A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(89)

St. James had seen that himself in his perusal of the newspapers. Dr. Trenarrow had said Mick interviewed him for a story. But nowhere in the back issues of the paper was there a feature that in any way related to a conversation the two of them might have had. St. James related this to Julianna Vendale.

She poured herself another cup of coffee and spoke over her shoulder. “That doesn’t surprise me. Mick probably thought he was going to get a Mother Teresa piece out of it—Cornish Scientist Dedicates his Life to Saving Others—only to discover that Dr. Trenarrow’s no more on the path to heaven than the rest of us are.”

Or, St. James thought, the potential story was a ploy to get an interview with Trenarrow in the first place in order to gather information, and to pass it along with Trenarrow’s phone number to a needy friend.

Julianna was continuing. “That was largely his way, ever since he came back to the Spokesman. I think he was looking for a story as a means of escape.”

“He didn’t want to be here?”

“It was a step backwards for him. He’d been a free-lance journalist. He’d been doing quite well. Then his father fell ill and he had to chuck it all and come back to hold the family business together.”

“You couldn’t have done that?”

“I could have done, of course. But Harry wanted Mick to take over the paper. More than that, I should guess, he wanted him back in Nanrunnel permanently.”

St. James thought he saw the direction Harry Cambrey had intended things to move once Mick returned to Nanrunnel. Nonetheless, he asked, “How did you fit into the plans?”

“Harry made certain we worked together as much as possible. Then, I suppose, he just hoped for the best. He had great faith in Mick’s charm.”

“And you?”

She was holding her coffee cup between her hands, as if to keep them warm. Her fingers were long, she wore no rings. “He didn’t appeal to me. When Harry saw that, he started having Nancy Penellin come to do the books during our regular office hours instead of on weekends.”

“And as to developing the newspaper’s stature?”

She indicated the word processor. “Mick made the attempt at first. He started with new equipment. He wanted to update. But then he seemed to lose interest.”

“When?”

“Just about the time he made Nancy pregnant.” She lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug. “After they married, he was gone a great deal.”

“Pursuing a story?”

She smiled. “Pursuing.”



They strolled across the narrow street to the harbour. The tide was out. Five sunbathers lay on the narrow strand. Near them, a group of small children dabbled their hands and feet in the water, shrieking with excitement as it lapped at their legs.

“Get what you need?” Cotter asked.

“Pieces, that’s all. Nothing seems to fit together. I can’t make a connection between Mick and Tina Cogin, between Tina Cogin and Trenarrow. It’s nothing more than conjecture.”

“P’raps Deb was wrong. P’raps she didn’t see Mick in London.”

“No. She saw him. Everything indicates that. He knew Tina Cogin. But as to how and why, I don’t know.”

“Seems ’ow and why’s the easiest part, ’cording to Missus Swann.”

“She’s not an admirer of Mick’s, is she?”

“She hated ’im, and there’s the truth.” Cotter watched the children playing for a moment. He smiled as one of them—a little girl of three or four—fell onto her bottom, splashing water on the others. “But if there’s truth to her talk about Mick Cambrey and women, then far’s I can see, looks to me that John Penellin did it.”

“Why?”

“It’s ’is daughter involved, Mr. St. James. A man’s not likely to let another man hurt ’is daughter. Not if it can be stopped in some way. A man does what ’e can.”

St. James recognised the bait and acknowledged the fact that their morning’s discussion was not yet concluded in Cotter’s eyes. But he had no need to ask the question which Cotter’s comment called for: And what would you do? He knew the answer. Instead he said, “Did you learn anything from the housekeeper?”

“Dora? A bit.” Cotter leaned against the harbour railing, resting his elbows on the top metal bar. “Great admirer of the doctor, is Dora. Works ’is fingers to the bone. Gives ’is life to research. And when ’e’s not doing that, ’e’s visiting folks at a convalescent ’ome outside St. Just.”

“That’s the extent of it?”

“Seems to be.”

St. James sighed. Not for the first time did he admit to the fact that his field was science, crime scene investigation, the analysis of evidence, the interpretation of data, the preparation of reports. He had no expertise in an arena that demanded insightful communication and intuitive deduction. More, he didn’t have the taste or the talent for either. And the further he waded into the growing mire of conjecture, the more frustrated he felt.

From his jacket pocket, he pulled out the piece of paper which Harry Cambrey had given him Saturday morning. It seemed as reasonable a direction to head in as any. When you’re lost, he thought mordantly, you may as well head somewhere.