'Tell them to go farther out,' St James shouted when. the boys made their sixth return empty-handed.
Lynley looked up, nodded, and waved. He squatted on the rocks and talked to the boys. They dived under the water again. Both were good swimmers. They clearly understood what they were looking for. But neither found a thing.
'It looks hopeless.' Deborah seemed to be speaking more to herself than to St James. Nonetheless, he replied.
'You're right. I'm sorry, Deborah. I thought to have recovered at least something for you.' He glanced her way, saw by her expression of misery that she'd read the meaning behind his words.
'Oh, Simon, please. I couldn't. When it came down to it, I couldn't do it to him. Can you try to understand?'
'The salt water would have ruined them anyway. But at least you'd have had something to remind you of your success in America. Besides Tommy, of course.' She stiffened. He knew he had hurt her and felt a whisper of triumph at his power to do so. It was replaced almost immediately by a roar of shame. 'That was unforgivable. I'm sorry,' he said.
'I deserve it.'
'No. You don't deserve it.' He walked away from her, giving his attention back to the cove. 'Tell them to finish, Tommy,' he shouted. 'The cameras aren't there.'
Below, the two boys were surfacing once more. This time, however, one of them clutched an object in his hand. Long and narrow, it glinted in the dull light as he handed it to Lynley. Wooden handle, metal blade. Both bearing no sign of having been in the water more than a few days.
'What's he got?' Deborah asked.
Lynley held it up so that they both could see it from the top of the cliff. St James drew a quick breath. 'A kitchen knife,' he said.
26
A lazy rain had begun to fall by the time they reached the harbour car park in Nanrunnel. It was no precursor of a Cornish south-wester, but rather the herald of a brief summer shower. Thousands of gulls accompanied it, screaming in from the sea to seek havens on chimney-tops, along the quay, and upon the decks of boats secured to the harbour walls.
On the path that skirted the circumference of the harbour, they passed overturned skiffs, lopsided piles of fishing nets redolent with the odours of the sea, and waterside buildings whose windows reflected the unchanging grey mask of the weather. Not until they reached the point at which the path inclined between two buildings as it led into the village proper did any of them speak. It was then that Lynley noticed that the cobbled pavement was already slick with rain. He glanced uneasily at St James.
The other man answered his look. 'I can manage it, Tommy.'
They'd talked little about the knife. Just that it was obviously a kitchen utensil, so if it had been used on Mick Cambrey and if Nancy could identify it as having come from the cottage, it served as further evidence that the crime against her husband had not been planned. Its presence in the cove did nothing to absolve Justin Brooke from blame. Rather, the knife merely changed his reason for having gone there in the first place. Not to rid himself
of Deborah's cameras but to rid himself of something far more damaging.
Thus the cameras remained a piece still not tucked into position in the jigsaw of the crime. They all agreed that it was reasonable to continue to conclude Brooke had taken them from Deborah's room. But where he had disposed of them was once again as elusive a location as it had been two days ago.
Rounding the corner of an antique silver shop on the Lamorna Road, they found the streets of the village deserted. This was an unsurprising summer-time phenomenon in an area where the vicissitudes of the weather often forced holidaymakers to be flexible in matters concerning how they spent their time. Where sun would see them strolling the village streets, exploring the harbour, and taking pictures on the quay, rain usually provoked a sudden need to try their luck in a game of chance, a sudden hunger for tucking into a fresh crab salad, a sudden thirst for real ale. An inclement afternoon was a welcome boon to the proprietors of bingo parlours, restaurants and pubs.
This proved to be the case at the Anchor and Rose. The pub teemed with fishermen forced to shore by the weather as well as day visitors seeking shelter from the rain. Most of them were packed into the public bar. The formal lounge beyond it was largely empty.
In any other circumstances, two such diverse groups, inhabiting the same watering-hole, would hardly be likely to blend into a cohesive unit. But the presence of a teenaged mandolin-player, a fisherman conversant with the Irish whistle, and a pale-legged man wearing running-shorts and playing the spoons had broken the barrier of class and experience, blending what should have been motley into montage.
In the wide bay window overlooking the harbour, a leather-skinned fisherman – backlit by the dull light outside – engaged a fashionably clad tot in a game of cat's cradle. His weathered hands held out the string to the child; his broken teeth flashed in a grin.
'Go on, Dickie. Take it. You know how to play,' Mummy coaxed the little boy.
Dickie co-operated. Approving laughter ensued. The fisherman rested his hand on the child's head.
'It's a photograph, isn't it?' Lynley said to Deborah in the doorway where they stood watching.
She smiled. 'What a wonderful face he has, Tommy. And look how the light just barely strikes the side of it.'
St James was on the stairs, climbing up to the newspaper office. Deborah followed, Lynley behind her.
'You know,' she went on, pausing briefly on the landing, 'I was worried for a time about the scope for my photographs in Cornwall. Don't ask me why. I'm a creature of habit, I suppose, and my habit has been to do most of my work in London. But I love it here, Tommy. There's a photograph everywhere. It's grand. Truly. I've thought that from the first.'
At her words, Lynley felt shamed by his earlier doubts. He paused on the steps. 'I love you, Deb.'
Her expression softened. 'And I you, Tommy.'
St James had already opened the door of the newspaper office. Inside, two telephones were ringing, Julianna Vendale was typing at a word processor, a young photographer was cleaning half a dozen camera lenses lined up on a desk, and in one of the cubicles three men and a woman leaned into a circle of conversation. Harry Cambrey was among them.
Cambrey saw them and left his meeting. He was wearing suit trousers, a white shirt, a black tie. As if in the need to explain this, he said, 'Buried him this morning. Half-past eight.'
Odd, Lynley thought, that Nancy hadn't mentioned it. But it explained the acceptance with which she had greeted their presence. There was a degree of finality to burial. It didn't end sorrow, but it did make easier the acknowledgement of loss.
'Half a dozen coppers hanging about in the graveyard,' Cambrey continued. 'First thing they've done besides trying to stick the killing on John Penellin. And isn't that a thought? John killing Mick.'
'Perhaps he had a motive after all,' St James said. He handed Mick Cambrey's set of keys to his father. 'Mick's dressing. Would a man be driven to kill another man over that?'
Cambrey's fist closed over the keys. He turned his back on his employees and lowered his voice. 'So. Who knows about it?'
'You covered up well. Nearly everyone sees Mick exacdy as you painted him. A real man's man, an insatiable womanizer.'
'What the hell else could I do?' Cambrey asked. 'God damn, he was my son. He was a
'Whose main source of arousal was dressing like a woman.'
'I never could break him. I did try.'
'So this wasn't something recent?'
Shoving the keys into his pocket, Cambrey shook his head. 'He'd been doing it all his life, off and on. I'd catch
