A Suitable Vengeance

“Had you seen him before? Or just that once?”


“Just then. And a moment later. He went into the flat and spoke to Tina.” She flushed. “I heard him say something about red-headed competition in the hallway. So he must have thought…Well, he really couldn’t have. He was probably only joking. But she must have led him to believe that I was on the game because when he came out he said that Tina wanted me to know she’d take care of my gentlemen callers while I was gone. And then he laughed. And he looked me over, Simon. At first I thought he’d taken Tina seriously, but he winked and grinned and it just seemed his way.” Deborah appeared to go back through what she had said, for her face brightened as she drew a conclusion from the facts. “Then she’s probably not a prostitute, is she? If Mick had a key to her flat…Prostitutes don’t generally give out keys, do they? I mean, s’pose one man stops by while another…” She gestured futilely.

“It would create an awkward situation.”

“So perhaps she isn’t a prostitute. Could he be keeping her, Simon? Or even hiding her? Protecting her from someone?”

“Are you sure it was Mick you saw?”

“I think it was. If I got another look at a photograph, I could be certain. But I remember his hair because it was dark auburn, just exactly the shade I always wished mine might be. I remember thinking how unfair that such a colour should be wasted on a man who probably didn’t treasure it nearly as much as I would have done.”

St. James tapped his fingers against the desk. He thought aloud. “I’m sure we can manage to get a photograph of Mick. If not the one from the cottage, then surely another. His father would probably have one.” He considered the next logical step. “Could you go to London and talk to Tina, Deborah? Good Lord, what am I thinking of? You can’t dash off to London in the middle of your weekend here.”

“Of course I can. There’s a dinner planned here for tomorrow night, but we’ve nothing after that. Tommy can fly me back Sunday morning. Or I can take the train.”

“You need only find out whether she recognises his picture. If she does, don’t tell her he’s dead. Tommy and I will see to that.” St. James folded his papers, slipped them into his jacket pocket, and continued speaking pensively. “If Mick’s linked to her sexually, she may be able to tell us something which clarifies his murder, something which Mick might have told her inadvertently. Men relax after intercourse. They feel more important. They let down their guard. They become more honest.” He suddenly became aware of the nature of his words and stopped them, shifting in another direction without looking her way. “Helen can go with you. I’ll do some questioning here. Tommy’ll want to be part of that. Then we’ll join you when…Damn! The photographs! I left the film from the cottage in your camera. If we can develop it, no doubt we’ll…I’m afraid I used it all up.”

She smiled. He knew why. He was starting to sound exactly like her.

“I’ll get it for you, shall I? It’s just in my room.”

She left him. He walked to the alcove window and looked out over the night-shrouded garden. Shapes alone defined the bushes there. Pathways were muted streaks of grey.

St. James considered the disjointed pieces of Mick Cambrey’s life and death that had emerged that night. He wondered how they fit together. Mick had been gone a great deal, Lady Asherton had said. He’d been working on a story in London. A big story. St. James thought about this and the possible connections a story might have to Tina Cogin.

One assumption was that she was Mick’s lover, a woman being kept in London for his clandestine pleasure. Yet Deborah, nobody’s fool when it came to judgement, had concluded from a first impression, a conversation, and a run-in with Mick that Tina was a prostitute. If this was the case, the resultant tie to a story was both logical and ineluctable. For Mick might be keeping the woman in London not for his pleasure but for her own protection as a source for a story that had the potential to make banner headlines and put Mick’s name in the forefront of journalism. It certainly would not be the first time if a prostitute became involved in critically important news, nor would it be the first time if heads were to roll and careers were to fall because of a prostitute. And now with Mick dead and his sitting room ransacked—perhaps in the hope of finding Tina Cogin’s address in London—no amalgamation of these details sounded outrageous.

“Simon!” Deborah flew back into the room. He swung round from the window to find her trembling, arms wrapped round herself tightly as if she were cold.

“What is it?”