A Suitable Vengeance (47 page)

Before now
remained unspoken. But there was no doubt that the two words were foremost on both of their minds. The key turned in the door. Someone knocked upon it sharply. MacPherson swung it open. He’d loosened his tie and removed his jacket. His heavy-rimmed spectacles rode high on his forehead, shoved there out of his way. Behind him, Sergeant Havers stood. She made no effort to hide the smile of gratification on her face.

Lynley got to his feet but motioned his brother to stay where he was. MacPherson thumbed towards the hallway where Lynley followed him, shutting the door on his brother.

“Has he a solicitor?” MacPherson asked.

“Of course. We’ve not phoned, but…” Lynley looked at the Scot. His face, in contrast to Havers’, was grave. “He’s said he doesn’t recognise that container, Angus. And surely we’ll find any number of witnesses who can verify his story of going out to buy bread and eggs when she took the drug.” He tried to keep his voice calm and reasonable so they would not wander beyond the death of Sasha Nifford. The idea that MacPherson and Havers had somehow connected Peter to the Cornwall deaths was unthinkable. But the mention of a solicitor suggested nothing else. “I spoke to the print men just before coming to see him. Evidently, only Sasha’s are on the needle. And none of Peter’s are on that bottle. For an overdose of this kind—”

MacPherson’s face had creased with growing worry. He lifted a hand to stop Lynley’s words, dropped it heavily when he said, “Aye, for an overdose. Aye, laddie. Aye. But we do hae more of a problem than an overdose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sergeant Havers’ll gie ye the facts.”

It took an effort for Lynley to move his eyes from MacPherson to the snubby-faced sergeant. She held a paper in her hand.

“Havers?” he said.

Again, that slight smile. Condescending, knowing, and more than that, enjoying. “The toxicology report indicates it’s a mixture of quinine and a drug called ergotamine,” she said. “Mixed together appropriately, Inspector, they not only resemble but also taste exactly like heroin. That’s what the girl must have thought it was when she injected it.”

“What are you saying?” Lynley asked.

MacPherson shuffled his feet. “’Ye know as well as I. It’s a murder.”

CHAPTER

23

D
eborah had been as good as her word. When St. James returned home, Cotter told him that she had arrived herself only an hour before. With an overnight case, he added significantly. “She talked of ’aving a load o’ work ahead, printing up some fresh snaps, but I think the girl means to stay till there’s word of Miss Sidney.” As if in the expectation that St. James would interfere with her plans upon his own arrival, Deborah had gone directly up to her darkroom where the red light glowing above the door told him she was not to be disturbed. When he knocked and said her name, she shouted cheerfully, “Out in a bit” and banged about with what sounded like unnecessary vigour. He descended to his study and placed a call to Cornwall.

He found Dr. Trenarrow at home. He did nothing more than identify himself before Trenarrow asked about Peter Lynley, with a forced calm that said he expected the worst but was keeping up the pretence of all being well at the heart of the matter. St. James guessed Lady Asherton was with him. Bearing that in mind he gave Trenarrow only the barest information.

“We found him in Whitechapel. Tommy’s with him at the moment.”

Trenarrow said, “He’s all right?”

St. James affirmed this in as indirect a fashion as he could, leaving out most of the details, knowing that their recitation to Trenarrow or to anyone else was something that belonged by rights to Lynley. He went on to explain Tina Cogin’s true identity. At first Trenarrow sounded relieved to hear that his telephone number had been in the possession of Mick Cambrey all along, and not in the possession of an unknown London prostitute. But that relief was fleeting, and it faded to what seemed to be discomfort and then finally comprehension as the full implications of Mick Cambrey’s double life dawned on the man.

“Of
course
I didn’t know about it,” he responded to St. James’ question. “He’d have had to keep something like that completely to himself. Sharing that sort of secret in a village like Nanrunnel would have been the death—” He stopped abruptly. St. James could imagine the process of Trenarrow’s thoughts. They certainly weren’t out of the realm of possibility.

“We’ve traced Mick’s activities to Islington-London,” St. James said. “Did you know Justin Brooke worked there?”

“For Islington? No.”

“I wondered if Mick’s trip there somehow grew out of the interview you and he had all those months ago.”

Over the line, he heard the distinct sound of china upon china, something being poured into a cup. It was a moment before Trenarrow answered. “It may well have. He was doing a feature on cancer research. I spoke of my work. I no doubt mentioned how the Islington company operates, so the London facility would have come into it.”

“Would oncozyme have come into it as well?”

“Oncozyme? You know…” A shuffling of papers. The sound of a watch alarm going off. It was quickly silenced. “Damn, just a moment.” A swallow of tea. “It must have come up. As I recall, we were discussing an entire range of new treatments, everything from monoclonal antibodies to advances in chemotherapy. Oncozyme fits into the latter category. I doubt that I would have passed it by.”

“So you knew about oncozyme yourself when Mick interviewed you?”

“Everyone at Islington knew about oncozyme. Bury’s Baby we called it. The branch lab at Bury St. Edmunds developed it.”

“How much can you tell me about it?”

“It’s an anti-oncogene. It prohibits DNA replication. You know what cancer is all about, cells reproducing, killing one off with a large dose of the body’s own functions gone completely haywire. An anti-oncogene puts an end to that.”

“And the side effects of an anti-oncogene?”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? There always are side effects to chemotherapy. Hair loss, nausea, weight loss, vomiting, fever.”

“All of those are standard, though, aren’t they?”

“Standard but nonetheless inconvenient. Often dangerous. Believe me, Mr. St. James, if someone could develop a drug without side effects, the scientific world would be dazzled indeed.”

“What if a drug was found to be an effective anti-oncogene but, unfortunately, it was also the cause of more serious side effects?”

“What sort do you have in mind? Renal dysfunction? Organ failure? Something like that?”

“Perhaps something worse. A teratogen, for example.”

“Every form of chemotherapy is a teratogen. Under normal circumstances, it would never be used on a pregnant woman.”

“Something else, then?” St. James considered the possibilities. “Something that might damage progenitor cells?”

There was an extremely long pause which Dr. Trenarrow finally ended by clearing his throat. “You’re suggesting a drug causing long-range genetic defects in both men and women. I don’t see how that’s possible. Drugs are too well tested. It would have come out somewhere. In someone’s research. It couldn’t have been hidden.”

“Suppose it was,” St. James said. “Would Mick have been able to stumble upon it?”

“Perhaps. It would have shown up as an irregularity in the test results. But where would he have got test results? Even if he went to the London office, who would have given them to him? And why?”

St. James thought he knew the answer to both those questions.

Deborah was eating an apple when she entered the study ten minutes later. She had cut the piece of fruit into eighths which she’d then arranged on a plate with half a dozen unevenly sliced pieces of cheddar cheese. Because food was involved in her current activity, Peach and Alaska—the household dog and cat—attended closely at her heels. Peach kept a vigilant eye hovering between Deborah’s face and the plate while Alaska, who found overt begging beneath his feline dignity, leapt onto St. James’ desk and strolled through the pens, pencils, books, magazines, and correspondence. He settled comfortably next to the telephone as if expecting a call.

“Finished with your pictures?” St. James asked. He was sitting in his leather armchair where he had spent the time following his conversation with Trenarrow by brooding into the unlit fireplace.

Deborah sat opposite him, cross-legged on the sofa. She balanced the plate of cheese and apple on her knees. A large chemical stain ran from calf to ankle on her blue jeans, and in several places her white shirt bore spots of damp from her work in the darkroom. “For the moment. I’m taking a break.”

“Came up rather suddenly, your need to print pictures. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” she said placidly. “Indeed, I would.”

“Using them for a show?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Deborah.”

“What?” She looked up from her plate, brushed hair from her forehead. She held a wedge of cheese in her hand.

“Nothing.”

“Ah.” She pinched off a bit of the cheese, offered it with a portion of apple to the dog. Peach gobbled down both, wagged her tail, barked for more.

“After you left, I broke her of begging like that,” St. James said. “It took me at least two months.”

In answer, Deborah gave Peach another bit of cheese. She patted the dog’s head, tugged her silky ears, and then looked up at him. Her expression was guileless. “She’s just asking for what she wants. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

He could feel the provocation behind the words. He pushed himself out of his chair. There were phone calls to make about Brooke, about oncozyme; there was checking to do into his sister’s whereabouts; there were at least half a dozen studies unrelated to the Cambrey-Brooke-Nifford deaths awaiting his attention in the lab and half a dozen other reasons for leaving the room. But instead of doing so, he stayed.

“Would you get that blasted cat off my desk?” He walked to the window.

Deborah went to the desk, scooped up the cat, deposited him onto St. James’ chair. “Anything else?” she asked as Alaska began enthusiastically kneading the worn leather.

St. James watched the cat curling up for a lengthy stay. He saw Deborah’s mouth twitch with a smile. “Minx,” he said.

“Brat,” she responded.

A car door slammed in the street. He turned to the window. “Tommy’s here,” he said, and Deborah went to open the front door.

St. James could see that Lynley bore no good news. His gait was slow, without its natural grace. Deborah joined him outside, and they spoke for a moment. She touched his arm. He shook his head, reached for her hand.

St. James left the window. He went to a bookshelf. He chose a volume at random, pulling it down and opening it at random as well. “
I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul
,” he read. “
In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows
…” Good God. He snapped the book shut.
A Tale of Two Cities
. Great, he thought wryly.

He shoved the book back among the others and considered making another selection.
Far from the Madding Crowd
looked promising, a good bout of psychic suffering with Gabriel Oak.

“…spoke to Mother afterwards,” Lynley was saying as he and Deborah came into the study. “She didn’t take it well.”

St. James greeted his friend with a small whisky which Lynley accepted gratefully. He sank into the sofa. Deborah perched next to him on the sofa’s arm, her fingertips brushing his shoulder.

“Brooke appears to have been telling the truth,” Lynley began. “Peter was in Gull Cottage after John Penellin left. He and Mick had a row.” He shared the information which he’d gathered from his interview with Peter. He added the Soho story as well.

“I did think that might have been Cambrey with Peter in the alley,” St. James said when Lynley had finished. “Sidney told me about seeing them. The description seemed to fit,” he added, answering the unasked question that immediately appeared on Lynley’s face. “So if Peter recognised Cambrey, there’s a good chance Justin Brooke did as well.”

“Brooke?” Lynley queried. “How? He was there with Sidney in the alley, I know, but what difference does that make?”

“They knew each other, Tommy. Brooke worked for Islington.” St. James related his own information about Brooke’s position at Islington-London, about Cambrey’s visits to Department Twenty-Five, about oncozyme and the potential for a story.

“How does Roderick Trenarrow fit into all this, St. James?”

“He’s the prime mover. He gave Mick Cambrey some key information. Cambrey used it to pursue a story. That appears to be the extent of his involvement. He knew about oncozyme. He mentioned it to Mick.”

“And then Mick died. Trenarrow was in the vicinity that night.”

“He has no motive, Tommy. Justin Brooke did.” St. James explained. His theory—the product of those minutes brooding alone in the study—was simple enough. It involved the promise of cocaine in exchange for key background information from an unnamed source that would evolve into an important story about a potentially dangerous drug. A deal between Cambrey and Brooke that had somehow gone bad, coming to a head on the night Brooke had gone with Peter to Gull Cottage.