“Your husband.”
“Is this the part where you tell me how bereft and bereaved he was by my disappearance?”
“It was an unconscionable thing you did.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Downing Street might well be in ruins.”
The weather forecast called for rain until late morning, so he drove her to the Morrisons in Long Rock for a bit of shopping. None of the other patrons gave her a second look as she loaded her cart with mounds of microwavable fare. She paid with a credit card bearing the name of her new British identity.
“I prefer your old name,” said Gabriel as they started back to Gwennap Head.
“So do I, but that would rather defeat the purpose of an assumed identity.” She stared gloomily out her rain-spattered window at the sands of Long Rock Beach. “It’s not exactly Saint-Tropez, is it?”
“It will grow on you.”
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Allon, but I try to avoid things that grow on me.”
The rain had ended by the time they returned to the cottage, but the weather was still blustery and cold. After loading the groceries into the pantry and fridge, Alice asked, “What now?”
“I keep a sailboat in Penzance Harbor.”
“In this weather? Sounds a bit treacherous to me.”
“How about a nice long walk along the cliffs instead?”
“A much better idea.”
They pulled on oilskin coats and Wellington boots and set off across the sodden meadow. When they reached the Coast Path, Alice slowed to a stop.
“Which direction?” she asked.
“The choice is yours.”
She debated for a moment, then turned to the right and started toward Land’s End. Gabriel followed after her, unaware of the fact that Detective Inspector Timothy Peel of the Devon and Cornwall Police was at that same moment trying desperately to reach him.
The NPAS helicopter was an Airbus H130, with a never-exceed speed of 160 miles per hour. Forty-five minutes after leaving Exeter it was on the ground at Land’s End Airport. A cruiser waited on the rain-dampened tarmac, driven by PC Elenore Tremayne. Peel had worked with PC Tremayne on one of the Chopper murders, a young woman from Great Torrington who was killed while walking home after a night of drinking with friends at the Black Horse pub. PC Tremayne had found the killer’s shoeprints not far from the scene of the crime. While Peel was in the air over West Cornwall, she had found the stolen Ford Fiesta.
“It’s in the Porthgwarra car park. We have four uniforms on the scene. The SOCOs are on their way.”
“Did anyone happen to see the driver?”
“No, sir.”
“I have a fair idea where he went next.”
“And where is that, sir?”
“A rather large house about a quarter mile to the north.”
“The one next to Charlie Twigg’s place?”
“That’s the one.”
PC Tremayne switched on her lights and siren and pushed the throttle to the floor. It was a seven-mile drive, much of it along treacherous hedgerow-lined lanes, but she managed to cover the distance in just under ten minutes. As they turned through the gate, Peel spotted Gabriel’s Range Rover parked in the forecourt. The door to his studio, which was never left unlocked, had been opened with the help of a firearm. So too had the door to the main house.
Peel drew his Glock 19 and searched the house from top to bottom. It was unoccupied and, with the exception of the front door, undamaged. Based on the number of breakfast dishes soaking in the kitchen sink, at least two people were currently in residence, one of whom was staying in the upstairs guest room. Peel, after inspecting the clothing in the guest’s suitcase, was confident he knew who she was.
