Page 143 of A Death in Cornwall

“I heard you the first time,” replied Gabriel, and climbed out of the car.

***

The employees of Lambeth Wealth Management had noticed that something was amiss the minute Lucinda arrived at the office. Her edgy mood, they reckoned, was understandable. Her husband was about to become prime minister, thus requiring a suspension of her career. She had already selected a placeholder chief executive and transferred her substantial personal fortune to a blind trust. All that remained was a farewell address to the troops. Knowing Lucinda, it would be as warm as the North Sea in winter. She reserved her seductive charm for Lambeth’s moneyed clients. Her employees were more likely to be on the receiving end of her volatile temper. She had grudging admirers at the firm but no close friends. She was feared rather than loved, which was how she preferred it.

Nevertheless, the staff organized a reception to mark the occasion. It was held downstairs on the fifth floor, the engine room, as Lambethians referred to it. The flat-screen televisions, usually tuned to the financial channels, had been switched to the BBC. They were muted while Lucinda spoke—coincidentally, at the same moment Hillary Edwards was delivering her farewell address outside Number Ten. Lucinda’s speech was the longer of the two. Afterward she worked the room, an untouched glass of champagne in her hand. Her smile was forced. She seemed anxious to be on her way.

At exactly 10:45 a.m., as Hillary Edwards was handing her resignation to the King, a silence fell over the gathering, and the firm’s stunned employees turned to face the televisions. No one dared to raise the volume, but then it wasn’t necessary; the breaking news banner at the bottom of the screen was sufficient. Lucinda was the last to notice it. Her brittle smile faded, but the hand holding the champagne flute remained steady.

“Turn it up, please,” she said after a moment, and someone increased the volume. The voice they heard was Lucinda’s; there was no mistaking her throaty contralto. It was a recording of a conversation she had had some months earlier with Lord Michael Radcliff, the fallen Conservative Party treasurer and a longtime Lambeth client. They were discussing a plan to bring down the Edwards government. The BBC presenters and political analysts had dispensed with any semblance of objectivity and were beside themselves with indignation.

“Will you excuse me?” said Lucinda, and climbed the internal staircase to the sixth floor. The privacy blinds in her office were drawn, which had not been the case when she went down to the reception. The culprit was standing before the window overlooking Old Burlington Street, a hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Lucinda managed not to scream when he turned to face her.

“You,” she gasped.

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “Me.”

58

Old Burlington Street

How did you get in here?”

“You left the door open.”

“Get out,” Lucinda said through clenched teeth. “Otherwise, I’ll have you arrested.”

Gabriel smiled. “Please do.”

She went to her desk and snatched up the receiver of the phone.

“Put it down, Lucinda. You’ll thank me later.”

She hesitated, then replaced the receiver.

“A much more sensible play on your part.”

She pointed toward the television. “I suppose this is all your doing.”

“It was the Telegraph that broke the story. It says so on the bottom of the screen.”

“Where did Samantha Cooke get that recording?”

“Since there were only two people in the room at the time, I’m betting it was Lord Radcliff. He’s a client of your firm, if I’m not mistaken. And when he required untraceable offshore shell companies to conceal some of his more unsavory business dealings, you sent him to Harris Weber & Company. You’ve been funneling wealthy clients to them for years. And in the process, you’ve earned hundreds of millions in fees and kickbacks. You’re part of the team, a member of the family.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Allon. We’re all part of the team. There isn’t a bank or investment house in London that isn’t in bed with Harris Weber. And the best part is, it’s all perfectly legal.”

“But Hillary Edwards planned to shut down the London Laundromat, which is why she had to be removed from office. Your colleagues asked you to handle the dirty work. After all, you and your husband had the most to gain.” Gabriel glanced at the television. “And the most to lose, as it turns out.”

“There’s nothing illegal about scheming against one’s political rivals, Mr. Allon. We’ve been doing it on this blessed plot for more than a millennium.”

“I doubt the Crown Prosecution Service would agree. Fortunately for you, I’m enormously fond of this country and have no desire to see its political system thrown into chaos. Not when democracies around the world are under siege. Therefore, I’m prepared to be reasonable.” He paused, then added, “Which is more than you deserve.”

Lucinda closed the door to her office and lowered herself decorously onto her couch. Gabriel couldn’t help but admire her display of outward composure. She was miscast as a money launderer, he thought. She would have made an excellent spy.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Thank you, no.”

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