‘Was he given the alarm and vault codes when he started here? Keys?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ramsay. ‘No, of course not. Absolutely not.’
‘Did you see much of him yourself?’
‘Not really. I’d pop in here at lunch sometimes, see how things were going. No, it was really just Pamela – oh, and Jim, coming in to clean two mornings a week. He’s been with us since the start, couple of years now.’
‘This would be Jim Todd?’ asked Strike.
Ramsay didn’t question how Strike knew his cleaner’s surname, but said,
‘That’s right. Lovely man. Fell on hard times, so we helped him out with a job. He cleans for a few different businesses.’
‘So it would’ve been Pamela who had most to do with William Wright?’
‘Yes, and Jim would’ve seen a bit of him, too. More than me. As I say, I’ve been very busy, but it was important to keep the shop going. It’s our baby, you know, and—’
Ramsay’s voice broke, and Robin, thinking again of the dead son, said,
‘This must all have been incredibly difficult for you.’
‘It has,’ said Ramsay hoarsely. ‘Yes. It has.’
His gaze roved, apparently absent-mindedly, back to Robin’s chest. She folded her arms and he looked hastily away.
‘So William Wright was on your security footage, all that Friday the seventeenth of June?’ said Strike, his tone less sympathetic than Robin’s. He’d noticed the ogling.
‘Yes, yes, we’ve always got the camera on, in case of shoplifters. The police took that footage away, after the burglary, or – no, maybe it’s still on here,’ said Ramsay, peering dimly at the computer, ‘but I wouldn’t know how to…’
‘Could I have a look?’ asked Robin. ‘We’ve got a similar camera feed in our office. I might be able to find it.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Ramsay. ‘Password,’ he muttered, and after a couple of attempts, he succeeded in entering it correctly, then ceded his chair to Robin.
‘I understand Wright left the shop for a while, that Friday?’ said Strike.
‘Yes, very briefly, in the afternoon,’ said Ramsay, taking Robin’s vacated seat. ‘Stupid thing. The delivery driver mixed up two crates. Sent the Oriental Lodge centrepiece – you’ll see it in the catalogue, magnificent, it really is – to Bullen & Co by mistake, and delivered some of the things
‘And Wright brought this centrepiece back, did he?’ said Strike.
‘Yes, in a taxi. He wasn’t gone long. The Silver Vaults are only just up the road.’
‘I think,’ said Robin, her eyes on the computer monitor, ‘I might be able to download the relevant camera footage. Would you be comfortable with us taking a copy, Mr Ramsay?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Ramsay.
‘Would you have phone numbers for Pamela Bullen-Driscoll and Jim Todd?’ Strike asked.
Ramsay gave them. Strike now brought out the photograph of Rupert Fleetwood that Decima had given him.
‘In your opinion, is there any possibility that William Wright was this man?’
Ramsay glanced down at Rupert Fleetwood.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘No, no. What is he – a waiter? Wright wore glasses, and had a beard. He was dark.’
‘Disregarding the outfit,’ said Strike, ‘and trying to picture this man with a beard, and dyed hair—’
‘No, no,’ repeated Ramsay, who seemed annoyed, ‘no, he doesn’t look at all like Knowles.’
Strike took the picture back.
‘Did the police show you pictures of two men called Niall Semple and Tyler Powell?’
‘Yes, yes, but it wasn’t them, it was Knowles,’ said Ramsay, now almost agitated. ‘I’m
‘OK,’ said Strike, making a note. ‘Did anyone offer you a different nef for sale, around the time Wright came to work here?’
‘A different nef?’ said Ramsay, confused. ‘No, the
‘Right,’ said Strike, making another note. ‘And is there anything you remember about Wright that seemed odd, or distinctive?’
‘No, not at all. As I say, I didn’t really – oh, but there were the things he searched for. The police found that out.’
‘“Things he searched for”?’
‘Yes, he’d looked things up, on this computer,’ said Ramsay, nodding at the monitor on the desk. ‘The police went all through the what-have-you, and they found he’d been looking at some odd things.’
‘They found his search history?’