A Suitable Vengeance

Islington-London was an unprepossessing building not far from Gray’s Inn Road. A small, gated courtyard set the structure back from the street, and it was crammed with half a dozen small cars and a minivan with the letters ISLINGTON spread across a map of Great Britain and white stars scattered here and there in all three countries, obviously indicating the location of branch offices. There were ten in all, as far north as Inverness, as far south as Penzance. It appeared to be quite an operation.

Inside the lobby, the sound from the street was muted by thick walls, thick carpet, and a Muzak track currently playing an all-strings rendition of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” Handsome sofas lined the walls beneath large, modern canvases in the style of David Hockney. Across from these a receptionist, who couldn’t have been more than an erstwhile fifth form student who’d decided not to continue in school, tapped away at a word processor with impossibly long magenta-coloured fingernails. Her hair was dyed to match.

Out of the corner of her eye, she appeared to see St. James approach, for she did not turn from her word processing screen. Rather she wiggled her fingers vaguely in the direction of a stack of papers on her desk and popped her chewing gum before saying, “Take an application form.”

“I’ve not come about a job.”

When the girl didn’t respond, St. James noticed that she was wearing the small kind of headset earphones that are usually attached to a tape recorder either giving dictation or blaring out rock and roll music that, mercifully, no one else has to hear. He repeated his statement, louder this time. She looked up, removing the headset hastily.

“Sorry. One gets used to the automatic response.” She pulled a ledger towards her. “Have an appointment?”

“Do people generally have appointments when they come here?”

She chewed her gum more thoughtfully for a moment and looked him over as if searching for hidden meanings. “Generally,” she said. “Right.”

“So no one would come to make a purchase?”

The gum snapped in her mouth. “The sales force goes out. No one comes here. There’s the odd telephone order, isn’t there, but it’s not like a chemist’s shop.” She watched as St. James took the folded materials from his jacket pocket and produced the photograph of Mick Cambrey. He gave it to her, his hand making contact with her talon nails which, glistening wetly, grazed his skin. She wore a tiny gold musical note glued onto the nail of her ring finger, like a piece of odd jewelery.

“Has this man had an appointment to see anyone?” he asked.

She smiled when her eyes dropped to the picture. “He’s been here all right.”

“Lately?”

She tapped her nails on the desktop as she thought. “Hmm. That’s a bit difficult, isn’t it? A few weeks past, I think.”

“Do you know who he saw?”

“His name?”

“Mick—Michael—Cambrey.”

“Let me check.” She opened the ledger on her desk and scanned several pages, an activity which seemed to allow her the opportunity of showing off her fingernails to their best advantage, since every time she turned a page, she used a new nail to guide her eyes down the column of times and names.

“A visitor’s log?” St. James asked.

“Everybody signs in and out. Security, you know.”

“Security?”

“Drug research. You can’t be too careful. Something new comes out and everyone in the West End’s hot to try it with drinks that night. Ah. Here it is. He’s signed into Project Testing, Department Twenty-Five.” She flipped back through several more pages. “Here he is again. Same department, same time. Just before lunch.” She slipped back several months. “Quite a regular, he was.”

“Always the same department?”

“Looks that way.”

“May I speak to the department head?”

She closed the ledger and looked regretful. “That’s a bit rough. No appointment, you see. And poor Mr. Malverd’s balancing two departments at once. Why don’t you leave your name?” She shrugged noncommitally.

St. James wasn’t about to be put off. “This man, Mick Cambrey, was murdered Friday night.”

The receptionist’s face sharpened with immediate interest. “You’re police?” she asked. And then sounding hopeful, “Scotland Yard?”

St. James gave a moment’s thought to how easily it could all have been managed had Lynley only come with him. As it was, he removed his own card and handed it over. “This is a private endeavour,” he told her.

She glanced at the card, moved her lips as she read it, and then turned it over as if more information might be printed on the back. “A murder,” she breathed. “Just let me see if I can reach Mr. Malverd for you.” She punched three buttons on the switchboard and pocketed his card. “Just in case I need you myself,” she said with a wink.