Page 99 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Can’t hurt. We should touch a police contact, find out whether they know what happened to her, as well. Incidentally, did the Land Rover get through its MOT?’
‘No,’ sighed Robin. ‘They rang ten minutes ago. They say it’d need more money spent on it than it’d be worth in scrap,’ she said, trying not to sound as sad as she felt. She had a sentimental attachment to the old car she’d have found hard to explain to anyone who didn’t know how much she associated it with her escape from her first husband, who’d never liked it, and with the career that meant so much to her.
‘You could charge part of a new one against the business,’ said Strike. ‘Another Land Rover would be useful. It’s good, having a car that works for the country as well, that doesn’t stick out in rural areas. Gives us options. Well, let me know how you get on in Harrods. Got to go, I’m at Leather Lane.’
Call finished, Strike proceeded down the narrow street lined with shops, fast food restaurants and market stalls, thinking about Robin’s defunct Land Rover, now destined for the scrapyard. While not as attached to the car as Robin was, it seemed somehow to mark the endof an era, and it occurred to him that his Christmas present to Robin might need rethinking, in light of the news of the car’s demise.
The Craft Beer Co, the pub Todd had chosen for this interview, stood on a corner, was decorated with hanging baskets and a three-dimensional model of the royal standard over the door. Strike glanced up at the harp, the lion rampant, and the three lions passant as he entered the wooden-floored space.
Strike recognised Jim Todd, not by his face, because the quality of Ramsay’s camera footage was so poor, but by his shape. The cleaner was sitting on a leather bench with a full pint on the table in front of him. Short and very rotund, Todd had small hands and feet, tiny blue eyes, a wide, thin-lipped mouth, and patches of fluffy greyish hair around his ears, though he was otherwise bald. He was wearing old trousers, a grubby-looking jacket, and his pinprick eyes were fixed on a young woman in a very short skirt who was standing by the bar.
‘Cameron, is it?’ said Todd, when Strike joined him, half a pint of IPA in his hand.
‘Cormoran, but I answer to both,’ said Strike, taking the chair opposite. ‘Thanks for meeting me, I appreciate it. This your local?’
‘Kinda. I’m just up the road. Got a little room, ’andy for me jobs. Me an’ a bunch of Pakistanis, packed in over a Lebanese restaurant, hahaha.’
‘Yeah, London housing’s no joke,’ said Strike, pulling out his notebook. ‘You clean for a few different businesses, right?’
‘’S’right.’
‘All in the same area?’
‘Holborn, Covent Garden, yeah. Word of mouf. I do a good job,’ said Todd, still smiling, but with a faint suggestion of defiance.
‘Well, as I said on the phone, this is really just for background. How many hours a week do you do at Ramsay Silver?’
‘Monday an’ Fursday mornings, regular, an’ a bit of overtime, polishin’ stock an’ stuff.’
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Two years now.’
‘Did you answer an ad, or…?’
‘’Novver bloke I clean for mentioned me to Ken Ramsay, an’ Ken took me on.’
‘Did you have a lot to do with William Wright?’
‘Saw ’im a bit, yeah. But you mean Knowles, not Wright, dontcha?’said Todd, grinning more broadly, as though he’d caught Strike out.
‘The police still haven’t got a firm ID,’ said Strike.
‘Fort they ’ad?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘But you’re confident it was Knowles, are you?’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Todd, still grinning. ‘No, it was Knowles. We all agreed, me, Ken and Pamela.’
‘Pamela’s got difficulties with her sight, though, hasn’t she?’
‘What? Yeah, but she ain’tblind.’
‘Did the police show you any pictures, other than Jason Knowles’?’
‘Showed us a couple, yeah,’ said Todd.
‘Can you remember the names of the men concerned?’
