Ever since the call had ended, Robin had been trying to argue herself out of an increase in anxiety. She loved Murphy, didn’t she? Yes, she really thought – knew – she did. And most women would be delighted to know that the man they loved, and who loved them, wanted to make this kind of commitment, wouldn’t they? And didn’t it make sense to find a better place together, without rowdy neighbours?
But when Robin thought about cohabitation, the image that presented itself was of the third and last home she’d shared with her ex-husband. Robin knew it had been a lovely house, in an eighteenth-century terrace that had been built for shipwrights and sea captains, but she couldn’t picture it in any detail now. What she mostly remembered was the leaden feeling of constriction and misery in which she’d spent too many of the days she’d lived there.
Murphy’s unexpected suggestion that they move in together had come just an hour after Robin had opened a letter from her GP, which had been lying on her doormat when she’d got home, late, after hours of surveillance. The doctor wanted her to make an appointment for a check-up after her recent hospitalisation. She hadn’t told Murphy about this. She didn’t want to go; she didn’t see what the point was. She had all the information she needed already, and she felt well, and the operation site had healed, so what could the GP do or say that was of any benefit to her? Before Strike had called, thoughts of egg freezing had been tangling themselves in her complicated feelings about house-hunting, and she had a sense, not for the first time, that she wasn’t like other women, that she wanted different things, and was prepared to bear different hardships, and she couldn’t help remembering Strike’s words:
As Robin got out of the Land Rover on Great Queen Street an hour and a half later, a corpulent, balding passer-by said cheerfully,
‘Don’t see many of that age still on the roads!’
‘No,’ Robin agreed. ‘It’s on its last legs.’
She watched the man turn into the huge Art Deco building of pale grey stone beside which she’d parked. She’d never seen Freemasons’ Hall before. Had she thought about it, she might have expected those entering to require, if not a secret password, then at least a membership card, but a sign beside the glass doors proclaimed that there was a café inside, a museum open to the public, and guided tours.
Strike was standing on the corner ahead, collar turned up against the chilly day, vaping while staring up at the building’s front, and Robin walked towards him feeling far better for having something to think about other than her personal predicaments, and much more cheerful for seeing her work partner.
‘Impressive building,’ said Robin, when she reached him.
‘It is,’ agreed Strike.
From this angle, Freemasons’ Hall looked as though it had been constructed like a isosceles triangle, except that at the point where the two long sides converged it had been squared off, presenting a relatively narrow but very tall and grand frontage comprising columns, a square clock and a tower.
‘“
‘Any chance of walking a bit?’ Robin asked, hands deep in her pockets. The Land Rover’s heating was non-existent, and the day near freezing.
‘Yeah, that’s why I wanted to meet early. Get a feel for the area.’
So they set off along Great Queen Street, with the massive stone hall to their right.
‘I think Ramsay’s keen to meet us because he’s hoping we’ll find his stolen silver,’ said Strike. ‘He’s had a hell of a run of bad luck in the last couple of years. His adult son and only child died in a jet-ski accident on holiday eighteen months ago.’
‘Oh no,’ said Robin.
‘And then his wife had a massive stroke. She’s still incapacitated. She was the one managing the shop, because Kenneth works at some financial services place up the road. I heard the whole story this morning. I think he was trying to get me as emotionally invested as possible in finding the silver.’
‘Well, if his wife needs medical care and can’t work…’
‘Not blaming him, just giving you a heads-up, because I think he’ll be most forthcoming if we pretend we’re as interested in the robbery as in the body. He told me they had a slight increase in custom after the murder, but it was mostly gawkers, rather than people wanting to buy masonic medals.’
Strike was scanning the street as they walked for CCTV cameras, and for side streets and lay-bys where silver could be divided between gang members, unobserved, but it was a populous area that would be well lit by night, and Strike doubted the felons could have counted on the absence of passers-by even then.
