Page 22 of A Death in Cornwall

The towering African said nothing. Gabriel looked down at the counterfeit handbags lying at the man’s feet.

“How much for that one?”

“The Prada?”

“If you say so.”

“One hundred euros.”

“My wife’s cost me five thousand.”

“You should have come to me.”

“How about I give you two hundred euros instead?”

“Two hundred it is.”

Gabriel handed over the money. The African shoved it into the pocket of his threadbare coat and reached for the bag.

“Forget about it,” said Gabriel. “Just tell me how my friend fell.”

“He got a phone call when he reached the top of the steps. That was when the guy pushed him.” The African pointed toward one of the coin-operated telescopes on the opposite side of the street. “He was standing right there for several minutes before your friend arrived.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Non. His back was turned the entire time he was there.”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“Left hand, center of his chest. Down the steps he went. He never had a chance.”

“What happened to the man who pushed him?” Receiving no answer, Gabriel looked down at the African’s inventory. “How about I buy another bag?”

“The Vuitton?”

“Why not?”

“How much would you like to give me for it?”

“I really don’t like negotiating with myself.”

“One fifty?”

Gabriel surrendered three hundred euros. “Keep talking.”

“Another guy pulled alongside him on a scooter, and he climbed on the back. It was all very professional, if you ask me.”

“And you, of course, told the police everything you had seen.”

“Non. I left before they arrived.”

“Did you at least try to help my friend?”

“Yes, of course. But it was obvious he was dead.”

“Where was his phone?”

“On the landing next to him.”

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