‘Can’t see our killers-slash-thieves making their getaway in this direction,’ said Strike. ‘No, I think the police are right: the silver went in that getaway car in Wild Street.’
Robin had an unbidden mental image of Murphy’s expression, could he have heard Strike (as Murphy would undoubtedly see it) deigning to agree with the police’s conclusions.
They turned right into Kingsway, a broader and even busier street. Canned Christmas music drifted out from a shop as they passed and both felt that undertow of sadness from which Christmas in adulthood is rarely free, Robin wishing she felt as straightforwardly happy at the prospect of her trip home as she would have done when she first moved to London, Strike suddenly visited by thoughts of Ted, Joan and the empty house in Cornwall, which had just gone up for sale.
‘The shop’s up an alleyway, to the right,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have said it’s a great location, but given the proximity to Freemasons’ Hall, they must get some masonic trade…’
He checked his watch.
‘Bit early, but we might as well head there now.’
So they turned up an unlovely lane, which had a line of plastic bins on one side.
The silver shop, which sat at the join of the red brick Connaught Rooms and the pale grey stone of Freemasons’ Hall, looked dingy and old-fashioned. Medallions and ceremonial chains lay on black velvet in the window. Somebody had draped red fairy lights around these items, in a lacklustre tribute to the season. The black awning bore silver lettering, which read:
As Strike pushed open the door a bell tinkled and he noted that neither of the two locks were of a much higher grade than those of the average house.
The first sound they heard, drowning out the Christmas carol playing over hidden speakers, was the gabbling voice of a man in his fifties, who was standing at a desk with a silver bowl in his white-gloved hands, talking to a customer.
‘… pity you weren’t in last year if you like Art Nouveau, because we had two jewels in, designed by Alphonse Mucha, very special – Ah!’ said the man eagerly, becoming aware of the newcomers. ‘Mr Strike?’
‘Yes,’ said the detective.
‘With you in a tick!’ said Kenneth Ramsay.
His suit hung loosely on him, as though he’d lost a lot of weight in a relatively short space of time. The little hair he retained was silver and curly, which, combined with a strangely innocent-looking pink and white face that looked as though it never needed shaving, gave him the appearance of an ageing cherub. Turning back to his customer, who was a tall man in a cashmere overcoat, Ramsay said,
‘Something else you might like, if it’s Art Nouveau you fancy—’
‘I really just want the bowl,’ said the customer, who had his wallet out.
‘Sure? Tell you what we’ve got, though, and they’d would go very nicely with this – pair of 1926 candlesticks, came out of Aitchison’s Haven Lodge in Scotland. They’d make a lovely addit—’
‘
‘Right, hahaha, no problem, we’ll get this wrapped for you, then. Laura! Wrap this for me, please!’
A sulky-looking young woman in glasses, who was returning various other bits of silver to their shelf, slouched over to the desk and began plying Sellotape and bubble wrap.
‘Wonderful choice, a really fabulous piece. Lovely scrollwork. Are you a collector? Would you like gift wrapping? Got ribbon somewhere, haven’t we, Laura? Got any good Christmas plans? Staying in town? Would you like to join our mailing list? Well worth it, you’ll be given early notice, if anything special—’
‘
Robin was looking around at the cramped and cluttered shop floor. The right and left walls bore racks of ceremonial swords and shelves laden with silver. Taller items, such as urns and ornamental centrepieces, stood on tables, while snuffboxes and jewellery were displayed in glass cabinets. Masonic symbols, now becoming familiar to Robin, were everywhere: eyes in triangles, sheafs of corn, beehives, coffins and skulls. The back wall broke the monotony of the sea of silver, because it displayed many antique aprons and sashes embroidered in gold, and Robin’s eye lingered on an apron embroidered with a bloody severed head, held up by a single hand.
Strike, too, was making a covert survey of the shop, though concentrating on security rather than silverware. Beside the street door was a keypad for the alarm, which looked as though it had been installed at least a decade earlier. A small camera, which also looked many years out of date, was positioned over a slightly warped black door behind the desk.
When at last the customer’s purchase had been put into its black and silver bag, Ramsay trotted to the street door to open it, and in the absence of his voice, they could hear the Christmas carol playing over the speakers.
