24 New Scotland Yard
New Scotland Yard
When Gabriel last visited the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, they were located in a glass-and-steel high-rise at
had been designated New Scotland Yard. DCI Douglas Chapel, in a dark suit and a restrained necktie, waited in the lobby. Gabriel
reckoned he was about fifty-five, perhaps a year or two older. Once upon a time he would have been put out to pasture, but
the Met had done away with mandatory retirement, provided officers maintained basic fitness standards. DCI Chapel looked as
though he began each morning with a six-mile run and monitored his heart rate throughout the day.
Gabriel strolled through a magnetometer without setting off the alarm and followed Chapel into a waiting lift. It bore them
to the fourth floor, where they proceeded to an interview room. There were video cameras overhead, an audio recording device,
and a window of one-way glass. Stacked on the table were several thick files.
“The sum total of your exploits on British soil,” explained DCI Chapel.
“Not even close.”
Chapel switched on the recorder, then recited the date, the time, and the name of the subject he was about to interview.
“Shouldn’t you caution me before we begin?” asked Gabriel.
“It’s not warranted under these circumstances.”
“Perhaps we should clear them up before we proceed. The circumstances, that is.”
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” said Chapel, “and you’re going to answer them. Because I haven’t cautioned you, nothing
you say can be used against you at trial. Therefore you should feel free to tell me everything you know about Alice Winter’s
abduction and your unsuccessful attempt to secure her release.”
“I’m not going to tell you anything until you switch off that recorder.”
Chapel pressed the stop button, then said, “The fundraiser at Edward Knight’s estate in Devon.”
Gabriel sighed. “I never would have been there if it wasn’t for Julian Isherwood.”
They went through it once, then, because DCI Chapel was taking nothing for granted, they went through it a second time. Gabriel’s
account was for the most part accurate, though somewhat incomplete. Chapel filled in at least one of the missing pieces.
“Mr. Knight mentioned a Danish cyber specialist.”
“I asked her to determine the authenticity of the proof-of-life photos,” replied Gabriel while smothering a yawn.
“Mr. Knight also said that she attempted to hack into CyproBank with a mind to rerouting the ransom payment.”
“That’s correct.”
“Was she successful?”
“She wasn’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Are you wondering whether she might have stolen the ransom money?”
“I might be,” replied Chapel.
“She didn’t.”
“I’ll need to speak with her nonetheless.”
“Good luck with that.”
Chapel moved on. “And it was Mr. Knight who authorized the transfer of the money, not you?”
“That’s correct. I refused to wire the ransom until the kidnappers showed me Alice.”
“Even after they threatened to kill you?”
Gabriel said nothing.
“And there were four, you say?”
“There were four that I saw,” replied Gabriel. “It’s possible there were more.”
“Might you be able to recognize them again?”
“One of them, perhaps.”
“Which one?”
“The one who pointed a loaded gun at my head.”
Chapel sat back in his chair. “And what if I were to offer you a chance to find him?”
“If I were interested in finding him, I wouldn’t need the approval of New Scotland Yard.”
Chapel permitted himself a brief smile. “Will you allow me to ask the question another way?”
“My answer will be the same. Besides,” added Gabriel, “the most obvious way to find the kidnappers is to follow the money.”
“We asked our counterparts in Cyprus for permission to question the CEO of that bank. And what do you suppose they told us?”
“Permission denied.”
Chapel nodded. “The money is gone. And so, it seems, is Alice Winter. We’d like you to find her too—or at least find out what
happened to her.”
“Isn’t that your job?” asked Gabriel dryly.
“Actually the Spaniards have jurisdiction in this matter. But at this point you know a good deal more than they do.” Chapel
paused, then added, “And more than Scotland Yard as well.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I will have no choice but to appeal to your sense of decency and fair play.”
“Neither of which will help me find Alice Winter or the men who kidnapped her.”
Chapel made no reply. Like all good detectives he knew the power of silence.
“Surely you must have a suspect by now,” said Gabriel.
“We have a theory. And you happen to be uniquely positioned to help us determine whether that theory is correct.”
“How so?”
“Our prime suspect in the disappearance and presumed death of Alice Winter is the man who hired you to find her.”
“Edward Knight? You can’t be serious.”
The expression on the detective’s face made clear that he was.
“I seem to recall Scotland Yard saying that he wasn’t a suspect.”
“I’m sure this won’t come as a surprise to you, Mr. Allon, but Scotland Yard doesn’t always tell the truth.”
“I’ve spent a great deal of time with him, and he doesn’t strike me as the sort to kidnap and murder his own wife.”
“Our inquiries have led us to conclude that his marriage was deeply troubled and that they were headed for a nasty divorce. Mr. Knight therefore had a financial incentive to make the problem go away.”
“But why kidnap her? Why not a nice, tidy murder instead?”
“Because he’s smart enough to know that he would have been our prime suspect. As it stands now, he’s the grieving husband
who moved heaven and earth to get his wife back. And in the process, he managed to make a half billion dollars disappear into
thin air.”
“The ransom payment was a way to move money offshore?”
“That is our suspicion,” said Chapel.
“Rather diabolical, don’t you think?”
“I deal with diabolical on a daily basis, Mr. Allon. And so did you, once upon a time.”
“Still do, as it turns out. But how do you explain the proof-of-life photos?”
“Our tech specialists think they’re genuine.”
“And the woman on the phone?”
“It was undoubtedly Alice Winter.”
“Which means that I might have been one of the last people to speak to her.”
“Other than her friends from Cambridge, of course.”
“You’ve questioned them, I assume.”
“We took detailed statements from all three women. Needless to say, we were troubled by the length of time Sophie Maxwell
and Ella Burns waited to report Alice missing. Even so, we eliminated them as suspects in Alice’s disappearance.”
“What about Phoebe Chadwick?”
“She remains a person of interest.”
“Any particular reason?”
Chapel handed Gabriel a printout of a two-day-old story from The Times concerning a number of unusually large anonymous donations to British relief and human rights organizations. The largest
donation had been made to Global Relief UK, the organization where Phoebe Chadwick worked.
“Forgive me,” said Gabriel, “but I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”
“We think the anonymous donor could be Edward Knight.”
“Phoebe Chadwick loathes Knight.”
“He told us the same thing,” said Chapel. “But the timing is interesting, to say the least.”
“He was attempting to get in Phoebe’s good graces?”
“Or silence her.”
“Why?”
“We believe she might know why Mr. Knight had motive to kill his wife.”
“Have you asked her?”
“Not in so many words. As for Mr. Knight,” added Chapel, “his solicitor has made it clear that he will have nothing further
to say to the police regarding his wife’s disappearance.”
“Which is why you need me.”
Another strategic silence.
“Who else would know?” asked Gabriel.
“The commissioner of the Met, the home secretary, and your friend the prime minister. But I’ll need to assign an officer to
work with you.”
“Trust me, DCI Chapel, that’s the last thing you want.”
“I’m afraid it’s nonnegotiable.”
Gabriel held out his hand. “Your notebook, please.”
Chapel pushed it across the tabletop. Gabriel turned to the first clean page and wrote the name of the one British policeman with whom he would agree to work.
Chapel was incredulous. “But he’s only a lowly DI from a county police force.”
“Two counties, actually. And he’s the one who cracked the Lennox case.”
“The Chopper?” Chapel was clearly impressed. “A fine piece of detective work, that was.”
Gabriel smiled. “I thought so too.”
The officer in question, Detective Inspector Timothy Peel of the Devon and Cornwall Police, was at that same moment conducting
door-to-doors in the former Cornish mining village of Sticker. They were, as a general proposition, one of the least appealing
aspects of his job, posing the same questions over and over in the hope of unearthing some nugget of information, a sighting
of a stranger, a rumor, a noise in the middle of the night, that might break a case. For two hours he had been interviewing
the inhabitants of Cotswold Avenue, none of whom had any clue as to how one of their neighbors, a forty-year-old carpenter
named Gareth Wright, ended up in a shallow grave in the woods near the Meadow Lakes caravan park, having first been bludgeoned
to death with a hammer, which his killer had left at the scene.
Shortly before noon Peel was inhaling the smoke emitted by the cigarette of a dressing-gowned housewife when his mobile vibrated.
Ordinarily he ignored calls during interviews, but this one, like all the others, was going nowhere, and the caller was none other than his chief constable.
Much to Peel’s astonishment she instructed him to drop what he was doing and proceed without delay to New Scotland Yard, where he was to report to a DCI Douglas Chapel.
“Why?” asked Peel.
“He didn’t go into the details, but evidently he was quite impressed with your work on the Lennox case.”
“How could he possibly know that I was the one who made the arrest?”
“Never mind how he knows,” said the chief constable in that edgy voice of hers. “Just pack some kit and get on the next train.”
DI Peel did just that and arrived at London’s Paddington Station at half past five. He traveled by Tube to Westminster, then
made the short walk up the Victoria Embankment to New Scotland Yard. The iconic three-sided sign, symbol of the Met’s constant
vigilance, rotated slowly outside the entrance. Peel went into the lobby and displayed his credentials to the barrel-shaped
sergeant at the security checkpoint.
“You’re a long way from home, Detective Inspector. Looking for a lost cat?”
“DCI Douglas Chapel, actually.”
He received Peel upstairs in his office. By way of greeting he asked, “How old are you, Detective Inspector?”
“Thirty-six, sir.”
He looked Peel up and down. “You look thirty at most.”
“Must be the Cornish air.”
“A sense of humor will get you nowhere around here, Peel.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Spend much time in London?” inquired Chapel.
“I was born here, actually.”
“How did you end up in Cornwall?”
“Family drama, sir.”
“Ever think about coming back?”
“To London? Not really.”
“Enjoy the country life, do you?”
“It has its charms.”
“Well, DI Peel, this is your chance to play in the Premier League. If you perform your assignment with distinction, we might
be able to find a place for you here at the Met. One cock-up, though, and I’ll make certain you spend the rest of your career
wearing the uniform of a lowly PC.”
“And what exactly is my assignment?”
“I need you to keep an eye on someone.”
“A surveillance job?”
“More or less.”
“And the subject?” asked Peel.