A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,109

an ancient desk, the most recent edition of the Spokesman lay open to the editorial page. Mick's contribution had been heavily circled in red. On the wall opposite, a map of Great Britain hung. Cambrey directed St. James to this.

"I kept thinking about those numbers," he said. "Mick was systematic about things like that. He wouldn't have kept that paper if it wasn't important." He felt in the breast pocket of his shirt for a packet of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it before going on. "I'm still working on part of it, but I'm on my way."

St. James saw that next to the map Cambrey had taped a small piece of paper. On it he had printed part of the cryptic 1 message which he'd found beneath his son's desk. 27500-M1 J Procure/Transport and, beneath that, 27500-M6 Finance. On the map itself, two motorways had been traced in red marking pen, the Ml heading north from London and the M6 heading 'i| northwest below Leicester towards the Irish Sea.

"Look at it," Cambrey said. "Ml and M6 run together south of Leicester. The Ml only goes as far as Leeds, but the * M6 continues. It ends in Carlisle. At Solway Firth."

St. James considered this. He made no reply. Cambrey sounded agitated when he continued.

"Look at the map, man. Just look at it square. M6 gives access to Liverpool, doesn't it? It takes you to Preston, to Morecambe Bay. And they every bloody one of them - "

" - give access to Ireland," St. James concluded, thinking of the editorial he'd read only the morning before. n

Cambrey went for the paper. He folded it back. His cigarette bobbed between his lips as he talked. "He knew someone was running guns for the IRA."

"How could he have stumbled onto a story like that?"

"Stumbled?" Cambrey removed his cigarette, picked tobacco from his tongue and shook the newspaper to make his point. "My lad didn't stumble. He was a journalist, not a fool.

He listened. He talked. He learned to follow leads."

Cambrey returned to the map and used the folded newspaper as a pointer. "Guns must be coming into Cornwall in the first place, or if not into Cornwall, then through a south harbour. Shipped from sympathisers, maybe in North Africa or Spain or even France.

They come in anywhere along the south coast-Plymouth, Bournemouth, Southampton, Portsmouth. They're shipped disassembled. Trucked to London and put together. Then from there, up the Ml to the M6, and then to Liverpool or Preston or Morecambe Bay."

"Why not ship them directly to Ireland in the first place?"

St. James asked, but he knew the answer even as he asked it.

A foreign ship docking at Belfast would be more likely to rouse suspicion than would an English ship. It would undergo a thorough customs check. But an English ship would be largely accepted. For why would the English be sending arms to assist an uprising against themselves?

"There was more on the paper than Ml and M6," St.

James pointed out. "Those additional numbers have to mean something."

Cambrey nodded. "Likely to be some sort of registration numbers, I think. References to the ship they'd be using. Numbers on the type of weapons they'd be supplying. It's some sort of code. But make no mistake about it. Mick was on his way to breaking it."

"Yet you've found no other notes?" /

"What I've found's enough. I know my lad. I know what he was about."

St. James reflected upon the map. He thought about the numbers Mick had jotted on the paper. He noted the fact that the editorial about Northern Ireland had appeared on Sunday, more than thirty hours after Mick's death. If the two were connected somehow, then the killer had known about the editorial in advance of the paper's appearance on Sunday morning.

He wondered how likely a possibility that was.

"Do you keep your back issues of the newspaper here?" he asked.

"This isn't a back issue problem," Cambrey said.

"Nonetheless, do you have them?"

"Some. Out here."

Cambrey led him from his office to a storage cabinet that sat to the left of the casement windows. He pulled open the doors to reveal stacks of newspapers upon the shelves. St.

James glanced at them, pulled the first set off the shelf, and looked at Cambrey.

"Can you get me Mick's keys?" he asked.

Cambrey looked puzzled. "I've a spare cottage key here." |

"No. I mean all his keys. He has a set, doesn't he? Car, | cottage, office? Can you get them? I expect Boscowan has them