During the drive back to Land’s End, Timothy Peel engaged in a running discourse on the imminent demise of his once promising career as an officer of the Devon and Cornwall Police. Gabriel waited until the homily had reached its conclusion before assuring the young detective sergeant that his fears were overblown.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Timothy.”
“Are you really?”
“Reasonably sure,” said Gabriel, amending his earlier statement. “After all, Lucinda Graves is the wife of the next prime minister.”
“Does her name appear in the files you stole from Harris Weber?”
“Stole is an ugly word.”
“Borrowed?”
“No. Lucinda Graves’s name does not appear in the files. But all that means is that she isn’t a client.”
“What else could she be?”
“Harris Weber gets most of its clients from wealth managers at big banks or from smaller firms like Lucinda’s. It’s entirely conceivable that she’s in business with them.”
Peel swore softly. “I have to tell my chief constable everything we know, preferably before he hears it from Leonard Bradley.”
“Leonard isn’t going to say anything to anyone. And neither are you.”
Peel turned into the car park at Land’s End. Ingrid was sitting on the bonnet of the Bentley, her back against the windscreen.
“Where did you get the car?”
“Borrowed,” said Gabriel.
“What about the girl?”
“Stolen.”
“I suppose she’s married.”
“No.”
“Involved with anyone?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Think she might be interested in having a drink with a handsome country policeman when this is over?”
“Probably not.”
Peel unlocked the doors of the Vauxhall. “What now?”
“I’m going to find out whether the wife of the next prime minister is a criminal.”
“And if she is?”
Gabriel climbed out without another word and dropped behind the wheel of the Bentley. Ingrid, after sliding off the bonnet, ducked into the passenger seat. Peel shadowed them eastward as far as Exeter, then pulled onto the verge and flashed his headlamps. Gabriel flashed his lights twice and was gone.
* * *
It was Leonard Bradley’s habit, at the conclusion of each trading day, to pull on a pair of Wellington boots and walk the cliffs alone. The time away from his desk and computers, he told Cordelia and the children, was an essential part of his work. It gave him a chance to clear his head of clutter, to reflect on his successes and console himself over the occasional market misstep, to see around the next corner, to quite literally look beyond the horizon.
Until recently, the sojourns along the cliffs had also provided Bradley with the opportunity, perhaps once or twice a week, to spend a few moments with Charlotte. They would pretend to bump into one another near Porthchapel Beach. And if no one else was in sight, they would steal away to the thick wood near the old St. Levan Church. The hurried encounters, with their impassioned kisses and desperate clutching at clothing, only fed their desire. Yes, their affair had been a long one, but seldom did they actually complete the sexual act. Their problem was logistical in nature. Bradley lived and worked in the isolated manor he shared with his wife and children, and Charlotte divided her time between Oxford and gossipy little Gunwalloe on the Lizard Peninsula. She forbade Bradley from ever calling on her there. Her neighbors, she said, watched her like hawks.
Especially Vera Hobbs and Dottie Cox. If they ever see us together, we’ll be the talk of Cornwall . . .
For a long time after Charlotte’s murder, Bradley had ventured only eastward, oftentimes wandering as far as the fishing village of Mousehole. Now he headed westward into the glare of the declining sun, down to Logan Rock, over to Porthcurno Lookout, across the car park of the Minack Theatre to the cliffs above Porthchapel Beach. He half expected to see Charlotte waiting there, a wicked smile on her face. “Haven’t we met somewhere before?” she used to say. And Bradley would reply, “Why yes, I believe we were at Oxford together.” Bradley had been posh and Charlotte had been northern and poor. Posh boys like Bradley did not marry poor girls from the north. They married girls like Cordelia Chamberlain.
He cast his gaze toward the thicket of trees near St. Levan Church and imagined the final dreadful seconds of Charlotte’s life. It was obvious that Gabriel Allon and the young detective did not believe that she had been murdered by the serial killer known as the Chopper. She was killed because of her investigation into the Picasso—and Bradley, in one way or another, had had a hand in her death. Now, to make matters worse, he had managed to entangle the wife of the next prime minister in the matter. After carefully weighing his options, he concluded he had no choice but to warn her that she would soon be hearing from none other than Gabriel Allon.
He placed the call while standing on the windblown cliff above Porthchapel Beach, a few hundred yards from the spot where
Charlotte had been murdered. Much to his surprise, the wife of the next prime minister answered straight away. “Listen, Lucinda,”
he said with an air of false indifference. “I know you must be terribly busy at the moment, but you’ll never guess who dropped
by to see me today.”
46
Old Burlington Street
By the time they reached Taunton, Gabriel’s eyes were heavy with fatigue. Bristol was the most obvious place to spend the night, but Ingrid had always wanted to visit the ancient Roman city of Bath, and it was only a few miles out of their way. They walked the honey-colored splendor of the historic center until sunset, then repaired to their adjoining rooms at the Gainsborough hotel and spa in Beau Street. Ingrid connected her computer to her mobile hot spot, checked the download speed, and went to work.
This time her target was BVI Bank, a notoriously corrupt financial institution located across the street from the Watering Hole in Road Town. Owing to the time difference, BVI’s employees were still at their desks when Ingrid commenced her attack. One of them, a vice president called Fellowes, unwittingly granted her access to the bank’s most sensitive data, including an account linked to LMR Overseas, the shell company owned by Lord Michael Radcliff.
“Oh my goodness,” said Ingrid.
“What’s wrong?” asked Gabriel from the next room.
