A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,54

relevant - the presence of material on the floor, the evidence of a hasty search - it did not appear that their connection to Mick Cambrey's profession was foremost on his wife's mind, no matter her attempt to make it seem so. Rather, she appeared to be concerned with an entirely different matter connected to the search. She verified this by concluding with, "You know, I did talk to Dad after the interval. Perhaps at half past ten. From a call box." No one replied. Despite the room's warmth, Nancy's legs shook, causing the blanket that covered them to tremble. *'I telephoned. I spoke to Dad. He was here. Lots of people must've seen me make the call.

Ask Mrs, Swann. She knows I spoke to Dad. He was here. He said he'd not been out all evening."

"But Nancy," Lynley said, "your father was out. He wasn't here when I phoned. He only just walked in a few minutes after we did. Why are you lying? Are you afraid of something?"

"Ask Mrs. Swann. She saw me. In the call box. She can tell you - "

A blast of rock and roll music shattered the mild night noises outside the house. Nancy leaped to her feet.

The front door opened and Mark Penellin entered. A large portable stereo rode upon his shoulder, blaring out "My Generation," nighttime nostalgia with a vengeance. Mark was singing along, but he stopped in midphrase when he saw the group in the sitting room. He fumbled incompetently with the knobs. Roger Daltrey roared even louder for an instant before Mark mastered the volume and switched the stereo off.

"Sorry." He placed the unit on the floor. It had left an indentation in the soft calfskin jacket he wore, and as if he knew this without looking, he brushed his fingers against the material to rejuvenate it. "What's going on? What're you doing here, Nance? Where's Dad?"

In conjunction with everything that had gone before, both her brother's sudden appearance at the lodge and his questions e seemed to destroy the inadequate defences which Nancy had raised to avoid the reality of her father's behaviour that night.

She fell back into the rocking chair.

"It's your fault!" she cried. "The police have come for | Dad. They've taken him and he'll say nothing because of you."

She began to cry, reaching for her handbag which lay on the floor. "What're you going to do to him next, Mark? What'll it be? Tell me." She opened her handbag and began fumbling through it, pulling out a crumpled tissue as she sobbed, "Mickey. Oh, Mick."

Still at the doorway to the sitting room, Mark Penellin swallowed, looking at each of them in turn before returning his gaze to his sister. "Has something happened to Mick?"

Nancy continued to weep.

Mark brushed back his hair. He ran his knuckles down his jawline. He brought their worst fears to light. "Nancy, has Dad done something to Mick?"

She was out of the chair, her handbag flying, its contents spraying across the floor.

"Don't you say that! Don't you dare. You're at the bottom of this. We know it. Dad and I."

Mark backed into the stairway. His head struck a banister. "Me? What're you talking about? This is crazy. You're crazy. What the hell's happened?"

"Mick's been murdered," Lynley said.

Blood flooded Mark's face. He spun from Lynley to his sister. * 'And you think I did it?

Is that what you think? That I killed your husband?" He gave a wild shriek of laughter. *

'Why would I bother, with Dad looking for a way to put him under for a year?"

"Don't you say that! Don't you dare! It was you!"

"Right. Believe what you want."

"What I know. What Dad knows."

"Dad knows everything all right. Lucky for him to be so bloody wise."

He grabbed his stereo and flung himself up five stairs.

Lynley's words stopped him.

"Mark, we need to talk."

"No!" And then as he finished the climb, "I'll save what I have to say for the flaming police. As soon as my sister turns me in."

A door crashed shut.

Molly began to wail.
Chapter 12
"How much do you really know about Mark Penellin?" St. James asked, looking up from the paper on which he had been jotting their collective thoughts for the last quarter of an hour. He and Lynley were alone in the small alcove that opened off the Howenstow drawing room, directly over the front entry to the house. Two lamps were lit, one on the undersized mahogany desk where St. James sat and the other on a marquetry