“We think the anonymous donor could be Edward Knight.”
“Phoebe Chadwick loathes Knight.”
“He told us the same thing,” said Chapel. “But the timing is interesting, to say the least.”
“He was attempting to get in Phoebe’s good graces?”
“Or silence her.”
“Why?”
“We believe she might know why Mr. Knight had motive to kill his wife.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Not in so many words. As for Mr. Knight,” added Chapel, “his solicitor has made it clear that he will have nothing further to say to the police regarding his wife’s disappearance.”
“Which is why you need me.”
Another strategic silence.
“Who else would know?” asked Gabriel.
“The commissioner of the Met, the home secretary, and your friend the prime minister. But I’ll need to assign an officer to work with you.”
“Trust me, DCI Chapel, that’s the last thing you want.”
“I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”
Gabriel held out his hand. “Your notebook, please.”
Chapel pushed it across the tabletop. Gabriel turned to the firstclean page and wrote the name of the one British policeman with whom he would agree to work.
Chapel was incredulous. “But he’s only a lowly DI from a county police force.”
“Two counties, actually. And he’s the one who cracked the Lennox case.”
“The Chopper?” Chapel was clearly impressed. “A fine piece of detective work, that was.”
Gabriel smiled. “I thought so too.”
The officer in question, Detective Inspector Timothy Peel of the Devon and Cornwall Police, was at that same moment conducting door-to-doors in the former Cornish mining village of Sticker. They were, as a general proposition, one of the least appealing aspects of his job, posing the same questions over and over in the hope of unearthing some nugget of information, a sighting of a stranger, a rumor, a noise in the middle of the night, that might break a case. For two hours he had been interviewing the inhabitants of Cotswold Avenue, none of whom had any clue as to how one of their neighbors, a forty-year-old carpenter named Gareth Wright, ended up in a shallow grave in the woods near the Meadow Lakes caravan park, having first been bludgeoned to death with a hammer, which his killer had left at the scene.
Shortly before noon Peel was inhaling the smoke emitted by the cigarette of a dressing-gowned housewife when his mobile vibrated. Ordinarily he ignored calls during interviews, but this one, like all the others, was going nowhere, and the caller was none other than his chief constable. Much to Peel’s astonishment she instructed himto drop what he was doing and proceed without delay to New Scotland Yard, where he was to report to a DCI Douglas Chapel.
“Why?” asked Peel.
“He didn’t go into the details, but evidently he was quite impressed with your work on the Lennox case.”
“How could he possibly know that I was the one who made the arrest?”
“Never mind how he knows,” said the chief constable in that edgy voice of hers. “Just pack some kit and get on the next train.”
DI Peel did just that and arrived at London’s Paddington Station at half past five. He traveled by Tube to Westminster, then made the short walk up the Victoria Embankment to New Scotland Yard. The iconic three-sided sign, symbol of the Met’s constant vigilance, rotated slowly outside the entrance. Peel went into the lobby and displayed his credentials to the barrel-shaped sergeant at the security checkpoint.
“You’re a long way from home, Detective Inspector. Looking for a lost cat?”
“DCI Douglas Chapel, actually.”
