A Suitable Vengeance

“So you knew about oncozyme yourself when Mick interviewed you?”


“Everyone at Islington knew about oncozyme. Bury’s Baby we called it. The branch lab at Bury St. Edmunds developed it.”

“How much can you tell me about it?”

“It’s an anti-oncogene. It prohibits DNA replication. You know what cancer is all about, cells reproducing, killing one off with a large dose of the body’s own functions gone completely haywire. An anti-oncogene puts an end to that.”

“And the side effects of an anti-oncogene?”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? There always are side effects to chemotherapy. Hair loss, nausea, weight loss, vomiting, fever.”

“All of those are standard, though, aren’t they?”

“Standard but nonetheless inconvenient. Often dangerous. Believe me, Mr. St. James, if someone could develop a drug without side effects, the scientific world would be dazzled indeed.”

“What if a drug was found to be an effective anti-oncogene but, unfortunately, it was also the cause of more serious side effects?”

“What sort do you have in mind? Renal dysfunction? Organ failure? Something like that?”

“Perhaps something worse. A teratogen, for example.”

“Every form of chemotherapy is a teratogen. Under normal circumstances, it would never be used on a pregnant woman.”

“Something else, then?” St. James considered the possibilities. “Something that might damage progenitor cells?”

There was an extremely long pause which Dr. Trenarrow finally ended by clearing his throat. “You’re suggesting a drug causing long-range genetic defects in both men and women. I don’t see how that’s possible. Drugs are too well tested. It would have come out somewhere. In someone’s research. It couldn’t have been hidden.”

“Suppose it was,” St. James said. “Would Mick have been able to stumble upon it?”

“Perhaps. It would have shown up as an irregularity in the test results. But where would he have got test results? Even if he went to the London office, who would have given them to him? And why?”

St. James thought he knew the answer to both those questions.



Deborah was eating an apple when she entered the study ten minutes later. She had cut the piece of fruit into eighths which she’d then arranged on a plate with half a dozen unevenly sliced pieces of cheddar cheese. Because food was involved in her current activity, Peach and Alaska—the household dog and cat—attended closely at her heels. Peach kept a vigilant eye hovering between Deborah’s face and the plate while Alaska, who found overt begging beneath his feline dignity, leapt onto St. James’ desk and strolled through the pens, pencils, books, magazines, and correspondence. He settled comfortably next to the telephone as if expecting a call.

“Finished with your pictures?” St. James asked. He was sitting in his leather armchair where he had spent the time following his conversation with Trenarrow by brooding into the unlit fireplace.

Deborah sat opposite him, cross-legged on the sofa. She balanced the plate of cheese and apple on her knees. A large chemical stain ran from calf to ankle on her blue jeans, and in several places her white shirt bore spots of damp from her work in the darkroom. “For the moment. I’m taking a break.”

“Came up rather suddenly, your need to print pictures. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” she said placidly. “Indeed, I would.”

“Using them for a show?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Deborah.”

“What?” She looked up from her plate, brushed hair from her forehead. She held a wedge of cheese in her hand.

“Nothing.”

“Ah.” She pinched off a bit of the cheese, offered it with a portion of apple to the dog. Peach gobbled down both, wagged her tail, barked for more.

“After you left, I broke her of begging like that,” St. James said. “It took me at least two months.”

In answer, Deborah gave Peach another bit of cheese. She patted the dog’s head, tugged her silky ears, and then looked up at him. Her expression was guileless. “She’s just asking for what she wants. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

He could feel the provocation behind the words. He pushed himself out of his chair. There were phone calls to make about Brooke, about oncozyme; there was checking to do into his sister’s whereabouts; there were at least half a dozen studies unrelated to the Cambrey-Brooke-Nifford deaths awaiting his attention in the lab and half a dozen other reasons for leaving the room. But instead of doing so, he stayed.

“Would you get that blasted cat off my desk?” He walked to the window.

Deborah went to the desk, scooped up the cat, deposited him onto St. James’ chair. “Anything else?” she asked as Alaska began enthusiastically kneading the worn leather.

St. James watched the cat curling up for a lengthy stay. He saw Deborah’s mouth twitch with a smile. “Minx,” he said.