‘That’s the Oriental Centrepiece, which went to Bullen & Co by mistake,’ said Robin, turning the catalogue back towards herself to examine at the profusion of symbols that embellished the object. ‘Jacob’s ladder, acacia tree, the all-seeing eye, the blazing star…’
‘Been boning up on masonic symbolism?’
‘Yes… it’s strange, though.’
‘It’s an eyesore, is what it is,’ said Strike, looking at the upside-down centrepiece.
‘Not this – the theft. It’s not like stealing cash, or diamonds, which you could sell easily. The thieves can’t have been intending to melt the silver down, because its value is in its form. And this centrepiece alone must be massively heavy.’
‘Which is why I think it must’ve all gone in the getaway car in Wild Street. Why anyone wanted a pile of masonic crap, though…’
Robin thought of the spartan attic in which Strike lived, devoid of almost anything of sentimental or decorative value.
‘I think you might underestimate how obsessive people can get about objects, not being a things person yourself.’
‘A “things” person?’
‘Are there any physical objects you’re really attached to?’
‘Yeah, my prosthetic leg.’
‘Ha ha… you know what I mean. It’s not just the size and weight of them,’ said Robin, now turning the pages of the catalogue, ‘they’re all publicly linked to Wright’s murder. D’you think whoever stole them has just stashed them in a cellar somewhere, and they go down every night to gloat over it all?’
‘Good question,’ said Strike. He took a sip of his beer, then said, ‘Another good question is: why would Lynden Knowles want a pile of masonic silver?’
‘Maybe he knew a buyer who wouldn’t care how it was obtained?’ said Robin doubtfully.
‘Does that smell right to you? A gangster who deals in guns, suddenly turning high-class fence?’
‘Not really,’ Robin admitted.
‘And if he’d wanted the stuff for himself, which I think is highly unlikely, why tie his nephew’s murder to it?’
‘It is odd,’ admitted Robin. ‘And why kill Knowles in the vault? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to—’
‘Shoot him in the back of the head in the car on the way to a fake robbery, then dump the body? You’re right, it would… what d’you want to eat?’
‘Soup,’ said Robin. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
Strike, who was very definitely hungry, set back off for the bar, where he ordered soup for Robin and fish and chips for himself. When he returned to the table, Robin handed him her mobile, on which she’d brought up the email to the man called Osgood, allegedly sent by William Wright.
Ramsay Silver
Re: Something you should know
To: Osgood@goodtunes.co.uk
dear Mr Osgood (Oz)
I can help you with something that I know has been a problem for you if you would be happy to meet me.
‘Sent a week before Wright was killed,’ Strike noted. ‘No guarantee it was Wright who sent it, of course.’
‘If he didn’t, it’s odd nobody at the shop admitted to doing it,’ said Robin, taking her phone back.
‘True,’ said Strike. ‘But if the police thought this Osgood bloke had any bearing on the murder and theft, I’d have expected it to be in the press. We’ll try and contact him, though.’
‘It’s weird how quickly press interest died, isn’t it?’ said Robin. ‘Once they heard it was Knowles, nobody seems to have cared any more that his hands had been chopped off and his eyes gouged out—’
‘Standard operating procedure, isn’t it?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Let violent young men polish each other off. Who cares?’
‘But this was a really
‘Glad you said that, not me.’
‘Why?’
‘Not fashionable, to say men are seen as disposable in certain contexts.’
‘I’m not saying he was
‘I know you’re not, but there wasn’t a tenth of the interest there would have been if he’d been a woman, even if she’d had a record. And you’re right, this was bloody sadistic,’ said Strike. ‘Proper butchery.’
‘I’m just saying, if it had been a woman, there’d have been salacious interest, because she was naked,’ said Robin.
‘True,’ said Strike, ‘but men don’t tug at the public’s heartstrings the way women and kids do. I’m not saying women have it easy,’ Strike added, pre-emptively defending himself against an accusation he seemed to hear hovering in the wings of the conversation, ‘but there are far more men sleeping rough and they get a lot less press traction when they go missing – I’m not saying women have it easy,’ he emphasised, ‘just stating facts. Look at those two blokes they couldn’t exclude on DNA. Semple got a bit of interest because he’s an injured veteran, but Powell got fuck-all. I’ve had a quick look for him, and not a whisper about him the press.’
‘I found some stuff,’ said Robin, rummaging in her bag.
‘Seriously?’ said Strike, surprised.
‘Yes – here—’