A Suitable Vengeance

“Mick kept after me. He said that if I wanted to put his dirty linen on the table, that he’d be willing to spread mine out as well. He said you and Mother might find my return to drug use of interest. But as to that, I didn’t even care.” Peter bit at his thumbnail, anxious little nibbling bites. “It didn’t matter to me if he told you since you’d guessed I was using again anyway. As for Mother…nothing mattered to me except getting high. You don’t know what it feels like to be willing to do anything just to get your hands on some coke.”


It was a damning admission. Lynley only thanked the luck of the moment that neither MacPherson nor Havers was there to hear it. The former, he knew, might well take it as a meaningless slip of the tongue. The latter, however, would pounce upon it like a starving mongrel.

“I just exploded at that point,” Peter said. “It was that or start to beg.”

“Is that when Brooke left?”

“He tried to get me to go as well, but I said no. I said I wanted to finish what I’d started with the little pouffe.”

Again, the damning choice of words. Lynley felt himself wince inwardly. “What happened then?”

“I called Mick every foul name I could think of. I raved. Screamed. I was strung out and mad and I needed…” He picked up his cup of tea, swallowed a large mouthful. A trickle of the liquid dripped down his chin. “I ended up begging and snivelling for just fifty quid. He threw me out.”

Peter’s cigarette had gone untouched in the ashtray. It had burnt to nothing, creating a perfect cylinder of grey ash. He tapped it with the broken nail of his index finger. It dissolyed into a wispy pile. He said:

“The money was still there when I left him, Tommy. You’ve no cause to believe that. But the money was there. And Mick was alive.”

“I believe you.” Lynley tried to make his words ring with the assurance that his personal belief was all that would be necessary to restore Peter to the safety of his family. But that was nothing more than irresponsible fantasy. For as things stood now, once Peter’s story was relayed to the Penzance police, he would surely stand trial. And once his extensive drug use was revealed to a jury, his position would be perilous at best, no matter Lynley’s earlier avowals of the inherent value of telling the truth.

Peter seemed to take comfort from his brother’s words. He seemed to feel an encouragement to continue, a fragile bond between them that allowed for revelation. “I didn’t take them, Tommy. I wouldn’t have done that.” Lynley looked at him blankly. Peter went on. “Her cameras. I didn’t take them. I didn’t. I swear it.”

The fact that Peter had been willing to sell off the family silver made it hard to believe he’d suddenly developed a conscience when it came to Deborah. Lynley avoided a direct reply. “What time did you leave Mick on Friday?”

Peter considered the question. “I went to the Anchor and Rose and had a pint,” he said. “It must have been about a quarter to ten.”

“Not ten o’clock? Not later?”

“Not when I arrived.”

“Were you still there at ten?” When Peter nodded, Lynley asked, “Then why did Justin hitchhike back to Howenstow alone?”

“Justin?”

“Wasn’t he there in the pub?”

Peter looked at him in some confusion. “No.”

Lynley felt a measure of relief at this. It was the first exonerating piece of information that his brother had offered. And the fact that he had offered it, so completely unconscious of its importance, told Lynley that in this instance his brother was telling the truth. It was a detail to be checked upon, a blemish on Brooke’s story, the vague promise that the case against Peter could indeed be broken by a barrister in court.

“What I don’t understand,” Lynley said, “is why you left Howenstow so suddenly. Was it the row we had in the smoking room?”

Peter smiled briefly. “Considering how many other rows we’d had, one more would hardly have made me turn tail, would it?” He looked away. At first Lynley thought he was fabricating a story, but he saw the spots of colour on his brother’s face and realised he was embarrassed. “It was Sasha,” he said. “She wouldn’t let up on me. She kept insisting we come back to London. I’d taken a matchbox from the smoking room—the silver piece that usually sits on the desk—and once she knew I couldn’t get any money from Mick or some dope from Mark, she wanted to bring the box back to London and sell it here. She was in a rush. She wanted the coke bad. She used a lot, Tommy. All the time. More than me.”

“Did you make the buy? Is that where you got whatever she took this afternoon?”

“I couldn’t find a buyer. Everyone knows the box’s hot. I’m surprised I wasn’t arrested.”

Before now remained unspoken. But there was no doubt that the two words were foremost on both of their minds. The key turned in the door. Someone knocked upon it sharply. MacPherson swung it open. He’d loosened his tie and removed his jacket. His heavy-rimmed spectacles rode high on his forehead, shoved there out of his way. Behind him, Sergeant Havers stood. She made no effort to hide the smile of gratification on her face.

Lynley got to his feet but motioned his brother to stay where he was. MacPherson thumbed towards the hallway where Lynley followed him, shutting the door on his brother.