A Suitable Vengeance

by Elizabeth George

  He saw St James watching him from the cubicle in which he spoke on the phone. His face looked troubled. Contemplatively, he was pulling at his lip. Whoever he was speaking to was doing much of the talking. Only at long intervals did St James say a few words. When at last he hung up, he spent what seemed like two or three minutes looking down at the phone. He picked it up once as if to make a call, but then replaced the receiver without having done so. At last he came out to rejoin the others.

  'Deborah, can you manage for a bit on your own? Tommy and I need to see to something.'

  She looked from him to Lynley. 'Of course. Shall we go on to the cottage when we've finished here?' 'If you will.'

  Without another word, he headed for the door. Lynley followed. He said nothing on the way down the stairs. Near the bottom, they skirted two children who were running a collection of small metal lorries along the banister. They stepped past the crowded doorway of the Anchor and Rose, stepped into the street. They turned up the collars of their coats against the rain.

  'What is it?' Lynley asked. 'Who was on the phone?'

  'Helen.'

  'Helen? Why on earth—?'

  'She's found out about the list of Cambrey's prospects, Tommy, and about the telephone messages on the machine in his flat.'

  'And?'

  'It seems they all have one thing in common.' 'From the expression on your face, it's not cocaine, I take it.'

  'Not cocaine. Cancer.' St James walked towards Paul Lane, his head bent into the rain.

  Lynley's eyes went to the harbour, to the huddled seabirds in a mass on the quay, protected from harm by their very numbers. He turned from them and looked at the rain-misted hills above the village. 'Where are we going?' he called to his friend.

  St James paused, saying over his shoulder, 'We need to talk to Dr Trenarrow.'

  It hadn't been easy for Lady Helen to uncover the truth that lay behind the list of prospects, St James explained. The first dozen names she tried gave her nothing to go on, and more importantly no piece of leading information upon which she could hang any inquiry at all. The recipient of each one of her phone calls was tight-lipped to begin with, becoming even more so the moment she mentioned the name Michael Cambrey. Considering their reactions, that they had heard of Mick in some fashion or another was a fact beyond doubt. As was their determination to reveal nothing substantial about what their connection to Cambrey was. Had he interviewed them for a story? she would ask. Had he been seeking testimony of some sort? Had he visited their homes? Had he written them letters? No matter which tack she tried, the persona she adopted to try it, or the subject matter she attempted to pursue, they were always one step ahead of her, as if the first person on the list had telephoned the rest and warned them of an impending call. Not even the mention of Cambrey's murder was enough to jar an admission from anyone. Indeed, the few times she tried that as an opening gambit - posing as a reporter seeking information for a feature story on another journalist's death - the result had been an even stonier reticence than her previous fabrications had inspired.

  It was not until she reached the fifteenth name that the direction of these fruitless conversations changed. For the fifteenth name belonged to Richard Graham. And he was dead. As was the sixteenth name, Catherine Henderford. And the seventeenth, Donald Highcroft. As well as the eighteenth, the nineteenth and the twentieth. All of them dead of cancer. Lung, ovarian, liver, intestinal. And all of them dead within the last two months.

  'I went directly back to the first name on the list,' Lady Helen had said. 'Of course, I couldn't phone him myself, so I went to Chelsea and had Cotter do it for me. We invented the name of an organization - Cancer Co-operative, something like that. Checking in to see how the patient was doing, Cotter said. Right down the list. They'd all had cancer. And those that were alive were all in remission, Simon.'

  The two callers who had left their messages on the answering machine in Mick Cambrey's flat had placed their calls about cancer as well. The exception being that they were willing, even eager, to talk to Lady Helen. They had phoned Mick's number in answer to an advertisement that had run for months in The Sunday Times - 'You CAN beat cancer!' - followed by a telephone number.

  'It's my wife,' one of the callers had said when Lady Helen phoned him. 'One gets so desperate. We've tried diets, meditation, prayer, group therapy. Mind over matter. Every kind of drug. When I saw the advert, I thought: What the hell. But no-one returned my call.'

  Because Mick never received it. Because Mick was dead.

  'What was Mick doing, Simon?' Lady Helen had asked at the end of her story.

  The answer was simple. He'd changed from journalist to a merchant of dreams. He was selling hope. He was selling the possibility of life. He was selling oncozyme.

  'He'd learned about oncozyme in his interview with Trenarrow,' St James said to Lynley as they passed the Methodist church on their way up Paul Lane. The wind had picked up. The rain was beading his hair. 'He followed the story to Islington-London where Brooke gave him more details. I should imagine the two of them hatched the scheme between them. It was simple enough - noble, if one disregards the fact that they were probably making a fortune from the effort. They were providing cancer patients with a miracle drug, years before the drug would be legally approved and available for use. Look at the countless terminally ill people with nothing more to hang on to but the hope that something might work. Think of what people get involved with in an attempt to put themselves into remission: macrobiotic diets, laetrile, psychic healers. Mick was taking no risk that there'd be a lack of interest. Nor did he have to worry that people might not be willing to pay whatever price he was asking for the chance of a cure. He had only two problems. The first would be getting his hands on a steady supply of the drug.'

  'Justin Brooke,' Lynley said.

  St James nodded. 'For payments in cash initially. In cocaine later on, I expect. But once Mick had the oncozyme he had to find someone who would administer it. Monitor the dosage. Assess the results. For part of the profits, of course. No-one would take such a risk without some sort of payoff.'

  'Good God. Roderick.'

  'Trenarrow's housekeeper told Cotter that he spends a great deal of time visiting a convalescent home in St Just. I didn't think much of it at the time except Trenarrow himself told me that experimental drugs are often used on terminal patients. Look at how those two pieces of information fit together to explain what's been going on. A small clinic in St Just where Trenarrow sees a select group of patients, filtered his way by Mick Cambrey. An illegal clinic - posing as a very private convalescent home -where people pay a hefty fee to be injected with oncozyme. And then the profits get divided three ways: Cambrey, Brooke and Trenarrow.'

  'Mick's bank book in London?'

  'His share of the pickings.'

  'Then, who killed him? Why?'

  'Brooke. Something must have gone wrong with the deal. Perhaps Mick got greedy. Or perhaps he made a slip of the tongue in Peter's presence that put them all in jeopardy. Perhaps that's the reason Brooke was after Peter.'

  Lynley paused momentarily, gripped St James' arm. 'Peter told me that Mick made a remark. Blast, I can't remember it exactly. Peter threatened to blackmail him about his cross-dressing and about cocaine. But Mick didn't care. He advised Peter to look for another source.

  He said something about people being willing to pay a hell of a lot more to stay alive than to have a secret kept.'

  'And Justin heard that, didn't he? He must have known that Mick was inches away from telling the tale to Peter.'

  'He wanted to leave the cottage. He wanted Peter to leave.'

  'You can see why. Brooke stood to lose everything if Mick started playing fast and loose with their secret. His career, his reputation as a scientist, his job at Islington. He stood to go to gaol if it all came out. He must have returned to the cottage after Peter left. He and Mick must have got into it. Things escalated between them - God knows they were both breaking enough laws to b
e as tightly strung as the devil - and Justin took a swing at him. That did it.'

  'And Trenarrow?' Lynley paused once again opposite the primary school grounds.

  St James looked past him. The stage of the open-air theatre was still set up. Performances of one sort or another would continue through the summer. Now, however, the grounds were sodden by rain. 'Trenarrow knows about everything. I'd wager he's known since the moment he was introduced to Brooke at Howenstow on Saturday night. I should guess he'd never actually seen Brooke before then. Why should he have when Mick was playing the middleman? But the moment he was introduced he must have put together the rest. Mick's death, everything.'

  'But why hold his tongue?'

  St James looked not at Lynley but at the school grounds as he replied. 'You know the answer to that.'

  Lynley gazed up the hill. From where they stood, just the roof of the villa and part of its white cornice showed against the grey sky. 'He faced gaol as well. The clinic, the drug, the payments people made. His career. His research.'

  'And most importantly?' 'He stood to lose my mother.'

  'I expect the payments people made for oncozyme allowed him to buy the villa in the first place.' 'A home he could be proud to offer to her.' 'So he said nothing.'

  They continued their climb. 'What do you suppose he intends now, with Brooke and Cambrey dead?'

  'With Brooke dead, the source of oncozyme is dried up. He'll have to close the clinic in St Just and make do with what he's managed to save from the profits.'

  'And our part in all of this, St James? Do we turn him over to the police? Do we phone his superiors? Do we take the opportunity to ruin him?'

  St James examined his friend. Broad shoulders wet, hair beginning to drip, mouth set in a line. 'That's the hell of this, isn't it, Tommy? That's the irony: to have the foulest wish you've ever possessed granted in spades. Just at the moment when, I expect, you no longer wish it.'

  'Are you leaving it up to me?'

  'We've got Brooke and Cambrey tied together well enough. We've got Mick's visits to Islington, we've got Peter and Justin together at Gull Cottage, we've got Justin's lie about being in the Anchor and Rose afterwards, we've got Justin's use of cocaine. As far as the police need to know, Mick was his supplier, a deal went bad, and Justin killed him. Sasha as well. So, yes. The rest is yours. You're the policeman.'

  'Even if it means letting part of the truth go, letting Roderick go?'

  ‘I’ll not stand in judgement. At the bottom of it, Trenarrow was trying to help people. The fact that they paid him for the help makes it ugly, but at least he was trying to do something good.'

  They made the rest of the climb in silence. As they turned up the drive to the villa, lights went on on the ground floor as if they were expected visitors. Below them, village lights began to shine through the gloom as well, making an occasional nimbus glitter behind glass.

  Dora answered the door. She was dressed for cooking, wrapped round by an enormous red apron that bore smudges of flour on both breasts and along the thighs. More flour powdered the creases of her blue turban, and an additional dusting had greyed one eyebrow.

  'Doctor's in his study,' she said when they asked for him. 'Come in with you. Rain don't do a bit good for bodies out in it.' She led them to the study, rapped on the door, and opened it when Trenarrow answered. 'I bring tea for these good mans,' she said, nodded sharply, and left them.

  Dr Trenarrow got to his feet. He'd been seated behind his desk, in the act of polishing his spectacles. He put them back on his nose. 'Everything's all right?' he asked Lynley.

  'Peter's at the house in London.'

  'Thank God. Your mother?'

  'I think she'd probably like to see you tonight.'

  Behind his spectacles, Trenarrow blinked once. He obviously didn't know what to make of Lynley's remark. He said, 'You're both soaked.' He went to the fireplace and lit the fire, doing it the old-fashioned way by placing a stubby candle beneath the coals.

  St James waited for Lynley to speak. He wondered if this final interview between them would better be held without his presence. Although he'd given lip-service to Lynley's opportunity to make a free decision, he really had no doubt what that decision would be. Still, he knew it would not be easy for his friend to turn a blind eye to Trenarrow's part in the illegal sale of oncozyme, no matter how noble the doctor's motives had been. It would be easier for Lynley to do it alone, but St James' own need to put every detail to rest kept him where he was, listening and noting and prepared to say nothing.

  The burning coal hissed. Dr Trenarrow returned to his desk. St James and Lynley sat in the wing chairs in front of it. Rain made a sound like delicate waves against the windows.

  Dora returned with the tea which she poured, leaving with a gende admonition to 'Mind that you take your med'cine when the time come', which Trenarrow accepted with a dutiful nod.

  When they were alone once again with the fire, the tea and the rain, Lynley spoke. 'We know about oncozyme, Roderick, and the clinic in St Just. About the newspaper advertisement that brought you the patients. About Mick and Justin and the parts they played, Mick filtering the applicants to get those best able to pay for the treatment. Justin supplying the drug from London.'

  Trenarrow pushed fractionally back from the desk. 'Is this an official visit, Tommy?'

  'No.'

  'Then, what—?'

  'Had you met Brooke before Saturday night at Howenstow?'

  'I'd only spoken to him on the phone. But he came here Friday night.' 'When?'

  'He was here when I got back from Gull Cottage.' 'Why?'

  'The obvious reasons. He wanted to talk about Mick.' 'But you didn't report him to the police?' Trenarrow's brow furrowed. He answered simply, 'No.'

  'Yet you knew he'd killed him. Did he tell you why?'

  Trenarrow's eyes moved between the other two men. He licked his lips, gripped the handle of his teacup, and studied its contents. 'Mick wanted to raise the cost of treatment. I'd already opposed him. Evidently, that evening, Justin had as well. They argued about it. Justin lost his temper.'

  'And when you joined us at the cottage did you know Justin Brooke had killed Mick?'

  'I'd not seen Brooke yet. I'd no more idea than you who had done it.'

  'What about the condition of the room and the missing money?'

  'I didn't put it together until I saw Brooke. He was looking for anything that could connect him to Cambrey.' 'And the money?'

  'I don't know. He may have taken it, but he didn't admit to it.'

  'To the killing, however?'

  'Yes. To that.'

  'And the mutilation?'

  'To misdirect the police.'

  'His cocaine use. Did you know about that?'

  'No.'

  'And that Mick dealt in cocaine on the side?' 'Good God, no.'

  St James listened, feeling the vague discomfort of uncertainty. A tantalizing fact danced on the edge of his consciousness, something not quite right that was asking to be noticed.

  The other two men continued talking. Their voices were low, barely much more than a murmur with nothing more at stake than an exchange of information, a straightening-out of details, and a plan for going on. Into the conversation, a sudden noise was interjected, a dim bleeping that came from Trenarrow's wrist. He pressed a tiny button on the side of his watch.

  'Medicine,' he said. 'Blood pressure.'

  He reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a flat silver case, and opened it. It contained a neatly arranged layer of white pills. 'Dora would never forgive me if she came in one morning and found me dead of a stroke.' He popped a pill into his mouth and downed it with tea.

  St James watched him do so, feeling fixed to his chair as every piece of the jigsaw finally fell into place. How it had been done, who had done it, and most of all why. Some in remission, Lady Helen had said, but the rest of them dead.

  Dr Trenarrow lowered his cup, replaced it in the saucer. As he did so, St James curs
ed himself inwardly. He cursed every sign he had overlooked, those details he had missed, and each piece of information he had disregarded because it could not be assigned a convenient place in the puzzle of the crime. Once again, he cursed the fact that his field was science, not interview and investigation. He cursed the fact that his interest lay in objects and what they could reveal about the nature of a crime. Had his interest lain in people, surely he would have seen the truth from the first.

  27

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lynley saw St James lean forward and put his hand on Trenarrow's desk. It was an action that effectively broke into their conversation.

  'The money,' he said.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Tommy, who did you tell about the money?'

  Lynley tried to catch his drift. 'What money?'

  'Nancy said Mick was doing the pay envelopes. She said there was money in the sitting room that evening. You and I discussed it later that night, after she told us about it at the lodge. Who else did you tell? Who else knew about the money?'

  'Deborah and Helen. They were there when Nancy told us. John Penellin as well.'

  'Did you tell your mother?'

  'Of course not. Why on earth would I?'

  'Then, how did Dr Trenarrow know?'

  Lynley realized at once what the question meant. He saw the answer on Trenarrow's face. He fought a battle for professional indifference. He lost it, saying only, 'Jesus God.'

  Trenarrow said nothing. Lynley couldn't think beyond a simple no, recognizing that what his friend had said earlier was coming to pass. His every foul wish of the last fifteen years was about to be granted in absolute spades.

  'What are you saying, St James?' he managed to ask, although he knew the answer without having to hear it.

  'That Dr Trenarrow killed Mick Cambrey. He didn't intend to. They argued. He hit him. Mick fell. He began to haemorrhage. He was dead within minutes.'