A Suitable Vengeance

The old man nodded and headed straight for the door. He paused at the threshold, however. 'John Penellin got took last night, I hear.'

'Yes. He did.'

Jasper's mouth worked, as if he wished to say more but was hesitant to do so.

'What is it?' Lynley asked.

'He oughtn't take blame for nobody, you ask me,' Jasper said and left them.

'What more does Jasper know?' St James asked when they were alone.

Lynley was staring at the carpet, lost in thought. He roused himself to say, 'Nothing, I should guess. It's just what he feels.'

'About John?'

'Yes. Peter as well. If there's guilt to be assessed, Jasper knows where it should lie.' Lynley had never felt so incapable of either action or decision. It seemed as if his life were spinning out of control and all he could do was watch the various pieces fly haphazardly into space. All he could say was, 'He wouldn't take the boat. Not in this weather. Where would he go? And why?'

He heard St James move and looked up to see the compassion on his face. 'Perhaps he's still somewhere on the estate, Tommy. Perhaps he doesn't even know what's happened and his disappearance is altogether unconnected to Justin Brooke.'

'And to the cameras?'

'To those as well.'

Lynley looked away, to the pictures on the wall, all those generations of Lynleys who fitted the mould, did their crewing at Oxford, and took their places at Howenstow without a single howl of protest.

'I don't believe that St James. Not for a moment. Do you?'

His friend sighed. 'Frankly? No.'

16

'Heavens, to what depths have we managed to slither?' Lady Helen said. She dropped her suitcase, sighed, and let her handbag dangle forlornly from her fingertips. 'Lunching at Paddington Station. Behaviour so utterly reprehensible that I can hardly believe I allowed myself to engage in it.'

'It was your suggestion after all, Helen,' Deborah set her own luggage on the floor and looked round the bed-sitting room with a smile of contentment. It felt unaccountably good to be home, even if home was only a single room in Paddington. At least it was her own.

'I plead utter guilt. But when one is in the absolute throes of starvation, when demise is the probable consequence of even a moment's epicurean snobbery, what is one to do but rush madly towards the first cafeteria that comes into sight?' She shuddered, as if stricken by the recollection of what she'd found heaped upon her luncheon plate 'Can you imagine a more despicable thing to do to a sausage?'

Deborah laughed. 'Would you like a restorative? A cup of tea? I've even got a recipe for a health drink you might like. Tina gave it to me. A pick-me-up, she called it.'

'No doubt "picked up" is just what she needed after an encounter with Mick Cambrey, if his father's to be believed,' Lady Helen said. 'But I'll forgo that pleasure for now, if I may. Shall we pop next door with his picture?'

Deborah pulled it from her shoulder bag and led the

way. The corridor was narrow, lined with doors on both sides, and the floor gave off the sharp scent of a carpet that was relatively new. It also served to muffle their footsteps, and as if this damper upon their approach encouraged other caution Deborah rapped upon Tina's door softly.

'Tina's… well, she's a night owl, I suppose,' she explained to Lady Helen. 'So she may not be up yet.'

That appeared to be the case, as Deborah's knocking brought no response. She tried a second time, a bit louder. And then a third, calling, 'Tina?'

In answer, the door opposite opened and an elderly woman peered out. She wore a large checked handkerchief over her head, tied under her chin like a babushka. It served to cover her hair, which was tightly pinned in what appeared to be an infinitesimal number of grey curls.

'She's not 'ere.' The woman clutched to her chest a thin purple dressing-gown, printed in a design of hideous orange flowers and palmate green leaves that were enough to make one eschew travelling in the tropics for ever. 'Been gone two days.'

'How distressing,' Lady Helen said. 'Do you know where she's gone?'

'I'd like to know, wouldn't I?' the woman said. 'She's borrowed my iron, and I could do with it back.'

'No doubt,' Lady Helen said with complete sympathy as if the woman's manner of dress in the middle of the afternoon – deshabillé with a vengeance – had been provoked solely by the loss of her iron. 'Shall I see if I can get it for you?' She turned to Deborah. 'Who manages the building?'

'There's a caretaker on the ground floor,' Deborah said and added in a low voice, 'But, Helen, you can't-'

'Then, I'll pop down directly, shall I?' She fluttered her fingers and walked to the lift.

The old woman watched their exchange suspiciously.

She eyed Deborah from head to toe. Nervously Deborah smiled, trying to think of a casual remark about the building, the weather, or anything else that might keep the woman from wondering why Lady Helen was so charmingly intent upon fetching an iron for a complete stranger. She gave up the effort when nothing came to mind, retreating to her own flat where Lady Helen joined her in less than ten minutes, in victorious possession of the key to Tina's door.

Deborah was astonished. 'How on earth did you manage it?'

Lady Helen laughed. 'Don't you think I look the smallest bit like Tina's only sister, come all the way from Edinburgh to spend a few days catching up on sororal chitchat?'

'You convinced him of that?'

'It was such a performance, I almost convinced myself. Shall we?'

They returned to the flat. Deborah felt a bit weak at the thought of what Lady Helen clearly proposed to do.

'This can't be legal,' she said. 'Aren't we breaking and entering?'

'Entering perhaps,' Lady Helen replied cheerfully as she inserted the key in the lock without the slightest hesitation. 'But hardly breaking. After all, we've got the key. Ah. Here we are. And not even a squeak to alert the neighbours.'

'I am the neighbours.'

Lady Helen laughed. 'How convenient.'

The flat was identical in size and shape to Deborah's, although it contained more furniture, each piece an indication of considerable expense. No chintz-covered three-piece suite for Tina Cogin; no second-hand tables; no cheap prints on the walls. Instead, gleaming hardwoods filled the room – oak and mahogany, rosewood and birch. Beneath them lay a hand-loomed rug, while above them a tapestry on the wall had the look of having been crafted by an experienced artisan. Clearly, the room's occupant had a penchant for luxury.

'Well,' Lady Helen said as she looked all this over, 'there must be something to be said for her line of work. Ah, there's the iron. Let's not forget to take that with us when we leave.'

'Helen, aren't we leaving now?'

'In a moment, darling. First, just a peep here and there to get a feeling of the woman.' 'But we can't-'

'We'll want something to tell Simon when we phone him, Deborah. As things stand now, if Tina's not back by evening we'll have nothing to report but a knock gone unanswered at her door. What a waste of everybody's energy that would be.'

'What if she walks in on us? Helen! Really.'

Every moment anticipating Tina's return and wondering what on earth they would say to her when she walked in the door and found them making fast and loose with her belongings, Deborah followed Lady Helen into the tiny kitchen and watched in an agony of nerves as she blithely opened the cupboards. There were only two, both containing the barest necessities in the smallest sizes available: coffee, salt, sugar, condiments, a packet of savoury biscuits, a tin of soup, another of grapefruit segments, another of cereal. On one shelf sat two plates, two bowls, two cups and four glasses. On the worktop beneath was a bottle of wine, previously opened and two-thirds full. Beyond a small tin coffee pot, a dented pan and an enamel kettle, the kitchen contained nothing else. And even what there was provided little enough information about Tina Cogin herself. Lady Helen summed it up.