A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(129)

“Mostly granite.”

“And the water’s clear. If the camera case is there, they’ll be able to see it.”

Lynley nodded and made the descent, leaving St. James with Deborah on the cliff. They watched as he crossed the narrow strand and shook both boys’ hands. They grinned, the one driving his fingers into his hair and scratching his scalp, the other shifting from foot to foot. They both looked cold.

“Not exactly the best weather for a swim,” Deborah remarked.

St. James said nothing.

The boys pulled on face masks, adjusted their snorkels and headed for the water, one on either side of the rocks. Alongside them, Lynley climbed the granite outcropping and picked his way out to its furthest point.

The surface of the water was extraordinarily calm since a natural reef protected the cove. Even from the cliff, St. James could see the anemones that grew on the outcropping beneath the water, their stamen swaying in the gentle current. Above and around them, broad-leafed kelp undulated. Beneath them, crabs hid. The cove was a combination of reef and tide pools, sea life and sand. It was not the best location for a swim, but it had no match as a site for the disposing of an object one wished to go unrecovered for years. Within weeks, the camera case would be shrouded by barnacles, sea urchins, and anemones. Within months, it would lose both shape and definition, ultimately coming to resemble the rocks themselves.

If the case was there, however, the two boys were having difficulty finding it. Again and again, they bobbed to the surface on either side of Lynley. Each time, they carried nothing with them. Each time, they shook their heads.

“Tell them to go farther out,” St. James shouted when the boys made their sixth return empty-handed.

Lynley looked up, nodded, and waved. He squatted on the rocks and talked to the boys. They dove under the water again. Both were good swimmers. They clearly understood what they were looking for. But neither found a thing.

“It looks hopeless.” Deborah seemed to be speaking more to herself than to St. James. Nonetheless, he replied.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Deborah. I thought to have recovered at least something for you.” He glanced her way, saw by her expression of misery that she’d read the meaning behind his words.

“Oh, Simon, please. I couldn’t. When it came down to it, I couldn’t do it to him. Can you try to understand?”

“The saltwater would have ruined them anyway. But at least you’d have had something to remind you of your success in America. Besides Tommy, of course.” She stiffened. He knew he had hurt her and felt a whisper of triumph at his power to do so. It was replaced almost immediately by a roar of shame. “That was unforgivable. I’m sorry,” he said.

“I deserve it.”

“No. You don’t deserve it.” He walked away from her, giving his attention back to the cove. “Tell them to finish, Tommy,” he shouted. “The cameras aren’t there.”

Below, the two boys were surfacing once more. This time, however, one of them clutched an object in his hand. Long and narrow, it glinted in the dull light as he handed it to Lynley. Wooden handle, metal blade. Both bearing no sign of having been in the water more than a few days.

“What’s he got?” Deborah asked.

Lynley held it up so that they both could see it from the top of the cliff. St. James felt a quick rush of excitement.

“A kitchen knife,” he said.





CHAPTER 26


A lazy rain had begun to fall by the time they reached the harbour car park in Nanrunnel. It was no precursor of a Cornish southwester, but rather the herald of a brief summer shower. Thousands of gulls accompanied it, screaming in from the sea to seek havens on chimney tops, along the quay, and upon the decks of boats secured to the harbour walls.

On the path that skirted the circumference of the harbour, they passed overturned skiffs, lopsided piles of fishing nets redolent with the odours of the sea, and waterside buildings whose windows reflected the unchanging grey mask of the weather. Not until they reached the point at which the path inclined between two buildings as it led into the village proper did any of them speak. It was then that Lynley noticed that the cobbled pavement was already slick with rain. He glanced uneasily at St. James.

The other man answered his look. “I can manage it, Tommy.”

They’d talked little about the knife. Just that it was obviously a kitchen utensil, so if it had been used on Mick Cambrey and if Nancy could identify it as having come from the cottage, it served as further evidence that the crime against her husband had not been planned. Its presence in the cove did nothing to absolve Justin Brooke from blame. Rather, the knife merely changed his reason for having gone there in the first place. Not to rid himself of Deborah’s cameras but to rid himself of something far more damning.

Thus the cameras remained a piece still not tucked into position in the jigsaw of the crime. They all agreed that it was reasonable to continue to conclude Brooke had taken them from Deborah’s room. But where he had disposed of them was once again as elusive a location as it had been two days ago.

Rounding the corner of an antique silver shop on the Lamorna Road, they found the streets of the village deserted. This was an unsurprising summertime phenomenon in an area where the vicissitudes of the weather often forced holiday makers to be flexible in matters concerning how they spent their time. Where sun would see them strolling the village streets, exploring the harbour, and taking pictures on the quay, rain usually provoked a sudden need to try their luck in a game of chance, a sudden hunger for tucking into a fresh crab salad, a sudden thirst for real ale. An inclement afternoon was a welcome boon to the proprietors of bingo parlours, restaurants, and pubs.