A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,53

inadvertent accusation he would not make. "Dad knows nothing," Nancy repeated.

"Dad, tell him you know nothing about Mick." "May I come in?" Boscowan asked once more. "Nancy and the baby," Penellin said. "They're both here.

May we talk in Penzance? At the station house?" Requesting a different location wasn't a suspect's right. And that John Penellin was a suspect was illustrated in Boscowan's next words. "Have you a solicitor you'd like to ring?" "A solicitor?" Nancy shrilled.

"Nance. Girl. Don't." Although Penellin reached for his daughter, she flinched away.

"Dad was here." Boscowan shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry, Nancy. Neighbours saw him at your cottage at half past nine. Others heard an argument as well."

"He was here. I spoke to him after the interval. Dad, tell him I spoke to you after the interval." She grabbed her father's arm, shaking it doggedly. Her father loosened her fingers. "Let me go, lass. Stay here. Take care of Molly. Nancy, wait for Mark."

Boscowan didn't miss the exigent quality of Penellin's final direction to his daughter.

"Mark's not here?" Penellin replied, "I expect he's out with friends. In St.Ives or St. Just.

You know how young men are." He patted Nancy's hand. "I'm ready then, Edward. Let's be off." He nodded to the others and left the lodge. A moment later, Boscowan's car purred to life. The sound amplified briefly as he reversed down the main drive, then faded altogether as they headed towards Penzance.

Nancy spun towards the sitting room. "Help him!" she cried to Lynley. "He didn't kill Mick. You're a policeman.

You can help. You must." Uselessly she twisted the front of her housedress in her hands.

Even as he went to her side, Lynley reflected upon how little he could actually do to help.

He had no jurisdiction in Cornwall. Boscowan seemed a highly capable man, one unlikely ever to need assistance from New Scotland Yard. Had Constable Parker been in charge of the case, the Met's ultimate involvement would not have been long in doubt.

But Parker wasn't in charge. And since Penzance CID looked perfectly competent, the investigation had to remain in their hands. However, he still wanted to say something, even if the only possible result was that form of purgation which comes from reliving the worst part of a nightmare.

"Tell me what happened tonight." He led her back to the rocking chair. Deborah rose from her place and covered Nancy's shoulders with a blanket that lay on the back of the couch. Nancy stumbled through the story. She'd gone to do the drinks for the play, leaving the baby with Mick. Mick had been working at the sitting room desk, getting ready to do the pay envelopes for the newspaper staff. She'd placed Molly in a playpen nearby. She'd left them at seven o'clock.

"When I got back to the cottage, I could hear Molly crying. I was angry that Mick would let her go ignored. I shouted at him as I opened the door." "The door was unlocked?" St.

James asked. It was, she told them. "You didn't notice Mick's body?" She shook her head and clutched the blanket closer round her thin shoulders. One elbow stuck out. It was bony and red. "The sitting room door was closed." "And when you opened it, what did you notice at first?" "Him. Mick. Lying . . ." She gulped for a breath. "Then all round him, the papers and notebooks and such."

"As if the room had been searched," St. James said. "Did Mick ever work on stories at home?" Nancy rubbed her hand along the nap of the blanket and nodded a bit too eagerly.

"Often, yes. At the computer. He wouldn't want to go back to the office after dinner, so he'd work a bit at home. He kept lots of notes for his stories at the cottage. Sort through this lot, Mickey, I'd tell him. We must throw some things away. But he didn't like to because he never knew when he'd need to look up some little detail in a notebook or a journal or his diary. Can't toss it out, Nance, he'd tell me. The first thing I throw away will be exactly what I need. So there were always papers. Scraps of this and that. Notes on paper napkins and on matchbook covers. It was his way. Lots of notes. Someone must have wanted ... or the money. The money. We mustn't forget that." It was a difficult recital to listen to. Although the facts seemed