Page 8 of A Death in Cornwall

“Is she a spy, too?” asked Niles.

“Sarah? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Niles cast a dubious eye toward tubby Oliver Dimbleby, a thoroughly disreputable Old Master dealer from Bury Street. “Oliver says that husband of hers used to be a contract killer.”

“Oliver says a lot of things.”

“Who’s that stunningly beautiful creature standing next to him?”

“My wife.”

“Well played,” said Niles enviously. “Well played, indeed.”

The next hand Gabriel grasped was attached to Nicholas Lovegrove, art adviser to the vastly rich. “The penny just dropped,” he breathed.

“Did it?”

“That special winter auction at Christie’s a few years back. There was something funny going on in the saleroom that night.”

“There usually is, Nicky.”

Lovegrove didn’t disagree. “A client of mine is looking to unload his Gentileschi,” he said, changing the subject. “But it needs a bit of retouching and a new coat of varnish. Is there any chance you might be willing to take it on?”

“That depends on whether your client has any money.”

“Not at the moment. Messy divorce. But I think I can convince him to give you a piece of the final sale price.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Two percent.”

“Surely you jest.”

“All right, five. But it’s my final offer.”

“Make it ten, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Highway robbery.”

“You would know, Nicky.”

Smiling, Lovegrove beckoned a tall woman with the flawless features of a fashion model. “This is my dear friend Olivia Watson,” he explained to Gabriel. “Olivia runs a wildly successful contemporary art gallery in King Street.”

“You don’t say.”

“You’ve met?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure.” Which wasn’t the case. Olivia had helped Gabriel destroy the external terrorism network of the Islamic State. Her gallery was payment for services rendered.

“We’ve just taken on an extraordinary young Spanish painter,” she informed him.

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Her,” said Olivia with a knowing smile. “The opening is in six weeks. I would be honored if you would attend.”

“Unlikely,” replied Gabriel. Then he pointed out the man who had just entered the room, trailed by a security detail. “But perhaps he’ll agree to come in my stead.”

It was Hugh Graves, the British home secretary and, if London’s chattering classes were to be believed, the next occupant of 10 Downing Street. He was accompanied by his wife, Lucinda, the chief executive officer of Lambeth Wealth Management. At last check the couple was worth in excess of one hundred million pounds, all of it Lucinda’s. Her husband had never worked a day in the private sector, having launched his political career not long after leaving Cambridge. His ministerial salary would scarcely cover the cost of cleaning the windows at the Graveses’ mansions in Holland Park and Surrey.

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