“Inspector Dalgliesh?”
“Peel,” said Gabriel. “And he’s only a detective sergeant.”
“Apple Peel? Banana Peel?”
“Timothy Peel. And trust me, he’s heard them all before. He lived next door to me when he was a child. The other boys at school teased him mercilessly.”
“Is that why he became a cop?”
“Apparently, I had something to do with it.”
“How do you intend to explain me?”
“With as few words as possible.”
“In case you’re wondering,” said Ingrid, smothering a yawn, “I have never stolen anything in Exeter. In fact, I’m quite certain I’ve never set foot there.”
She reclined her seat and closed her eyes. Gabriel switched on the radio and listened to the news on the BBC. The 1922 Committee of Tory backbenchers were scheduled to convene the following afternoon to begin the process of selecting a new leader and, thus, the next prime minister. Home Secretary Hugh Graves remained the favorite but was expected to face a stiff challenge from Foreign Secretary Stephen Frasier and the chancellor of the Exchequer, Nigel Cunningham. Prime Minister Hillary Edwards, during a brief appearance before reporters outside Number Ten, had declined an invitation to put her thumb on the scale. A panel of political experts agreed that a kind word from the unpopular outgoing premier would be tantamount to a kiss of death.
“Do you think it was a coincidence?” asked Ingrid suddenly.
“That Valentin Federov and Lord Michael Radcliff are both clients of Harris Weber?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Gabriel drove in silence for a moment. “Have you ever hacked a bank?”
“Never.”
“Think you can do it?”
“Are you forgetting that I just hacked the Geneva Freeport?”
“Point taken.”
“Looking for something in particular?”
“Not sure. But we’ll know it when we see it.”
* * *
Gabriel waited until he had reached Bristol before ringing Timothy Peel. He intimated that he had identified the killer of Professor Charlotte Blake and made it clear that his findings could not be delivered electronically. Peel suggested they meet in a pub about a mile from the headquarters of the Devon and Cornwall Police. Gabriel, after entering the name of the establishment into the Bentley’s navigation system, said he would be there by twelve thirty at the latest.
The pub in question was the Blue Ball Inn in Clyst Road. Gabriel and Ingrid arrived to find Peel seated at an isolated table in the back. He shook Ingrid’s hand, took note of her appearance and Scandinavian accent, and then looked to Gabriel for an explanation.
“Ingrid provided technical and other assistance to my investigation.”
“Other?”
“I’ll get to that in a moment.”
Peel produced a detective’s notebook and pen and laid them on the table. Gabriel glared at the items with reproach, and Peel returned them to his pocket.
“Who murdered her, Mr. Allon?”
“A German contract killer named Klaus Müller.”
“Where is he now?”
“Regrettably, Herr Müller died in a tragic road accident in Provence a few days ago.”
“Were you involved in this accident?”
“Next question.”
“Who hired Müller to kill Professor Blake?”
“A law firm that’s using valuable paintings like the Picasso to launder money and conceal the wealth of some of the world’s richest and most powerful people. Müller murdered her with a hatchet to make it appear as though she was a victim of the Chopper. And he would have gotten away with it were it not for you.”
“There’s still one thing about the case that doesn’t make sense.”
“Why was Charlotte Blake walking around Land’s End after dark?”
Peel nodded.
“I know the answer to that, too.”
“How?”
