Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

A sharp double rap on the door brought Cotter into the room. 'Got what you need,' he said. 'Bit of a surprise, that, as well.' He crossed the room and handed St James the envelope which he'd removed from the estate office

desk during his telephone conversation with Lady Helen Clyde. 'It's Dr Trenarrow's number.'

'Is it?' St James placed his tea cup on the cheveret. He took the envelope and moughtfully turned it in his hands.

'Didn't even need to ring it, Mr St James,' Cotter said. 'Hodge knew whose it was the moment I showed it to him. Seems 'e's rung it enough times over the years.'

'Did you phone the number anyway, to be certain?'

'I did. It's Dr Trenarrow's all right. And 'e knows we're coming.'

'Any word from Tommy?'

'Daze said 'e phoned from Pendeen.' Cotter shook his head. 'He's got nothing.'

St James frowned, wondering about the efficacy of Lynley's plan, one which stubbornly avoided the participation of either coastguard or police. He had headed out before dawn with six men from the surrounding farms to check the coastline from St Ives to Penzance. They were operating two launches, one setting sail from Penzance harbour and the other across the peninsula at St Ives Bay. The boats were small enough to give them fairly good visual access to the shore and fast enough to complete at least a cursory search in relatively few hours. But if that gleaned them nothing a second search would have to be conducted by land. That would take days. And, whether Lynley liked it or not, it could not be orchestrated without the inclusion of the local police.

'I feel done in by this whole flipping weekend,' Cotter commented as he replaced St James' tea cup on the tray that sat on the table next to the bed. 'I'm that glad Deb's gone back to London. Get 'er out o' this mess, is what I say.'

He sounded as if he hoped St James would make a response that would encourage furdier conversation along these lines. St James had no intention of doing so.

Cotter shook out St James' dressing gown and hung it in the wardrobe. He spent a moment straightening the neat row of his shoes. He banged a set of wooden coat hangers together and snapped the locks on the suitcase which sat on the top shelf. Then he burst out with, 'What's to become of the girl? There's no closeness 'mong them. Not a bit, an' you know it. It's not like with you, is it? It's not like your family. Oh, they're rich, bloody rich, but Deb's not drawn to money. You know that well as I do. You know what draws the girl.'

Beauty, contemplation, the colours of the sky, a sudden new idea, the sight of a swan. He knew, had always known. And he needed to forget. His bedroom door opened, promising escape. Sidney entered, but with the wardrobe door obstructing his vision Cotter didn't seem to notice that he and St James were no longer alone.

'You can't say you feel nothing,' Cotter asserted vigorously. 'I c'n see it all over you. I have done for ages, no matter what you say.'

'Am I interrupting something?' Sidney asked.

Cotter swung the wardrobe door home. He looked from St James to his sister, then back to St James.

'I'll see to the car,' he said abruptly, excused himself, and left them alone.

'What was that about?' Sidney asked.

'Nothing.'

'It didn't sound like nothing.' 'It was.' 'I see.'

She remained by the door, the knob beneath her hand. St James felt a stirring of concern at the sight of her. She looked caught somewhere between numb and ill, with blue-black crescents beneath her eyes providing the only colour on her face and her eyes themselves holding no expression, reflecting rather than absorbing the light. She wore a faded denim skirt and an oversized pullover. Her hair looked uncombed.

'I'm off,' she said. 'Daze's taking me to the station.'

What had seemed reasonable only last night seemed out of the question when he saw his sister in the light of day. 'Why don't you stay, Sid? I can take you home myself later on.'

'This is best. I really want to go. It's better this way.'

'But the station will be-'

'I'll take a cab home. I'll be all right.' She turned the knob of the door, as if experimentally. 'I understand Peter's missing,' she said.

'Yes.' St James told her what had happened since he'd taken her to her room the previous morning. She listened without looking at him. As he spoke, he could sense her increasing tension, and he knew that it took its definition from an anger growing out of her comment about Peter Lynley. After the docility which shock had produced in her yesterday, he wasn't prepared for the change even though he knew that her anger was natural, a need to strike out and wound so that someone, somehow, would feel some of her pain. The worst part of a death was always that moment of knowing beyond a doubt that no matter how many people share it – be they family, friends, or even an entire nation – no two people can ever feel it the same way. So it always seems as if one experiences it alone. How much worse for Sidney, who was experiencing it alone, who was the sole mourner for Justin Brooke.

'How convenient,' she said when he'd completed his story.

'What do you mean?' 'I mean he told me.' 'Told you?'

'Justin told me, Simon. Everything. About Peter's being at Mick Cambrey's cottage. About the row Mick and Peter had. He told me. He told me. All right? Am I being clear?' She didn't move beyond the door. Had she done so, had she flung herself into the room, had she begun to tear at curtains and bedclothes, had she dashed the single vase of flowers to the floor, St James would have felt less disturbed. All of those behaviours were decidedly Sidney. This was not. Only her voice gave testimony to the state of her spirit, and even that was only a fraction away from being perfectly controlled. 'I told him that he had to tell you or Tommy,' she went on. 'Once John Penellin was arrested, I told him he had to say something. He couldn't keep quiet. It was his duty, I said. He had to tell the truth. But he didn't want to get involved. He knew he'd be making things bad for Peter. But I insisted. I said, "If someone saw John Penellin at Gull Cottage, then someone probably saw you and Peter as well." Better come forward with the story, I told him, rather than let the police drag it out of some neighbour.' 'Sid-'

'But he was worried because he'd left Peter with Mick. He was worried because Peter was getting wild about the cocaine. He was worried because he didn't know what had happened after he left them. But I convinced him that he had to speak to Tommy. So he did. Now he's dead. And how perfectly convenient that Peter's disappeared just at a moment when we all have so many questions we'd like to put to him.'

St James crossed the room to her and shut the door. 'CID think Justin's death was an accident, Sid. They've nothing at all to suggest it was murder.'

'I don't believe that.'

'Why not?'

'I just don't.'

'Was he with you Saturday night?'

'Of course he was with me.' She flung her head back and stated it like a fine point of honour. 'We made love. He wanted to. He came to me. I didn't ask him. He came to me.'

'What excuse did he give for leaving you afterwards?'

Her nostrils flared. 'He loved me, Simon. He wanted me. We were good together. But you can't accept that, can you?'

'Sid, I don't want to argue about-'

'Can you? Can you?''

Somewhere in the corridor two women were talking, having a mild argument over who would vacuum and who would clean the baths. Their voices grew louder for a moment, then faded away as they descended the stairs.

'What time did he leave you?'

'I don't know. I didn't notice.'

'Did he say anything?'

'He was restless. He said he couldn't sleep. He's like that sometimes. He's been like that before. We make love and he gets all wound up. Sometimes he wants to do it again right away.'