Coughing in a small cloud of dust, her eyes watering, Robin pushed the sledgehammer back out of the cupboard and turned on the torch, so she could see through the hole left by the fallen brick.
The torch’s beam fell upon a treasure trove of silver, crammed into the dead space behind the wall. She saw the Oriental Centrepiece, ugly and ornate; the silver mauls and set squares; John Skene’s ceremonial dagger and, its silver sails and rigging cast in shadow on the wall behind it, the nef of the
Robin wriggled backwards out of the cupboard and reached up for the phone in Midge’s hand.
‘It’s there,’ she told Strike. ‘Looks like all of it. Plus Wright’s clothes.’
‘Shoes?’
‘Can’t see any.’
‘Fuck,’ said Strike.
He’d thought it likely, on the balance of probabilities, that the Murdoch silver had never actually left the shop, but hearing that theory confirmed was an immense relief. Then he heard a loud, echoing wail.
‘The hell’s that?’
‘Er – that was Mr Ramsay,’ said Robin.
The shop owner had flung himself onto all fours to squeeze himself into the cupboard and peer through the hole Robin had made. Now he was sobbing hysterically, only his legs and backside visible.
‘Hang on,’ said Robin, as Ramsay’s echoing wails filled the small space, and she climbed the stairs back up to the shop floor. ‘He’s a bit overwrought,’ she said quietly.
‘I’ll bet he is,’ said Strike.
‘I wonder how long it took Todd to make the hole in the wall,’ said Robin. ‘The mortar was old and crumbly, so I don’t think it would have been that hard. The worst bit would have been him cramming himself into the cupboard to do it.’
‘A problem our friend Oz won’t have had, when shoving all the silver in there,’ said Strike.
‘True… where are you at the moment?’ said Robin, now standing in the dark and dusty shop floor.
‘Banbury, waiting to hear from Barclay and Wardle.’
‘You’re waiting till after dark?’
‘There can’t be witnesses this time,’ said Strike. ‘I’m on very thin ice as it is. Listen, I was thinking about Fleetwood on the way up here. Why don’t you – shit, hang on—’ he said, as his phone began to beep, ‘I’ll call you back.’
He hung up and answered the new call.
‘Hi,’ said his Met contact, George Layborn, in a lugubrious voice. ‘You were right.’
‘You’ve found him?’ said Strike, startled. ‘Already?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That was quick.’
‘There’s a general feeling your tips shouldn’t be disregarded, after Knowles. Family’s being notified this morning.’
‘OK, thanks for letting me know.’
‘Anything else you want to share, while we’re at it?’
‘Not yet,’ said Strike.
‘What are you up to?’ said Layborn, with what Strike was forced to admit was justifiable suspicion.
‘You don’t want to know,’ said Strike.
He hung up and called Robin back.
‘Layborn,’ he said, without preamble. ‘They’ve found Semple’s body.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘but it’s closure. Easier than never knowing. Listen, could you persuade Ramsay not to mouth off about his silver being found until I’ve taken care of the rest of business? Explain to him that it’s in his best interests – that otherwise it might look like he was trying to drum up publicity, hiding the silver on the premises himself.’
‘OK,’ said Robin. ‘But please be careful.’
‘I think that’s what’s called “rich”, coming from the woman who once jumped in front of a moving train,’ said Strike. ‘All right, I’ll be careful. That’s Barclay,’ he added, as his phone began to beep again. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
He hung up on her a second time and accepted Barclay’s call.
‘We’re here,’ said the Glaswegian, ‘but he’s just left, wi’ a van full of other guys. Wardle’s followed ’em. Ah’m still watchin’ the house.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, ‘I’m moving closer.’
He paid for his flapjacks and coffee, visited the café’s bathroom, returned to his car, and set off in the direction of Ironbridge.
121
Albert Pike