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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?”
