously.” St. James told him about his meeting with Trenarrow, about the interview Mick Cambrey had done with him. “But if Mick was working on a story that led to his death, Trenarrow may have merely given him a lead, perhaps the name of someone at Islington-London with information Mick needed.”

“But if, as you say, there were no notes in the newspaper office from any story connected to Roderick…” Lynley braked at a traffic signal. It would have been natural to look at St. James. He did not do so. “What does that suggest to you?”

“I didn’t say there were no notes about him, Tommy. I said there was no story about him. Or about anything relating to cancer research. That’s a different matter than an absence of notes. There may be hundreds of notes for all we know. Harry Cambrey was the one who looked through Mick’s files. I had no chance to do so.”

“So the information may still be there, with Harry unable to recognise its importance.”

“Quite. But the story itself—whatever it was, if it’s even connected to Mick’s death—may have nothing to do with Trenarrow directly. He may just be a source.”

Lynley looked at him then. “You didn’t want to phone him, St. James. Why?”

St. James watched a woman push a pram across the street. A small child clung to the hem of her dress. The traffic signal changed. Cars and lorries began to move.

“Mick may have been on the trail of a story that caused his death. You know as well as I that it makes no sense to alert anyone to the fact that we may be on the trail as well.”

“So you do think Roderick’s involved.”

“Not necessarily. Probably not at all. But he could inadvertently give the word to someone who is. Why phone him and allow for that chance?”

Lynley spoke as if he hadn’t heard St. James’ words. “If he is, St. James, if he is…” He turned the Bentley right, onto the Fulham Road. They passed the dress shops and antique dealers, the bistros and restaurants of trendy London where the streets were peopled by fashionably dressed shoppers and trim-looking matrons on their way to rendezvous.

“We don’t have all the facts yet, Tommy. There’s no sense in tormenting yourself about it now.”

Again, St. James’ words seemed to make no difference. “It would destroy my mother,” Lynley said.

They drove on to Paddington. Deborah met them in the small lobby of the Shrewsbury Court Apartments where she had apparently been waiting for them, pacing back and forth across the black and white tiles. She pulled the door open before they’d had a chance to ring the bell.

“Dad phoned to tell me you were on your way. Tommy, are you all right? Dad said there’s still been no sign of Peter.”

Lynley’s response was to say her name like a sigh. He drew her to him. “What a mess this weekend’s been for you. I’m sorry, Deb.”

“It’s all right. It’s nothing.”

St. James looked past them. The sign
concierge
on a nearby door was done in calligraphy, he noted. But the hand was inexpert and the dot above the
i
had blurred and become a part of the second
c
. He examined this, considered this—each letter, each detail—keeping his eyes fastened to the sign until Deborah spoke.

“Helen’s waiting up above.” She moved with Lynley towards the lift.

They found Lady Helen on the telephone in Deborah’s flat. She was saying nothing, merely listening, and from her look in his direction and the expression on her face when she replaced the receiver, St. James realised whom she had been trying to reach.

“Sidney?” he asked her.

“I can’t find her, Simon. Her agency gave me a list of names, friends of hers. But no one’s heard a word. I just tried her flat again. Nothing. I’ve phoned your mother as well, but there’s no answer there. Shall I keep trying her?”

Cold prickling ran its way down St. James’ spine. “No. She’ll only worry.”

Lady Helen spoke again. “I’ve begun to think about Justin Brooke’s death.”

She didn’t need to say more. St. James’ own thoughts had made that same leap forward the moment she had told him that his sister had still not turned up. Again, he cursed himself for allowing Sidney to leave Cornwall alone. If she had walked into danger, if she was hurt in any way…He felt the fingers of his right hand dig into his palm. He forced them to relax.

“Has Tina Cogin returned?”

“Not yet.”

“Then perhaps we ought to make certain about the key.” He looked at Lynley. “Have you brought them?”

“Brought them?” Lady Helen asked blankly.

“Harry Cambrey’s managed to get us Mick’s set of keys from Boscowan,” Lynley explained. “We wanted to see if one of them might unlock Tina’s door.”

He kept them in suspense only as long as it took to get to the next flat, to insert and turn the proper key in the lock. He swung the door open. They walked inside.

“All right. He had his own key,” Lady Helen said. “But, really, Tommy, where does that get us? It can’t be a surprise. We already knew he’d been here. Deborah told us that. So all we know beyond that fact is that he was special enough to Tina Cogin to merit a key to her door.”

“It changes the nature of their relationship, Helen. This obviously isn’t a call girl and her client. Prostitutes don’t generally give out their keys.”

From his position near the tiny kitchen, St. James was scrutinising the room. Its furnishings were expensive, but they told little about the inhabitant. And there were no personal objects on display: no photographs, no mementoes, no collection of any kind. Indeed, the entire bed-sitting-room had the look of having been put together by a decorator for a hotel. He walked to the desk.

The red light of the answering machine was blinking, indicating a message. He pushed the button. A man’s voice said, “Colin Sage. I’m phoning about the advert,” and he gave a number for a return call. A second message was much the same. St. James wrote down the numbers and gave them to Lady Helen.

“An advertisement?” she asked. “That can’t be how she makes her arrangements.”

“You said there was a savings book?” St. James replied.

Deborah came to his side. “Here,” she said. “There’s this as well.”

From a drawer she took both the savings book and a manila folder. He looked at the latter first, frowning down at the neatly typed list of names and addresses. Mostly London. The furthest was Brighton. Behind him, he heard Lynley going through the chest of drawers.

“What is this?” Meditatively, St. James asked the question of himself, but Deborah replied.

“We thought of clients at first. But of course, that can’t be. There are women on the list. And even if there weren’t any women at all, it’s hard to imagine anyone managing to…” She hesitated. St. James looked up. Her cheeks had coloured.

“Service this many men?” he asked.

“Well, of course, she’s indicated on the tab that they’re just prospects, hasn’t she? So at first we thought that she was using the list to…before we actually opened up the file and saw…I mean, how exactly
would
a prostitute build up a clientele? Through word of mouth?” Her colour deepened. “Lord. Is that a dreadful sort of pun?”

He chuckled at the question. “What did you imagine she was doing with this list, sending out brochures?”

Deborah gave a rueful laugh. “I’m so hopeless at this sort of thing, aren’t I? A hundred clues shrieking to be noticed and I can’t make sense of a single one.”

“I thought you’d decided she wasn’t a prostitute. I thought we’d all decided that.”

“It’s just something about the way she talked and her appearance.”

“Perhaps we can let go of whatever her appearance might have suggested,” Lynley said.

Across the room, he stood at the wardrobe with Lady Helen at his side. He had taken down the four hatboxes from the top shelf, had opened and placed them on the floor in a line. He was bending over one of these, separating the folds of white tissue paper. From the centre of the nest which the paper created, he withdrew a wig. Long black hair, wispy fringe. He balanced it on his fist.

Deborah gaped at it. Lady Helen sighed.

“Wonderful,” she said. “The woman actually wears a
wig?
So what little we know of her—not to mention Deborah’s description—must be virtually meaningless. She’s a chimera, isn’t she? False fingernails. False hair.” She glanced at the chest of drawers. Something seemed to occur to her, for she went to them, pulled one open, and fingered through the undergarments. She held up a black brassiere. “False everything else.”

St. James joined them. He took the wig from Lynley and carried it to the window where he opened the curtains and held it under the natural light. The texture told him that the hair was real.

“Did you know she wore a wig, Deb?” Lynley asked.

“No, of course not. How could I have known?”

“It’s a high quality piece,” St. James said. “You’d have no cause to think it a wig.” He examined it closely, running his fingers across the inner webbing. As he did so, a hair came loose, not one of those which comprised the wig, but another shorter hair that had detached itself from the wearer, becoming caught up in the webbing. St. James plucked it completely free, held it up to the light, and handed the wig back to Lynley.

“What is it, Simon?” Lady Helen asked.

He didn’t reply at once. Instead, he stared at the single hair between his fingers, realising what it had to imply and coming to terms with what that implication had to mean. There was only one explanation that made any sense, only one explanation that accounted for Tina Cogin’s disappearance. Still, he took a moment to test his theory.

“Have you worn this, Deborah?”

“I? No. What makes you think that?”

At the desk, he took a piece of white paper from the top drawer. He placed the hair on this and carried both back to the light.

“The hair,” he said. “It’s red.”

He looked up at Deborah and saw her expression change from wonder to realisation.

“Is it possible?” he asked her, for since she was the only one who had seen them both, she was also the only one who could possibly confirm it.

“Oh, Simon. I’m no good at this. I don’t know. I don’t
know
.”

“But you saw her. You were with her. She gave you a drink.”

“The drink,” Deborah said. She dashed from the room. In a moment, the others heard her door crash back against the wall of her flat.

Lady Helen spoke. “What is it? You can’t possibly be thinking Deborah has anything to do with all this. The woman’s incognita. That’s all it is, plain and simple. She’s been in disguise.”

St. James placed the piece of paper on the desk. He placed the hair on top of it. He heard over and over that single word.
Incognita, incognita
. What a monumental joke.

“My God,” he said. “She was telling everyone she met. Tina Cogin.
Tina Cogin
. The name’s a bloody anagram.”

Deborah flew into the room, in one hand the photograph she had brought with her from Cornwall, in the other hand a small card. She handed both to St. James.