revolver. 'Thank God,' he said again and levelled it at St James.
'Roderick.' Lynley stared at the gun. Wild thoughts disconnected — darted through his brain. A black-market purchase, a wartime antique, the gun room at Howenstow. Of course he'd have prepared for this moment. They'd been signalling to him that it was coming for days. Their questions, their interviews, their telephone calls. 'Roderick, for God's sake.'
'Yes,' Trenarrow said. 'I suppose that's right.'
Lynley quickly shifted his eyes. St James' face hadn't changed; it didn't show even a shadow of emotion. A movement at the edge of his vision and Lynley looked back to the gun. Trenarrow's finger was easing towards the trigger.
And suddenly before him was the possibility again, a thematic repetition he could not avoid. It was every foul wish in absolute spades.
There was only a split second to make a decision. Choose, he told himself fiercely. And he did so.
'Roderick, you can't hope—'
Lynley's words were cut off by the bellow of the gun.
Deborah pressed her fists against the small of her back to ease her tired muscles. The room was warm, and in spite of the window that was cracked open against the rain, the smoke from Harry Cambrey's cigarettes made the air malodorous, eye-stinging and stuffy.
In the office, everyone had continued with his work. Telephones rang intermittendy, word processor keys tapped, drawers opened and shut, footsteps creaked across the floor. Deborah had explored the contents of one entire filing cabinet, achieving nothing more than three paper cuts between her fingers and print stains across the palms of her hands. From the sounds Harry Cambrey was making — a groan, a sigh, a muttered oath — it didn't seem that he was having any better luck.
She stifled a yawn, feeling completely drained. She'd slept only an hour or two after dawn, and even then the fractured dreams she'd experienced had left her physically depleted and emotionally worn. The effort not to think about last night had taken its toll. Now she only wanted sleep, partly as succour but mostly as escape. Even as she thought about it, her eyelids grew heavy. The rain on the roof was wonderfully soporific, the room was warm, the murmur of voices so soothing…
A howl of sirens in the street below slapped her fully awake. First one, then a second. A moment later, a third. Julianna Vendale left her desk and went to the window. Deborah joined her as Harry Cambrey pushed himself to his feet.
An ambulance was just making the turn from the Penzance Road into Paul Lane. Some distance ahead of it, where Paul Lane began the ascent into the hills, two police cars sped through the rain. Simultaneously, a telephone began to ring in the newsroom. Julianna took the call. The conversation was mostly one-sided. Her comments were terse, consisting only of 'When?… Where?… Fatal?… All right. Yes. Thanks.'
She hung up and said to Cambrey, 'There's been a shooting at Trenarrow's.'
Deborah had time to feel only a frisson of danger, saying only, 'Trenarrow?' before Harry Cambrey moved.
He bolted for the door, grabbing two cameras and a mackintosh on his way. He threw open the door and shouted over his shoulder to Julianna Vendale, 'Stay by the phones!'
As he clattered down the stairs into the street, another police car shot past. Oblivious of the rain, patrons of the Anchor and Rose as well as some of the inhabitants of Paul Lane began to stream out of buildings and take up the chase. Harry Cambrey was caught up in their midst, cameras banging against his thighs, struggling to make his way through the crush. From the window Deborah watched. She looked for them vainly, a blond head and a black one. Surely, they would be among the crowd. Having heard the name Trenarrow, they would be heading towards the villa.
A voice barked out from the street. 'Don't know. Dead, we think.'
The words were electrifying. Hearing them, Deborah saw Simon's face. She remembered the way he'd looked at Tommy — grim with decision — before he'd taken him from the office. With a rush of horror she thought: They went to see Trenarrow.
She dashed from the room and flew down the stairs. She shoved her way through the throng of people still gathered in the doorway of the pub and stumbled outside. Rain pelted her. A passing car honked its horn. Its tyres hit a puddle which sent up a spume of spray. But none of this existed. She knew only the need to find Trenarrow's home. She felt only the terror of a shooting.
In the past three years, Lynley had only alluded to the discord in his life. And, even then, the allusion was made in actions, not in words. A preference for spending Christmas with her rather than with his family; a letter from his mother gone unopened for weeks; a telephone message never returned. But as they'd walked together to the cove this afternoon, he'd told her that he'd put all of it to rest — the enmity, the discord, the bitterness, the anger. To have something happen now was obscene. Not dead. No.
The words carried her towards the hillside. Rainwater shooting from an unguttered roof top struck her cheeks and blinded her momentarily as she headed up the incline. She paused and cleared her vision, with the crowd surging round her, dashing towards the flash of blue lights in the distance. The air was alive with speculations on death. If there was a body to be seen, or blood to be smelt, here existed the populace that would do the honours.
At the first intersection, she was pushed into the steamy windows of the Talisman Cafe by an angry matron who pulled a yowling little boy by the arm. 'Watcher goin!' the woman shouted furiously at Deborah. She stood in odd Roman sandals that were laced to her knees. She tugged the child to her side. 'Bleeding trippers. Think you own the village?'
Deborah didn't bother to answer. She elbowed past her.
Later, she would remember her headlong flight through the village and up the hill as an ever-changing collage: on the door of a shop, a rain-streaked sign on which the words clotted cream and chocolate gateau oozed into one another; a single sunflower, its enormous head bent; palm fronds lying in a pool of rainwater; Munch-like open mouths shouting words at her which she did not hear; a bicycle wheel spinning in endless revolutions while the dazed rider sprawled in the street. But at the moment she saw nothing but Tommy, in countiess images, each one more vivid than the last, each one accusing her of betrayal. This would be her punishment for that moment of selfish weakness with Simon.
Please, she thought. If there were bargains and promises, she would make them. Without a second thought. Without a single regret.
As she reached the incline above the village proper, a final police car tore by her, sending up pebbles as well as spray from the street. There was no need for the horn to clear the road. Daunted by the downpour, the less hardy thrill-seekers had already started becoming discouraged by the climb. They had begun to seek refuge, some in shops, some in doorways, others flocking into the Methodist church. Not even the diversion of blood and a corpse seemed worth the potential ruin of fine summer clothes.
Only the most resolutely curious had completed the climb. Shaking her wet hair back from her face, Deborah saw them gathered in front of a drive where a police line was set up to keep them at a distance. There, the group had fallen into a speculative silence, one broken by the hot voice of Harry Cambrey who was arguing with an implacable constable, insisting upon entrance.
Behind them on the hill, rain assailed Trenarrow's villa. Its every window was lit. Uniformed men swarmed about it. Lights flashed from the police cars parked on its circular drive.
'Shot, I heard,' someone muttered.
'Brought anyone out yet?'
'Nope.'
Deborah scanned the front of the villa, working through the men, looking for a sign. He was all right, he was fine, he had to be among them. She couldn't find him. She pushed her way through the onlookers to the police line. Childhood prayers rose to her lips and died unsaid. She made bargains with God. She asked to be punished in any other way. She asked for understanding. She admitted her faults.
She ducked under the line.
