Elizabeth George - A Suitable Vengeance

'What time is it?'

'Just after ten.'

'Ten?

'You've slept since yesterday afternoon. You don't remember?'

'Just bits. Have you been waiting long?' 'A while.'

She saw then that he wore the same clothes he'd had on in Nanrunnel. His face was unshaven, and beneath his eyes his skin was dark and puckered. 'You've been with me all night.'

He didn't reply. He remained at the window, far from the bed. Beyond his shoulder, she could see the sky. Against it, his hair was made gold by the sun.

'I thought I'd fly you back to London this morning. Whenever you're ready.' He indicated the tray. 'This has been sitting here since half past eight. Shall I see about getting you something else?'

'Tommy,' she said. 'Would you…? Is there…?' She tried to search his face, but he kept it averted and it showed no response, so she let her words die.

He put his hands in his pockets and looked out of the window again. 'They've brought John Penellin home.'

She followed his head. 'What about Mark?'

'Boscowan knows he took the Daze. As to the cocaine…' He sighed. 'That's John's decision as far as I'm concerned. I won't make it for him. I don't know what he'll do. He may not be ready to draw the line on Mark yet. I just don't know.'

'You could report him.'

'I could.'

'But you won't.'

'I think it best that it come from John.' He continued gazing out of the window, his head lifted to the sky. 'It's a beautiful day. A good day for flying.'

'What about Peter?' she asked. 'Is he cleared now? Is Sidney?'

'St James thinks Brooke must have got the ergotamine from a chemist in Penzance. It's a prescription drug, but it wouldn't be the first time a chemist slipped something to a customer on the sly. It would have seemed harmless enough. A complaint about a migraine. Aspirin not working. No doctor's surgery open on Saturday.'

'He doesn't think Justin took some of his own pills?'

'He can't think of a reason Brooke would have known he had them. I told him it doesn't really matter at this point, but he wants to clear Sidney thoroughly, Peter as well. He's gone to Penzance.' His voice died off. His recitation was finished.

Deborah felt her throat aching. There was so much tension in his posture. 'Tommy,' she said, 'I saw you on the porch. I knew you were safe. But when I saw the body-'

'The worst part was Mother,' he cut in, 'having to tell Mother. Watching her face and knowing every word I said was destroying her. But she wouldn't cry. Not in front of me. Because both of us know I'm at fault at the heart of this.'

'No!'

'If they'd married years ago, if I'd allowed them to marry-'

'Tommy, no.'

'So she won't grieve in front of me. She won't let me help.'

'Tommy, darling-'

'It was horrible.' He ran his fingers along the window's transom. 'For a moment, I thought he might actually shoot St James. But he put the gun in his mouth.' He cleared his throat. 'Why is it that nothing ever prepares one for a sight like that?'

'Tommy, I've known him all my life. He's like my family. When I thought he was dead-'

'The blood. The brain tissue splattered back against the windows. I think I'll see it for the rest of my life. That and everything else. Like a blasted motion picture, playing into eternity against the back of my eyelids whenever I close my eyes.'

'Oh, Tommy, please,' she said brokenly. 'Please. Come here.'

At that, his brown eyes met hers directly. 'It's not enough, Deb.'

He made the statement so carefully. She heard it, frightened. 'What's not enough?'

'That I love you. That I want you. I used to think that St James was thirty different ways a fool for not having married Helen in all these years. I could never understand it. I suppose I really knew why all along, but I didn't want to face it.'

She ignored his words. 'Shall we use the church in the village, Tommy? Or is London better? What do you think?'

'The church?'

'For the wedding, darling. What do you think?'

He shook his head. 'Not on sufferance, Deborah. I won't have you that way.'

'But I want you,' she whispered. 'I love you, Tommy.'

'I know you want to believe that. God knows I want to believe it myself. Had you stayed in America, had you never come home, had I joined you there, we might have had a fighting chance. But as it is…'

Still he stayed across the room. She couldn't bear the distance. She held out her hand. 'Tommy. Tommy. Please.'

'Your whole life's with Simon. You know it. We both do.'

'No, I…' She couldn't finish the sentence. She wanted to rail and fight against what he had said, but he had pierced through to a truth she had long avoided.

He watched her face for a moment before speaking again. 'Shall I give you an hour until we leave?'

She opened her mouth to pledge, to deny, but at this final moment she could not do so. 'Yes. An hour,' she said.

Lady Helen sighed. 'This moves the definition of tedium beyond my wildest dreams. Tell me again what it's going to prove?'

St James made a third careful fold in the thin pyjama top, lining up the last point of the icepick's entry. 'The defendant claims he was assaulted as he slept. He had only one wound in his side, but we've got three holes, each one stained with his blood. How do you suppose that happened?'

She bent over the garment. It was oddly folded to accommodate the three holes. 'He was a contortionist in his sleep?'

St James chuckled. 'Better yet a liar awake. He stabbed himself and made the holes later.' He caught her yawning. 'Am I boring you, Helen?'

'Not at all.'

'Late night in the company of a charming man?'

'If only that were true. I'm afraid it was the company of my grandparents, darling. Grandfather blissfully snoring away during the triumphal march in Aida. I should have joined him. No doubt he's quite spry this morning.'

'An occasional bow to culture is good for the soul.'

'I loathe opera. If they'd only sing in English. Is it too much to ask? But it's always Italian or French. Or German. German's the worst. And when they run about the stage in those funny helmets with the horns…'

'You're a Philistine, Helen.'

'Card carrying.'

'Well, if you'll behave yourself for another half hour, I'll take you to lunch. There's a new brasserie I've found in the Brompton Road.'

Her face came to life. 'Darling Simon, the very thing! What shall I do next?' She looked round the lab as if seeking new employment, an intention that St James ignored when the front door slammed and a voice called his name.

He shoved away from the work table. 'Sidney,' he said and walked to the door as his sister came dashing up the stairs. 'Where the hell have you been?'

She came into the lab. 'Surrey first. Then Southampton,' she replied as if they were the most logical destinations in the world. She dropped a mink jacket onto a stool. 'They've got me doing another line of furs. If I don't get a different assignment soon, I don't know what I'll do. Modelling the skins of dead animals lies somewhere between absolutely unsavoury and thoroughly disgusting. And they continue to insist I wear nothing underneath.' Leaning over the table, she examined the pyjama top. 'Blood again? How can you endure it so near to lunch-time? I haven't missed lunch, have I? It's hardly noon.'

She opened her shoulder bag and began to dig through it. 'Now, where is it? Of course, I understand why they insist on some naked skin, but I've hardly the bosom for it. It's the suggestion of sensuality, they tell me. The promise, the fantasy. What rubbish. Ah, here it is.' She produced a tattered envelope which she handed to her brother.

'What is it?'