A Suitable Vengeance (36 page)

“Using the term in the loosest possible fashion.” He smiled briefly, without humour. The remark seemed largely an effort to be light-hearted, an effort he dismissed with his very next words. “Tommy told us last night. About Peter seeing Mick Cambrey the night he died. About Brooke as well. I don’t know where you stand in all this, but I’ve known that boy since he was six years old, and he’s not a killer. He’s incapable of violence, most especially the sort that was done to Mick Cambrey.”

“Did you know Mick well?”

“Not as well as others in the village. Just as his landlord. I let him Gull Cottage.”

“How long ago was that?”

Trenarrow began an automatic answer, but then his brow furrowed, as if he’d suddenly wondered about the nature of the question. “About nine months.”

“Who lived there before him?”

“I did.” Trenarrow made a quick movement in his chair, an adjustment in position that betrayed irritation. “You can’t have come here on a social call at this time of morning, Mr. St. James. Did Tommy send you?”

“Tommy?”

“No doubt you know the facts. We’ve years of bad blood between us. You’re asking about Cambrey. You’re asking about the cottage. Are these questions his idea or yours?”

“Mine. But he knows I’ve come to see you.”

“About Mick?”

“Actually, no. Tina Cogin’s disappeared. We think she may have come to Cornwall.”

“Who?”

“Tina Cogin. Shrewsbury Court Apartments. In Paddington. Your telephone number was among her things.”

“I haven’t the slightest…Tina Cogin, you say?”

“She’s not a patient of yours? Or a former patient?”

“I don’t see patients. Oh, perhaps the occasional terminal case who volunteers for an experimental drug. But if Tina Cogin was one of them and she’s disappeared…Excuse me for the levity, but there’s only one place she’d be disappearing to and it wouldn’t be Cornwall.”

“Then you may well have seen her in a different light.”

Trenarrow looked perplexed. “Sorry?”

“She may be a prostitute.”

The doctor’s gold-rimmed spectacles slid fractionally down his nose. He knuckled them back into place and said, “And she had my name?”

“No. Just your number.”

“My address?”

“Not even that.”

Trenarrow pushed himself out of his chair. He walked over to the window behind the desk. He spent a long moment studying the view before he turned back to St. James. “I’ve not set foot in London in a year. Perhaps more. But I suppose that makes little enough difference if she’s come to Cornwall. Perhaps she’s making house calls.” He smiled wryly. “You don’t really know me, Mr. St. James, so you have no way of knowing if I’m telling you the truth. But let me say that it’s not been my habit to pay a woman for sex. Some men do it without flinching, I realise. But I’ve always preferred love-making to grow out of a passion other than avarice. This other—the negotiating first, the exchange of cash later—that’s not my style.”

“Was it Mick’s?”

“Mick’s?”

“He was seen leaving her flat Friday morning in London. He may well have given her your number, in fact. Perhaps for some sort of consultation.”

Trenarrow’s fingers went to the rosebud on his lapel, touching its tightly furled petals. “That’s a possibility,” he said thoughtfully. “Although referrals generally come from physicians, it
is
a possibility if she’s seriously ill. Mick knew cancer research is my line of work. He’d done an interview with me shortly after he took over the
Spokesman
. It’s not inconceivable that he might have given her my name. But Cambrey and a prostitute? That’s going to put a wrench in his reputation. His father’s been fanning the fires of Mick’s sexual profligacy for the last year at least. And believe me, nothing he’s said has ever alluded to Mick having to pay for a woman’s favours. According to Harry, so many women were throwing themselves at the poor lad that he barely had time to pull his trousers up before someone was moaning to have them back down. If involvement with a prostitute led to Mick’s murder, it’ll be sad times for Harry. He seems to be hoping it was from a row with a dozen or two jealous husbands.”

“Or one jealous wife?”

“Nancy?” Trenarrow said incredulously. “I can’t see her hurting anyone, can you? And even if she had somehow been driven beyond endurance—it was no secret, after all, that Mick saw other women—when could she have done it? She couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

“She was gone from the refreshment booth for a good ten minutes or more.”

“Time to run home, murder her husband, and reappear as if everything were well? The thought’s a bit absurd, considering the girl. Someone else might have managed it with aplomb, but Nancy’s no actress. If she’d killed her husband during the evening, I doubt she could have hidden it from a soul.”

There was certainly a weight of evidence to support Trenarrow’s declaration. From start to finish, Nancy’s reactions had borne the unmistakable stamp of authenticity. Her shock, her numb grief, her rising anxiety. None of them had seemed in the least bit factitious. It hardly seemed likely that she’d run home, killed her husband, and feigned horror later. That being the case, St. James considered the problem of suspects. John Penellin had been in the area that night, as had Peter Lynley and Justin Brooke. Perhaps Harry Cambrey had paid a visit to the cottage as well. And Mark Penellin’s whereabouts were still unaccounted for. Yet a motive for the crime was not clearly emerging. Each one they considered was nebulous at best. And more than anything, a motive needed clear definition if anyone was to understand the full circumstances of Mick Cambrey’s death.

St. James noticed Harry Cambrey almost immediately as Cotter pulled the car back onto Paul Lane. He was climbing towards them. He waved energetically as they approached. The cigarette between his fingers left a tiny plume of smoke in the air.

“Who’s this?” Cotter slowed the car.

“Mick Cambrey’s father. Let’s see what he wants.”

Cotter pulled to the side of the road, and Harry Cambrey came to St. James’ window. He leaned into the car, bringing with him the mixed odours of tobacco smoke and beer. His appearance had undergone some improvement since St. James and Lady Helen had seen him on Saturday morning. His clothes were fresh, his hair was combed, and although a few overlooked whiskers sprouted here and there like grey bristles on his cheeks, his face was largely shaven as well.

He was panting, and he winced as if the words hurt him when he spoke. “Howenstow folks said you’d be here. Come down to the office. Something to show you.”

“You’ve found notes?” St. James asked.

Cambrey shook his head. “Worked it all out, though.” When St. James opened the car door, Cambrey clambered inside. He nodded at the introduction to Cotter. “It’s those numbers I found. The ones from his desk. I’ve been playing with them since Saturday. I know what they mean.”

Cotter remained in the pub with Mrs. Swann, chatting amiably over a pint of ale. He was saying, “I wouldn’t say no to one o’ them Scotch eggs,” as St. James followed Harry Cambrey up to the newspaper office.

Unlike his former visit to the
Spokesman
, on this morning the staff was at work. All the lights were on—creating an entirely different atmosphere from the previous gloom—and in three of the four cubicles newspaper employees either pecked at typewriters or talked on the phones. A long-haired boy examined a set of photographs on a display board while next to him a compositor engaged in the process of laying out another edition of the newspaper on an angled green table. He held an unlit pipe between his teeth and tapped a pencil in staccato against a plastic holder of paperclips. At the word processor on the table next to Mick Cambrey’s desk, a woman sat typing. She had soft, dark hair drawn back from her face and—when she looked up—intelligent eyes. She was very attractive. Julianna Vendale, St. James decided. He wondered how and if her responsibilities at the newspaper had altered with Mick Cambrey’s death.

Harry Cambrey led the way to one of the cubicles. It was sparsely furnished, hung with wall decorations which suggested that not only was the office his own, but nothing had been done to change it during his convalescence after heart surgery. Everything spoke of the fact that, no matter Harry Cambrey’s desire, his son had not intended to assume either his office or his job. Framed newpaper clippings, gone yellow with age, appeared to represent the older man’s proudest stories: a piece on a disastrous sea-rescue attempt in which twenty of the would-be rescuers had drowned; an accident which dismembered a local fisherman; the rescue of a child from a mine shaft; a brawl during a fete in Penzance. These were accompanied by newspaper photographs as well, the originals of those which had been printed with the stories.

On the top of an ancient desk, the most recent edition of the
Spokesman
lay open to the editorial page. Mick’s contribution had been heavily circled in red. On the wall opposite, a map of Great Britain hung. Cambrey directed St. James to this.

“I kept thinking about those numbers,” he said. “Mick was systematic about things like that. He wouldn’t have kept that paper if it wasn’t important.” He felt in the breast pocket of his shirt for a packet of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it before going on. “I’m still working on part of it, but I’m on my way.”

St. James saw that next to the map Cambrey had taped a small piece of paper. On it he had printed part of the cryptic message which he’d found beneath his son’s desk.
27500-M1 Procure/Transport
and, beneath that,
27500-M6 Finance
. On the map itself, two motorways had been traced in red marking pen, the M1 heading north from London and the M6 heading northwest below Leicester towards the Irish Sea.

“Look at it,” Cambrey said. “M1 and M6 run together south of Leicester. The M1 only goes as far as Leeds, but the M6 continues. It ends in Carlisle. At Solway Firth.”

St. James considered this. He made no reply. Cambrey sounded agitated when he continued.

“Look at the map, man. Just look at it square. M6 gives access to Liverpool, doesn’t it? It takes you to Preston, to Morecambe Bay. And they every bloody one of them—”

“—give access to Ireland,” St. James concluded, thinking of the editorial he’d read only the morning before.

Cambrey went for the paper. He folded it back. His cigarette bobbed between his lips as he talked. “He knew someone was running guns for the IRA.”

“How could he have stumbled onto a story like that?”

“Stumbled?” Cambrey removed his cigarette, picked tobacco from his tongue and shook the newspaper to make his point. “My lad didn’t stumble. He was a journalist, not a fool. He listened. He talked. He learned to follow leads.” Cambrey returned to the map and used the folded newspaper as a pointer. “Guns must be coming into Cornwall in the first place, or if not into Cornwall, then through a south harbour. Shipped from sympathisers, maybe in North Africa or Spain or even France. They come in anywhere along the south coast—Plymouth, Bournemouth, Southampton, Portsmouth. They’re shipped disassembled. Trucked to London and put together. Then from there, up the M1 to the M6, and then to Liverpool or Preston or Morecambe Bay.”

“Why not ship them directly to Ireland in the first place?” St. James asked, but he knew the answer even as he asked it. A foreign ship docking at Belfast would be more likely to rouse suspicion than would an English ship. It would undergo a thorough customs check. But an English ship would be largely accepted. For why would the English be sending arms to assist an uprising against themselves?

“There was more on the paper than M1 and M6,” St. James pointed out. “Those additional numbers have to mean something.”

Cambrey nodded. “Likely to be some sort of registration numbers, I think. References to the ship they’d be using. Numbers on the type of weapons they’d be supplying. It’s some sort of code. But make no mistake about it. Mick was on his way to breaking it.”

“Yet you’ve found no other notes?”

“What I’ve found’s enough. I know my lad. I know what he was about.”

St. James reflected upon the map. He thought about the numbers Mick had jotted on the paper. He noted the fact that the editorial about Northern Ireland had appeared on Sunday, more than thirty hours after Mick’s death. If the two were connected somehow, then the killer had known about the editorial in advance of the paper’s appearance on Sunday morning. He wondered how likely a possibility that was.

“Do you keep your back issues of the newspaper here?” he asked.

“This isn’t a back issue problem,” Cambrey said.

“Nonetheless, do you have them?”

“Some. Out here.”

Cambrey led him from his office to a storage cabinet that sat to the left of the casement windows. He pulled open the doors to reveal stacks of newspapers upon the shelves. St. James glanced at them, pulled the first set off the shelf, and looked at Cambrey.

“Can you get me Mick’s keys?” he asked.

Cambrey looked puzzled. “I’ve a spare cottage key here.”

“No. I mean all his keys. He has a set, doesn’t he? Car, cottage, office? Can you get them? I expect Boscowan has them now, so you’ll need to come up with an excuse. And I’ll want them for a few days.”