Page 71 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Watch closely,’ said Strike, hitting play again.
‘A text?’ said Robin, as the on-screen Pamela stared at whatever was in her hand.
‘I think so,’ said Strike. ‘Watch the body language.’
Pamela stood frozen for almost a minute, before Todd spoke to her. She looked up at him. Another animated conversation followed, Pamela pointing at the vault, then making hand-chopping movements.
‘Laying down the law,’ said Strike. ‘He wants to go, but she wants him to stay to help Wright downstairs with the centrepiece, once it arrives.’
Strike fast forwarded yet again, stopping at six minutes past five, when Pamela received yet another call on her mobile. With her mobile clamped to her ear, she pointed at Todd, who left through the frontdoor. At nine minutes past five, both Wright and Todd reappeared, staggering under the weight of another large crate.
‘The Oriental Centrepiece has been delivered to the correct buyer,’ said Strike, as the two men staggered out of sight through the door leading to the vault.
Todd re-emerged from the basement, holding Pamela’s shoulder bag. She snatched it from his hand and, talking to him over her shoulder, strode towards the street door.
‘And she leaves,’ said Strike, pressing pause again.
‘For a woman who was punctilious about security earlier…’ said Robin.
‘Exactly. She’s buggered off, leaving two men in the shop who don’t have codes or keys – or shouldn’t have.’
Strike pressed play again. Jim Todd appeared to be having a coughing fit.
‘Is this where the heart attack happens?’ asked Robin.
‘He survives, but I think the manual labour’s taken its toll.’
He fast forwarded until five to six.
‘Wright comes back upstairs… Todd leaves…’
‘Hang on,’ said Robin, and Strike pressed pause again. ‘Wright’s holding something, isn’t he?’
Strike rewound and pressed play.
‘He is,’ said Robin. ‘A bag or something. He’s holding it to his chest.’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike. The film was so grainy it was hard to tell. ‘He puts down the blinds… the right-hand one still won’t go to the bottom of the window… turns off the light… and leaves, slamming the door.’
Strike paused the footage again.
‘Thoughts?’ he said.
‘The vault door could still be open. The front door hasn’t been properly locked. The alarm isn’t set.’
‘You’re good,’ said Strike.
‘Collusion between Wright and Pamela?’
‘Got to be a possibility. Now watch…’
Strike pressed fast forward yet again. The shop grew steadily darker as they watched. Ten p.m. Eleven p.m. Midnight. One a.m. A small amount of light penetrated through the sliver of window not covered by the broken blind.
At ten past one in the morning, Strike again pressed play.
Somebody was opening the shop door. The darkness was such that what was happening was barely visible: a faint glint on the glass in the door, a shadow moving across the shop floor. The camera was switched off at eleven minutes past one.
‘Keep watching,’ said Strike.
