A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(113)

“The money was still there when I left him, Tommy. You’ve no cause to believe that. But the money was there. And Mick was alive.”

“I believe you.” Lynley tried to make his words ring with the assurance that his personal belief was all that would be necessary to restore Peter to the safety of his family. But that was nothing more than irresponsible fantasy. For as things stood now, once Peter’s story was relayed to the Penzance police, he would surely stand trial. And once his extensive drug use was revealed to a jury, his position would be perilous at best, no matter Lynley’s earlier avowals of the inherent value of telling the truth.

Peter seemed to take comfort from his brother’s words. He seemed to feel an encouragement to continue, a fragile bond between them that allowed for revelation. “I didn’t take them, Tommy. I wouldn’t have done that.” Lynley looked at him blankly. Peter went on. “Her cameras. I didn’t take them. I didn’t. I swear it.”

The fact that Peter had been willing to sell off the family silver made it hard to believe he’d suddenly developed a conscience when it came to Deborah. Lynley avoided a direct reply. “What time did you leave Mick on Friday?”

Peter considered the question. “I went to the Anchor and Rose and had a pint,” he said. “It must have been about a quarter to ten.”

“Not ten o’clock? Not later?”

“Not when I arrived.”

“Were you still there at ten?” When Peter nodded, Lynley asked, “Then why did Justin hitchhike back to Howenstow alone?”

“Justin?”

“Wasn’t he there in the pub?”

Peter looked at him in some confusion. “No.”

Lynley felt a measure of relief at this. It was the first exonerating piece of information that his brother had offered. And the fact that he had offered it, so completely unconscious of its importance, told Lynley that in this instance his brother was telling the truth. It was a detail to be checked upon, a blemish on Brooke’s story, the vague promise that the case against Peter could indeed be broken by a barrister in court.

“What I don’t understand,” Lynley said, “is why you left Howenstow so suddenly. Was it the row we had in the smoking room?”

Peter smiled briefly. “Considering how many other rows we’d had, one more would hardly have made me turn tail, would it?” He looked away. At first Lynley thought he was fabricating a story, but he saw the spots of colour on his brother’s face and realised he was embarrassed. “It was Sasha,” he said. “She wouldn’t let up on me. She kept insisting we come back to London. I’d taken a matchbox from the smoking room—the silver piece that usually sits on the desk—and once she knew I couldn’t get any money from Mick or some dope from Mark, she wanted to bring the box back to London and sell it here. She was in a rush. She wanted the coke bad. She used a lot, Tommy. All the time. More than me.”

“Did you make the buy? Is that where you got whatever she took this afternoon?”

“I couldn’t find a buyer. Everyone knows the box’s hot. I’m surprised I wasn’t arrested.”

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.