Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

'He said he's on the first floor,' Lynley said and headed for the stairs.

Once covered with a cheap linoleum, they were worn through in the centre to the black backing, and the edges that remained were crusted with a combination of old wax and new dirt. Large, greasy discolourations splodged the stairway walls, which were pockmarked with bolt holes where once a hand-rail had been mounted. Hand-prints covered them, as well as an enormous gravy-like stain which oozed down from an upper floor.

On the landing, a dusty pram tilted on three wheels, surrounded by several sacks of rubbish, two tin pails, a broom and a blackened mop. A gaunt cat, ribs showing and an ulcerated sore in the middle of its forehead, slunk by them as they climbed upwards, assailed by the odour of garlic and urine.

In the uncarpeted first floor corridor, the building came to life. Televisions, music, voices raised in an argument, a baby's sudden wail – the discordant sounds of people going about the daily business of living. This was not the case in Peter's flat, however, which they found at the far end of the corridor where a grimy window admitted a weak shaft of light from the street. The door was shut, but neither closed nor latched, so when Lynley knocked, it swung inwards to reveal a single room whose windows – closed and covered by bedsheets – seemed to entrap the odours of the entire building, mingling them with the stronger stench of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes.

Although the room was not altogether much smaller than the bedsit they had just left in Paddington, the contrast was unnerving. There was virtually no furniture. Instead, three large, stained pillows lay on the floor among discarded newspapers and open magazines. In lieu of either wardrobe or chest of drawers, a single chair held a pile of unfolded clothing which spilled down to four cardboard cartons in which more clothing lay. Up-ended fruit packing crates served as tables, and a shadeless floor lamp provided the room with light.

Lynley said nothing at all as they entered. For a moment, he didn't move from the threshold, as if he were summoning the strength of purpose to shut the door behind them and face the truth.

He pushed the door closed so that nothing further obstructed their line of vision. Against the near wall, a threadbare sofa had been folded out into a bed. On this, a partially shrouded figure lay motionless. On the floor, just beyond the sofa, Peter Lynley was curled into a foetal position, his hands curved round his head.

'Peter!' Lynley went to him, kneeled, cried his name again.

As if roused by the sound, Peter gasped and made a convulsive movement. His eyes focused, found his brother.

'She won't move.' He stuffed part of his T-shirt into his mouth for a moment as if in an attempt to prevent himself from crying. 'I came home and she was there and she won't move.'

'What's happened?' Lynley asked.

'She won't move, Tommy. I came home and she was there and she won't move.'

St James went to the sofa. He removed the sheet which covered most of the figure. Beneath it, Sasha lay naked on her side on the filthy linen with one arm stretched out and one hand dangling from the edge of the bed. Her thin hair fell forward to cover her face, and where her neck was exposed its flesh looked grey with dirt. He put his fingers to her outstretched arm, although even as he did so he knew the exercise was mere rote formality. He'd once been a member of the Met's crime-scene team. This wasn't the first time he'd looked upon a dead body.

He straightened and shook his head at Lynley. The other man came to join him.

St James pushed the fallen hair to one side and moved the arm gently to check for rigor. He took a step back, however, when he saw the hypodermic needle embedded in her flesh.

'Overdose,' Lynley said. 'What's she taken, Peter?'

He went back to his brother. St James remained with the body. The hypodermic, he noticed, was empty, the plunger down, as if she'd mainlined a substance that had lolled her in an instant. It was hard to believe. He looked for some indication of what she had taken to bring about such a death. There was nothing on the packing crate next to the bed, save an empty glass with a tarnished spoon inside it and a residue of white powder on its rim. The bed itself held nothing other than the corpse. He stepped back, looking on the floor between the bed and the crate. And then, with a rush of horror, he saw it.

A silver bottle lay on its side, almost out of sight. It spilled forth a white powder, undoubtedly the same substance which clung to the rim of the glass, the same substance which ended Sasha Nifford's life. Unprepared for the sight, St James felt his heart begin to pound. He felt burned all at once by a sudden heat. He refused to believe it.

The bottle was Sidney's.

'Get control of yourself, Peter,' Lynley was saying to his brother. He took Peter's arm, pulling him to his feet. Peter clung to him, weeping. 'What's she taken?'

St James stared at the bottle. He could hear Sidney's voice with utter clarity. She might have been standing right there in the room. ' We drove him home,'' she had said. 'Squalid little flat in Whitechapel’ And then later, more damning and completely undeniable, '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.'

In the light from the lamp the bottle glinted, winking at him and demanding recognition. He gave it, admitted it without hesitation. For from where he stood St James could see part of the engraving that comprised her initials, and he'd insisted upon the delicacy of that engraving himself because he'd given the bottle to his sister four years ago on her twenty-first birthday.

'You were my favourite brother. I loved you best.'

There was no time. He did not have the luxury in which to consider his various options and weigh the relative morality of each. He could only act or let her face the police. He chose to act, bending, reaching out his hand.

'Good. You've found it,' Lynley said, coming to his side. 'It looks like-' He suddenly seemed to recognize the significance of St James' posture, of his outstretched hand. Certainly, St James thought, from the chill that had rapidly followed the heat in his body, Lynley must have seen something in the pallor of his face. For directly after his words faded away Lynley drew St James back from the bed. 'Don't protect him for my sake,' he said quietly. 'That's finished, St James. I meant what I said in the car. If it's heroin, I can only help Peter by allowing him to face the consequences. I'm going to telephone the Met.' He walked from the room.

Heat returned, a wave of it. St James felt it on his face and in his joints. Oblivious of Peter, who leaned against the wall, weeping into his hands, he moved woodenly to the window. He fumbled behind the bedsheet curtain to open it, only to find that some time in the past it had been painted shut. The room was stifling.

Less than twenty-four hours, he thought. The bottle was marked with the silversmith's identification, a small, fanciful escutcheon worked into its base. It wouldn't take long for the police to trace the piece back to Jermyn Street where he'd bought it. Then it would be a simple matter. They would go through the files and look at orders. These they would compare to the bottle itself. After making some telephone calls to patrons, they would follow up with discreet enquiries at those patrons' homes. The most he could hope for was twenty-four hours.

Dimly, he heard Lynley's voice, speaking into the telephone in the hallway, and, nearer, the sound of Peter's weeping. Above that, the harsh grating of stertorous breathing rose and fell. He recognized it as his own.