Page 280 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Great,’ said Robin, who’d already pulled a throw off the sofa to wrap around herself.
She looked around the low-ceilinged room, at the ship in a bottle and a china horse standing on the mantelpiece, at yet another seascape on the wall and the array of pamphlets advertising the attractions of Sark spread on a side table, and thought how much she’d have liked being here if not for that text of Murphy’s. She felt physically tired, but craved mental stimulation, and was conscious, too, of a desire to prove to Strike that she was still up to the job, no matter her personal problems.
‘So,’ she said, while Strike was busy with old newspapers and logs, ‘we’re back at the question of why Wright was killed in the vault, if it wasn’t a masonic double bluff.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, whose spirits had sagged at these words. She wanted to talk about work. Was this a deliberate closing of the door on any more personal conversation? Was she as aware as he was of the unusualness of this situation – the isolated house, the hundreds of miles between them and London – and seeking to restore relations to a professional footing? With reluctance, and a heaviness of heart, he reached the conclusion that bringing up his own feelings right now would be a mistake; possibly an irrecoverable one.
‘All right,’ he said, having successfully lit the fire, closed the door on the wood burner and dragged himself back up into a standing position by using the mantelpiece beam, ‘what reasons do people have, for killing in particular places?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin.
Strike poured himself more wine and sat down in a wicker chair, which creaked loudly.
‘I can think of four.’
‘Really?’ said Robin, taken aback.
‘Yeah. Chance, convenience, opportunity and necessity.’
‘Well,’ said Robin, pulling the throw tighter around herself, soothed by having an intellectual exercise to engage her mind, and grateful for the fire, ‘it definitely wasn’t chance, was it? Wright and his murderer didn’t find themselves in that vault at that time in the morning by chance. It was pre-arranged. Organised.’
‘Agreed,’ said Strike.
Robin drank more wine, trying to focus.
‘What came after chance?’ she asked.
‘Convenience. Covers domestic murder, in particular. I think we can discount that. As far as places to commit murder go, I’dstruggle to think of one more inconvenient than an underground silver vault.’
‘So, then – opportunity?’
‘Opportunity would fit fine if the killer had been Kenneth Ramsay, Pamela Bullen-Driscoll or Jim Todd. The vault might well have been one of the very few places they’d have had the chance to bash a strong young man over the head from behind, without witnesses. Unfortunately, they all have unbreakable alibis. So we’re left with necessity. The vault was literally the only place the killing was possible.’
Correctly interpreting Robin’s lack of response Strike said,
‘I can’t think why it would have been necessary to do it there, either. Even if we accept the premise that Wright was lured to his death on the promise of a cut of the proceeds from the robbery, why did the killer make it so difficult for themselves? If a victim’s after easy money, there are a hundred other scenarios they could be persuaded into, and they’d be bound to offer the back of their head at some point. Whythere?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin again. ‘I feel as though we’ve got a lot of pieces from different jigsaws.’
‘We have,’ said Strike. ‘Semple, Powell, Fleetwood – Knowles, come to that… fuck knows what “Barnaby’s” is.’
Watching the dancing flames Robin said,
‘How often do you think there’s a murder case where both the killer and his victim were pretending to be someone else?’
‘Infrequently, I’d imagine,’ said Strike, ‘but I’m sure more killers would do it that way, if they could arrange it. Wright’s false identity worked brilliantly in his murderer’s favour. When you can’t identify the victim, it’s bloody difficult to see why anyone wanted them dead.’
Both watched the flames dancing in the wood burner for a while. Then Robin said,
‘I keep thinking about Wright. The way Daz and Mandy described him… he sounded…’
Robin’s voice trailed away. She drank some wine.
‘“Sounded”?’ Strike prompted her.
‘Well, a bit… lonely, or lost, or something… It seems so silly to go downstairs to your neighbours and eat a takeaway and smoke dope with them, and let them get a really good look at you, if you’re indisguise because you’re planning a burglary. If Wright knew he was only going to be there a short time, why get friendly with Mandy and Daz? And ordering weights to his flat – why would you dothat, if you knew you’d only be there a month?’
‘Two very good points,’ said Strike.
