“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.”
“Don’t talk, just listen.” Christopher rammed the magazine into the grip. “When you are ready to fire your weapon, you must chamber the first round by racking the slide. A Glock has an internal safety mechanism that disengages automatically when you pull the trigger. If for some reason you feel the need to pull it fifteen times, the slide will lock in the open position. Eject your empty magazine by pressing the release on the left side of the grip, and insert your backup. Then rinse and repeat.” He handed Peel the fully loaded weapon. “And do try not to shoot me, Timothy. It will greatly increase your chances of surviving the next few minutes.”
“I never realized that SIS officers carried sidearms.”
“I’m not a normal SIS officer.”
“I gathered that.” Peel pointed out the silhouette of a bell tower rising above the meadow on their left. “There’s the church of Saint Michael.”
“You don’t say.”
“I was just trying to orient you.”
“This might come as a surprise, but I’ve done this sort of thing a time or two.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“West Belfast, South Armagh, and other assorted garden spots in the province of Northern Ireland.” He lit another cigarette. “There’s where I acquired this terrible habit. One of several, as a matter of fact.”
Peel made a left turn into Churchill Lane and headed north.
