Page 118 of A Death in Cornwall

“It might be.”

Lucinda aimed a remote at the television, and her husband vanished. “Sometime before the holidays, if memory serves. She rang me here at the office and said she was searching for a Picasso that had been acquired at Christie’s by an anonymous shell company.”

“OOC Group, Limited?”

Lucinda nodded. “She asked whether I would be willing to use my contacts in the London financial world to determine who or what the OOC Group was. I told her that it wouldn’t be ethical.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because many of my most important clients do business using shell companies. In fact, it’s rather hard to find a wealthy person in London who doesn’t.”

“So you never met with her?”

“I didn’t have the time. December is always one of our busiest months.”

“And you never mentioned it to anyone?”

“Truth be told, I did my best to forget that I had ever heard of a company called OOC Group, Limited.” Lucinda rose and her assistant magically appeared at the door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help, Mr. Allon. But it was wonderful to have finally met you. Rest assured, you will have a good friend in Downing Street if Hugh prevails in the leadership election.”

“I have no doubt he will,” said Gabriel, and started toward the door.

“Have you figured out what it is?” asked Lucinda suddenly.

Gabriel stopped and turned. “I’m sorry?”

“The OOC Group.”

“No,” he lied. “Not yet.”

***

It was 11:27 a.m. when the flashy Bentley driven by the legendary intelligence operative and art restorer Gabriel Allon emerged from the Q-Park garage in Old Burlington Street in Mayfair. Lucinda Graves knew this because she was standing in the window of her office and marked the time on her mobile phone. She allowed five minutes to pass before dialing a number stored in her directory of recent calls. The man at the other end gave her an update on Allon’s movements.

“He just picked up a woman in Regent Street. They’re currently headed south on Haymarket.”

“Going where?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Lucinda reluctantly severed the connection. Another ten minutes went by before her phone rang.

“Well?”

“They just walked into the Courtauld Gallery.”

“He knows,” said Lucinda, and killed the call.

47

Courtauld Gallery

A most unusual request,” said Dr. Geoffrey Holland. “Frankly, I don’t see how I can possibly accommodate you.”

The director of the Courtauld Gallery was seated behind his desk, a forefinger pressed to his thin lips. Gabriel stood before him like a barrister pleading his case. Ingrid was downstairs roaming the exhibition rooms, a crime waiting to happen.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Dr. Holland.”

“Be that as it may, we have strict guidelines about this sort of thing.”

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