Page 92 of The Hallmarked Man
‘No,’ said Pat, looking disgruntled, ‘and he hasn’t got an appointment.’
She disapproved on principle of letting people in off the street without appointments.
‘Let him in.’
Strike got up, closed the wings of the noticeboard on which he’d pinned Semple’s and the other possible Wrights’ pictures, and slid the cipher note out of sight, beneath his keyboard. He then headed into the outer office in time to see Pat opening the glass door, Midge passing out of it, and a stranger walking in.
He was a good-looking man in his late fifties, broad-shouldered,almost as tall as Strike, and wearing a dark blue suit the detective could tell was tailored. He had a thick head of short salt-and-pepper hair, a square jaw and silver-framed glasses, and entered the office, not exactly with an air of expecting to be saluted, but something close to it. Strike wasn’t entirely surprised to see a smile of welcome replace Pat’s scowl; she always had a soft spot for handsome men.
‘Mr Strike?’ said the newcomer, in the kind of rich, upper-class voice Strike could imagine declaring a garden fete open. This definitely wasn’t the man who’d called Jade Semple ‘babe’.
‘That’s me.’
‘Ralph Lawrence.’
They shook hands.
‘Want a coffee?’ asked Strike.
‘No, thanks, pressed for time,’ said Lawrence.
‘I could do you a small one,’ said Pat.
‘All right,’ said Lawrence with what Strike thought was a consciously charming smile, ‘a small one, then.’
‘Come through,’ said Strike, standing back to let Lawrence pass.
He noticed the sweeping gaze the man gave the two rooms as he moved through to the partners’ desk, as though he was memorising details.
‘We’ve got an acquaintance in common,’ Lawrence said, sitting down in Robin’s chair as Strike closed the door.
‘Yeah?’ said Strike. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Angela Darwish.’
Strike’s interest in his uninvited guest sharpened considerably. He and Robin had met Angela Darwish in the context of a previous case, which had involved a far-right terrorist group. Darwish had been working in conjunction with the Met and had never disclosed either her precise job description or employer, but by the end of the investigation, Strike had known perfectly well she was MI5. That didn’t mean Lawrence also worked for the security service, of course, but certain suspicions lurking in the back of Strike’s mind about Niall Semple now took more solid form.
‘How can I help?’ he asked, also sitting down.
‘You’re currently trying to identify the body found in the silver vault at Ramsay Silver, yes?’
In the absence of proof that he was speaking to a genuine MI5 operative, Strike answered with a question of his own.
‘Did Semple’s wife tip you off I want to interview her, or are you monitoring private messages on her Facebook page?’
‘Have you spoken to anyone other than Jade yet?’ Lawrence asked.
‘Why d’you ask?’ said Strike, who could play question for question all day.
‘I think a man of your intelligence can probably guess why I’m asking,’ said Lawrence, with a faint smile.
There was a knock on the dividing door and Pat appeared, holding a tray. Childish as he knew it to be, Strike was nevertheless slightly irked that Pat had got out both the milk jug and the sugar bowl for their suave visitor.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Lawrence, smiling at the office manager, and Strike heard the gratification in Pat’s gruff ‘you’re welcome’.
‘Can I be candid?’ said Lawrence, once Pat had closed the door again.
‘I don’t know. Can you?’ said Strike.
