Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

'But not Saturday night?'

'He said he thought he could sleep better in his own room.'

'Did he dress?'

'Did he…? Yes, he dressed.' She drew the conclusion herself. 'So he was meeting Peter. Because why would he have dressed when his own room was right across the hail? And he did dress, Simon. His shoes and socks, his trousers and shirt. Everything but his tie.' She clenched at the material of her skirt. 'Peter's bed wasn't slept in. I heard that this morning. Justin didn't fall. You know he didn't fall.'

St James didn't argue with her. He reflected upon the possibilities suggested by the simple act of donning clothes. If Peter Lynley had wanted to have an innocent conversation with Brooke, it would have been more sensible for them to have had it somewhere in the house. If, on the other hand, he had wanted to be rid of Brooke, far wiser to do it in a location where it would look like an accident. But, if that were the case, why on earth would Justin agree to meet Peter anywhere alone?

'Sid, it doesn't make sense. Justin wasn't a fool. Why would he agree to meet Peter at the cliff? And in the middle of the night? After his conversation with Tommy, for all he knew, Peter was out for his blood.' Then he thought about Friday afternoon's scene on the beach. 'Unless, of course, Peter got him down there on false pretences. With some sort of bait.'

'What?'

'Sasha?'

'That's absurd.'

'Then, cocaine. They'd gone to Nanrunnel looking for it. Perhaps that was the carrot Peter used.'

'It wouldn't have worked. Justin wasn't going to use any longer. Not after what happened between us on the beach. He apologized for that. He said he was off it. He wouldn't use again.'

St James could not keep the scepticism from his face. He saw the hard edge of his sister's features begin to disintegrate as she read his reaction.

'He promised, Simon. You didn't know him as I did. You wouldn't understand. But if he promised when we were making love… especially when… There were certain things he liked me to do.'

'My God, Sidney.'

She began to cry. 'Of course. My God, Sidney. What else can you say? Why should you of all people even begin to understand? You've never been close to feeling anything for anyone. Why on earth should you? After all, you've got science. You don't have to feel passion. You can feel busy instead. With projects and conferences and lectures and the guidance of all those future pathologists who come to worship at your knee.'

Here was the need to wound that he'd recognized before. Still, it came out of nowhere. He hadn't expected it. And, whether the attack was accurate or not, he found that he could not summon a response.

Sidney drew a hand across her eyes. 'I'm leaving. Just tell little Peter when you find him that I have lots to discuss with him. Believe me, I can hardly wait for the opportunity.'

Trenarrow's house was easy enough to find, for it sat just off the upper reaches of Paul Lane on the outskirts of the village, the largest structure within view. By the standards of Howenstow, it was a humble enough dwelling. But in comparison to the cottages that stacked one upon the other on the hillside beneath it the villa was very grand, with broad bay windows overlooking the harbour and a stand of poplar trees acting like a backdrop against which the house's ashlar walls and white woodwork were displayed to some considerable effect.

With Cotter at the wheel of the estate Austin, St James saw the villa at once as they came over the last rise of the coastal road and began their descent into Nanrunnel. They wound past the harbour, the village shops, the tourist flats. At the Anchor and Rose, they made the turn into Paul Lane. Here debris from yesterday's storm littered the pitted asphalt: rubbish from cottage dustbins, assorted food wrappers and tins, a wrecked sign that once had advertised cream teas. The road twisted on itself and climbed above the village where it was strewn with broken foliage from hedges and shrubs. Pools of rainwater reflected the sky.

A narrow drive branching north off Paul Lane was discreedy marked The Villa. Fuchsias lined it, drooping heavily over a drystone wall. Behind this, a terraced garden covered much of the hillside where a carefully plotted, meandering path led upwards to the house, through beds of phlox and nemesia, bellflowers and cyclamen.

The drive ended in a curve round a hawthorn tree, and Cotter parked beneath it, a few yards from the front door. A Doric-columned portico sheltered this, with two urns of vermilion pelargoniums standing on either side.

St James studied the front of the house. 'Does he live here alone?' he asked.

'Far's I know,' Cotter replied. 'But a woman answered the phone when I rang.'

'A woman?' St James thought of Tina Cogin and Trenarrow's telephone number in her flat. 'Let's see what the doctor can tell us.'

Their knock was not answered by Trenarrow. Rather, a young West Indian woman opened the door, and from the expression on Cotter's face when she first spoke, St James knew he could dismiss Tina Cogin as the woman who had answered the phone. The mystery of her whereabouts, it seemed, would not be solved through the expediency of her clandestine presence at Trenarrow's house.

'Doctor see nobodies here,' the woman said, looking from Cotter to St James. The words sounded rehearsed, perhaps frequently and not always patiendy said.

'Dr Trenarrow knows we're coming to see him,' St James said. 'It's not a medical call.'

'Ah.' She smiled, showing large white teeth which protruded like ivory against her coffee skin. She held wide the door. 'Then, in with you, man. He's looking at his flowers. Every morning in the garden before he goes off to work. Same thing. I'll fetch him for you.'

She showed them to the study where, with a meaningful look at St James, Cotter said, 'I could do with a walk round the garden myself,' and followed the woman from the room. Cotter would, St James knew, find out what he could about who she was and why she was there.

Alone, he turned to look at the room. It was the sort of study he particularly liked, with air faintly scented by the smell of the old leather chairs, bookcases filled to absolute capacity, a fireplace with coals newly laid and ready to be lit. A desk sat in the large bay window overlooking the harbour but, as if the view would be a distraction from work, it faced into the room, rather than outwards. An open magazine lay upon it with a pen left in the centre crease as if the reader had been interrupted in the middle of an article. Curious, St James went to examine it, flipping it closed for a moment.

Cancer Research, an American journal, with a photograph of a white-coated scientist on its cover. She leaned against a working area on which sat an immense electron microscope. Scripps Clinic, La Jolla was printed beneath the photograph, along with the phrase Testing the Limits of Bio-Research.

St James went back to the article, a technical treatise on an extra-cellular matrix protein called proteoglycans. Despite his own extensive background in science, it made little sense to him.

'Not quite what one would call light reading, is it?'

St James looked up. Dr Trenarrow stood in the doorway. He was wearing a well-tailored three-piece suit. He'd pinned a small rosebud to its lapel.

'It's certainly beyond me,' St James replied.

'Any word of Peter?'

'Nothing yet, I'm afraid.'

Trenarrow shut the door and gestured St James into one of the room's wing-back chairs.

'Coffee?' he asked. 'I've been discovering it's one of Dora's few specialities.'

'Thank you, no. She's your housekeeper?'

'Using the term in the loosest possible fashion.' He smiled briefly, without humour. The remark seemed largely an effort to be light-hearted, an effort he dismissed with his very next words. 'Tommy told us last night. About Peter seeing Mick Cambrey the night he died.