Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

She faltered. The fact that Lynley had not answered her question seemed to disconcert her at the same time as it acted as presage of an unpleasantness to come. She drew the rake to her side, holding it upright.

'Did Mark fix the shutters for you last night?' Lynley asked.

'The shutters?'

Her two simple words were verification enough. 'Is he in the house?' St James asked.

'I think he's just gone out. He said he was planning to-'

A sudden blast of rock-and-roll music negated her words. She brought a fist to her lips.

'We've spoken to your father,' Lynley told her. 'You've no need to protect Mark any longer. It's time he told the truth.'

Leaving her in the garden, they went into the house, following the sound of drums and guitars in the direction of the kitchen where Mark sat at the table, making adjustments to his portable stereo. As he had done in the early hours of Saturday morning following Mick Cambrey's death, St James noted the details about the boy. Then, they had suggested the possibility of his taking money from Gull Cottage upon discovering his brother-in-law's death. Now they acted in concert to corroborate his part in the cocaine partnership: a heavy gold chain round his right wrist, a new watch round his left, designer blue jeans and shirt, snakeskin boots, the stereo itself. Not one of them was the sort of possession one would purchase on the salary his father paid him to work round the estate.

On the table sat a half-eaten ham sandwich, a bottle of beer, a bag of vinegar crisps. This latter provided the air with a pungent smell. Mark dipped into it for a handful, looked up, and saw the other two men in the doorway. He turned down the volume on the stereo and got to his feet, dropping the crisps onto his plate.

'What's wrong?' he asked. 'Is it Peter? Is he all right?' He ran the heel of his hand against his temple as if to straighten his hair. It was neatly combed as usual.

'We've not come about my brother,' said Lynley.

Mark frowned. 'I haven't heard a thing. Nance phoned your mother. She said there was no word. Have you…? Is there something…?' He held out a hand, a gesture of camaraderie.

St James wondered how Lynley would get past the boy's posturing. He had his answer when his friend swept the stereo from the table so forcefully that it crashed against the kitchen cupboards and gouged the wood.

'Hey!'

As Mark began to move, Lynley came round the table. He pushed the boy into his chair. Mark's head snapped back against the wall.

'What the hell-'

'You can talk to me or Penzance CID. Make up your mind.'

Quick comprehension darted across the boy's face. He rubbed his collarbone. Nevertheless, he merely said, 'You're daft.'

Lynley tossed the Talisman sandwich wrapper onto the table. 'What's it to be? Make up your mind.'

Mark's expression was unchanging as he glanced at the paper, at the numbers, the notations, at his own initials. He snorted a laugh. 'You're in heavy shit over Brooke's death, aren't you? You'd do anything to keep the police from looking into that. You're trying to keep the coppers off Peter.'

'We're not here about Peter.'

'No. I dare say. Let's not talk about Peter or you might hear the truth. Well, you can't have me arrested for anything. You don't have a shred of evidence.'

'You took the Daze from Lamorna. You abandoned her off Penberth. My guess is that the reason why is sitting right here in this house. Or perhaps in the mill. How does felony theft sound? What about smuggling? Possession of narcotics? We can start with any one of them. I'll put my money on Boscowan's willingness to listen to just about anything to get your father out of the nick. I rather doubt he's as sentimental about you. So shall I give him a ring? Or shall we talk?'

Mark looked away. On the floor his stereo was giving off bursts of static.

'What do you want to know?' The question was sullen.

'Who's dealing the cocaine?'

'Me. Mick.'

'You've been using the mill?'

'It was Mick's idea. He'd spent most of last spring boffing Nancy in the loft. He knew no-one ever went there.'

'And the Daze?'

'Free transport. No overheads. Nothing to cut into the profits.'

'What profits? Nancy claims they have no money.'

'We turned the take around from the first go last March and reinvested in another buy. A bigger one this time.' A smile pulled at his mouth. He didn't bother to conceal it. 'Thank God the stuff was wrapped in oilskins. Otherwise, it'd be sitting in Penberth Cove at the moment, making the fish as happy as hell to be there. As it is' – he dumped more crisps on his plate – 'Mick'll miss out on the profits.'

'Convenient for you that he's dead.'

Mark was unimpressed. 'Am I supposed to blanch with fear at the implication? Oops, the poor berk's just given himself a motive for murder?' He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed it deliberately, and washed it down with a swallow of beer. 'Let's avoid the drama. I was in St Ives Friday night.'

'No doubt with someone who'd be only too happy to step forward and confirm that fact?'

Mark maintained his bravado. 'Sure. No problem.'

'Honour among drug-dealers?'

'A man needs to know his friends.'

'Peter was one once.'

Mark studied his fingernails. The stereo squawked. St James switched it off.

'Did you sell to my brother?' 'When he had the money.' 'When did you last see him?'

'I've told you before. There's no change in the story. Friday afternoon at the cove. He phoned the lodge earlier and said he wanted to see me. I had to hunt the bloody ass down as it was. Jesus, I don't even know why I bothered.'

'What did he want?'

'What he always wanted. Dope on credit.' 'Did he know how you were using the mill?' Lynley asked.

Mark gave a sardonic laugh in response. 'D'you think I'd tell him that and have him slobbering down my neck for free samples every time I was working there? We may be old mates, but I like to think I know where to draw the line.'

'Where is he?' Lynley asked. Mark was silent.

Lynley crashed his fist on to the table top. 'Where is he? Where's my brother?'

Mark pushed his arm away. 'I don't know, all right? I bloody don't know. Dead with a needle in his arm, most likely.'

'Tommy.'

St James' admonition came too late. Lynley dragged the boy to his feet. He threw him against the wall, pressed his arm against his larynx and held him there.

'You piece of filth,' he said. 'God damn you, I'll be back.' He dropped him abruptly and left the room.

Mark stood for a moment, rubbing his throat. He brushed at the collar of his shirt as if to remove any trace of Lynley's quick assault. Stooping, he picked up his stereo, put it back on the table, and began to play with its knobs. St James left him.

He found Lynley in the car, his hands gripping the wheel. Nancy and her baby were gone.

'We're their victims.' Lynley stared at the drive that wound towards the great house. Shadows dappled it. A breeze danced sycamore leaves across the lane. 'We're all of us their victims. I as much as anyone, St James. No. More than anyone, because I'm supposed to be a professional.'

St James saw the conflicts that confronted his friend.

The ties of blood, the call of duty. Responsibility to family, betrayal of self. He waited for Lynley, always at heart an honest man, to put his struggle into words.

'I should have told Boscowan that Peter was at Gull Cottage on Friday night. I should have told him that Mick was alive after John left him. I should have told him about the row. About Brooke. About everything. But, God help me, I couldn't, St James. What's happening to me?'

'You're trying to deal with Peter, with Nancy, with John, with Mark. With everyone, Tommy.'

'The walls are crashing in.'