read separately for the slightest allusion to oncozyme, to cancer, to biochemical research.
They had been at it for over an hour when Julianna Ven dale said, "If you're looking for notes, don't forget his computer," and opened a drawer in his desk to reveal at least two dozen floppy disks.
No one groaned, although Deborah looked dismayed and Harry Cambrey cursed. They continued to wade through the detritus of the dead man's career, interrupted by the telephone just after four o'clock. Someone answered it in one of the cubicles, then stuck his head out the door and said, "Is Mr. St. James here?"
"Salvation," Deborah sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.
"Perhaps someone's phoning to confess."
Lynley stood to stretch. He walked to the window. Outside, a gentle rain was continuing to fall. It was hours before dark, but in two of the buildings across Paul Lane lamps had been lit. In one of the cottages, a family sat round a table drinking afternoon tea and eating biscuits from a tin. In another, a young woman cut a man's hair. She was concentrating on the sides, standing in front of him to examine her work.
He sat patiently for a moment, then pulled her between his legs and kissed her soundly.
She cuffed his ears, laughed, gave herself to his embrace. Lynley smiled, turning back to the office.
He saw St. James watching him from the cubicle in which he spoke on the phone. His face looked troubled. Contemplatively, he was pulling at his lip. Whomever he was speaking to was doing much of the talking. Only at long intervals did St. James say a few words. When at last he hung up, he spent what seemed like two or three minutes looking down at the phone. He picked it up once as if to make a call, but then replaced the receiver without having done so. At last he came out to rejoin the others.
"Deborah, can you manage for a bit on your own? Tommy and I need to see to something."
She looked from him to Lynley. "Of course. Shall we go on to the cottage when we've finished here?"
"If you will."
Without another word, he headed for the door. Lynley followed. He said nothing on the way down the stairs. Near the bottom, they skirted two children who were running a collection of small metal lorries along the banister. They stepped past the crowded doorway of the Anchor and Rose, stepped into the street. They turned up the collars of their coats against the rain.
"What is it?" Lynley asked. "Who was on the phone?"
"Helen."
"Helen? Why on earth - "
"She's found out about the list of Cambrey's prospects, Tommy, and about the telephone messages on the machine in his flat."
"And?"
"It seems they all have one thing in common."
"From the expression on your face, it's not cocaine, I take it."
"Not cocaine. Cancer." St. James walked towards Paul Lane, his head bent into the rain.
Lynley's eyes went to the harbour, to the huddled seabirds in a mass on the quay, protected from harm by their very numbers. He turned from them and looked at the rain-misted hills above the village. "Where are we going?" he called to his friend.
St. James paused, saying over his shoulder, "We need to talk to Dr. Trenarrow."
It hadn't been easy for Lady Helen to uncover the truth that lay behind the list of prospects, St. James explained. The first dozen names she tried gave her nothing to go on, and more importantly no piece of leading information upon which she could hang any enquiry at all. The recipient of each one of her phone calls was tight-lipped to begin with, becoming even more so the moment she mentioned the name Michael Cambrey.
Considering their reactions, that they had heard of Mick in some fashion or another was a fact beyond doubt. As was their determination to reveal nothing substantial about what their connection to Cambrey was. Had he interviewed them for a story? she would ask.
Had he been seeking testimony of some sort? Had he visited their homes? Had he written them letters? No matter which tack she tried, the persona she adopted to try it, the subject matter she attempted to pursue, they were always one step ahead of her, as if the first person on the list had telephoned the rest and warned them of an impending call. Not even the mention of Cambrey's murder was enough to jar an admission from anyone.
Indeed, the few times she tried that as an opening