A Suitable Vengeance (5 page)

“What money’s she got, then?” Cotter demanded. “How else is it paid for, if not by ’im?”

St. James made his way to the bathroom where the rush of water told him that Cotter—in his agitation—had forgotten that the tub was rapidly filling. He turned off the taps and sought a way to put the discussion to an end.

“Then you must talk to her, Cotter, if that’s what you think. Set your mind at rest.”

“What
I
think? It’s what you think as well and there’s no denying it. I c’n see it plain as plain on your face.” Cotter warmed to his topic. “I tried talking with the girl. But that was no good. She was off with ’im last night before I’d the chance. And off again this morning as well.”

“Already? With Tommy?”

“No. Alone this time. To Paddington.”

“Go to see her, then. Talk to her. She might welcome the chance to have some time alone with you.”

Cotter moved past him and began setting out his shaving equipment with unnecessary care. St. James watched warily, his intuition telling him the worst was on its way.

“A solid, good talk. Just what I’m thinking. But it’s not for me to talk to the girl. A dad’s too close. You know what I mean.”

He did indeed. “You can’t possibly be suggesting—”

“Deb’s fond of you. That’s always been the case.” Cotter’s face spoke the challenge beneath the words. He was not a man to avoid emotional blackmail if it took him in the direction which he believed that he—and St. James—ought to be travelling. “If you’d caution the girl. That’s all I’d ask.”

Caution her? How would it run?
Don’t have anything to do with Tommy, Deborah. If you do, God knows you may end up his wife
. It was beyond consideration.

“Just a word,” Cotter said. “She trusts you. As do I.”

St. James fought back a sigh of resignation. Damn Cotter’s unquestioning loyalty throughout the years of his illness. Blast the fact that he owed him so very much. There is always a day of accounting.

“Very well,” St. James said. “Perhaps I can manage some time today if you have her address.”

“I do,” Cotter said. “And you’ll see. Deb’ll be glad of what you say.”

Right, St. James thought sardonically.

The building that housed Deborah’s flat was called Shrewsbury Court Apartments. St. James found it easily enough in Sussex Gardens, sandwiched in between two seedy rooming houses. Recently restored, it was a tall building faced with unblemished Portland stone, iron-fenced in the front, its door gained by passing across a narrow concrete walkway that bridged the cavernous entrance to additional flats below the level of the street.

St. James pressed the button next to the name Cotter. An answering buzz admitted him into a small lobby with a floor covered by black and white tile. Like the outside of the building, it was scrupulously clean, and a faint odour of disinfectant announced the fact that it intended to stay that way. There was no furniture, just a hallway leading to the ground floor flats, a door discreetly hung with a hand-lettered sign reading
concierge
—as if a foreign word might attest to the building’s respectability—and a lift.

Deborah’s flat was on the top floor. Riding up to it, St. James reflected upon the absurdity of the position into which Cotter had placed him. Deborah was an adult now. She would hardly welcome anyone’s intrusion into her life. Least of all would she welcome his.

She opened the door at once to his knock, as if she’d spent the afternoon doing nothing save awaiting his arrival. Her expression shifted quickly from welcome to surprise, however, and it was only after a fractional hesitation that she stepped back from the door to admit him.

“Simon! I’d no idea…” She offered her hand in greeting, seemed to think better of the gesture, and dropped it to her side. “You’ve quite surprised me. I was expecting…this is really…you’ve only…Oh, why am I babbling? Please. Come in.”

The word
flat
turned out to be a euphemism, for her new home was little more than a cramped bed-sitting-room. Still, much had been done to fill it with comfort. Pale green paint, refreshing and springlike, coated the walls. Against one of them, a rattan day bed was covered with a bright, multicoloured counterpane and embroidered pillows. On another, a collection of Deborah’s photographs hung, pieces which St. James had never seen before and realised must represent the result of her years of training in America. Music played softly from a stereo near the window. Debussy.
Afternoon of a Faun
.

St. James turned to comment upon the room—what a far cry it was from the adolescent eclecticism of her bedroom at home—and caught sight of a small alcove to the left of the door. It comprised a kitchen where an undersized table was set with a china tea service. Two places were laid.

He should have realised the moment he saw her. It was hardly in character for her to be lolling around in the middle of the day, wearing a soft summer dress in place of her usual blue jeans.

“You’ve someone coming. I’m sorry. I should have phoned.”

“I’m not connected yet. It doesn’t matter. Really.” She extended her arm to encompass the room. “What do you think? Do you like it?”

The entire bed-sit was, he thought, pretty much what it was intended to be: a room of peace and femininity in which a man would want to lie at her side, throwing off the day’s burdens for the pleasure of making love. But that was hardly the response Deborah wanted from him. To avoid having to give one, he walked to her pictures.

Although more than a dozen hung on the wall, they were grouped in such a way that his eyes were drawn to a striking black and white portrait of a man standing with his back to the camera, his head turned in profile, his hair and skin—both lit with a shimmering cast of water—acting as contrast to an ebony background.

“Tommy photographs well.”

Deborah joined him. “He does, doesn’t he? I was trying to give some definition to his musculature. I’m not at all sure about it, though. The lighting seems off. I don’t know. One minute I like it and the next I think it’s about as subtle as a mug shot.”

St. James smiled. “You’re as hard on yourself as you ever were, Deborah.”

“I suppose I am. Never satisfied with anything. That’s always been my story.”

“I’d say a piece was fine. Your father would agree. We’d bring in Helen for a third opinion. Then you’d celebrate your success by throwing it away and claiming we all were hopeless judges.”

She laughed. “At least I didn’t fish for compliments.”

“No. You didn’t do that.” He turned back to the wall. The brief pleasure of their exchange withered to nothing.

A different sort of study had been placed next to the black and white portrait. It too was of Lynley, seated nude in an old iron bed, rumpled bed linen thrown over the lower part of his torso. With one leg raised, an arm resting on his knee, he gazed towards a window where Deborah stood, her back to the camera, sunlight gleaming along the swell of her right hip. Yellow curtains billowed back frothily, no doubt serving to hide the cable release that had allowed her to take the picture. The photograph looked completely spontaneous, as if she had awakened at Lynley’s side and found an opportunity in a chance of light, in the contrast of curtains and morning sky.

St. James stared at the picture, trying to pretend he could evaluate it as a piece of art, knowing all the time it was affirmation that Cotter had guessed the entire truth about Deborah’s relationship with Lynley. In spite of the sight of them together in his car last night, St. James knew that he had been holding on to an insubstantial thread of hope. It snapped before his eyes. He looked at Deborah.

Two spots of colour had appeared high on her cheeks. “Heavens, I’m not a very good hostess, am I? Would you like something to drink? Gin and tonic? Or there’s whisky. And tea. There’s tea. I’ve lots of tea. I was about to—”

“No. Nothing. You’ve someone coming. I’ll not stay long.”

“Stay for tea. I can set another place.” She went to the tiny kitchen.

“Please, Deborah. Don’t,” St. James said quickly, imagining the awkward civility of getting through tea and three or four digestive biscuits while Deborah and Lynley made polite conversation with him, all the time wishing he would be on his way. “It’s really not right.”

Deborah paused at the kitchen cupboard, a cup and saucer in her hand. “Not right? What d’you mean? It’ll just be—”

“Listen, little bird.” He wanted only to get everything said, do his miserable duty, keep his promise to her father, and be gone. “Your father’s worried about you.”

With studied precision, Deborah put down the saucer, and then, even more carefully, the cup on top of it. She lined them up with the edge of the work top. “I see. You’re here as his emissary, aren’t you? It’s hardly the role I’d expect you to play.”

“I told him I’d speak to you, Deborah.”

At that—perhaps it was the change in his tone—he saw the spots of colour on her cheeks deepen. Her lips pressed together. She walked to the day bed, sat down, and folded her hands.

“All right. Go ahead.”

St. James saw the unmistakable flicker of passion cross her face. He heard the first stirring of temper in her voice. But he chose to ignore both, deciding to go on with what he had come to say. He assured himself that his motivation was his promise to Cotter. His given word meant commitment, and he could not leave without making certain Cotter’s concerns were explained to his daughter in the most explicit terms.

“Your father’s worried about you and Tommy,” he began, in what he deemed a reasonable manner.

She countered adroitly. “And what about you? Are you worried as well?”

“It has nothing to do with me.”

“Ah. I should have known. Well, now that you’ve seen me—and the flat as well—are you going to report back and justify Dad’s worries? Or do I need to do something to pass your inspection?”

“You’ve misunderstood.”

“You’ve come snooping around to check up on my behaviour. What is it exactly I’ve misunderstood?”

“It isn’t a question of your behaviour, Deborah.” He was feeling defensive, decidedly uncomfortable. Their interview wasn’t supposed to take this course. “It’s only that your relationship with Tommy—”

She pushed herself to her feet. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business, Simon. My father may be little more than a servant in your life, but I’m not. I never was. Where did you get the idea you could come round here and pry into my life? Who do you think you are?”

“Someone who cares about you. You know that very well.”

“Someone who…” Deborah faltered. Her hands clenched in front of her as if she wished to stop herself from saying more. The effort failed. “Someone who
cares
? You call yourself someone who cares about me? You, who never bothered to write so much as a single letter all the years I was gone. I was seventeen years old. Do you know what that was like? Have you any idea since you
care
so much?” She walked unevenly to the other side of the room and swung to face him again. “Every day for months on end, there I was, waiting like an idiot—a stupid little fool—hoping for word from you. An answer to my letters. Anything! A note. A card. A message sent through my father. It didn’t matter what as long as it was from you. But nothing came. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t understand. And in the end, when I could face it, I just waited for the news that you’d finally married Helen.”

“Married
Helen
?” St. James demanded incredulously. He didn’t stop to consider how or why their conversation was escalating so rapidly into an argument. “How in God’s name could you even think that?”

“What else was I to think?”

“You might have had the sense to start out with what existed between the two of us before you left England.”

Tears sprang into her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. “Oh, I thought of that, all right. Every night, every morning, I thought of that, Simon. Lying in my bed, trying to come up with a single good reason to get on in my life. Living in a void. Living in hell. Are you pleased to know it? Are you satisfied now? Missing you. Wanting you. It was torture. A disease.”

“With Tommy the cure.”

“Absolutely. Thank God. With Tommy the cure. So get out of here. Now. Leave me alone.”

“I’ll leave, all right. It would hardly do to have me here in the love nest when Tommy arrives to claim what he’s paid for.” He pointed crudely at each object as he spoke. “Tea laid out nicely. Soft music playing. And the lady herself, ready and waiting. I can see I’d get just a bit in the way. Especially if he’s in a rush.”

Deborah backed away from him. “What he’s
paid
for? Is that why you’re here? Is that what you think? That I’m too worthless and stupid to support myself? That this is Tommy’s flat? Who am I then, Simon? Who bloody well am I? His bauble? Some scrubber? His tart?” She didn’t wait for the answer. “Get out of my flat.”

Not yet, he decided. By God, not yet. “You talk a pretty piece about torture, don’t you? So what the hell do you think these three years have been like for me? And how do you imagine I felt waiting to see you, last night, hour after hour—after three goddamned years—and knowing now you were here all that time with him?”

“I don’t care how you felt! Whatever it was, it couldn’t come close to the misery you foisted on me.”