26 Bloomsbury Tavern
Bloomsbury Tavern
She was dressed in a pair of jeans and an oxford button-down shirt, the sort of attire she might have worn while on assignment
in the Horn of Africa. She was not someone, thought Gabriel, who spent much time fretting about her appearance. She had mouths
to feed, lives to save. Not for the first time, he wondered why she was friends with someone like Alice Winter.
Peel went over to the bar to fetch the drinks, leaving them alone for a moment. Phoebe Chadwick regarded him across the table.
“Why you, of all people, Mr. Allon?”
“It would take all evening to explain.”
“Try.”
He gave her an abridged version of the story—that he had agreed to a request from Edward Knight to quietly investigate his
wife’s mysterious disappearance, that he had tried and failed to secure her release, that he was now working with the Metropolitan
Police to determine what had happened to her.
“In that case,” asked Phoebe, “why is your assistant a country policeman from the southwest of England?”
“I’m afraid that would take even longer to explain.”
Peel returned to the table with three pints of Guinness. Phoebe took a draught from hers, then asked, “How much do you know
about me?”
“I know that you and Alice were at Cambridge together, and that each summer you go on a week’s holiday with two other university friends, Sophie Maxwell and Ella Burns. In case you were wondering, it was Edward who footed the bill for that enormous place on the northern coast of Ibiza.”
“That’s Edward’s lot in life,” replied Phoebe. “But please go on.”
“On the fifth evening of your stay, the Tuesday, you and Alice quarreled during dinner at a restaurant called La Casita. You
dined alone at the villa on Wednesday evening and returned to London the next day aboard a commercial flight.”
“All true,” she replied.
“When did you learn that Alice was missing?”
“The Saturday morning.”
“Who told you?”
She lifted her gaze toward the ceiling in thought. “I believe it was Sophie.”
“She’s the solicitor?”
“Correct.”
“How did she sound?”
“Quite matter-of-fact, if you must know.”
“Do you recall your reaction?”
“Truth be told, I wasn’t terribly worried either.”
“You assumed that she’d spent the night with someone else?”
“It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“She had lovers?”
Phoebe smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “You make her sound as though she’s a character in a Victorian novel, Mr.
Allon. I can assure you, love had very little to do with Alice’s occasional extracurricular activities.”
“Was she involved with one of your classmates from Cambridge, a Swiss banker named Peter Hoffmann?”
“Peter? Heavens no. But why do you ask?”
“They bumped into one another at a beach café the day after you and Alice had your quarrel.”
“She didn’t mention it. But then again we weren’t on speaking terms.”
A silence descended over the table. Phoebe’s gaze lingered for a moment on Peel, who took the opportunity to pose his first
question. “Did you know that Alice had an auto accident not long ago?”
“She told me that a tree leapt from the forest near Wickham House and hurled itself in front of her brand-new Aston Martin
roadster. Why Edward bought it for her is beyond me. Alice was an absolute terror behind the wheel of a car.”
“Did she happen to tell you why she was behind the wheel of a car at two fifteen in the morning?”
“Evidently she and Edward had a terrible row.”
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t say. But I had the impression it was serious.”
“Why?”
“Because after the accident, Alice became very distant. I’m afraid our falling-out was a long time coming. The fight over
the bill at that restaurant was the last straw.”
“Edward was under the impression it had to do with Alice’s social media habit.”
“That was round two. But the fight started when I attempted to pay for our dinner. Alice wouldn’t hear of it.”
“She always paid?”
Phoebe nodded. “It could be annoying at times, but I couldn’t afford to live in her world. As you probably know, Mr. Allon,
relief work isn’t exactly lucrative. We survive on the kindness of strangers.”
“Donors, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Gabriel handed her the story from The Times. “Like the one who gave you a million pounds?”
“The largest single donation in the history of Global Relief UK,” she said.
“How was it delivered?”
“The Secret Sharer. It’s an anonymous donor platform based in The Hague. The donor transfers the money to the platform, and
the platform forwards it to us.”
“And if I were to ask the Secret Sharer to reveal the identity of the donor?”
“In all likelihood they don’t know it. Most anonymous donors act through an attorney or some other go-between.”
“And what about the large donations that were made to the other relief organizations?”
“They all came through the Secret Sharer.”
“Same donor?”
“That’s the theory, but no one knows for sure.”
“And you have no idea who it was?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Why do you suppose your organization received the largest donation?”
“Trust me, Mr. Allon, I’ve been asking myself the same question.” She shot a glance at her wristwatch, then rose to her feet.
“I’m sorry, but I have to be going. If there’s anything else you need, don’t hesitate to call.” She fixed her gaze on Peel
and added, “The same goes for you, Detective Inspector.”
And with that she was gone.
“Is it my imagination,” asked Gabriel, “or does Phoebe Chadwick have a thing for you?”
“It’s your imagination,” replied Peel.
“Is she telling us the truth?”
“About not knowing the identity of the donor? Absolutely.”
“Her friends Sophie Maxwell and Ella Burns didn’t seem terribly concerned about Alice’s disappearance, did they?”
“If it were my investigation, they would be sitting in an interview room with the recorder rolling.”
“I suggest we follow the money instead.”
“The ransom money?”
“The donations,” said Gabriel.
“You think there’s a connection?”
“Why did Britain’s smallest relief agency receive the largest contribution? And why did all of the money go to Phoebe’s Africa
programs?”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“The Secret Sharer?”
Peel nodded.
“Since they’re in the business of protecting the anonymity of their clients, it is highly unlikely they will betray one to
the likes of us.”
“I suppose we’ll have to find a workaround.” Peel smiled, then said, “The kind they don’t teach you in detective school.”
“You’re a quick study, aren’t you?”
“I learned from the best,” replied Peel, and went to the bar to fetch two more beers.