A Suitable Vengeance

“I thought Mark might try to sell to Peter and the girl. I’ve suspected him of dealing in drugs for some time, and I thought if I could just find where he was bringing the stuff in, where he was packaging it…” Penellin rolled his cigarette restlessly between his fingers. There was no ashtray on the table, so he knocked the growing cylinder of ash onto the floor and smashed it with his foot. “I thought I could stop him. I’ve been watching him for weeks, following him when I could. I’d no idea he was doing it right on the estate.”


“It was a solid plan,” St. James said, “both parts of it. Using the Daze as a means of getting the cocaine. Using the mill to cut and package it. Everything was associated with Howenstow in some way. And since Peter was—and is—the known Howenstow user, he stood to take the fall if things didn’t work out. He’d protest his innocence wildly, of course. He’d blame Mark when it came down to it. But who’d believe him? Even yesterday, we immediately assumed he’d taken the boat. No one gave a thought to Mark. It was clever of them.”

Penellin’s head lifted slowly at St. James’ final word. “You know that part as well.”

“Mark didn’t have the capital to orchestrate this alone,” St. James said. “He needed an investor, and I should guess it was Mick. Nancy knew that, didn’t she? You both knew it.”

“Suspected. Suspected is all.”

“Is that why you went to see him on Friday night?”

Penellin gave his attention back to his cigarette. “I was looking for answers.”

“And Nancy must have known you’d be going there. So when Mick was killed, she feared the worst.”

“Cambrey’d taken out a bank loan to update the newspaper,” Penellin said, “but little enough got spent on that. Then he started going all the time to London. And he started talking money to Nance. How there wasn’t enough. How they were close to bankrupt. Rent money. Baby money. They were going to sink, according to Mick. But none of it made sense. He had money. He’d managed to get the loan.”

“Which he was investing rather copiously in cocaine.”

“She didn’t want to believe he was involved. She said he didn’t take drugs, and she wouldn’t see that one doesn’t have to take them in order to sell them. She wanted proof.”

“That’s what you were after Friday night when you went to the cottage.”

“I’d forgotten that it was one of the Fridays when he did the pay envelopes. I’d thought he’d not be home and I’d be able to have a thorough search. But he was there. We had a row.”

St. James took the Talisman sandwich wrapper from his pocket. “I think this is what you wanted,” he said and handed it to Penellin. “It was in the newspaper office. Harry found it in Mick’s desk.”

Penellin looked the paper over, handed it back. “I don’t know what I wanted,” he said and gave a low, self-derisive laugh. “I think I was looking for a typed confession.”

“This is more design than confession,” St. James admitted.

“What does it mean?”

“Only Mark could verify it, but I think it represents the original deal the two of them struck together. I K 9400 would signify the cost of the original purchase of cocaine. A kilo for ￡9400. They’d split that between them to sell, which is what the second line tells us. 500 grams for each of them at ￡55 per gram. Their profit: ￡27,500 each. And next to their profit, the particular talent each of them would bring to the plan. MP—Mark—would provide the transportation in order to pro cure the drug. He’d take the Daze and meet the dealer. MC—Mick—would provide the initial financing from the bank loan he’d secured in order to purchase new equipment for the newspaper. And Mick covered himself by beginning those initial equipment purchases so no one’s suspicions would be aroused.”

“Then it fell apart,” Penellin said.

“Perhaps. It could be that the cocaine didn’t sell as well as they thought it would and he lost money on the deal. Perhaps things didn’t work out between the partners. Or there may have been a double cross somewhere along the line.”

“Or the other,” Penellin said. “Go ahead with the other.”

“That’s why you’re in here, John, isn’t it?” Lynley asked. “That’s why you’re saying nothing. That’s why you’re taking the blame.”

“He must have discovered how easy it was,” Penellin said. “He didn’t need Mick once he’d made the initial purchase, did he? Why bother with an added person who’d expect part of the profits?”

“John, you can’t take the blame for Cambrey’s death.”

“Mark’s only twenty-two.”

“That doesn’t matter. You didn’t—”

Penellin cut Lynley short by speaking to St. James. “How did you know it was Mark?”

“The Daze. We thought Peter had taken her to get away from Howenstow. But the boat was northeast on the rocks at Penberth Cove. So she had to be returning to Howenstow, not leaving. And she’d been there for several hours when we arrived, so there was plenty of time for Mark to abandon her, to make his way back to Howenstow, and be ready—somewhat banged up, admittedly—to help us search for Peter.”

“He’d have needed to abandon her,” Penellin said numbly.