A Suitable Vengeance by A Suitable Vengeance (v2.0) (html)

Author:A Suitable Vengeance (v2.0) (html) [Vengeance, A Suitable]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-11-24T19:10:09+00:00

Deborah looked up. Her mouth felt dry. 'Helen, she couldn't have killed him.' Yet, even as she said it, her discomfort grew. What, after all, did she know about Tina? Nothing really, beyond a single conversation which had revealed little more than a weakness for men, an affinity for nightlife, and a concern about ageing. Still, one could certainly sense evil in people, no matter their attempts to disguise it. One could certainly sense the potential for rage. And none of that had been present in Tina. Yet, as she considered Mick Cambrey's death and the very fact of his presence in Tina Cogin's life, Deborah had to admit that she wasn't so sure.

She reached blindly for the folder as if it contained a verification of Tina's lack of guile. Prospects was printed across the tab. Inside, a clip held together a sheaf of papers.

'What is it?' Lady Helen asked.

'Names and addresses. Telephone numbers.'

'Her client list?'

'I shouldn't think so. Look. There are at least a hundred names. Women as well as men.' 'A mailing list?'

'I suppose it might be. There's a savings book as well.' Deborah slid this out of its plastic folder.

'Tell all,' Lady Helen said. 'Is her lifestyle profitable? Shall I change my line of work?'

Deborah read the list of deposits, flipped back to the name. She felt a rush of surprise. 'This isn't hers,' she said. 'It belongs to Mick Cambrey. And, whatever he was doing, it was wildly profitable.'

'Mr Allcourt-St James? This is a pleasure.' Dr Alice Waters rose from her chair and shooed off the lab assistant who had shown St James to her office. 'I thought I recognized you at Howenstow this morning. Hardly the time for introductions, however. What brings you to my den?'

It was an apt choice of words, for the office of Penzance CID's forensic pathologist was little more than a windowless cubicle on the verge of being overcome by bookshelves, an ancient roll-top desk, a medical-school skeleton wearing a Second World War gas mask, and several stacks of scientific journals. All that remained of the floorspace was a trail that led from the doorway to the desk. A chair sat next to this - curiously out of place and intricately carved in a design of flowers and birds that was more suggestive of a country house dining room than a department of forensic pathology - and after offering St James her hand in a cool, firm shake she waved him into it.

'Take the throne,' she said. 'Circa 1675. It was a good period for chairs if one doesn't mind a bit of excessive ornamentation.'

'You're a collector?'

'Takes one's mind off the job.' She sank into her own chair - a piece of wounded leather whose surface was cracked and wrinkled - and rooted through the papers on her desk until she found a small carton of chocolates which she presented to him. When he had made his selection, a process she watched with a good deal of interest, she took a chocolate herself, biting into it with the satisfaction of a discerning gourmet.

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