“What about your friend from the Devon and Cornwall Police? He might know something.”
Gabriel plunged a bruschetta into the ravioli filling and devoured it in a single bite.
“Must you?” asked Chiara.
“I dip,” replied Gabriel. “Therefore I am.”
7
Gunwalloe
Gabriel waited until morning to pack a bag. He left it in the entrance hall of the cottage, then made the hour-long drive around Mount’s Bay to Gunwalloe, a tiny hamlet on the western side of the Lizard Peninsula. He parked the Range Rover along the stretch of road that passed for the village high street—it had neither a name nor a numeric designation—and purchased the London papers at the Corner Market, which wasn’t on a corner at all. Next door was one of Cornwall’s better bakeries. The proprietor, a spherical woman named Vera Hobbs, greeted him warmly.
“And what brings you back to Gunwalloe, Mr. Allon?”
“A craving for one of your famous Cornish pasties.”
“What a coincidence. Your old friend told me the same thing.” Her eyes settled briefly on the man sitting alone at a table against the window. His name was Timothy Peel. He wore a dark suit of moderate quality and an open-necked dress shirt. There was no mistaking him for anything other than what he was, a detective for the Devon and Cornwall Police. “You’re not in any trouble, I hope.”
“None beyond the usual, Vera.”
“Devil,” she whispered.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Not by me, Mr. Allon. I always adored you. Even when you were pretending to be that rather unpleasant Italian fellow. His name escapes me.”
“Me too,” quipped Gabriel.
Vera Hobbs plucked a square of tissue paper from the dispenser. “Beef, chicken, or veggie, my long-lost love?”
“How’s the chicken today?”
“I’m offended you would ask.”
“And might I trouble you for a cup of tea as well?”
“For you, my prince, it would be no trouble at all. Have a seat. I won’t be but a minute.”
Gabriel turned away from the counter and sat down with Timothy Peel. The detective had the face of Michelangelo’s David and looked younger than his thirty-six years. He consulted his wristwatch at length, as though to indicate that Gabriel was late, then directed a policeman’s wary gaze toward the luxury sport-utility vehicle parked on the opposite side of the road.
“Nice sled,” he remarked. “Almost as nice as your new sailboat.”
“Am I the target of an investigation, DS Peel?”
“I’m a detective inspector now, remember?” Peel had received the promotion for his role in the apprehension of a serial killer whom the newspapers had christened the Chopper. Never mind that it was Gabriel who had put two and two together. “And no, Mr. Allon, you are not the target of an investigation.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. But how did you know about the Beneteau?”
“I was investigating a robbery at a shop in Wharf Road, and a lovely new sailing vessel in the harbor caught my eye. Naturally I was curious as to the identity of its owner.”
“Don’t you need a court order for that sort of thing?”
“My inquiry was unofficial in nature.”
“Who ratted me out?”
“It was Ronnie Mills.”
