A Suitable Vengeance

“You’ve found notes?” St. James asked.

Cambrey shook his head. “Worked it all out, though.” When St. James opened the car door, Cambrey clambered inside. He nodded at the introduction to Cotter. “It’s those numbers I found. The ones from his desk. I’ve been playing with them since Saturday. I know what they mean.”



Cotter remained in the pub with Mrs. Swann, chatting amiably over a pint of ale. He was saying, “I wouldn’t say no to one o’ them Scotch eggs,” as St. James followed Harry Cambrey up to the newspaper office.

Unlike his former visit to the Spokesman, on this morning the staff was at work. All the lights were on—creating an entirely different atmosphere from the previous gloom—and in three of the four cubicles newspaper employees either pecked at typewriters or talked on the phones. A long-haired boy examined a set of photographs on a display board while next to him a compositor engaged in the process of laying out another edition of the newspaper on an angled green table. He held an unlit pipe between his teeth and tapped a pencil in staccato against a plastic holder of paperclips. At the word processor on the table next to Mick Cambrey’s desk, a woman sat typing. She had soft, dark hair drawn back from her face and—when she looked up—intelligent eyes. She was very attractive. Julianna Vendale, St. James decided. He wondered how and if her responsibilities at the newspaper had altered with Mick Cambrey’s death.

Harry Cambrey led the way to one of the cubicles. It was sparsely furnished, hung with wall decorations which suggested that not only was the office his own, but nothing had been done to change it during his convalescence after heart surgery. Everything spoke of the fact that, no matter Harry Cambrey’s desire, his son had not intended to assume either his office or his job. Framed newpaper clippings, gone yellow with age, appeared to represent the older man’s proudest stories: a piece on a disastrous sea-rescue attempt in which twenty of the would-be rescuers had drowned; an accident which dismembered a local fisherman; the rescue of a child from a mine shaft; a brawl during a fete in Penzance. These were accompanied by newspaper photographs as well, the originals of those which had been printed with the stories.

On the top of an ancient desk, the most recent edition of the Spokesman lay open to the editorial page. Mick’s contribution had been heavily circled in red. On the wall opposite, a map of Great Britain hung. Cambrey directed St. James to this.

“I kept thinking about those numbers,” he said. “Mick was systematic about things like that. He wouldn’t have kept that paper if it wasn’t important.” He felt in the breast pocket of his shirt for a packet of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it before going on. “I’m still working on part of it, but I’m on my way.”

St. James saw that next to the map Cambrey had taped a small piece of paper. On it he had printed part of the cryptic message which he’d found beneath his son’s desk. 27500-M1 Procure/Transport and, beneath that, 27500-M6 Finance. On the map itself, two motorways had been traced in red marking pen, the M1 heading north from London and the M6 heading northwest below Leicester towards the Irish Sea.

“Look at it,” Cambrey said. “M1 and M6 run together south of Leicester. The M1 only goes as far as Leeds, but the M6 continues. It ends in Carlisle. At Solway Firth.”

St. James considered this. He made no reply. Cambrey sounded agitated when he continued.

“Look at the map, man. Just look at it square. M6 gives access to Liverpool, doesn’t it? It takes you to Preston, to Morecambe Bay. And they every bloody one of them—”

“—give access to Ireland,” St. James concluded, thinking of the editorial he’d read only the morning before.

Cambrey went for the paper. He folded it back. His cigarette bobbed between his lips as he talked. “He knew someone was running guns for the IRA.”

“How could he have stumbled onto a story like that?”