St James waited for her to leave, but instead she came into the alcove and joined him next to the desk. A lock of her hair caught against his sleeve, and he could smell the fragrance of lilies on her skin. He fixed his eyes on his notes and felt her do likewise. After a moment, she spoke.
'Are you going to get involved in this?'
He bent forward and jotted a few deliberately illegible words in the margin of the paper. A reference to notebooks on the cottage floor. The location of the call box. A question for Mrs Swann. Anything. It didn't matter.
'I'll help if I can,' he answered. 'Although this sort of investigation isn't in my line at all, so I don't know how much good I'll do. I was just going through what Tommy and I were talking about. Nancy. Her family. The newspaper. That sort of thing.'
'By writing it down. Yes. I remember your lists. You always had dozens of them, didn't you? Everywhere.'
'All over the lab.'
'Graphs and charts as well, I recall. I never had to feel contrite about the jumble of photographs I shed all over the house while you were in the lab, throwing darts at your own jumble in sheer frustration.'
'It was a scalpel, actually,' St James said.
They laughed together, but it was only an instant of shared amusement from which silence grew, first on his part then on hers. In it the sound of a clock's ticking seemed inordinately loud, as did the distant breaking of the sea.
'I'd no idea Helen's been working with you in the lab,' Deborah said. 'Dad never mentioned it in any of his letters. Isn't that odd? Sidney told me this afternoon. She's so good at everything, isn't she? Even at the cottage. There I was, standing like an idiot while Nancy fell apart and the poor baby screamed. With Helen all the time knowing just what to do.'
'Yes,' St James said. 'She's very helpful.'
Deborah said nothing else. He willed her to leave. He added more notations to the paper on the desk. He frowned at it, read it, pretended to study it. And then, when it could no longer be avoided, when to do so would openly declare him the craven he pretended not to be, he finally looked up.
It was the diffusion of light in the alcove that defeated him. In it, her eyes became darker and more luminescent. Her skin looked softer, her lips fuller. She was far too close to him, and he knew in an instant that his choices were plain: he could leave the room or take her into his arms. There was no middle ground. There never would be. And it was sheer delusion to believe a time might come when he would ever be safe from what he felt when he was with her. He gathered up his papers, murmured a conventional good night, and started to leave.
He was halfway across the drawing room when she spoke.
'Simon, I've seen that man.'
He turned, perplexed. She went on.
'That man tonight. Mick Cambrey. I've seen him. That's what I'd come to tell Tommy.'
He walked back to her, placed his papers on the desk. 'Where?'
'I'm not entirely sure if he is the same man. There's a wedding picture of him and Nancy in their bedroom. I saw it when I took the baby up, and I'm almost certain he's the same man I saw coming out of the flat next to mine this morning – I suppose yesterday morning now -in London. I didn't want to say anything earlier because of Nancy.' Deborah fingered her hair. 'Well, I waited to say something because the flat next to mine belongs to a woman. Tina Cogin. And she seems to be… Of course, I couldn't say for certain, but from the way she talks and dresses and makes allusions to her experiences with men… The impression I got…'
'She's a prostitute?'
Deborah told the story quickly: how Tina Cogin had overheard their row in London; how she had appeared with a drink for Deborah, one that she herself claimed to use after her sexual encounters with men. 'But I didn't have a chance to talk to her much because Sidney arrived and Tina left.'
'What about Cambrey?'
'It was the glass. I still had Tina's glass and I hadn't thought about returning it till this morning.'
She'd seen Cambrey as she approached Tina's door, Deborah explained. He came out of the flat, and realizing that she was actually in the presence of one of Tina's 'clients' Deborah hesitated, unsure whether to give the glass over to the man and ask him to return it to Tina, whether to walk on by and pretend she didn't notice him, whether to return to her own flat without a word. He had made the decision for her by saying good morning.
'He wasn't embarrassed at all,' Deborah said ingenuously.
St James reflected upon the fact that men are rarely embarrassed about their part in a sexual liaison, but he didn't comment. 'Did you talk to him?'
'I just asked him to give the glass to Tina and to tell her I was off to Cornwall. He asked should he fetch her, but I said no. I didn't actually want to see her with him. It did seem so awkward, Simon. I wondered whether he would put his arm round her or kiss her goodbye? Would they shake hands?' Deborah shot him a fleeting smile. 'I don't handle that sort of thing well, do I? Anyway, he went back into the flat.'
'Was the door unlocked?'
Deborah glanced away, her expression thoughtful. 'No, he had a key.'
'Had you seen him before? Or just that once?'
'Just then. And a moment later. He went into the flat and spoke to Tina.' She flushed. 'I heard him say something about red-headed competition in the hallway. So he must have thought… Well, he really couldn't have. He was probably only joking. But she must have led him to believe that I was on the game because when he came out he said that Tina wanted me to know she'd take care of my gendemen callers while I was gone. And then he laughed. And he looked me over, Simon. At first I thought he'd taken Tina seriously, but he winked and grinned and it just seemed his way.' Deborah appeared to go back through what she had said, for her face brightened as she drew a conclusion from the facts. 'Then, she's probably not a prostitute, is she? If Mick had a key to her flat… Prostitutes don't generally give out keys, do they? I mean, s'pose one man stops by while another…' She gestured futilely.
'It would create an awkward situation.'
'So perhaps she isn't a prostitute. Could he be keeping her, Simon? Or even hiding her? Protecting her from someone?'
'Are you sure it was Mick you saw?'
'I think it was. If I got another look at a photograph, I could be certain. But I remember his hair because it was dark auburn, just exactly the shade I always wished mine might be. I remember thinking how unfair that such a colour should be wasted on a man who probably didn't treasure it nearly as much as I would have done.'
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 recognizes 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'11 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.'