A Suitable Vengeance

“The cocaine gave him good enough reason to do so. If anyone at Penberth phoned the coastguard, he’d be in serious trouble. Better risk his life by jumping ship near the shore than risk a jail sentence by getting caught with a kilogram of cocaine on the boat.”


“John,” Lynley said insistently, “you’ve got to tell Boscowan the truth. About all of this. About Friday night.”

Levelly, Penellin looked at him. “And what of Mark?” he asked. Lynley didn’t reply. Penellin’s features became a wash of anguish. “I can’t do what you ask of me. He’s my son.”



Nancy was working in front of the lodge while Molly cooed in a pram nearby, gurgling over a string of bright plastic ducks which her mother had suspended above her. When Lynley pulled the car to a halt on the drive, Nancy looked up. She was raking up the foliage, flowers, loose pebbles, and debris that the wind had blown up against the house.

“No word of Peter?” she asked, walking towards them as they got out of the car.

“Is Mark here, Nancy?”

She faltered. The fact that Lynley had not aswered her question seemed to disconcert her at the same time as it acted as presage of an unpleasantness to come. She drew the rake to her side, holding it upright.

“Did Mark fix the shutters for you last night?” Lynley asked.

“The shutters?”

Her two simple words were verification enough. “Is he in the house?” St. James asked.

“I think he’s just gone out. He said he was planning to—”

A sudden blast of rock and roll music negated her words. She brought a fist to her lips.

“We’ve spoken to your father,” Lynley told her. “You’ve no need to protect Mark any longer. It’s time he told the truth.”

Leaving her in the garden, they went into the house, following the sound of drums and guitars in the direction of the kitchen where Mark sat at the table, making adjustments to his portable stereo. As he had done in the early hours of Saturday morning following Mick Cambrey’s death, St. James noted the details about the boy. Then, they had suggested the possibility of his taking money from Gull Cottage upon discovering his brother-in-law’s death. Now they acted in concert to corroborate his part in the cocaine partnership: a heavy gold chain round his right wrist, a new watch round his left, designer blue jeans and shirt, snakeskin boots, the stereo itself. Not one of them was the sort of possession one would purchase on the salary his father paid him to work round the estate.

On the table sat a half-eaten ham sandwich, a bottle of beer, a bag of vinegar crisps. This latter provided the air with a pungent smell. Mark dipped into it for a handful, looked up, and saw the other two men in the doorway. He turned down the volume on the stereo and got to his feet, dropping the crisps onto his plate.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it Peter? Is he all right?” He ran the heel of his hand against his temple as if to straighten his hair. It was neatly combed as usual.

“We’ve not come about my brother,” Lynley said.

Mark frowned. “I haven’t heard a thing. Nance phoned your mother. She said there was no word. Have you…is there something…” He held out a hand, a gesture of camaraderie.

St. James wondered how Lynley would get past the boy’s posturing. He had his answer when his friend swept the stereo from the table so forcefully that it crashed against the kitchen cupboards and gouged the wood.

“Hey!”

As Mark began to move, Lynley came round the table. He pushed the boy into his chair. Mark’s head snapped back against the wall.

“What the hell—”

“You can talk to me or Penzance CID. Make up your mind.”

Quick comprehension darted across the boy’s face. He rubbed his collar bone. Nevertheless, he merely said, “You’re daft.”

Lynley tossed the Talisman sandwich wrapper onto the table. “What’s it to be? Make up your mind.”

Mark’s expression was unchanging as he glanced at the paper, at the numbers, the notations, at his own initials. He snorted a laugh. “You’re in heavy shit over Brooke’s death, aren’t you? You’d do anything to keep the police from looking into that. You’re trying to keep the coppers off Peter.”

“We’re not here about Peter.”

“No. I dare say. Let’s not talk about Peter or you might hear the truth. Well, you can’t have me arrested for anything. You don’t have a shred of evidence.”

“You took the Daze from Lamorna. You abandoned her off Penberth. My guess is that the reason why is sitting right here in this house. Or perhaps in the mill. How does felony theft sound? What about smuggling? Possession of narcotics? We can start with any one of them. I’ll put my money on Boscowan’s willingness to listen to just about anything to get your father out of the nick. I rather doubt he’s as sentimental about you. So shall I give him a ring? Or shall we talk?”

Mark looked away. On the floor his stereo was giving off bursts of static.

“What do you want to know?” The question was sullen.

“Who’s dealing the cocaine?”

“Me. Mick.”

“You’ve been using the mill?”

“It was Mick’s idea. He’d spent most of last spring boffing Nancy in the loft. He knew no one ever went there.”