Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

Penellin said, 'Edward, you've heard about Mick?'

'I've come to talk to you about it.'

Nancy gripped the newel post of the stairway. 'To Dad? Why? He knows nothing about this.'

'I've a few questions, John,' Boscowan said.

'I don't understand.' But Penellin's tone was an admission that he understood only too well.

'May I come in?'

Penellin glanced into the sitting room, and Boscowan followed his gaze to see the others gathered there. 'Still here, my lord?' he asked.

'Yes. We were…' Lynley hesitated. Waiting for John to come home asked to be spoken, an inadvertent accusation he would not make.

'Dad knows nothing,' Nancy repeated. 'Dad, tell him you know nothing about Mick.'

'May I come in?' Boscowan asked once more.

'Nancy and the baby,' Penellin said. 'They're both here. May we talk in Penzance? At the station?'

Requesting a different location wasn't a suspect's right. And that John Penellin was a suspect was illustrated in Boscowan's next words.

'Have you a solicitor you'd like to ring?'

'A solicitor?' Nancy shrilled.

'Nance. Girl. Don't.'

Although Penellin reached for his daughter, she flinched away. 'Dad was here.'

Boscowan shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. 'I'm sorry, Nancy. Neighbours saw him at your cottage at half-past nine. Others heard an argument as well.'

'He was here. I spoke to him after the interval. Dad, tell him I spoke to you after the interval.' She grabbed her father's arm, shaking it doggedly.

Her father loosened her fingers. 'Let me go, lass. Stay here. Take care of Molly. Nancy, wait for Mark.'

Boscowan didn't miss the exigent quality of Penellin's final direction to his daughter. 'Mark's not here?'

Penellin replied, 'I expect he's out with friends. In St Ives or St Just. You know how young men are.' He patted Nancy's hand. 'I'm ready, then, Edward. Let's be off

He nodded to the others and left the lodge. A moment later, Boscowan's car purred to life. The sound amplified briefly as he reversed down the main drive, then faded altogether as they headed towards Penzance.

Nancy spun towards the sitting room. 'Help him!' she cried to Lynley. 'He didn't kill Mick. You're a policeman. You can help. You must.' Uselessly she twisted the front of her house dress in her hands.

Even as he went to her side, Lynley reflected upon how little he could actually do to help. He had no jurisdiction in Cornwall. Boscowan seemed a highly capable man, one unlikely ever to need assistance from New Scotland Yard. Had Constable Parker been in charge of the case, the Met's ultimate involvement would not have been long in doubt. But Parker wasn't in charge. And since Penzance CID looked perfectly competent the investigation had to remain in their hands. However, he still wanted to say something, even if the only possible result was that form of purgation which comes from reliving the worst part of a nightmare.

'Tell me what happened tonight.' He led her back to the rocking-chair. Deborah rose from her place and covered Nancy's shoulders with a blanket that lay on the back of the couch.

Nancy stumbled through the story. She'd gone to do the drinks for the play, leaving the baby with Mick. Mick had been working at the sitting room desk, getting ready to do the pay envelopes for the newspaper staff. She'd placed Molly in the playpen nearby. She'd left them at seven o'clock.

'When I got back to the cottage, I could hear Molly crying. I was angry that Mick would let her go ignored. I shouted at him as I opened the door.'

'The door was unlocked?' St James asked.

It was, she told them.

'You didn't notice Mick's body?'

She shook her head and clutched the blanket closer round her thin shoulders. One elbow stuck out. It was bony and red. 'The sitting-room door was closed.'

'And, when you opened it, what did you notice at first?'

'Him. Mick. Lying…' She gulped for a breath. 'Then all round him the papers and notebooks and such.'

'As if the room had been searched,' St James said. 'Did Mick ever work on stories at home?'

Nancy rubbed her hand along the nap of the blanket and nodded a bit too eagerly. 'Often, yes. At the computer. He wouldn't want to go back to the office after dinner, so he'd work a bit at home. He kept lots of notes for his stories at the cottage. "Sort through this lot, Mickey," I'd tell him. "We must throw some things away." But he didn't like to because he never knew when he'd need to look up some little detail in a notebook or a journal or his diary. "Can't toss it out, Nance," he'd tell me. "The first thing I throw away will be exactly what I need." So there were always papers. Scraps of this and that. Notes on paper napkins and on matchbook covers. It was his way. Lots of notes. Someone must have wanted… or the money. The money. We mustn't forget that.'

It was a difficult recital to listen to. Although the facts seemed relevant – the presence of material on the floor, the evidence of a hasty search – it did not appear that their connection to Mick Cambrey's profession was foremost on his wife's mind, no matter her attempt to make it seem so. Rather, she appeared to be concerned with an entirely different matter connected to the search.

She verified this by concluding with, 'You know, I did talk to Dad after the interval. Perhaps at half-past ten. From a call box.'

No-one replied. Despite the room's warmth, Nancy's legs shook, causing the blanket that covered them to tremble. 'I telephoned. I spoke to Dad. He was here. Lots of people must've seen me make the call. Ask Mrs Swann. She knows I spoke to Dad. He was here. He said he'd not been out all evening.'

'But, Nancy,' Lynley said, 'your father was out. He wasn't here when I phoned. He only just walked in a few minutes after we did. Why are you lying? Are you afraid of something?'

'Ask Mrs Swann. She saw me. In the call box. She can tell you-'

A blast of rock-and-roll music shattered the mild night noises outside the house. Nancy leapt to her feet.

The front door opened and Mark Penellin entered. A large portable stereo rode upon his shoulder, blaring out 'My Generation', night-time nostalgia with a vengeance. Mark was singing along, but he stopped in mid-phrase when he saw the group in the sitting room. He fumbled incompetently with the knobs. Roger Daltrey roared even louder for an instant before Mark mastered the volume and switched the stereo off.

'Sorry.' He placed the unit on the floor. It had left an indentation in the soft calfskin jacket he wore and, as if he knew this without looking, he brushed his fingers against the material to rejuvenate it. 'What's going on? What're you doing here, Nance? Where's Dad?'

In conjunction with everything that had gone before, both her brother's sudden appearance at the lodge and his questions seemed to destroy the inadequate defences which Nancy had raised to avoid the reality of her father's behaviour that night. She fell back into the rocking-chair.

'It's your fault!' she cried. 'The police have come for Dad. They've taken him and he'll say nothing because of you.' She began to cry, reaching for her handbag which lay on the floor. 'What're you going to do to him next, Mark? What'll it be? Tell me.' She opened her handbag and began fumbling through it, pulling out a crumpled tissue as she sobbed, 'Mickey. Oh, Mick.'

Still at the doorway to the sitting room, Mark Penellin swallowed, looking at each of them in turn before returning his gaze to his sister. 'Has something happened to Mick?'

Nancy continued to weep.

Mark brushed back his hair. He ran his knuckles down his jawline. He brought their worst fears to light. 'Nancy, had Dad done something to Mick?'

She was out of the chair, her handbag flying, its contents spraying across the floor.