A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(95)

“Tommy.”

St. James’ admonition came too late. Lynley dragged the boy to his feet. He threw him against the wall, pressed his arm against his larynx, and held him there.

“You piece of filth,” he said. “God damn you, I’ll be back.” He dropped him abruptly and left the room.

Mark stood for a moment, rubbing his throat. He brushed at the collar of his shirt as if to remove any trace of Lynley’s quick assault. Stooping, he picked up his stereo, put it back on the table, and began to play with its knobs. St. James left him.

He found Lynley in the car, his hands gripping the wheel. Nancy and her baby were gone.

“We’re their victims.” Lynley stared at the drive that wound towards the great house. Shadows dappled it. A breeze danced sycamore leaves across the lane. “We’re all of us their victims. I as much as anyone, St. James. No. More than anyone, because I’m supposed to be a professional.”

St. James saw the conflicts that confronted his friend. The ties of blood, the call of duty. Responsibility to family, betrayal of self. He waited for Lynley, always at heart an honest man, to put his struggle into words.

“I should have told Boscowan that Peter was at Gull Cottage on Friday night. I should have told him that Mick was alive after John left him. I should have told him about the row. About Brooke. About everything. But God help me, I couldn’t, St. James. What’s happening to me?”

“You’re trying to deal with Peter, with Nancy, with John, with Mark. With everyone, Tommy.”

“The walls are crashing in.”

“We’ll sort it out.”

Lynley looked at him then. His dark eyes seemed filmed over by a mist. “Do you believe that?” he asked.

“I’ve got to believe something.”



“Actually, Islington-London is its formal name,” Lady Helen said. “Islington-London, Ltd. It’s a pharmaceutical company.”

St. James’ attention was on the section of the garden that he could still see in the growing darkness. He stood in the small alcove off the drawing room while behind him Lady Asherton, Lynley, and Cotter drank their evening coffee.

“Deborah and I went there this morning,” Lady Helen continued. In the background, St. James heard Deborah’s voice, followed by her laughter, light and engaging. “Yes, all right, darling,” Lady Helen said to her. And then to St. James, “Deborah’s most unforgiving about the fact that I wore my fox fur. Well, perhaps I was just a bit overdressed for the occasion, but the ensemble did make a statement, I think. And besides, as far as I’m concerned, if one’s going to do anything incognita, one ought to do it well. Don’t you agree?”

“Decidedly.”

“And it was a success. The receptionist even asked me if I’d come about a job. Senior Director of Project Testing. Sounds absolutely divine. Have I a future in it?”

St. James smiled into the telephone. “I suppose it depends upon what project’s being tested. What about Tina? What’s the connection?”

“There doesn’t seem to be one at all. We described her to the receptionist—and what a blessing to have Deborah there because her eye for detail, not to mention her memory, is quite remarkable. But the girl hadn’t a clue. She didn’t recognise the description at all.” Lady Helen paused as Deborah interjected a comment in the background. She went on to say, “Considering what Tina apparently looks like, it’s hard to believe anyone would forget her. Although the girl did ask if she might be a biochemist.”

“That seems a bit far-fetched.”

“Hmm. It does. Except that Deborah did tell me about a drink she’s developed. A health drink. Perhaps Tina hoped to sell it to the pharmaceutical company?”

“Unlikely, Helen.”

“I suppose so. She’d go to a beverage company with it, wouldn’t she?”

“That’s more probable. Has anyone heard from her? Has she returned?”

“Not yet. I spent part of the afternoon going to each flat in the building to see if anyone knew anything about where she might be.”

“No luck, I take it.”

“None at all. No one seems to know her very well. In fact, Deborah appears to be the only person who’s had any close contact with her, aside from a peculiar woman across the hall who loaned her an iron. Several people have seen her about, of course—she’s lived here since September—but no one’s spent any time talking to her. Besides Deborah.”

St. James jotted the word September into his notes. He underlined it, drew a circle round it. He topped the circle with a cross. The symbol of woman. He scribbled over it all.

“What next?” Lady Helen was asking.

“See if the building manager has a Cornish address for her,” St. James said. “You might try to find out what she pays for the flat.”

“Quite. I should have thought to ask that earlier. Although heaven knows why. Are we getting anywhere?”

St. James sighed. “I don’t know. Have you spoken to Sidney?”

“That’s a problem, Simon. I’ve been phoning her flat, but there’s no answer. I tried her agency, but they’ve not heard from her either. Did she talk about going to see friends?”

“No. She talked about going home.”