A Suitable Vengeance

“Decidedly.”


“And it was a success. The receptionist even asked me if I’d come about a job. Senior Director of Project Testing. Sounds absolutely divine. Have I a future in it?”

St. James smiled into the telephone. “I suppose it depends upon what project’s being tested. What about Tina? What’s the connection?”

“There doesn’t seem to be one at all. We described her to the receptionist—and what a blessing to have Deborah there because her eye for detail, not to mention her memory, is quite remarkable. But the girl hadn’t a clue. She didn’t recognise the description at all.” Lady Helen paused as Deborah interjected a comment in the background. She went on to say, “Considering what Tina apparently looks like, it’s hard to believe anyone would forget her. Although the girl did ask if she might be a biochemist.”

“That seems a bit far-fetched.”

“Hmm. It does. Except that Deborah did tell me about a drink she’s developed. A health drink. Perhaps Tina hoped to sell it to the pharmaceutical company?”

“Unlikely, Helen.”

“I suppose so. She’d go to a beverage company with it, wouldn’t she?”

“That’s more probable. Has anyone heard from her? Has she returned?”

“Not yet. I spent part of the afternoon going to each flat in the building to see if anyone knew anything about where she might be.”

“No luck, I take it.”

“None at all. No one seems to know her very well. In fact, Deborah appears to be the only person who’s had any close contact with her, aside from a peculiar woman across the hall who loaned her an iron. Several people have seen her about, of course—she’s lived here since September—but no one’s spent any time talking to her. Besides Deborah.”

St. James jotted the word September into his notes. He underlined it, drew a circle round it. He topped the circle with a cross. The symbol of woman. He scribbled over it all.

“What next?” Lady Helen was asking.

“See if the building manager has a Cornish address for her,” St. James said. “You might try to find out what she pays for the flat.”

“Quite. I should have thought to ask that earlier. Although heaven knows why. Are we getting anywhere?”

St. James sighed. “I don’t know. Have you spoken to Sidney?”

“That’s a problem, Simon. I’ve been phoning her flat, but there’s no answer. I tried her agency, but they’ve not heard from her either. Did she talk about going to see friends?”

“No. She talked about going home.”

“I’ll keep trying, then. Don’t worry. She may have gone to Cheyne Row.”

St. James thought this unlikely. He felt the first bite of concern. “We need to find her, Helen.”

“I’ll pop round to her flat. She may not be answering the phone.”

Having secured this assurance, St. James rang off. He remained in the alcove, staring down at the scribbled mess he’d made of the word September. He wanted it to mean something. He knew that it probably did. But what that something was he could not have said.

He turned as Lynley came into the alcove. “Anything?”

St. James related the bits of information which Lady Helen had managed to gather that day. He saw the change in Lynley’s expression after he’d heard the very first fact.

“Islington-London?” he asked. “Are you sure of that, St. James?”

“Helen went there. Why? Does it mean something to you?”

Warily, Lynley glanced back into the drawing room. His mother and Cotter were chatting together quietly as they looked through a family album which lay between them.

“Tommy? What is it?”

“Roderick Trenarrow. He works for Islington-Penzance.”





* * *



IDENTITIES





CHAPTER 20


Then Mick must have left both of those telephone numbers in Tina Cogin’s flat,” St. James said. “Trenarrow’s as well as Islington’s. That explains why Trenarrow didn’t know who Tina was.”

Lynley didn’t reply until he’d made the turn onto Beaufort Street, to head in the general direction of Paddington. They had just dropped Cotter at St. James’ Cheyne Row house where he’d greeted the sight of that brick building like a prodigal son, scurrying inside with a suitcase in each hand and undisguised, wholehearted relief buoying his footsteps. It was ten past one in the afternoon. Their drive into the city from the airfield in Surrey had been plagued by a snarl of slow-moving traffic, the product of a summer fete near Buckland which apparently was drawing record crowds.