Page 376 of The Hallmarked Man
Robin started to laugh, then spotted Kenneth Ramsay walking fast towards them, his silver hair ruffled, his jacket hanging even more loosely on him than it had the last time Robin had seen him.
‘This is all very – when I got Mr Strike’s phone call—’
‘Please don’t get your hopes up too much,’ said Robin. ‘We don’t know for sure our theory’s right.’
But she could tell, by Ramsay’s agitated air as he fumbled with the shop keys, that he was praying for a miracle.
120
… so, at length, a silver thread
It winds, all noiselessly, thro’ the deep wood,
Till thro’ a cleft way, thro’ the moss and stone,
It joins its parent-river with a shout.
Robert Browning
Pauline
As they drove north, Strike told Barclay and Wardle how he believed William Wright had died, and why. He found it a useful exercise, because their incredulity showed him exactly what he and Robin would need to do if they were to convince the police.
‘If that’s what happened,’ said Wardle, ‘it’s the most convoluted fucking murder I’ve ever heard of and I can’t believe he brought it off.’
‘He didn’t,’ Strike pointed out, ‘or we wouldn’t be coming for him, would we? The thing was too complicated by half. Too many moving parts. Well, that and the fact he couldn’t resist adding a sex crime into the caper. Never mix business with pleasure.’
‘I think you’re going to be lucky pinning the whole thing on that footprint,’ said Wardle.
‘If we’re right, there’ll be a damn sight more physical evidence than a footprint,’ said Strike. ‘Though I admit we haven’t got any of it yet, and don’t know where some of it is.’
They arrived at the car rental in Banbury shortly after nine o’clock. Wardle and Barclay picked up their hired Mitsubishi and continued north, leaving Strike to find somewhere to kill a few hours in the small town. The Old Town Deli and Café provided not only coffee, but an outside table where Strike could consume two flapjacks, vape and read the day’s news off his phone.
Islamic State had now claimed responsibility for the terrorist attack on Westminster Bridge. The driver had been identified as Khalid Masood, a fifty-two-year-old British resident and Muslim convert with a long string of criminal convictions in his past. Strike scrolled down the BBC website in search of distraction. Robin still hadn’t rung him, and if his theory about Ramsay Silver was proven wrong, he might yet have to call Barclay and Wardle and tell them to turn back. It was therefore with less interest than he might have taken a few days previously that he saw Dominic Culpepper’s name. The journalist had been sacked from his paper, and Strike strongly suspected this was because of the baseless Candy story.
His phone rang. He snatched it up without checking who it was, so was momentarily disconcerted to hear Shah’s voice rather than Robin’s.
‘Hi,’ said Shah. ‘I, ah… I’m calling to apologise.’
‘What for?’ said Strike, so preoccupied he couldn’t immediately recall what Shah had to feel sorry about.
‘For saying what I said, about the silver vault case, and for believing Cochran when she said you’d come on to her. Wardle and I have had a chat, and… yeah. I shouldn’t have taken her at face value. And I know you’re pressing on to try and find out who killed those people, out of your own pocket, so I… I’m not proud of what I said to you.’
‘Fuck it, I’ve said plenty of stuff I’m not proud of,’ said Strike. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘Painful,’ said Shah.
‘I’ll bet it is. Don’t worry about money, we can pay you the average monthly fee while you’re off.’
‘That’s bloody decent of you,’ said Shah.
‘Yeah, well, I’d rather keep you at the agency,’ said Strike.
He heard a beeping.
‘Shah, I’ve got to go, that could be Robin.’
He switched calls without waiting for a response.
