A Suitable Vengeance

by Elizabeth George

  'Would oncozyme have come into it as well?'

  'Oncozyme? You know ...' A shuffling of papers. The sound of a watch alarm going off. It was quickly silenced. 'Damn. Just a moment.' A swallow of tea. 'It must have come up. As I recall, we were discussing an entire range of new treatments, everything from monoclonal antibodies to advances in chemotherapy. Oncozyme fits into the latter category. I doubt that I would have passed it by.'

  'So you knew about oncozyme yourself when Mick interviewed you?'

  'Everyone at Islington knew about oncozyme. Bury's Baby, we called it. The branch lab at Bury St Edmunds developed it.'

  'How much can you tell me about it?'

  'It's an anti-oncogene. It prohibits DNA replication. You know what cancer is all about - cells reproducing, killing one off with a large dose of the body's own functions gone completely haywire. An anti-oncogene puts an end to that.'

  'And the side effects of an anti-oncogene?'

  'That's the problem, isn't it? There always are side effects to chemotherapy. Hair loss, nausea, weight loss, vomiting, fever.'

  'All of those are standard, though, aren't they?'

  'Standard but none the less inconvenient. Often dangerous. Believe me, Mr St James, if someone could develop a drug without side effects, the scientific world would be dazzled indeed.'

  'What if a drug was found to be an effective anti-oncogene but, unfortunately, it was also the cause of more serious side effects?'

  'What sort do you have in mind? Renal dysfunction? Organ failure? Something like that?'

  'Perhaps something worse. A teratogen, for example.'

  'Every form of chemotherapy is a teratogen. Under normal circumstances it would never be used on a pregnant woman.'

  'Something else, then?' St James considered the possibilities. 'Something that might damage progenitor cells?'

  There was an extremely long pause which Dr Trenarrow finally ended by clearing his throat. 'You're suggesting a drug causing long-range genetic defects in both men and women. I don't see how that's possible. Drugs are too well tested. It would have come out somewhere. In someone's research. It couldn't have been hidden.'

  'Suppose it was,' St James said. 'Would Mick have been able to stumble upon it?'

  'Perhaps. It would have shown up as an irregularity in the lest results. But where would he have got test results? Even if he went to the London office, who would have given them to him? And why?'

  St James thought he knew the answer to both those questions.

  Deborah was eating an apple when she entered the study ten minutes later. She had cut the piece of fruit into eighths which she'd then arranged on a plate with half a dozen unevenly sliced pieces of Cheddar cheese. Because food was involved in her current activity, Peach and Alaska - the household dog and cat - attended closely at her heels. Peach kept a vigilant eye hovering between Deborah's face and the plate, while Alaska, who found overt begging beneath his feline dignity, leaped on to St James' desk and strolled through the pens, pencils, books, magazines and correspondence. He settled comfortably next to the telephone as if expecting a call.

  'Finished with your pictures?' St James asked. He was sitting in his leather armchair where he had spent the time following his conversation with Trenarrow by brooding into the unlit fireplace.

  Deborah sat opposite him, cross-legged on the sofa. She balanced the plate of cheese and apple on her knees. A large chemical stain ran from calf to ankle on her blue jeans, and in several places her white shirt bore spots of damp from her work in the darkroom. 'For the moment. I'm taking a break.'

  'Came up rather suddenly, your need to print pictures. Wouldn't you say?'

  'Yes,' she said placidly. 'Indeed, I would.'

  'Using them for a show?'

  'Possibly. Probably.'

  'Deborah.'

  'What?' She looked up from her plate, brushed hair from her forehead. She held a wedge of cheese in her hand. 'Nothing.'

  'Ah.' She pinched off a bit of the cheese, offered it with a portion of apple to the dog. Peach gobbled down both, wagged her tail, barked for more.

  'After you left, I broke her of begging like that,' St James said. 'It took me at least two months.'

  In answer, Deborah gave Peach another bit of cheese. She patted the dog's head, tugged her silky ears, and then looked up at him. Her expression was guileless. 'She's just asking for what she wants. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?'

  He could feel the provocation behind the words. He pushed himself out of his chair. There were phone calls to make about Brooke, about oncozyme; there was checking to do into his sister's whereabouts; there were at least a half a dozen studies unrelated to the Cambrey-Brooke-Nifford deaths awaiting his attention in the lab and a half a dozen other reasons for leaving the room. But, instead of doing so, he stayed.

  'Would you get that blasted cat off my desk?' He walked to the window.

  Deborah went to the desk, scooped up the cat, deposited him on St James' chair. 'Anything else?' she asked as Alaska began enthusiastically kneading the leather.

  St James watched the cat curling up for a lengthy stay. He saw Deborah's mouth twitch with a smile. 'Minx,' he said.

  'Brat,' she responded.

  A car door slammed in the street. He turned to the window. 'Tommy's here,' he said, and Deborah went to open the front door.

  St James could see that Lynley bore no good news. His gait was slow, without its natural grace. Deborah joined him outside, and they spoke for a moment. She touched his arm. He shook his head, reached for her.

  St James left the window. He went to a bookshelf. He chose a volume at random, pulling it down and opening it at random as well. 'I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul,' he read. 'In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows . . .' Good God. He snapped the book shut. A Tale of Two Cities. Great, he thought wryly.

  He shoved the book back among the others and considered making another selection. Far From the Madding Crowd looked promising, a good bout of psychic suffering with Gabriel Oak.

  '.. . spoke to Mother afterwards,' Lynley was saying as he and Deborah came into the study. 'She didn't take it well.'

  St James greeted his friend with a small whisky which Lynley accepted gratefully. He sank into the sofa. Deborah perched next to him on the sofa's arm, her fingertips brushing his shoulder.

  'Brooke appears to have been telling the truth,' Lynley began. 'Peter was in Gull Cottage after John Penellin left. He and Mick had a row.' He shared the information which he'd gathered from his interview with Peter. He added the Soho story as well.

  'I did think that might have been Cambrey with Peter in the alley,' St James said when Lynley had finished. 'Sidney told me about seeing them. The description seemed to fit,' he added, answering the unasked question that immediately appeared on Lynley's face. 'So if Peter recognized Cambrey there's a good chance Justin Brooke did as well.'

  'Brooke?' Lynley queried. 'How? He was there with Sidney in the alley, I know, but what difference does that make?'

  'They knew each other, Tommy. Brooke worked for Islington.' St James related his own information about Brooke's position at Islington-London, about Cambrey's visits to Department Twenty-Five, about oncozyme and the potential for a story.

  'How does Roderick Trenarrow fit into all this, St James?'

  'He's the prime mover. He gave Mick Cambrey some key information. Cambrey used it to pursue a story. That appears to be the extent of his involvement. He knew about oncozyme. He mentioned it to Mick.'

  'And then Mick died. Trenarrow was in the vicinity that night.'

  'He has no motive, Tommy. Justin Brooke did.' St James explained. His theory - the product of those minutes brooding alone in the study - was simple enough. It involved the promise of cocaine in exchange for key background information from an unnamed source that would evolve into an important story about a poten
tially dangerous drug. A deal between Cambrey and Brooke that had somehow gone bad, coming to a head on the night Brooke had gone with Peter to Gull Cottage.

  'But that doesn't account for Brooke's death.'

  'Which the police have said from the first was an accident.'

  Lynley took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket, staring down at it thoughtfully before he spoke. He flipped open his lighter but did not use it at once. 'The pub,' he said. 'Peter said Brooke wasn't in the Anchor and Rose on Friday night, St James.'

  'After he left Gull Cottage?'

  'Yes. Peter went to the pub. He was there at a quarter to ten and beyond. Brooke never showed up.' 'So it fits, doesn't it?'

  Deborah spoke. 'Did Justin Brooke know Peter was taking him to see Mick Cambrey? Did Peter name Mick before they left for the village? Or did he just say it was someone in Nanrunnel?'

  'He must not have known in advance,' St James said. 'He'd hardly have gone had he known Mick Cambrey was the man with the money Peter intended to borrow. He wouldn't have wanted to run the risk of exposure.'

  'It seems that Mick was in more danger of exposure than Justin Brooke,' Deborah said. 'The cocaine, the cross-dressing, his second life in London. God knows what else you've yet to tumble up.'

  Lynley lit his cigarette, spoke with a sigh that expelled a gust of smoke. 'Beyond that, there's Sasha Nifford. If Brooke killed Cambrey and then fell to his death, what happened to Sasha?'

  St James attempted to look noncommittal. He made himself ask, 'What did the Met have to say about Sasha?'

  It was ergotamine and quinine.' Lynley took a white envelope from his inner breast pocket. He handed it to St James. 'She seems to have thought it was heroin.'

  He read the brief report, finding it all at once difficult to assimilate technical information that should have been like a natural second language. Lynley was continuing to speak, giving facts which St James had himself possessed for years.

  'A massive dose constricts all the arteries. Blood vessels rupture in the brain. Death is immediate. But we saw that, didn't we? She still had the needle in her arm.'

  'The police aren't calling it an accident.'

  'Quite. They were still questioning Peter when I left.'

  'But if it wasn't an accident,' Deborah said, 'doesn't that mean . . . ?'

  'There's a second killer,' Lynley concluded.

  St James went to his bookshelves once again. He was sure his movements, jerky and awkward, gave him away.

  'Ergotamine,' he said. 'I'm not entirely sure . . .' He let his voice drift off, hoping for a display of natural curiosity, the reaction typical to a man of science. But, all the time, dread and knowledge were seeping through his skin. He pulled down a medical volume.

  'It's a prescription drug,' Lynley was saying.

  St James flipped through the pages. His hands were clumsy. He was at G and then H before he knew it. He aimlessly read without seeing a word.

  'What's it for?' Deborah asked.

  'Migraine headaches mostly.'

  'Really? Migraine headaches?' St James felt Deborah turn towards him, willed her not to ask. Innocently, she did so. 'Simon, do you take it for your migraines?'

  Of course, of course. She had known he took it. Everyone knew. He never counted the tablets. And the bottle was large. So she had gone to his room. She'd taken what she needed. She'd crushed them. She'd mixed them. She'd created the poison. And she'd handed it over, intending it for Peter, but killing Sasha instead.

  He had to say something to direct them back to Cambrey and Brooke. He read for another moment, nodded as if caught in heavy contemplation, then shut the book.

  'We need to go back to Cornwall,' he said decisively. 'The newspaper office should give us the definite connection between Brooke and Cambrey. Harry was looking for a story right after Mick's death. But he was looking for something sensational: gun-running into Northern Ireland, call girls visiting cabinet ministers. That sort of thing. Something tells me he would have overlooked oncozyme.' He didn't add the fact that leaving London by tomorrow would buy him time, making him unavailable to the police when they came calling to question him about a silver bottle from Jermyn Street.

  'I can manage that,' Lynley said. 'Webberly's been good enough to extend my time off. And it'll clear Peter's name. Will you come as well, Deb?'

  St James saw that she was watching him closely. 'Yes,' she said slowly. Then, 'Simon, is there—?'

  He couldn't allow the question. 'If you'll both excuse me, I've a number of reports to see to in the lab,' he said. 'I've got to make at least some sort of start on them before tomorrow.'

  He hadn't come down for dinner. Deborah and her father had finally taken their meal alone after nine o'clock in the dining room. Dover sole, asparagus, new potatoes, green salad. A glass of wine with the food. A cup of coffee afterwards. They didn't speak. But every few minutes Deborah caught her father glancing her way.

  A division had come into their relationship since her return from America. Where once they had spoken freely to each other, with great affection and trust, now they were wary. Entire subjects were taboo. She wanted it that way. She had been in such a rush to move from the Chelsea house in the first place to avoid a sharing of confidences with her father. For in the long run he knew her better than anyone. And he was the most likely person to push back through the present to examine the past. He had, after all, the most at stake. He loved them both.

  She pushed back her chair and began gathering their plates. Cotter stood as well. 'Glad to have you here tonight, Deb,' he said. 'Old times, seems like. The three of us.'

  'The two of us.' She smiled in what she hoped would be affectionate and dismissive at once. 'Simon didn't come to dinner.'

  'Three of us in the house, I meant,' Cotter said. He handed her the tray from the sideboard. She stacked the plates on it. 'Works too much, does Mr St James. I worry the man'll wear 'imself down to nothing.'

  Cleverly, he'd moved to stand near the door. She couldn't escape without making obvious her desire to do so. And surely her father would pounce upon that. So she co-operated by saying, 'He is thinner, Dad, isn't he? I can see that.'

  'That 'e is.' And then adroitly he took the opening. 'These last three years didn't go easy on Mr St James, Deb. You think they did, don't you? But you've got it wrong.'

  'Well, of course, there were changes in all of our lives, weren't there? I expect he hadn't thought much about my running round the house until I wasn't here to do it any longer. But he got used to it in time. Anyone can see—'

  'You know, luv,' her father interrupted, 'you've never in your life been one to talk false to yourself. I'm sorry to see you start doing it now.'

  'Talk false? Don't be ridiculous. Why would I do that?'

  'You know the answer. Way I see it, Deb, you and Mr St James both know the answer more'n quite well. All it takes is one o' you to be brave enough to say it and the other brave enough to stop living a lie.'

  He put their wineglasses on the tray and took it from her hands. She had inherited her mother's height, Deborah knew, but she'd forgotten how that only made it easier for her father to look directly into her eyes. He did so now. The effect was disconcerting. It drew a confidence from her when she wanted to avoid giving it.

  'I know how you want it to be,' she said. 'But it can't be that way, Dad. You need to accept it. People change. They grow up. They grow apart. Distance does things to them. Time makes their importance to each other fade away.'

  'Sometimes,' he said.

  ' This time.' She saw him blink rapidly at the firmness of her voice. She tried to soften the blow. 'I was just a little girl. He was like my brother.'

  'He was that.' Cotter moved to one side to let her pass.

  She felt bereft by his reaction. She wanted nothing so much as his understanding but didn't know how to explain the situation in any way that would not destroy the dearest of his dreams. 'Dad, you must see that it's different with Tommy. I'm not a little girl to him. I nev
er was. But to Simon I've always been ... I'll always be . . .'

  Cotter's smile was gentie. 'You've no need to convince me, Deb. No need.' He straightened his shoulders. His tone became brisk. 'At least we need to get some food in the man. Will you take a tray up? He's still in the lab.'

  It was the least she could do. She followed him down the stairs to the kitchen and watched him put together a tray of cheese, cold meats, fresh bread and fruit, which she carried up to the lab where St James was sitting at one of the work tables, gazing at a set of photographed bullets. He held a pencil, but it lay unused between his fingers.

  He'd turned on several lights, high-intensity lamps scattered here and there throughout the sprawling room. They created small pools of illumination within great caverns of shadow. In one of these, his face was largely screened by the darkness.

  'Dad wants you to eat something,' Deborah said from the doorway. She entered the room and set the tray on the table. 'Still working?'

  He wasn't. She doubted that he'd got a single thing done in all these past hours he'd spent in the lab. There was a report of some sort lying next to one of the photographs, but its front page didn't bear even a crease from having been folded back. And although a pad of paper lay beneath the pencil he held, he'd written nothing upon it. So all of this was rote behaviour on his part, a falling back on his work as an act of avoidance.

  It all involved Sidney. Deborah had seen that much in his face when Lady Helen told him she hadn't been able to find his sister. She had seen it again when he had returned to her flat and placed call after call, trying to locate Sidney himself. Everything he had done from that moment - his journey to Islington-London, his discussion with Tommy about Mick Cambrey's death, his creation of a scenario to fit the facts of the crime, his need to get back to work in the lab - all of this was diversion and distraction to escape the trouble that had Sidney at its core. Deborah wondered what St James would do, what he would allow himself to feel, if someone had hurt his sister. Once again, she found herself wanting to help him in some way, giving him a peace of mind that appeared to elude him.