‘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.
‘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.