A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,162
Deborah's room. But where he had disposed of them was once again as elusive a location as it had been two days ago. Rounding the corner of an antique silver shop on the La morna Road, they found the streets of the village deserted. This was an unsurprising summertime phenomenon in an area where the vicissitudes of the weather often forced holiday makers to be flexible in matters concerning how they spent their time. Where sun would see them strolling the village streets, exploring the harbour, and taking pictures on the quay, rain usually provoked a sudden need to try their luck in a game of chance, a sudden hunger for tucking into a fresh crab salad, a sudden thirst for real ale. An inclement afternoon was a welcome boon to the proprietors of bingo parlours, restaurants, and pubs. This proved to be the case at the Anchor and Rose. The pub teemed with fishermen forced to shore by the weather as well as day visitors seeking shelter from the rain. Most of them were packed into the public bar. The formal lounge beyond it was largely empty. In any other circumstances, two such diverse groups, inhabiting the same watering hole, would hardly be likely to blend into a cohesive unit. But the presence of a teenaged mandolin player, a fisherman conversant with the Irish whistle, and a pale-legged man wearing running shorts and playing the spoons had broken the barrier of class and experience, melding what should have been motley into montage. In the wide bay window overlooking the harbour, a leather skinned fisherman - backlit by the dull light outside - engaged a fashionably clad tot in a game of cat's cradle. His weathered hands held out the string to the child; his broken teeth flashed in a grin. "Go on, Dickie. Take it. You know how to play," Mummy coaxed the little boy. Dickie cooperated. Approving laughter ensued. The fisherman rested his hand on the child's head. "It's a photograph, isn't it?" Lynley said to Deborah in the doorway where they stood watching. She smiled. "What a wonderful face he has, Tommy. And look how the light just barely strikes the side of it." St. James was on the stairs, climbing up to the newspaper office. Deborah followed, Lynley behind her.
"You know," she went on, pausing briefly on the landing, "I was worried for a time about the scope for my photographs in Cornwall. Don't ask me why. I'm a creature of habit, I suppose, and my habit has been to do most of my work in London. But I love it here, Tommy. There's a photograph everywhere. It's grand. Truly. I've thought that from the first." At her words, Lynley felt shamed by his earlier doubts. He paused on the steps. "I love you, Deb." Her expression softened. "And I you, Tommy." St. James had already opened the door of the newspaper office. Inside, two telephones were ringing, Julianna Vendale was typing at a word processor, a young photographer was cleaning half a dozen camera lenses lined up on a desk, and in one of the cubicles three men and a woman leaned into a circle of conversation. Harry Cambrey was among them. Advertising and Circulation was painted in faded black letters on the upper half of the wood and glass door. Harry Cambrey saw them and left his meeting. He was wearing suit trousers, a white shirt, a black tie. As if in the need to explain this, he said, "Buried him this morning. Half past eight." Odd, Lynley thought, that Nancy hadn't mentioned it. But it explained the acceptance with which she had greeted their presence. There was a degree of finality to burial. It didn't end sorrow, but it did make easier the acknowledgement of loss. "Half a dozen coppers hanging about in the graveyard," Cambrey continued. "First thing they've done besides trying to stick the killing on John Penellin. And isn't that a thought?
John killing Mick." I I % "Perhaps he had a motive after all," St. James said. He handed Mick Cambrey's set of keys to his father. "Mick's dressing. Would a man be driven to kill another man over that?" Cambrey's fist closed over the keys. He turned his back on his employees and lowered his voice. "So. Who knows .about it?" "You covered up well.
Nearly everyone sees Mick exactly as you painted him. A real man's man, an insatiable womaniser.''
"What the hell else could I do?" Cambrey asked. "God