Page 24 of A Death in Cornwall

Goutte d’Or, otherwise known as Little Africa, lay to the east of the boulevard Barbès. Its densely populated streets were among the most vibrant in Paris, especially the rue Dejean, the quarter’s bustling open-air market. Gabriel and Amadou Kamara threaded their way through the evening crowds, a mismatched pair if there ever was one.

There were more markets on the rue des Poissonniers, and a café called Le Morzine. Its windows were obscured by lotto ads and posters for African sports teams. Papa Diallo was holding court at a table inside, surrounded by several associates. He had biceps the size of stockpots. His spherical hairless head appeared as though it was mounted directly atop his torso.

A chair was procured from a neighboring table and Gabriel was invited to sit. Amadou Kamara explained the situation in a Senegalese dialect. At the conclusion of his discourse, Papa Diallo displayed two rows of large white teeth.

In French he asked, “Why do you want it so badly?”

“It belonged to my friend.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Amadou and I have already covered that ground.”

The two men exchanged a glance. Then Papa nodded at one of his associates, who placed the phone on the table. It was an iPhone. The screen had survived its collision with the steps of the rue Chappe intact.

“Original SIM card?” asked Gabriel.

Papa Diallo nodded. “I can get two hundred on the street. But for you, I’ll make a special price.”

“How much?”

“One thousand euros.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Neither is life, Monsieur.”

Gabriel looked at Amadou Kamara, who had not seen his child in four years. Then he opened his billfold and peered inside. He had twenty euros to his name.

“I need to find a cash machine,” he said.

Papa Diallo flashed a luminous smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

11

Queen’s Gate Terrace

By the time Gabriel left the café with Emanuel Cohen’s phone in his pocket it was too late to make the last Eurostar back to London, so he slept for a few hours at a dreary hotel near the Gare du Nord and was on the morning’s first train. He rang Sarah Bancroft as he was approaching St. Pancras. Her voice, when at last she answered the phone, was heavy with sleep.

“Do you know what day this is?”

“I believe it’s Saturday. Hold on, let me check.”

“Asshole,” she whispered, and rang off.

Gabriel redialed.

“What is it now?” she asked.

“I require the metal object, approximately two pounds in weight, that I left at your gallery yesterday afternoon.”

“The Beretta nine-millimeter?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“It’s resting on my bedside table.”

“Mind if I drop by and collect it?”

---