He received Peel upstairs in his office. By way of greeting he asked, “How old are you, Detective Inspector?”
“Thirty-six, sir.”
He looked Peel up and down. “You look thirty at most.”
“Must be the Cornish air.”
“A sense of humor will get you nowhere around here, Peel.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Spend much time in London?” inquired Chapel.
“I was born here, actually.”
“How did you end up in Cornwall?”
“Family drama, sir.”
“Ever think about coming back?”
“To London? Not really.”
“Enjoy the country life, do you?”
“It has its charms.”
“Well, DI Peel, this is your chance to play in the Premier League. If you perform your assignment with distinction, we might be able to find a place for you here at the Met. One cock-up, though, and I’ll make certain you spend the rest of your career wearing the uniform of a lowly PC.”
“And what exactly is my assignment?”
“I need you to keep an eye on someone.”
“A surveillance job?”
“More or less.”
“And the subject?” asked Peel.
25
Victoria
“You could have chosen someone else, you realize.”
“There is no one else,” said Gabriel. “You happen to be the only British police officer I know.”
Peel gave this unlikely proposition further reflection as he wheeled his luggage along the Victoria Embankment. The grand buildings on the opposite bank of the Thames were awash in twilight. Cornwall seemed suddenly quaint by comparison.
“Surely,” he said, “you must knowsomeone at the Met after all these years.”
“Not a soul, thank goodness.”
“You know the director of the Secret Intelligence Service,” Peel pointed out.
“And the director of MI5 as well,” added Gabriel. “Not to mention the prime minister.”
“What about that detective super who questioned you after the Covent Garden incident?”
