A Suitable Vengeance (55 page)

“But why hold his tongue?”

St. James looked not at Lynley but at the school grounds as he replied. “You know the answer to that.”

Lynley gazed up the hill. From where they stood, just the roof of the villa and part of its white cornice showed against the grey sky. “He faced jail as well. The clinic, the drug, the payments people made. His career. His research.”

“And most importantly?”

“He stood to lose my mother.”

“I expect the payments people made for oncozyme allowed him to buy the villa in the first place.”

“A home he could be proud to offer to her.”

“So he said nothing.”

They continued their climb. “What do you suppose he intends now, with Brooke and Cambrey dead?”

“With Brooke dead, the source of oncozyme is dried up. He’ll have to close the clinic in St. Just and make do with what he’s managed to save from the profits.”

“And our part in all of this, St. James? Do we turn him over to the police? Do we phone his superiors? Do we take the opportunity to ruin him?”

St. James examined his friend. Broad shoulders wet, hair beginning to drip, mouth set in a line. “That’s the hell of this, isn’t it, Tommy? That’s the irony: to have the foulest wish you’ve ever possessed granted in spades. Just at the moment when, I expect, you no longer wish it.”

“Are you leaving it up to me?”

“We’ve got Brooke and Cambrey tied together well enough. We’ve got Mick’s visits to Islington, we’ve got Peter and Justin together at Gull Cottage, we’ve got Justin’s lie about being in the Anchor and Rose afterwards, we’ve got Justin’s use of cocaine. As far as the police need to know, Mick was his supplier, a deal went bad, and Justin killed him. Sasha as well. So, yes. The rest is yours. You’re the policeman.”

“Even if it means letting part of the truth go, letting Roderick go?”

“I’ll not stand in judgement. At the bottom of it Trenarrow was trying to help people. The fact that they paid him for the help makes it ugly, but at least he was trying to do something good.”

They made the rest of the climb in silence. As they turned up the drive to the villa, lights went on in the ground floor as if they were expected visitors. Below them, village lights began to shine through the gloom as well, making an occasional nimbus glitter behind glass.

Dora answered the door. She was dressed for cooking, wrapped round by an enormous red apron that bore smudges of flour on both breasts and along the thighs. More flour powdered the creases of her blue turban, and an additional dusting had greyed one eyebrow.

“Doctor’s in his study,” she said when they asked for him. “Come in with you. Rain don’t do a bit o’ good for bodies out in it.” She led them to the study, rapped on the door, and opened it when Trenarrow answered. “I bring tea for these good mans,” she said, nodded sharply, and left them.

Dr. Trenarrow got to his feet. He’d been seated behind his desk, in the act of polishing his spectacles. He put them back on his nose. “Everything’s all right?” he asked Lynley.

“Peter’s at the house in London.”

“Thank God. Your mother?”

“I think she’d probably like to see you tonight.”

Behind his spectacles, Trenarrow blinked once. He obviously didn’t know what to make of Lynley’s remark. He said, “You’re both soaked.” He went to the fireplace and lit the fire, doing it the old-fashioned way by placing a stubby candle beneath the coals.

St. James waited for Lynley to speak. He wondered if this final interview between them would better be held without his presence. Although he’d given lip service to Lynley’s opportunity to make a free decision, he really had no doubt what that decision would be. Still, he knew it would not be easy for his friend to turn a blind eye to Trenarrow’s part in the illegal sale of oncozyme, no matter how noble the doctor’s motives had been. It would be easier for Lynley to do it alone, but St. James’ own need to put every detail to rest kept him where he was, listening and noting and prepared to say nothing.

The burning coal hissed. Dr. Trenarrow returned to his desk. St. James and Lynley sat in the wingchairs in front of it. Rain made a sound like delicate waves against the windows.

Dora returned with the tea which she poured, leaving with a gentle admonition to “mind that you take your med’cine when the time come,” which Trenarrow accepted with a dutiful nod.

When they were alone once again with the fire, the tea, and the rain, Lynley spoke. “We know about oncozyme, Roderick, and the clinic in St. Just. About the newspaper advertisement that brought you the patients. About Mick and Justin and the parts they played, Mick filtering the applicants to get those best able to pay for the treatment, Justin supplying the drug from London.”

Trenarrow pushed fractionally back from the desk. “Is this an official visit, Tommy?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“Had you met Brooke before Saturday night at Howenstow?”

“I’d only spoken to him on the phone. But he came here Friday night.”

“When?”

“He was here when I got back from Gull Cottage.”

“Why?”

“The obvious reasons. He wanted to talk about Mick.”

“But you didn’t report him to the police?”

Trenarrow’s brow furrowed. He answered simply, “No.”

“Yet you knew he’d killed him. Did he tell you why?”

Trenarrow’s eyes moved between the other two men. He licked his lips, gripped the handle of his teacup, and studied its contents. “Mick wanted to raise the cost of treatment. I’d already opposed him. Evidently that evening, Justin had as well. They argued about it. Justin lost his temper.”

“And when you joined us at the cottage, did you know Justin Brooke had killed Mick?”

“I’d not seen Brooke yet. I’d no more idea than you who had done it.”

“What about the condition of the room and the missing money?”

“I didn’t put it together until I saw Brooke. He was looking for anything that could connect him to Cambrey.”

“And the money?”

“I don’t know. He may have taken it, but he didn’t admit to it.”

“To the killing, however?”

“Yes. To that.”

“And the mutilation?”

“To misdirect the police.”

“His cocaine use. Did you know about that?”

“No.”

“And that Mick dealt cocaine on the side?”

“Good God, no.”

St. James listened, feeling the vague discomfort of uncertainty. A tantalising fact danced on the edge of his consciousness, something not quite right that was asking to be noticed.

The other two men continued talking. Their voices were low, barely much more than a murmur with nothing more at stake than an exchange of information, a straightening out of details, and a plan for going on. Into the conversation, a sudden noise was interjected, a dim bleeping that came from Trenarrow’s wrist. He pressed a tiny button on the side of his watch.

“Medicine,” he said. “Blood pressure.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a flat silver case, and opened it. It contained a neatly arranged layer of white pills. “Dora would never forgive me if she came in one morning and found me dead of a stroke.” He popped a pill into his mouth and downed it with tea.

St. James watched him do so, feeling fixed to his chair as every piece of the jigsaw finally fell into place. How it had been done, who had done it, and most of all why. Some in remission, Lady Helen had said, but the rest of them dead.

Dr. Trenarrow lowered his cup, replaced it in the saucer. As he did so, St. James cursed himself inwardly. He cursed every sign he had overlooked, those details he had missed, and each piece of information he had disregarded because it could not be assigned a convenient place in the puzzle of the crime. Once again, he cursed the fact that his field was science, not interview and investigation. He cursed the fact that his interest lay in objects and what they could reveal about the nature of a crime. Had his interest lain in people, surely he would have seen the truth from the first.

CHAPTER

27

O
ut of the corner of his eye, Lynley saw St. James lean forward and put his hand on Trenarrow’s desk. It was an action that effectively broke into their conversation.

“The money,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tommy, who did you tell about the money?”

Lynley tried to catch his drift. “What money?”

“Nancy said Mick was doing the pay envelopes. She said there was money in the sitting room that evening. You and I discussed it later that night, after she told us about it at the lodge. Who else did you tell? Who else knew about the money?”

“Deborah and Helen. They were there when Nancy told us. John Penellin as well.”

“Did you tell your mother?”

“Of course not. Why on earth would I?”

“Then how did Dr. Trenarrow know?”

Lynley realized at once what the question meant. He saw the answer on Trenarrow’s face. He fought a battle for professional indifference. He lost it, saying only, “Jesus God.”

Trenarrow said nothing. Lynley couldn’t think beyond a simple
no
, recognising that what his friend had said earlier was coming to pass. His every foul wish of the last fifteen years was about to be granted in absolute spades.

“What are you saying, St. James?” he managed to ask, although he knew the answer without having to hear it.

“That Dr. Trenarrow killed Mick Cambrey. He didn’t intend to. They argued. He hit him. Mick fell. He began to haemorrhage. He was dead within minutes.”

“Roderick.” Lynley felt desperate for the man to exonerate himself in some way, knowing only that Trenarrow’s exoneration was tied intimately into Lynley’s own future life. But St. James went on, utterly calm. Only the facts counted. He wove them together.

“When he saw Cambrey was dead, he acted quickly. It wasn’t a search. Even if Mick had been stupid enough to keep records of the oncozyme transactions in the cottage, there was no time to look for them then. There was only time to make it look like a search, or a possible robbery, or a sexual crime. But it was none of those things. It was a fight about oncozyme.”

Dr. Trenarrow’s face looked implacable. When he spoke, his lips moved, but the rest of him was immobile. And his words seemed nothing more than a futile, if expected, effort at denial. They carried no conviction. “I was at the play Friday night. You know that very well.”

“An open air play in a school yard,” St. James said. “Hardly a difficult feat to slip out for a while, especially since you’d placed yourself in the back. I expect you went to him after the interval, during the second act. It’s not a long walk—three minutes, no more. You went to see him then. You intended only to talk to him about oncozyme, but instead you killed him and came back to the play.”

“And the weapon?” Trenarrow’s bravado was weak. “Was I supposed to be carrying it round Nanrunnel in my jacket?”

“For the fracture of the skull, there was no weapon. The castration was another matter. You took the knife from the cottage.”

“To the play?” Scorn this time, yet no more successful than the bravado had been.

“I should think you hid it somewhere en route. On Virgin Place. Perhaps on Ivy Street. In a garden or a dustbin. You returned for it later that night and got rid of it Saturday at Howenstow. Which is where, I dare say, you got rid of Brooke as well. Because once Brooke knew that Cambrey had been killed, he knew who must have done it. But he couldn’t afford to turn you in to the police without damaging himself. The oncozyme scheme bound the two of you together.”

“This is all conjecture,” Trenarrow said. “According to what you’ve said so far, I had more reason to keep Mick alive than to kill him. If he was supplying me with patients, what purpose would his death serve?”

“You didn’t intend to kill him. You struck out in anger. Your interest was in saving people’s lives, but Mick’s was in collecting their money. That attitude pushed you right over the edge.”

“There’s no evidence. You know that. Not for a murder.”

“You’ve forgotten the cameras,” St. James said.

Trenarrow looked at him steadily, his expression unchanging.

“You saw the camera at the cottage. You assumed I’d taken pictures of the body. During the chaos Saturday when John Penellin was arrested, you dropped the cameras from Deborah’s room.”

“But if that’s so,” Lynley said, feeling himself Trenarrow’s advocate for the moment, “why didn’t he take the cameras to the cove? If he disposed of the knife there, why not the cameras as well?”

“And risk being seen hiking across the grounds with the case in his possession? I don’t know why I didn’t realise the stupidity of that idea before. He could conceal the knife on his person, Tommy. If someone saw him on the grounds, he could have claimed to be taking a walk to clear his head of drink. It would have been a believable story. People were used to seeing him at Howenstow. But the cameras, no. I imagine he took them somewhere else—in his car, perhaps—later that night. To a place where he could be relatively certain they’d never be found.”