A Suitable Vengeance

Boscowan hesitated. He looked from Lynley to St. James, then out the window. “It’s irregular. You know that.”


Lynley pulled out his warrant card. Boscowan waved it off. “I know you’re Scotland Yard. But this isn’t a Yard case, and I’ve my own Chief Constable’s sensibilities to consider. No visitors save family and solicitor when it’s a homicide. That’s standard procedure in Penzance, regardless of what you allow at the Met.”

“A woman friend of Mick Cambrey’s has gone missing from London,” Lynley said. “Perhaps John Penellin can help us with that.”

“A case you’re working on?”

Lynley didn’t reply. At the next table a girl in a stained white uniform began stacking plates onto a metal tray. Crockery crashed and scraped. A mound of mashed potatoes fell to the floor. Boscowan watched her work. He tapped a hard biscuit on the table top.

“Oh hell,” he murmured. “Come on with you both. I’ll arrange it somehow.”

He left them in an interrogation room in another wing of the building. A single table and five chairs were the only furnishings besides a mirror on one wall and a ceiling light fixture from which a spider was industriously constructing a web.

“Do you think he’ll admit to it?” Lynley asked as they waited.

“He doesn’t really have a choice.”

“And you’re sure, St. James?”

“It’s the only reasonable explanation.”

A uniformed constable escorted John Penellin into the room. When he saw who his visitors were, he took a single step backwards as if he would leave. The door was already closed behind him, however. It had a small window set at eye level, and although Penellin glanced at this as if considering whether to signal the constable to take him back to his cell, he made no move to do so. Instead, he joined them. The table wobbled on uneven legs as he leaned against it when he sat.

“What’s happened?” he asked warily.

“Justin Brooke took a fall at Howenstow early Sunday morning,” Lynley said. “The police think it was an accident. It may well have been. But if it wasn’t, there’s either a second killer on the loose locally or you yourself are innocent and there’s only one killer. Which do you think is more likely, John?”

Penellin twisted a button on the cuff of his shirt. His expression did not change although a muscle contracted as quickly as a reflex beneath his right eye.

St. James spoke. “The Daze was taken from Lamorna early yesterday morning. She was wrecked at Penberth Cove last night.”

The button Penellin was twisting fell onto the table. He picked it up, used his thumb to flip it onto its other side. St. James went on.

“I think it’s a three-tiered operation, with a main supplier and perhaps half a dozen dealers. They seem to be running the cocaine in two possible ways: Either the dealers pick it up from the supplier—perhaps on the Scillys—and then sail back to the mainland, or the supplier arranges to meet the dealers in any number of coves along the coast. Porthgawarra comes to mind at once. The shore’s accessible, the village is too far off for anyone to notice clandestine comings and goings in the cove. The cliff is riddled with caves and caches in which an exchange could take place if it seems too risky to try it on the open sea. But no matter how he gets it from his supplier, once the dealer has it—either from the Scillys or from one of the coves—he sails back to Lamorna in the Daze and then takes the cocaine to the mill at Howenstow where he packages it. With no one the wiser.”

Penellin said only, “You know, then.”

“Who is it that you’ve been trying to protect?” St. James asked. “Mark or the Lynleys?”

Penellin reached in his pocket and brought out a packet of Dunhills. Lynley leaned across the table with the lighter. Penellin looked at him over the flame.

“It’s a bit of both, I should guess,” Lynley said. “The longer you keep silent, the longer you protect Mark from arrest. But keeping him from arrest makes him available to Peter unless you do what you can to keep them apart.”

“Mark’s dragging Peter down,” Penellin said. “He’ll kill him eventually if I don’t stop him.”

“Justin Brooke told us that Peter intended to make a buy here in Cornwall,” St. James said. “Mark was his source, wasn’t he? That was why you were trying to keep them from seeing each other on Friday at Howenstow.”