Page 82 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Yes, I know,’ said Robin. ‘Have you heard from him lately?’
Robin could hear the scratching of a pen, and surmised that the girl was either doodling or taking a note.
‘I don’t like him,’ the girl said finally. ‘We don’t talk.’
‘Well, would you mind telling your great-aunt I’ve called, and asking her to get in touch when she feels better?’ said Robin.
‘All right,’ said the girl.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Robin. ‘Can I ask your n—?’
But the girl had already hung up.
Ten minutes later the paunchy Two-Times entered the bar wearing a much-creased suit, smiling broadly at his wife and her friend. Robin gathered up her bag and coat and left, making sure not to make eye contact with Two-Times, who had a tendency to smirk whenever he spotted one of the detectives he’d paid to spy on whichever woman he was currently sleeping with.
In the lobby of the hotel, Robin paused beside a large Christmas tree surrounded by silver models of fawns. On her way here, she’d registered her proximity to the London Silver Vaults. She took out her mobile, and called Strike.
‘Hi. Listen, I’m five minutes’ walk away from Bullen & Co. What d’you think of me trying to interview Pamela Bullen-Driscoll?’
‘I think you’ll be very lucky to get her to talk.’
‘Even so,’ said Robin, now heading out onto the street, ‘she’s a key witness and pressure’s always easier to apply face to face.’
‘S’pose it’s worth a try,’ said Strike, who assumed from Robin’s friendly tone that she hadn’t seen the online hatchet job on him. ‘Maybe she’ll be more amenable to a woman. I’m heading to Ipswich in an hour or so, by the way.’
‘Why?’
‘One of Plug’s Ipswich mates has done a two-year stretch for embezzlement. Kim found out. Thought I’d go and have a nose around for what he might be getting up to these days that involves Plug, a lot of cash and a ledger.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, ‘Well, I’ll let you know how I get on with Pamela. You might be hearing back from me in ten minutes.’
She hung up, checked the route on her phone, then headed off along High Holborn, turned into Chancery Lane and finally entered Southampton Buildings.
24
You were informed in the Royal Arch degree, that King Solomon builded a secret vault, the approach to which was through eight other vaults or apartments in succession, all under ground, and to which a long and narrow passage led…
Albert Pike
The Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry
The Silver Vaults’ entrance was a discreet wooden door with a small glass awning. Robin was admitted after pressing a buzzer and found herself facing a uniformed security man, who asked to search her bag. She then had to sign in at the desk, and was instructed to descend three flights of stairs, and take no photographs outside the individual shops.
Intrigued, Robin proceeded down broad, bare stone stairs, her footsteps echoing, and found herself in a space unlike any she’d seen before.
A long, low-ceilinged, arched underground passageway stretched away from her, the walls on both sides lined with heavy steel vault doors. She set off along the corridor, noticing the regularly spaced cameras watching her from the ceiling, and looking left and right through the open doors at Aladdin’s Caves of dazzling, gleaming silver. The bright light in both passage and shops almost hurt her eyes, especially when reflected from thousands of brightly polished silver surfaces. Robin turned a corner and saw that the subterranean labyrinth extended far beyond the first corridor.
Bullen & Co lay in the second passage she entered. It was one of the larger shops, carpeted in bright blue, and a veritable sea of silvermet her eyes: shelves of platters, trays, boxes, urns, jugs and shields and, on sturdy mahogany tables, gigantic pieces including candelabra, centrepieces covered in cherubs and a huge nef representing a galleon in full sail.
A woman Robin recognised instantly as Pamela Bullen-Driscoll, because of her boxy back view, was speaking rapidly into the phone on a desk.
‘Ay’ve already told you, Geoffrey. Ay’ve told you – Ay simply don’tcare!’
Pamela seemed to sense someone behind her, because she turned, said, ‘Ay’ve got to go!’ and slammed down the receiver.
Pamela had seen no need to change her style because fashions had moved on around her. From her stiffly lacquered hair to her large gold earrings and necklace, her double-breasted, shoulder-padded black blazer to her frosted pink lipstick, Pamela had never left the eighties, even though succeeding decades had deepened lines around her mouth and across her forehead. While not overweight, she was square and short-waisted. A pair of gold reading glasses hung on a crystal-studded chain around her neck.
‘Can Ay help you?’
