A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(48)

St. James tapped his fingers against the desk. He thought aloud. “I’m sure we can manage to get a photograph of Mick. If not the one from the cottage, then surely another. His father would probably have one.” He considered the next logical step. “Could you go to London and talk to Tina, Deborah? Good Lord, what am I thinking of? You can’t dash off to London in the middle of your weekend here.”

“Of course I can. There’s a dinner planned here for tomorrow night, but we’ve nothing after that. Tommy can fly me back Sunday morning. Or I can take the train.”

“You need only find out whether she recognises his picture. If she does, don’t tell her he’s dead. Tommy and I will see to that.” St. James folded his papers, slipped them into his jacket pocket, and continued speaking pensively. “If Mick’s linked to her sexually, she may be able to tell us something which clarifies his murder, something which Mick might have told her inadvertently. Men relax after intercourse. They feel more important. They let down their guard. They become more honest.” He suddenly became aware of the nature of his words and stopped them, shifting in another direction without looking her way. “Helen can go with you. I’ll do some questioning here. Tommy’ll want to be part of that. Then we’ll join you when…Damn! The photographs! I left the film from the cottage in your camera. If we can develop it, no doubt we’ll…I’m afraid I used it all up.”

She smiled. He knew why. He was starting to sound exactly like her.

“I’ll get it for you, shall I? It’s just in my room.”

She left him. He walked to the alcove window and looked out over the night-shrouded garden. Shapes alone defined the bushes there. Pathways were muted streaks of grey.

St. James considered the disjointed pieces of Mick Cambrey’s life and death that had emerged that night. He wondered how they fit together. Mick had been gone a great deal, Lady Asherton had said. He’d been working on a story in London. A big story. St. James thought about this and the possible connections a story might have to Tina Cogin.

One assumption was that she was Mick’s lover, a woman being kept in London for his clandestine pleasure. Yet Deborah, nobody’s fool when it came to judgement, had concluded from a first impression, a conversation, and a run-in with Mick that Tina was a prostitute. If this was the case, the resultant tie to a story was both logical and ineluctable. For Mick might be keeping the woman in London not for his pleasure but for her own protection as a source for a story that had the potential to make banner headlines and put Mick’s name in the forefront of journalism. It certainly would not be the first time if a prostitute became involved in critically important news, nor would it be the first time if heads were to roll and careers were to fall because of a prostitute. And now with Mick dead and his sitting room ransacked—perhaps in the hope of finding Tina Cogin’s address in London—no amalgamation of these details sounded outrageous.

“Simon!” Deborah flew back into the room. He swung round from the window to find her trembling, arms wrapped round herself tightly as if she were cold.

“What is it?”

“Sidney. Someone’s with Sidney. I heard a man’s voice. I heard her cry. I thought that Justin might be—”

St. James didn’t wait for her to finish the sentence. He hurried from the room and rushed down the main corridor towards the northwest wing. With each step his anxiety grew, as did his anger. Every image from the afternoon manifested itself before him once again. Sidney in the water. Sidney on the sand. Brooke straddling her, punching her, tearing at her clothes. But there was no cliff to separate him from Justin Brooke now. He blessed that fact.

Only years of dealing with his sister caused St. James to pause at her door rather than throw himself into her room. Deborah came up next to him as he listened against the wood. He heard Sidney cry out, he heard Brooke’s voice, he heard Sidney’s moan. Damn and blast, he thought. He took Deborah’s arm, guiding her away from the door and down the long corridor that led to her own room in the southern corner of the house.

“Simon!” she whispered.

He didn’t reply until they were in her room with the door shut behind them. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“But, I heard her.”

“Deborah, she’s all right. Believe me.”

“But…” Sudden comprehension swept across Deborah’s face. She turned away with a gulp. “I only thought,” she said but gave up the effort and concluded with, “Why am I such a fool?”

He wanted to reply, to assuage her embarrassment, but he knew that any comment only held the promise of making things worse. Frustrated, angry at the changes in their lives that seemed to bind him to inaction, he looked aimlessly round her room as if it could formulate an answer for him. He took in the black oak panelling upon the walls, the formal Asherton armorial display in the plaster overmantel of the fireplace, the lofty barrel ceiling that soared into the darkness. An immense four-poster bed dominated the floor space, its headboard carved with grotesques that writhed their way through flowers and fruit. It was a horrible place to be alone. It felt just like a tomb.

“Sidney’s always been a bit hard to understand,” St. James settled upon saying. “Bear with her, Deborah. You couldn’t have known what that was all about. It’s all right. Really.”