A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(93)

“She didn’t want to believe he was involved. She said he didn’t take drugs, and she wouldn’t see that one doesn’t have to take them in order to sell them. She wanted proof.”

“That’s what you were after Friday night when you went to the cottage.”

“I’d forgotten that it was one of the Fridays when he did the pay envelopes. I’d thought he’d not be home and I’d be able to have a thorough search. But he was there. We had a row.”

St. James took the Talisman sandwich wrapper from his pocket. “I think this is what you wanted,” he said and handed it to Penellin. “It was in the newspaper office. Harry found it in Mick’s desk.”

Penellin looked the paper over, handed it back. “I don’t know what I wanted,” he said and gave a low, self-derisive laugh. “I think I was looking for a typed confession.”

“This is more design than confession,” St. James admitted.

“What does it mean?”

“Only Mark could verify it, but I think it represents the original deal the two of them struck together. I K 9400 would signify the cost of the original purchase of cocaine. A kilo for ￡9400. They’d split that between them to sell, which is what the second line tells us. 500 grams for each of them at ￡55 per gram. Their profit: ￡27,500 each. And next to their profit, the particular talent each of them would bring to the plan. MP—Mark—would provide the transportation in order to pro cure the drug. He’d take the Daze and meet the dealer. MC—Mick—would provide the initial financing from the bank loan he’d secured in order to purchase new equipment for the newspaper. And Mick covered himself by beginning those initial equipment purchases so no one’s suspicions would be aroused.”

“Then it fell apart,” Penellin said.

“Perhaps. It could be that the cocaine didn’t sell as well as they thought it would and he lost money on the deal. Perhaps things didn’t work out between the partners. Or there may have been a double cross somewhere along the line.”

“Or the other,” Penellin said. “Go ahead with the other.”

“That’s why you’re in here, John, isn’t it?” Lynley asked. “That’s why you’re saying nothing. That’s why you’re taking the blame.”

“He must have discovered how easy it was,” Penellin said. “He didn’t need Mick once he’d made the initial purchase, did he? Why bother with an added person who’d expect part of the profits?”

“John, you can’t take the blame for Cambrey’s death.”

“Mark’s only twenty-two.”

“That doesn’t matter. You didn’t—”

Penellin cut Lynley short by speaking to St. James. “How did you know it was Mark?”

“The Daze. We thought Peter had taken her to get away from Howenstow. But the boat was northeast on the rocks at Penberth Cove. So she had to be returning to Howenstow, not leaving. And she’d been there for several hours when we arrived, so there was plenty of time for Mark to abandon her, to make his way back to Howenstow, and be ready—somewhat banged up, admittedly—to help us search for Peter.”

“He’d have needed to abandon her,” Penellin said numbly.

“The cocaine gave him good enough reason to do so. If anyone at Penberth phoned the coastguard, he’d be in serious trouble. Better risk his life by jumping ship near the shore than risk a jail sentence by getting caught with a kilogram of cocaine on the boat.”

“John,” Lynley said insistently, “you’ve got to tell Boscowan the truth. About all of this. About Friday night.”

Levelly, Penellin looked at him. “And what of Mark?” he asked. Lynley didn’t reply. Penellin’s features became a wash of anguish. “I can’t do what you ask of me. He’s my son.”



Nancy was working in front of the lodge while Molly cooed in a pram nearby, gurgling over a string of bright plastic ducks which her mother had suspended above her. When Lynley pulled the car to a halt on the drive, Nancy looked up. She was raking up the foliage, flowers, loose pebbles, and debris that the wind had blown up against the house.

“No word of Peter?” she asked, walking towards them as they got out of the car.

“Is Mark here, Nancy?”

She faltered. The fact that Lynley had not aswered her question seemed to disconcert her at the same time as it acted as presage of an unpleasantness to come. She drew the rake to her side, holding it upright.

“Did Mark fix the shutters for you last night?” Lynley asked.

“The shutters?”

Her two simple words were verification enough. “Is he in the house?” St. James asked.

“I think he’s just gone out. He said he was planning to—”

A sudden blast of rock and roll music negated her words. She brought a fist to her lips.

“We’ve spoken to your father,” Lynley told her. “You’ve no need to protect Mark any longer. It’s time he told the truth.”

Leaving her in the garden, they went into the house, following the sound of drums and guitars in the direction of the kitchen where Mark sat at the table, making adjustments to his portable stereo. As he had done in the early hours of Saturday morning following Mick Cambrey’s death, St. James noted the details about the boy. Then, they had suggested the possibility of his taking money from Gull Cottage upon discovering his brother-in-law’s death. Now they acted in concert to corroborate his part in the cocaine partnership: a heavy gold chain round his right wrist, a new watch round his left, designer blue jeans and shirt, snakeskin boots, the stereo itself. Not one of them was the sort of possession one would purchase on the salary his father paid him to work round the estate.