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“Why was she walking along the coast path after sunset on a Monday afternoon? Why wasn’t she in her car headed back to Oxford?”
Gabriel made no reply.
“I thought that would be your answer,” said Leonard Bradley, and returned to his house of glass.
***
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?”
