“Her phone.”

“Did you find it?”

“Next best thing,” said Gabriel.

*  *  *

It was not necessary for Gabriel to explain to Timothy Peel who Leonard Bradley was or where he resided. The Bradley home, one of the largest in West Cornwall, had been targeted numerous times by local thieves. A break-in the previous winter had resulted in the loss of several thousand pounds worth of electronics, silver, and jewelry. Peel had tracked down the two perpetrators—they were a couple of numbskulls from Carbis Bay—and had even managed to recover some of the stolen property. Bradley had been most appreciative, as had his wife.

Consequently, Peel was confident that Leonard Bradley would agree to speak to him if he appeared on his doorstep unannounced. Whether Bradley would be willing to discuss his extramarital relationship with the late Professor Charlotte Blake was another matter entirely. The easiest way to secure his cooperation would be to arrange a formal interview. But that would require Peel to go on the record with his superiors, not to mention the boys from the Metropolitan Police who were now in charge of the Chopper investigation. Such a course of action would involve certain admissions on Peel’s part—admissions that would almost certainly end his brief career.

And so it was that Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel, at half past two that afternoon, found himself behind the wheel of his unmarked Vauxhall Insignia, pursuing a beautiful Bentley Continental as it sped westward along the A30. Eventually the Bentley pulled into the car park at Land’s End, and the passenger, an attractive Danish woman in her mid-thirties, headed into the amusement center. The driver joined Peel in the Vauxhall. He headed toward Porthcurno, the tiny village where Professor Blake’s body had been discovered.

“And you’re absolutely sure she was involved in a romantic relationship with Bradley?”

“Would you like to read the text messages?”

“I’d rather not. But he’s bound to deny it.”

“I’m not here to judge him. I just want to know whether Charlotte Blake told him that she had found the Picasso.”

“What makes you think she might have?”

“Didn’t they teach you anything at detective school, Timothy?”

He turned into a narrow track and headed toward the coastline. “And if she did tell him?”

“I would like to know the reason why. And if it is relevant to our investigation, I will pursue the matter further.”

“Our investigation?”

“You’re the one who dragged me into this.”

“But my superiors don’t know that.”

“And they never will.”

“Unless I do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

Peel guided the Vauxhall through an open gate and rolled to a stop outside a stately stone manor perched atop the cliffs. “Like this,” he said, and climbed out.

45

Penberth Cove

It was Cordelia Bradley who answered the bell. She was a tall, pale-complected woman of perhaps fifty with windblown reddish hair and eyes the color of the cloudless Cornish sky. She remembered Peel from the robbery investigation and greeted him warmly. Gabriel she regarded with astonishment.

“Forgive me, Mr. Allon, but you are the last person I expected to see on my doorstep.”

She invited them inside and closed the door. Peel, while standing in the entrance hall, asked whether her husband was at home and had a moment to talk.

“Yes, of course. But what’s this about?”

“Mr. Allon is completing a research project that Professor Blake was working on at the time of her murder. He’s hoping that Mr. Bradley might be able to help him.”

“Why Leonard?”

It was Gabriel who answered, untruthfully. “I found his name and telephone number in her notes.”

“That’s strange.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Leonard and Charlotte were at Oxford together and spoke on the phone regularly. There’s no reason in the world why she would write down his number. It was stored in her contacts.” She paused, then added, “As was mine.”

She led them along a central corridor to a pair of French doors overlooking the sea. Near the edge of the cliff was a separate cottage with walls of glass.

“My husband’s office,” said Cordelia Bradley. Then she plucked a phone from her pocket and smiled without parting her lips. “I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

*  *  *

The cottage was reached by a manicured gravel footpath. Leonard Bradley, alert to danger, waited in the doorway. He was a slender man with a fine-boned face and dark hair. His clothing was casual but costly. His smile was artificial.

“You’ve caught me in the middle of a rather complex trade, gentlemen, but please come in.”

Gabriel and Peel followed Bradley into the cottage. His office was an architectural showpiece, the realm of an alchemist who magically made money from money. He settled behind his large glass desk and invited Gabriel and Peel to sit in the two modern chairs opposite. They remained standing instead.

An awkward silence ensued. Finally, Bradley looked at Gabriel and asked, “Why are you here, Mr. Allon?”

Gabriel exchanged a long look with Peel before answering. “Charlotte Blake.”

“I gathered that.”

“The two of you were close friends.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “Unusually close.”

“And just what are you implying?”

“Let’s skip this part, shall we? I’ve read the text messages.”

Bradley’s face drained of color. “You self-righteous bastard.”

“I am neither, I assure you.” Gabriel glanced deliberately around Bradley’s magnificent office. “Besides, you know what they say about people who live in glass houses.”

The remark lowered the temperature, but only slightly. Leonard Bradley posed his next question to Peel. “Am I a suspect in Charlotte’s murder?”

“You are not.”