59 Gwennap Head
Gwennap Head
The guest room was upstairs in what was once an attic. It lacked the opulence to which Alice was accustomed, but it was nicer
than her old digs at Wormwood Cottage, and from the little window next to the double bed she could make out the towering Wolf
Rock Lighthouse rising from the sea. She slept soundly for the first time in months and finally wandered downstairs to the
kitchen around nine o’clock. Gabriel made her a breakfast of tea and toast and muesli. She declared it positively divine.
They had arrived at the cottage in the dead of night, and now, in the cold light of morning, she was able to consider it properly
for the first time. The kitchen was a real kitchen, not some epicurean showplace ripped from the pages of a magazine, and
the large drawing room was at once comfortable and yet refined in every way. There were paintings on the walls, monographs
on the shelves, faded carpets on the rustic wood floor. It was quite obviously the home of an artist—a warrior poet, she thought.
If only she had married someone like him instead of Edward. Her life might have looked like this.
“Who was your decorator?” she asked.
“My wife.”
“She has exquisite taste.”
“In most things,” he said. “I was her one inexplicable mistake.”
She gave him a disapproving look. “I’m sure you have countless lovers.”
“Only one,” he said, and pointed toward a large seated nude of a woman with riotous dark hair. She was intoxicatingly beautiful.
“Is that her?”
He nodded.
“And the artist?”
“Fortunately she only poses for me.”
When she had finished her breakfast, he led her on a proper tour of the house. Like many old homes in the English countryside,
he said, it seemed to have a mind of its own. He showed her which cabinets contained the pots and pans and which the dishes
and glassware, where she could find clean bedding and bath towels, and where they kept the Wellies and the torches and the
candles and the matches. He taught her how to set and disable the security alarm, gave her the password for the Wi-Fi network,
and showed her the places in the house where the cellular service was the most reliable.
“As a general rule,” he explained, “it’s hit-and-miss out here in West Cornwall except for in the largest towns and villages.
If I were you, I’d stay off the phone entirely. It will significantly reduce your chances of being found out.”
“How long can I stay?”
“That depends on your tolerance for Cornish winters.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You can stay here as long as you like, Alice.”
“And the rent?” she asked.
“A single peppercorn, payable at your convenience.”
“Edward would be horrified.”
“I’m not a terribly business-minded person.”
“Neither was Edward, as it turned out.”
Lastly he took her to his studio. It was the one part of the property he asked her to avoid. With the exception of his wife
and children and two employees of London’s most respected art shipping company, only one other person had set foot there.
“And who was that?” she asked.
“Your husband.”
“Is this the part where you tell me how bereft and bereaved he was by my disappearance?”
“It was an unconscionable thing you did.”
“And if I hadn’t?”
“Downing Street might well be in ruins.”
The weather forecast called for rain until late morning, so he drove her to the Morrisons in Long Rock for a bit of shopping.
None of the other patrons gave her a second look as she loaded her cart with mounds of microwavable fare. She paid with a
credit card bearing the name of her new British identity.
“I prefer your old name,” said Gabriel as they started back to Gwennap Head.
“So do I, but that would rather defeat the purpose of an assumed identity.” She stared gloomily out her rain-spattered window
at the sands of Long Rock Beach. “It’s not exactly Saint-Tropez, is it?”
“It will grow on you.”
“I don’t know about you, Mr. Allon, but I try to avoid things that grow on me.”
The rain had ended by the time they returned to the cottage, but the weather was still blustery and cold. After loading the
groceries into the pantry and fridge, Alice asked, “What now?”
“I keep a sailboat in Penzance Harbor.”
“In this weather? Sounds a bit treacherous to me.”
“How about a nice long walk along the cliffs instead?”
“A much better idea.”
They pulled on oilskin coats and Wellington boots and set off across the sodden meadow. When they reached the Coast Path,
Alice slowed to a stop.
“Which direction?” she asked.
“The choice is yours.”
She debated for a moment, then turned to the right and started toward Land’s End. Gabriel followed after her, unaware of the
fact that Detective Inspector Timothy Peel of the Devon and Cornwall Police was at that same moment trying desperately to
reach him.
The NPAS helicopter was an Airbus H130, with a never-exceed speed of 160 miles per hour. Forty-five minutes after leaving
Exeter it was on the ground at Land’s End Airport. A cruiser waited on the rain-dampened tarmac, driven by PC Elenore Tremayne.
Peel had worked with PC Tremayne on one of the Chopper murders, a young woman from Great Torrington who was killed while walking
home after a night of drinking with friends at the Black Horse pub. PC Tremayne had found the killer’s shoeprints not far
from the scene of the crime. While Peel was in the air over West Cornwall, she had found the stolen Ford Fiesta.
“It’s in the Porthgwarra car park. We have four uniforms on the scene. The SOCOs are on their way.”
“Did anyone happen to see the driver?”
“No, sir.”
“I have a fair idea where he went next.”
“And where is that, sir?”
“A rather large house about a quarter mile to the north.”
“The one next to Charlie Twigg’s place?”
“That’s the one.”
PC Tremayne switched on her lights and siren and pushed the throttle to the floor. It was a seven-mile drive, much of it along
treacherous hedgerow-lined lanes, but she managed to cover the distance in just under ten minutes. As they turned through
the gate, Peel spotted Gabriel’s Range Rover parked in the forecourt. The door to his studio, which was never left unlocked,
had been opened with the help of a firearm. So too had the door to the main house.
Peel drew his Glock 19 and searched the house from top to bottom. It was unoccupied and, with the exception of the front door,
undamaged. Based on the number of breakfast dishes soaking in the kitchen sink, at least two people were currently in residence,
one of whom was staying in the upstairs guest room. Peel, after inspecting the clothing in the guest’s suitcase, was confident
he knew who she was.
Outside, he dialed Gabriel’s number but once again received no answer. Then, with the radio in PC Tremayne’s cruiser, he raised
DCI Fletcher in Exeter and gave him an update. Fletcher immediately asked the NPAS to get the helicopter back in the air,
this time over the South West Coast Path between Gwennap Head and Land’s End. By the time the helicopter was finally airborne,
Peel was passing the National Coastwatch Institution observation point, Glock 19 in hand, running as fast as his legs could
carry him.