Page 127 of A Death in Cornwall

“If you must know, Chief Constable, we’ve had our eye on him for some time.”

And so it was that, ninety minutes later, Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel was sitting behind the wheel of an unmarked Vauxhall Insignia, watching a Royal Navy Sea King approaching Exeter from the east. It settled onto the helipad at the headquarters of the Devon and Cornwall Police at 1:47 a.m., and a single black-clad figure emerged from the cabin with a nylon rucksack over one sturdy shoulder. Head lowered, he hurried across the tarmac and dropped into the Vauxhall’s passenger seat.

“Timothy,” he said with a smile. “So good to finally meet you.”

***

He instructed Peel to make his way to the M5 and head north. At two o’clock on a rainy Wednesday morning, the motorway was empty of traffic. Peel was doing ninety, no lights or siren. His passenger was unimpressed.

“Does this bloody thing go any faster?” he drawled.

Peel increased his speed to triple digits. “Mind telling me where we’re going?”

“Petton Cross.”

It was a nothing little village near the border with neighboring Somerset. “Any particular reason?”

“I’ll explain when we get there,” replied his passenger, and ignited a Marlboro with a gold Dunhill lighter.

“Must you?” asked Peel.

He smiled. “I must.”

Peel lowered his window a few inches to vent the smoke. “It occurs to me that I don’t know your name.”

“With good reason.”

“What should I call you?”

“How about David?”

“David?” Peel shook his head. “Doesn’t suit you.”

“In that case, you should call me Christopher.”

“Much better.” Peel glanced at the rucksack. “What have you got in there, Christopher?”

“Zeiss night-vision field glasses, two Glock pistols, several spare magazines of nine-millimeter ammunition, a couple of secure phones, and a box of McVitie’s.”

“Dark chocolate?”

“But of course.”

“I’d kill for one.”

He fished the tube of biscuits from the rucksack and handed one to Peel. “Cornwall lad, are you?”

“Mostly.”

“Which part?”

“The Lizard.”

“Port Navas, by any chance?”

Peel’s head swiveled to the left. “How did you know?”

“A friend of mine used to live there. The old foreman’s cottage overlooking the quay. An art restorer by trade. A spy in his spare time.”

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