44 Land’s End

44 Land's End

"Nice sled," said Ingrid, and ran her hand over the leather dashboard of Christopher's Bentley Continental GT. "All-electric,

is it?"

"Lunar," replied Gabriel. "It's cutting-edge stuff."

Smiling, she leaned her head wearily against the window. They were headed west on the Cromwell Road through the gray early-morning

light. "I can't remember the last time I slept."

"Try to get some rest. We have a long drive ahead of us."

" How long?"

"It's five hours to Land's End. But we have to make a stop in Exeter along the way."

"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?"

"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.