A Suitable Vengeance

Lynley said nothing at all as they entered. For a moment, he didn’t move from the threshold, as if he were summoning the strength of purpose to shut the door behind them and face the truth.

He pushed the door closed so that nothing further obstructed their line of vision. Against the near wall, a threadbare sofa had been folded out into a bed. On this, a partially shrouded figure lay motionless. On the floor, just beyond the sofa, Peter Lynley was curled into a foetal position, his hands curved round his head.

“Peter!” Lynley went to him, knelt, cried his name again.

As if roused by the sound, Peter gasped and made a convulsive movement. His eyes focused, found his brother.

“She won’t move.” He stuffed part of his T-shirt into his mouth for a moment as if in an attempt to prevent himself from crying. “I came home and she was there and she won’t move.”

“What’s happened?” Lynley asked.

“She won’t move, Tommy. I came home and she was there and she won’t move.”

St. James went to the sofa. He removed the sheet which covered most of the figure. Beneath it, Sasha lay naked on her side on the filthy linen with one arm stretched out and one hand dangling from the edge of the bed. Her thin hair fell forward to cover her face, and where her neck was exposed, its flesh looked grey with dirt. He put his fingers to the wrist of her outstretched arm although even as he did so, he knew the exercise was mere rote formality. He’d once been a member of the Met’s crime-scene team. This wasn’t the first time he’d looked upon a dead body.

He straightened and shook his head at Lynley. The other man came to join him.

St. James pushed the fallen hair to one side and moved the arm gently to check for rigor. He took a step back, however, when he saw the hypodermic needle embedded in her flesh.

“Overdose,” Lynley said. “What’s she taken, Peter?”

He went back to his brother. St. James remained with the body. The hypodermic, he noticed, was empty, the plunger down, as if she’d mainlined a substance that had killed her in an instant. It was hard to believe. He looked for some indication of what she had taken to bring about such a death. There was nothing on the packing crate next to the bed, save an empty glass with a tarnished spoon inside it and a residue of white powder on its rim. The bed itself held nothing other than the corpse. He stepped back, looking on the floor between the bed and the crate. And then, with a rush of horror, he saw it.

A silver bottle lay on its side, almost out of sight. It spilled forth a white powder, undoubtedly the same substance which clung to the rim of the glass, the same substance which ended Sasha Nifford’s life. Unprepared for the sight, St. James felt his heart begin to pound. He felt burned all at once by a sudden heat. He refused to believe it.

The bottle was Sidney’s.





CHAPTER 21


Get control of yourself, Peter,” Lynley was saying to his brother. He took Peter’s arm, pulling him to his feet. Peter clung to him, weeping. “What’s she taken?”

St. James stared at the bottle. He could hear Sidney’s voice with utter clarity. She might have been standing right there in the room. “We drove him home,” she had said. “Squalid little flat in Whitechapel.” And then later, more damning and completely undeniable, “Just tell little Peter when you find him that I have lots to discuss with him. Believe me, I can hardly wait for the opportunity.”

In the light from the lamp the bottle glinted, winking at him and demanding recognition. He gave it, admitted it without hesitation. For from where he stood, St. James could see part of the engraving that comprised her initials, and he’d insisted upon the delicacy of that engraving himself because he’d given the bottle to his sister four years ago on her twenty-first birthday.

“You were my favourite brother. I loved you best.”

There was no time. He did not have the luxury in which to consider his various options and weigh the relative morality of each. He could only act or let her face the police. He chose to act, bending, reaching out his hand.

“Good. You’ve found it,” Lynley said, coming to his side. “It looks like—” He suddenly seemed to recognise the significance of St. James’ posture, of his outstretched hand. Certainly, St. James thought, from the chill that had rapidly followed the heat in his body, Lynley must have seen something in the pallor of his face. For directly after his words faded away, Lynley drew St. James back from the bed. “Don’t protect him for my sake,” he said quietly. “That’s finished, St. James. I meant what I said in the car. If it’s heroin, I can only help Peter by allowing him to face the consequences. I’m going to telephone the Met.” He walked from the room.