“He made me the person I am.”

“We have that in common, the two of us.” Christopher lowered his voice. “Which is why I came here tonight.”

“What’s in Petton Cross?” asked Peel.

“A cellular mast that detected the presence of Gabriel’s phone about two hours ago. It is my profound hope that he and his friend Ingrid are somewhere in the near vicinity.”

“What happened?”

“They were abducted in London this afternoon. A car park in Garrick Street, very professional. About an hour before it happened, Gabriel paid a visit to Lucinda Graves’s office in Mayfair. I was wondering if you knew why.”

“Professor Charlotte Blake.”

Christopher pointed toward the exit for the A38. “You’d better slow down, Timothy. Otherwise, you’ll miss your turnoff.”

*  *  *

It was smaller, even, than tiny Gunwalloe, just a handful of cottages and farms clustered around the intersection of four small roads. One led due north. Peel followed it for a few hundred yards, then turned into a narrow lane that carried them up the slope of a low hill. To their right, barely visible over the dense hedgerow, a single red light shone atop a cellular mast.

There was no verge, and no turnout in sight, so Peel slowed the Vauxhall to a stop in the center of the lane. The immediate proximity of the hedgerows required him to shimmy sideways from behind the wheel. In the boot was a pair of Wellingtons, a necessity for police work in rural England. He pulled them on and played the beam of a torch over the hedgerow. It was impenetrable to light.

“Surely there’s a gap somewhere,” said Christopher.

“Not on this road, there isn’t.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to go through it, won’t we?”

Christopher slung his rucksack over his shoulder and walked through the hedgerow as though it were an open door. By the time Peel managed to extract himself, the SIS man was halfway across the meadow on the other side. Peel clambered after him awkwardly in the Wellingtons and was gasping for air when he finally reached the brow of the hill. Christopher was breathing normally despite the freshly lit Marlboro jutting from the corner of his mouth.

He pulled the night-vision field glasses from the rucksack and, rotating slowly at the base of the mast, searched the land in every direction. A few lights burned here and there, but otherwise this corner of Devon was still sleeping soundly.

At last he lowered the glasses and pointed toward the northeast. “There’s a rather grand property a couple of miles in that direction. You wouldn’t happen to know who owns it?”

“That’s Somerset, sir.”

“And?”

“Not my jurisdiction.”

“It is now.”

Peel held out a hand. “Mind if I have a look?”

Christopher surrendered the field glasses, and Peel scrutinized the property in question. It looked to be about a hundred acres. The substantial redbrick Georgian manor was in exquisite condition. There were lights burning on the lower floor, and a Range Rover was parked in the drive. Behind the main house was a collection of farm buildings. There was also another vehicle, a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter transit van. It appeared to Peel as though someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.

He lowered the glasses. “A simple check of the Land Registry will tell us the name of the owner.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Peel rang Exeter and gave the duty officer a general description of the parcel of land and an approximate address—a bit north of the old church of St. Michael in Raddington, west side of Hill Lane.

“That’s Somerset,” replied the duty officer.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“Quickly,” said Peel, and killed the connection.

Christopher was holding the night-vision glasses to his eyes again. “He won’t mention any of this to your chief constable, I hope.”

“He’s a Cornwall lad, like myself.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Peel’s phone pinged with a text message before he could offer a response.

“And the winner is?” asked Christopher.

“The property is owned by a limited liability company registered in the British Virgin Islands.”

“Company have a name?”

“Driftwood Holdings.”

Christopher lowered the glasses and stared hard at Peel. “Are you carrying a sidearm, Timothy?”

“I am not.”

“Do you know how to use one?”

“Quite well, actually.”

“Ever shoot anyone?”

“Never.”

Christopher returned the field glasses to the rucksack. “Well, Timothy Peel, this could be your lucky night.”

53

Somerset

Timothy Peel officially strayed onto the territory of the Avon and Somerset Police at 3:02 a.m., when his unmarked Vauxhall Insignia rolled over the little humpback bridge spanning the River Batherm. To make matters worse, his passenger was giving him a rapid tutorial on the basic operation of a Glock 19 pistol. Peel, who was not authorized to carry or discharge a firearm regardless of the county, had no business being in the same car with it.

“The magazine holds fifteen rounds.” Christopher pointed toward the bottom of the grip. “You insert it here.”

“I know how to load a bloody gun.”