“Do you happen to own a pair of Hi-Tecs? Size nine and half?”
“I’m a ten.”
“Mind if I have a look in your closet?”
“I’m late for work.”
“I’ll need to see that hatchet of yours as well.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“I don’t,” admitted Peel. “But I can get one in about five minutes flat.”
* * *
Peel left Penhallow Road at half past eight with the hatchet sealed in an evidence bag. While driving back to headquarters, he listened to the news on Radio 4. Not surprisingly, the Great Torrington slaying was the lead story. There was mounting pressure on the Metropolitan Police, which held legal jurisdiction throughout England and Wales, to take control of the investigation. Were that to happen, Peel would return to normal duty at the CID. His typical caseload consisted of narcotics investigations, sexual and physical assaults, antisocial behavior, and burglaries. The Chopper case, for all its gore and long hours, had been a welcome break in the monotony.
The headquarters of the Devon and Cornwall Police were located in Sidmouth Road in an industrial section of Exeter. Peel arrived a few minutes before ten and headed straight for DI Tony Fletcher’s office. Fletcher was the lead detective on the Chopper investigation.
“How much time do we have left?” asked Peel.
“The announcement will be made at noon, but the lads from London are already on their way down here.” Fletcher looked at the evidence bag in Peel’s hand. “Where did you get that?”
“Neil Perkins.”
“The schoolteacher from Newquay?”
Peel nodded.
“Does he have an alibi?”
“A lousy one, but he’s a size ten.”
“Close enough for me.”
“Me, too.”
“Type up your notes,” said Fletcher. “And be quick about it. As of noon, we’re officially off the case.”
Peel sat down at his desk and updated Perkins’s existing file with a description of the morning’s interview and search. By 12:00 p.m. the file was in the hands of a ten-person team of detectives and forensic analysts from the Metropolitan Police, along with a Magnusson Composite hatchet and a copy of a sales receipt from the B&Q in Falmouth. So, too, was the blood-soaked clothing worn by Professor Charlotte Blake on the night of her murder near Land’s End. The professor’s Vauxhall, having been swept for evidence, was locked up in the Falmouth auto pound, but her mobile phone remained unaccounted for. Also missing was a yellow legal pad discovered on the desk in Professor Blake’s cottage in Gunwalloe. Peel told DI Tony Fletcher that he must have mislaid it.
“Did it contain anything interesting?”
“Some notes about a painting.” Peel shrugged his shoulders to indicate the matter was of no relevance to the investigation. “Looked like it might have been a Picasso.”
“Never cared for him.”
You wouldn’t, thought Peel.
“For the life of me,” Fletcher continued, “I don’t understand why that woman was walking around Land’s End after dark when there was a serial killer on the loose.”
“Neither do I,” said Peel. “But I’m sure the mighty Metropolitan Police will have it figured out in no time.”
Fletcher pushed a case file across his desk. “Your new assignment.”
“Anything interesting?”
“A rash of burglaries in Plymouth.” Fletcher smiled. “You’re welcome.”
19
Cork Street
As Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel set off for Plymouth that February afternoon, the man who had asked him to accidentally misplace Charlotte Blake’s legal pad was walking past the parade of luxury shops lining Burlington Arcade in Mayfair. He had returned to London on pressing business, namely, to recruit the final member of his operational team. The negotiations promised to be arduous and the price steep. Unlike Anna Rolfe, Nicholas Lovegrove never performed for free.
The prominent art consultant suggested lunch at the Wolseley, but Gabriel insisted they meet at his office instead. It was located in a redbrick building in Cork Street, two floors above one of London’s most important contemporary art galleries. Lovegrove’s receptionist was not at her desk when Gabriel arrived. His two underlings, both Courtauld-trained art historians, were likewise absent.
“As requested, Allon, it’s just the two of us.” They withdrew to Lovegrove’s inner sanctum. It was like an exhibition room at the Tate Modern. “What is this all about?”
“A friend of mine is looking to unload a few paintings and requires the assistance of an experienced, trustworthy consultant. Naturally, I thought of you.”
“What sort of paintings?”
Gabriel recited the names of six artists: Amedeo Modigliani, Vincent van Gogh, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
“Where are the paintings now?”
“They will soon be at the owner’s villa on the Costa de Prata.”
