Page 176 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… 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.

‘Hi,’ said Midge’s voice. ‘We’re nearly in. Robin thought you might like a blow-by-blow. She’s almost got the back off.’

Robin, who was slightly shorter than Midge, and somewhat thinner, was kneeling inside one of the old cupboards in the Ramsay basement, from which they’d removed all cleaning products. Only her feet were visible as she used Midge’s claw hammer to prise out nails.

‘What does it look like?’ said Strike. ‘Recently tampered with?’

‘There are new nails,’ said Midge, ‘but we still don’t know whether the wall’s intact behind the board.’

Kenneth Ramsay was sitting on the steep wooden steps leading down into the basement space, his head in his hands.

‘Got it,’ came Robin’s muffled voice, and Strike heard scuffling and thuds.

Dishevelled and dusty, Robin manoeuvred herself backwards out of the cupboard, dragging the board that had been at the back of the cupboard with her.

‘Give me your sledgehammer,’ she told Midge. ‘The bricks have been reassembled but they’re loose.’

‘Did she just say the bricks are loose?’ a very tense Strike asked Midge.

‘Yeah,’ said Midge, as she passed Robin the sledgehammer. The latter crawled back into the cupboard, only her feet protruding, and Strike heard more muffled thuds.

‘What’s happening?’

‘She’s trying to break through the wall.’

Robin had battered the bricks as hard as she could in the cramped space and one of them fell through into the empty space beyond. With a definite clang, it hit something metallic.

‘Torch,’ she called to Midge, who provided one.

‘Did she—?’

‘She wanted a torch, I gave her one,’ said Midge.

Coughing in a small cloud of dust, her eyes watering, Robin pushed the sledgehammer back out of the cupboard and turned on the torch, so she could see through the hole left by the fallen brick.

The torch’s beam fell upon a treasure trove of silver, crammed into the dead space behind the wall.

She saw the Oriental Centrepiece, ugly and ornate; the silver mauls and set squares; John Skene’s ceremonial dagger and, its silver sails and rigging cast in shadow on the wall behind it, the nef of the Carolina Merchant .

In a far corner were what looked like balled-up clothes.

The shirt was covered with rusty brown stains.

Robin wriggled backwards out of the cupboard and reached up for the phone in Midge’s hand.

‘It’s there,’ she told Strike. ‘Looks like all of it. Plus Wright’s clothes.’

‘Shoes?’

‘Can’t see any.’

‘Fuck,’ said Strike.

He’d thought it likely, on the balance of probabilities, that the Murdoch silver had never actually left the shop, but hearing that theory confirmed was an immense relief. Then he heard a loud, echoing wail.

‘The hell’s that?’

‘Er – that was Mr Ramsay,’ said Robin.

The shop owner had flung himself onto all fours to squeeze himself into the cupboard and peer through the hole Robin had made. Now he was sobbing hysterically, only his legs and backside visible.

‘Hang on,’ said Robin, as Ramsay’s echoing wails filled the small space, and she climbed the stairs back up to the shop floor. ‘He’s a bit overwrought,’ she said quietly.

‘I’ll bet he is,’ said Strike.

‘I wonder how long it took Todd to make the hole in the wall,’ said Robin. ‘The mortar was old and crumbly, so I don’t think it would have been that hard. The worst bit would have been him cramming himself into the cupboard to do it.’

‘A problem our friend Oz won’t have had, when shoving all the silver in there,’ said Strike.

‘True… where are you at the moment?’ said Robin, now standing in the dark and dusty shop floor.

‘Banbury, waiting to hear from Barclay and Wardle.’

‘You’re waiting till after dark?’

‘There can’t be witnesses this time,’ said Strike. ‘I’m on very thin ice as it is. Listen, I was thinking about Fleetwood on the way up here. Why don’t you – shit, hang on—’ he said, as his phone began to beep, ‘I’ll call you back.’

He hung up and answered the new call.

‘Hi,’ said his Met contact, George Layborn, in a lugubrious voice. ‘You were right.’

‘You’ve found him?’ said Strike, startled. ‘Already?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That was quick.’

‘There’s a general feeling your tips shouldn’t be disregarded, after Knowles. Family’s being notified this morning.’

‘OK, thanks for letting me know.’

‘Anything else you want to share, while we’re at it?’

‘Not yet,’ said Strike.

‘What are you up to?’ said Layborn, with what Strike was forced to admit was justifiable suspicion.

‘You don’t want to know,’ said Strike.

He hung up and called Robin back.

‘Layborn,’ he said, without preamble. ‘They’ve found Semple’s body.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘but it’s closure. Easier than never knowing.

Listen, could you persuade Ramsay not to mouth off about his silver being found until I’ve taken care of the rest of business?

Explain to him that it’s in his best interests – that otherwise it might look like he was trying to drum up publicity, hiding the silver on the premises himself. ’

‘OK,’ said Robin. ‘But please be careful.’

‘I think that’s what’s called “rich”, coming from the woman who once jumped in front of a moving train,’ said Strike. ‘All right, I’ll be careful. That’s Barclay,’ he added, as his phone began to beep again. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

He hung up on her a second time and accepted Barclay’s call.

‘We’re here,’ said the Glaswegian, ‘but he’s just left, wi’ a van full of other guys. Wardle’s followed ’em. Ah’m still watchin’ the house.’

‘OK,’ said Strike, ‘I’m moving closer.’

He paid for his flapjacks and coffee, visited the café’s bathroom, returned to his car, and set off in the direction of Ironbridge.