Page 116 of A Death in Cornwall

Ingrid downloaded Lord Radcliff’s account information to her external hard drive, then copied the data onto Gabriel’s backup device. They both managed to get several hours of sleep and by eight the following morning were headed east on the M4. As they were approaching Heathrow, Gabriel rang the main number at Lambeth Wealth Management and asked to speak to the firm’s chief executive officer, Lucinda Graves. He was transferred to Ms. Graves’s assistant, and the assistant questioned him at length as to the nature of his call. At the conclusion of her inquisition, she took down his contact information but held out little hope that Ms. Graves would be getting back to him anytime soon. The Conservative Party leadership election was scheduled to begin in earnest at 2:00 p.m. If all went according to plan, Ms. Graves’s husband would soon be prime minister.

Gabriel rang off and looked at Ingrid. “That went about as well as could be expected.” But by the time they reached the London suburb of Chiswick, his phone was ringing.

“You must forgive my assistant,” said Lucinda Graves. “As you can probably imagine, I’m suddenly the most popular financier in London.”

“To tell you the truth, I was pleased she seemed not to recognize my name.”

Lucinda Graves laughed. “I’m only sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk at the Courtauld the other night. My husband is going to be green with envy.”

“Why is that?”

“He was quite disappointed that you declined his invitation to drop by the Home Office. I can’t wait to tell him that you came to see me instead.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Any time before two o’clock would be fine.”

“I can be there by eleven.”

“It sounds to me as though you’re driving.”

“The M4.”

“Do you know where my office is located?”

“Old Burlington Street in Mayfair.”

“Ask a spy a stupid question,” she remarked.

“I’m an art restorer now, Ms. Graves.”

“There’s a Q-Park directly across the street from our office,” she said. “My assistant will arrange a space for you.”

And with that, the connection died.

“Well,” said Ingrid. “That went better than expected.”

“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “Imagine that.”

***

He dropped Ingrid at a coffee shop in Piccadilly and at 10:55 a.m. guided the Bentley down the Q-Park’s narrow ramp. The office block on the opposite side of Old Burlington Street was six floors in height, pale gray in color, and contemporary in design. A woman in her late twenties greeted Gabriel in the lobby and escorted him upstairs. Lucinda Graves was on the phone when they entered her office. She rang off at once and, rising, extended her hand.

“Mr. Allon. So lovely to see you again.”

The assistant withdrew, and Lucinda conveyed Gabriel to a seating area where a coffee service rested on a low, sleek table. It was all very formal and rehearsed. Gabriel had the uncomfortable feeling he was being courted.

Lucinda sat down and filled two cups. “Have you seen the lines outside Somerset House? Thanks to you, the Courtauld is now London’s hottest art museum.”

“I’d love to take the credit, but the Van Gogh was in remarkably good condition when it came to me.”

“Did you really play no role in its recovery?”

“I authenticated it for the Italian Art Squad. But that was the extent of my involvement.”

“And now you’re investigating the murder of that art historian from Oxford?”

Gabriel managed to conceal his surprise. “How did you know?”

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