‘What made you think he might have been the man at the silver shop, Mrs Powell?’
‘What?’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’
‘Could I come and see you?’ said Robin, raising her voice and enunciating clearly. ‘To talk about Tyler? I could come to Ironbridge.’
‘Took off,’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Told Griff where he was going. Never told me.’
‘Is Griff a friend of Tyler’s?’ asked Robin, now groping one-handed for her notebook.
‘He’s up the road. What d’you want?’
‘To talk to you,’ said Robin, even more loudly and clearly, ‘about Tyler. Could I come to Ironbridge? Maybe after Christmas?’
There was a brief pause.
‘Yeah, you can come.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Robin. The front door of the house for sale had opened, and she saw Murphy watching her. ‘Could I call you back, Mrs Powell, and we can arrange a date to meet?’
‘Call me back? Yeah. All right.’
Robin hung up, then hurried across the road.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was urgent.’
A chatty pregnant woman of around Robin’s age started showing them around the house, which was bandbox neat. Her husband was entertaining a toddler and an older girl in the sitting room.
‘They were going to go to the park, but it’s so cold and Nate’s getting over a cough,’ the mother told Robin and Murphy as they moved past the rest of the family to look at the small, sparklingly clean kitchen. ‘It’s a lovely area, lovely neighbours. We’ve been
Upstairs, she moved aside to let them look into the box room, which held a bed with the name Nathan carved into the headboard, and had planes in primary colours painted on sky blue walls. Murphy reached out for Robin’s hand and squeezed it. She felt a slight clenching of her stomach, and unbidden into her mind came the thought,
‘And this is Laura’s, obviously,’ said the proud homeowner, beaming, as they looked into a second, larger bedroom, decorated in white and bubble-gum pink, ‘and ours.’
‘Lovely,’ said Robin automatically, looking blankly at the yellow duvet cover and pine furniture.
‘And the bathroom.’
Spotless, with blue and white tiles: a nice house in every way, except that Robin had already made up her mind. The stairs were narrow, and Murphy released her hand to let her walk down first. As they were descending, the doorbell rang.
‘Whoops, I think that’s the next lot, early!’ said the homeowner.
‘Have you had a lot of interest?’ asked Murphy.
‘We have,’ said the woman, with a note of apology. ‘If you’d like to go into the garden and have a proper look?’
So Robin and Murphy exited through the back door, to stand on the frosty lawn and breathe in the dank, sooty taste of the gradually lifting fog.
‘What d’you think?’ asked Murphy.
‘Nice,’ said Robin, who didn’t want to find fault too quickly.
‘I bet you it goes for way over the asking price.’
‘I was thinking that, too,’ she said, feigning regret, ‘and parking could be tricky, with two cars. Still, it
Through the kitchen window they saw a family of four looking around.
‘Want to have another look upstairs?’ said Murphy.
‘There are good photos online. We could go and get a coffee, have a look at the area?’
‘Good idea.’
So they headed back through the house, thanked the owners, and emerged again onto Moselle Avenue. As they were about to cross the road, Murphy’s mobile rang.
‘Work,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
He walked away up the street, answering the call only once he was out of earshot. Robin waited until he was fifty yards away before calling Strike back.
‘How was the house?’ he asked.
‘Not great,’ said Robin, and she felt a sense of release in saying it, although she knew it wasn’t the house she hadn’t liked, but Murphy’s squeeze of her hand – in consolation? Hope? Encouragement? ‘Tell me your news, because I’ve got some, too.’
Strike told Robin about Ralph Lawrence’s visit to the office the previous afternoon.
‘God above,’ said Robin, immensely relieved that she’d prevented Strike telling her all this over the car Bluetooth. ‘MI5 are warning us off?’
‘Assuming he’s telling the truth about who he is,’ said Strike. ‘MI6 would be involved initially, if Semple was Regiment.’
‘What regiment?’
‘
‘What does that mean?’
‘Covert ops, which explains why there were no details given in the press on how he got his brain injury. He was doing something the British public and the enemy aren’t supposed to know about. Also explains his beard. Special Forces are the only ones who’re allowed them. But I’m not worried about Lawrence.’
‘You aren’t?’
‘I think, if he genuinely had evidence Semple wasn’t the body in the vault, he’d have shared it. In the absence of proof, we’re well within our rights to keep investigating.’