A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,123

him when he was posing as Tina."

"And followed him to Cornwall? Why? Blackmail?"

"What better way to get cocaine? If the buyer was having a hard time coming up with the money, why not blackmail Cambrey for a payment in drugs?" St. James picked up items one by one. He studied them, fingered them, dropped them back on the table. "But Cambrey wouldn't want to risk his reputation in Cornwall by giving in to the blackmail.

So he m and the buyer argued. He was hit. He struck his head and died. The buyer took the money that was in the cottage sitting room. Anyone who's desperate for drugs - and who's just killed a man - is hardly going to draw the line at taking money lying right in the open."

Lynley got up abruptly. He walked to the open window and leaned on the sill, looking down at the street. Too late, St. James recognised whose portrait he had been painting with his series of conjectures.

"Could he have known about Mick?" Lynley asked. No one answered at first. Instead, they listened to the rising sound of traffic in Sussex Gardens as afternoon commuters began to make their way towards the Edgware Road. An engine revved.

Brakes screeched in reply. Lynley repeated the question. He did not turn from the window. "Could my brother have known?"

"Possibly, Tommy," St. James said. When Lynley swung to face him, he went on reluctantly. "He was part of the drug network in London. Sidney saw him not that long ago in Soho. At night. In an alley." He paused thoughtfully, remembering the information his sister had given him, remembering her fanciful description of the woman Peter had been assaulting. Dressed all in black with flowing black hair.

He had the impression that Lady Helen was recalling this information even as he did, for she spoke with what seemed a determination to relieve Lynley's anxiety by looking for another focus for the crime. "Mick's death might revolve round something entirely different. We've thought that from the first and I don't think we ought to dismiss it now.

He was a journalist, after all. He might have been writing a story. He could even have been working on something about transvestites."

St. James shook his head. "He wasn't writing about transvestites. He was a transvestite.

The expense of the flat tells us that. The furniture. The woman's wardrobe. He wouldn't need all that just to gather information for a story. And there's the newspaper office to consider as well, with Harry Cambrey finding the underwear in Mick's desk. Not to mention the row the two of them had."

"Harry knew?"

"He seems to have figured Jt out."

Lady Helen fingered the Talisman wrapper, as if with the resolution of making yet another effort to put Lynley's mind at rest. "Yet Harry was sure it was a story."

"It might have been a story. We've still got the connection to IslingtonLondon."

"Perhaps Mick was investigating a drug of some kind,"

Deborah offered, "A drug that wasn't ready to be marketed yet."

Lady Helen took up her thought. "One with side effects. One that's already available to doctors. With the company pooh-poohing the possibility of problems."

Lynley came back to the table. They looked at one another, struck by the plausibility of this bit of idle conjecture.

Thalidomide. Thorough testing, regulations, and restrictions had so far precluded the possibility of another teratogenic nightmare. But men were greedy when it came to fast profits.

Men had always been so.

"What if, in researching an entirely different subject, Mick got wind of something suspicious," St. James proposed. "He pursued it here. He interviewed people here at IslingtonLondon. And that was the cause of his death."

In spite of their efforts, Lynley did not join them. "But the castration?" He sank down onto the day bed, rubbing his forehead. "We can't seem to turn in any direction that explains it all."

As if to underscore the futility behind his words, the telephone began to ring. Deborah went to answer it. Lynley was back on his feet an instant after she spoke.

"Peter! Where on earth are you? . . . What is it? . . . I can't understand . . . Peter, please . .

. You've called where? . . . Wait, he's right here."

Lynley lunged for the phone. "Damn you, where have you been! Don't you know that Brooke . . . Shut up and listen to me for once, Peter. Brooke's dead as well as Mick. ... I don't care what you want any longer . . . What?"