Page 27 of A Death in Cornwall

“Just yesterday. I enjoy torturing the person at the other end.”

“You must have a lot of time on your hands.”

“I manage an Old Master art gallery, darling.”

Gabriel turned his attention to the geolocation data that Proteus had extracted from Dr. Cohen’s phone. It allowed him to track Cohen’s every move, including a visit he had made to Geneva six months before his death. He had traveled from Paris by train, arriving at the Gare Cornavin at half past one. The taxi ride to the Ports Francs et Entrepôts de Genève, otherwise known as the Geneva Freeport, was sixteen minutes in duration. He made a single telephone call along the way.

“It’s a Geneva number,” said Gabriel. “I’m betting it’s the gallery.”

He copied the number into his search engine and added the words art and Geneva. There were more than six million results, but only the first seven were relevant. They were for an art gallery based in the Freeport called Galerie Edmond Ricard SA.

“Monsieur Ricard is a major player at the Freeport,” said Sarah. “And slippery as an eel, or so they say.”

“You’ve never done business with him?”

“Not me. But we know someone who probably has.”

“Call him. See if he’s free.”

Sarah took up her phone and dialed. “Hello, Nicky. I know it’s a Saturday, but I was wondering if you had a spare minute or two... A boozy lunch at Claridge’s? What a marvelous idea. How does one o’clock sound to you?”

Sarah rang off. “We’re on,” she said.

“I gathered that.”

She checked the time. “We have two and a half hours to kill before lunch. What shall we do?”

“How about a nice long walk in Hyde Park? It will do wonders for your hangover.”

“Yes,” said Sarah, rising. “Just in time for my next one.”

12

Claridge’s

The first raindrops fell as they were strolling along Rotten Row. They took shelter in the café on the Serpentine Lido and drank tea as the clouds blackened and the gentle shower turned to a downpour.

“Any other brilliant ideas?” asked Sarah.

“I’m sure there’s a bright interval just around the corner.”

“This is Britain, darling. There are no bright intervals at the moment. Only endless gloom.” She held up her mobile phone. “Have you seen the Telegraph this morning? Your old friend Samantha Cooke got quite the scoop.”

Gabriel had read the story during the train ride from Paris. It stated that the treasurer of the Conservative Party, the wealthy international businessman and investor Lord Michael Radcliff, had personally accepted a heavily laundered million-pound political contribution from a pro-Kremlin Russian oligarch named Valentin Federov. An internal Party memorandum obtained by the Telegraph indicated that Prime Minister Hillary Edwards had been aware of the contribution. The Downing Street press secretary, however, had issued a swift and blistering denial of the allegation, declaring that Lord Radcliff was solely to blame for the egregious lapse in judgment.

“Do you think poor Hillary can survive?” asked Sarah.

“Not in her current condition. She’s too weakened to fight off a challenge.”

“But how could Lord Radcliff be so foolish as to accept a contribution from a Russian oligarch in the middle of the war in Ukraine?”

“It’s not the first time the Tories have accepted money from a dubious foreign source. Or a Russian source, for that matter. Their fundraising apparatus has been a mess for some time.”

“The entire Party is a mess. So is the country, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, the worst is yet to come.”

“So much for the new you,” said Sarah.

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