'The cocaine gave him good enough reason to do so. If anyone at Penberth phoned the coastguard, he'd be in serious trouble. Better risk his life by jumping ship near the shore than risk a gaol sentence by getting caught with a kilogram of cocaine on the boat.'
'John,' Lynley said insistently, 'you've got to tell Boscowan the truth. About all of this. About Friday night.'
Levelly, Penellin looked at him. 'And what of Mark?' he asked. Lynley didn't reply. Penellin's features became a wash of anguish. 'I can't do what you ask of me. He's my son.'
Nancy was working in front of the lodge while Molly cooed in a pram nearby, gurgling over a string of bright plastic ducks which her mother had suspended above her. When Lynley pulled the car to a halt on the drive, Nancy looked up. She was raking up the foliage, flowers, loose pebbles and debris that the wind had blown up against the house.
'No word of Peter?' she asked, walking towards them as they got out of the car. 'Is Mark here, Nancy?'
She faltered. The fact that Lynley had not answered her question seemed to disconcert her at the same time as it acted as presage of an unpleasantness to come. She drew the rake to her side, holding it upright.
'Did Mark fix the shutters for you last night?' Lynley asked.
'The shutters?'
Her two simple words were verification enough. 'Is he in the house?' St James asked.
'I think he's just gone out. He said he was planning to—'
A sudden blast of rock-and-roll music negated her words. She brought a fist to her lips.
'We've spoken to your father,' Lynley told her. 'You've no need to protect Mark any longer. It's time he told the truth.'
Leaving her in the garden, they went into the house, following the sound of drums and guitars in the direction of the kitchen where Mark sat at the table, making adjustments to his portable stereo. As he had done in the early hours of Saturday morning following Mick Cambrey's death, St James noted the details about the boy. Then, they had suggested the possibility of his taking money from Gull Cottage upon discovering his brother-in-law's death. Now they acted in concert to corroborate his part in the cocaine partnership: a heavy gold chain round his right wrist, a new watch round his left, designer blue jeans and shirt, snakeskin boots, the stereo itself. Not one of them was the sort of possession one would purchase on the salary his father paid him to work round the estate.
On the table sat a half-eaten ham sandwich, a bottle of beer, a bag of vinegar crisps. This latter provided the air with a pungent smell. Mark dipped into it for a handful, looked up, and saw the other two men in the doorway. He turned down the volume on the stereo and got to his feet, dropping the crisps onto his plate.
'What's wrong?' he asked. 'Is it Peter? Is he all right?' He ran the heel of his hand against his temple as if to straighten his hair. It was neatly combed as usual.
'We've not come about my brother,' said Lynley.
Mark frowned. 'I haven't heard a thing. Nance phoned your mother. She said there was no word. Have you . . . ? Is there something . . . ?' He held out a hand, a gesture of camaraderie.
St James wondered how Lynley would get past the boy's posturing. He had his answer when his friend swept the stereo from the table so forcefully that it crashed against the kitchen cupboards and gouged the wood.
'Hey!'
As Mark began to move, Lynley came round the table. He pushed the boy into his chair. Mark's head snapped back against the wall.
'What the hell—'
'You can talk to me or Penzance CID. Make up your mind.'
Quick comprehension darted across the boy's face. He rubbed his collarbone. Nevertheless, he merely said, 'You're daft.'
Lynley tossed the Talisman sandwich wrapper onto the table. 'What's it to be? Make up your mind.'
Mark's expression was unchanging as he glanced at the paper, at the numbers, the notations, at his own initials. He snorted a laugh. 'You're in heavy shit over Brooke's death, aren't you? You'd do anything to keep the police from looking into that. You're trying to keep the coppers off Peter.'
'We're not here about Peter.'
'No. I dare say. Let's not talk about Peter or you might hear the truth. Well, you can't have me arrested for anything. You don't have a shred of evidence.'
'You took the Daze from Lamorna. You abandoned her off Penberth. My guess is that the reason why is sitting right here in this house. Or perhaps in the mill. How does felony theft sound? What about smuggling? Possession of narcotics? We can start with any one of them. I'll put my money on Boscowan's willingness to listen to just about anything to get your father out of the nick. I rather doubt he's as sentimental about you. So shall I give him a ring? Or shall we talk?'
Mark looked away. On the floor his stereo was giving off bursts of static.
'What do you want to know?' The question was sullen.
'Who's dealing the cocaine?'
'Me. Mick.'
'You've been using the mill?'
'It was Mick's idea. He'd spent most of last spring boffing Nancy in the loft. He knew no-one ever went there.'
'And the Daze?'
'Free transport. No overheads. Nothing to cut into the profits.'
'What profits? Nancy claims they have no money.'
'We turned the take around from the first go last March and reinvested in another buy. A bigger one this time.' A smile pulled at his mouth. He didn't bother to conceal it. 'Thank God the stuff was wrapped in oilskins. Otherwise, it'd be sitting in Penberth Cove at the moment, making the fish as happy as hell to be there. As it is' - he dumped more crisps on his plate - 'Mick'll miss out on the profits.'
'Convenient for you that he's dead.'
Mark was unimpressed. 'Am I supposed to blanch with fear at the implication? Oops, the poor berk's just given himself a motive for murder?' He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed it deliberately, and washed it down with a swallow of beer. 'Let's avoid the drama. I was in St Ives Friday night.'
'No doubt with someone who'd be only too happy to step forward and confirm that fact?'
Mark maintained his bravado. 'Sure. No problem.'
'Honour among drug-dealers?'
'A man needs to know his friends.'
'Peter was one once.'
Mark studied his fingernails. The stereo squawked. St James switched it off.
'Did you sell to my brother?' 'When he had the money.' 'When did you last see him?'
'I've told you before. There's no change in the story. Friday afternoon at the cove. He phoned the lodge earlier and said he wanted to see me. I had to hunt the bloody ass down as it was. Jesus, I don't even know why I bothered.'
'What did he want?'
'What he always wanted. Dope on credit.' 'Did he know how you were using the mill?' Lynley asked.
Mark gave a sardonic laugh in response. 'D'you think I'd tell him that and have him slobbering down my neck for free samples every time I was working there? We may be old mates, but I like to think I know where to draw the line.'
'Where is he?' Lynley asked. Mark was silent.
Lynley crashed his fist on to the table top. 'Where is he? Where's my brother?'
Mark pushed his arm away. 'I don't know, all right? I bloody don't know. Dead with a needle in his arm, most likely.'
'Tommy.'
St James' admonition came too late. Lynley dragged the boy to his feet. He threw him against the wall, pressed his arm against his larynx and held him there.
'You piece of filth,' he said. 'God damn you, I'll be back.' He dropped him abruptly and left the room.
Mark stood for a moment, rubbing his throat. He brushed at the collar of his shirt as if to remove any trace of Lynley's quick assault. Stooping, he picked up his stereo, put it back on the table, and began to play with its knobs. St James left him.
He found Lynley in the car, his hands gripping the wheel. Nancy and her baby were gone.
'We're their victims.' Lynley stared at the drive that wound towards the great house. Shadows dappled it. A bre
eze danced sycamore leaves across the lane. 'We're all of us their victims. I as much as anyone, St James. No. More than anyone, because I'm supposed to be a professional.'
St James saw the conflicts that confronted his friend.
The ties of blood, the call of duty. Responsibility to family, betrayal of self. He waited for Lynley, always at heart an honest man, to put his struggle into words.
'I should have told Boscowan that Peter was at Gull Cottage on Friday night. I should have told him that Mick was alive after John left him. I should have told him about the row. About Brooke. About everything. But, God help me, I couldn't, St James. What's happening to me?'
'You're trying to deal with Peter, with Nancy, with John, with Mark. With everyone, Tommy.'
'The walls are crashing in.'
'We'll sort it out.'
Lynley looked at him then. His dark eyes seemed filmed over by a mist. 'Do you believe that?' he asked. 'I've got to believe something.'
'Actually, Islington-London is its formal name,' Lady Helen said. 'Islington-London Ltd. It's a pharmaceutical company.'
St James' attention was on the section of the garden that he could still see in the growing darkness. He stood in the small alcove of the drawing room while behind him Lady Asherton, Lynley and Cotter drank their evening coffee.
'Deborah and I went there this morning,' Lady Helen continued. In the background, St James heard Deborah's voice, followed by her laughter, light and engaging. 'Yes, all right, darling,' Lady Helen said to her. And then to St James, 'Deborah's most unforgiving about the fact that I wore my fox fur. Well, perhaps I was just a bit overdressed for the occasion, but the ensemble did make a statement, I think. And, besides, as far as I'm concerned, if one's going to do anything incognita, one ought to do it well. Don't you agree?'
'Decidedly.'
'And it was a success. The receptionist even asked me if I'd come about a job. Senior Director of Project Testing. Sounds absolutely divine. Have I a future in it?'
St James smiled into the telephone. 'I suppose it depends upon what project's being tested. What about Tina? What's the connection?'
'There doesn't seem to be one at all. We described her to the receptionist - and what a blessing to have Deborah there because her eye for detail, not to mention her memory, is quite remarkable. But the girl hadn't a clue. She didn't recognize the description at all.' Lady Helen paused as Deborah interjected a comment in the background. She went on to say, 'Considering what Tina apparently looks like, it's hard to believe anyone would forget her. Although the girl did ask if she might be a biochemist.'
'That seems a bit far-fetched.'
'H'm. It does. Except that Deborah did tell me about a drink she's developed. A health drink. Perhaps Tina hoped to sell it to the pharmaceutical company?'
'Unlikely, Helen.'
'I suppose so. She'd go to a beverage company with it, wouldn't she?'
'That's more probable. Has anyone heard from her? Has she returned?'
'Not yet. I spent part of the afternoon going to each flat in the building to see if anyone knew anything about where she might be.'
'No luck, I take it.'
'None at all. No-one seems to know her very well. In fact Deborah appears to be the only person who's had any close contact with her, aside from a peculiar woman across the hall who loaned her an iron. Several people have seen her about, of course - she's lived here since September - but no-one's spent any time talking to her. Besides Deborah.'
St James jotted the word September into his notes. He underlined it, drew a circle round it. He topped the circle with a cross. The symbol of woman. He scribbled over it all.
'What next?' Lady Helen was asking.
'See if the building manager has a Cornish address for her,' St James said. 'You might try to find out what she pays for the flat.'
'Quite. I should have thought to ask that earlier. Although heaven knows why. Are we getting anywhere?'
St James sighed. 'I don't know. Have you spoken to Sidney?'
'That's a problem, Simon. I've been phoning her flat, but there's no answer. I tried her agency, but they've not heard from her either. Did she talk about going to see friends?'
'No. She talked about going home.'
'I'll keep trying, then. Don't worry. She may have gone to Cheyne Row.'
St James thought this unlikely. 'We need to find her, Helen.'
TU pop round to her flat. She may not be answering the phone.'
Having secured this assurance, St James rang off. He remained in the alcove, staring down at the scribbled mess he'd made of the word September. He wanted it to mean something. He knew that it probably did. But what that something was he could not have said.
He turned as Lynley came into the alcove. 'Anything?'
St James related the bits of information which Lady Helen had managed to gather that day. He saw the change in Lynley's expression after he'd heard the very first fact.
'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 Five
IDENTITIES
20
'Then, 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 into 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 apparendy 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 traffic lights. 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 from 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 recognize 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 lights 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, into 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.'
'If 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.