Page 20 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

His suit hung loosely on him, as though he’d lost a lot of weight in a relatively short space of time.

The little hair he retained was silver and curly, which, combined with a strangely innocent-looking pink and white face that looked as though it never needed shaving, gave him the appearance of an ageing cherub.

Turning back to his customer, who was a tall man in a cashmere overcoat, Ramsay said,

‘Something else you might like, if it’s Art Nouveau you fancy—’

‘I really just want the bowl,’ said the customer, who had his wallet out.

‘Sure? Tell you what we’ve got, though, and they’d would go very nicely with this – pair of 1926 candlesticks, came out of Aitchison’s Haven Lodge in Scotland. They’d make a lovely addit—’

‘ No , thank you,’ said the customer firmly.

‘Right, hahaha, no problem, we’ll get this wrapped for you, then. Laura! Wrap this for me, please!’

A sulky-looking young woman in glasses, who was returning various other bits of silver to their shelf, slouched over to the desk and began plying Sellotape and bubble wrap.

‘Wonderful choice, a really fabulous piece. Lovely scrollwork. Are you a collector? Would you like gift wrapping? Got ribbon somewhere, haven’t we, Laura?

Got any good Christmas plans? Staying in town?

Would you like to join our mailing list?

Well worth it, you’ll be given early notice, if anything special—’

‘ Just the bowl, ’ said the customer, no longer troubling to be polite.

Robin was looking around at the cramped and cluttered shop floor.

The right and left walls bore racks of ceremonial swords and shelves laden with silver.

Taller items, such as urns and ornamental centrepieces, stood on tables, while snuffboxes and jewellery were displayed in glass cabinets.

Masonic symbols, now becoming familiar to Robin, were everywhere: eyes in triangles, sheafs of corn, beehives, coffins and skulls.

The back wall broke the monotony of the sea of silver, because it displayed many antique aprons and sashes embroidered in gold, and Robin’s eye lingered on an apron embroidered with a bloody severed head, held up by a single hand.

Strike, too, was making a covert survey of the shop, though concentrating on security rather than silverware.

Beside the street door was a keypad for the alarm, which looked as though it had been installed at least a decade earlier.

A small camera, which also looked many years out of date, was positioned over a slightly warped black door behind the desk.

When at last the customer’s purchase had been put into its black and silver bag, Ramsay trotted to the street door to open it, and in the absence of his voice, they could hear the Christmas carol playing over the speakers.

I saw three ships come sailing in

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day…

The customer, one of whose eyes was hypertrophic and staring up at the ceiling, scanned Strike and Robin superciliously with the other as he went out of the shop.

Ramsay inclined his head as the man passed, like a footman.

Once the door had thudded shut, Ramsay stripped off his white gloves and strode to Strike to wring his hand, his demeanour no less frenetic than it had been with his customer.

‘When you called this morning, I thought, “at long bloody last”. Ray of hope, it really was. Ray of hope. I’ve been reading up on you. Couldn’t have asked for – I’ve been at my wit’s end, to be honest. You might be the godsend I’ve been hoping for.’

‘This is Robin Ellacott, my partner,’ said Strike.

‘How d’you do, how d’you do?’ said Ramsay. His eyes dropped from Robin’s face to her breasts and moved back again as he shook her hand in turn. ‘Lovely – I mean – what would you like to do first? Look around, or—?’

‘Yeah, let’s look around,’ said Strike.

‘Right, yes – Laura, you can take lunch now,’ Ramsay called to the sulky sales assistant. She disappeared through the door behind the desk, coming back a minute later with her coat and handbag, and left, setting the bell tinkling again.

‘So,’ said Ramsay, spreading his hands wide, ‘this is the shop floor, obviously, hahaha – I’ll show you the vault. This way.’

And what was in those ships all three

On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day?

Ramsay led them to the black door behind the desk, Strike, by far the largest of the three, moving carefully so as not to topple any urns off their tables.

‘As you can see,’ said Ramsay, pausing to point up at the camera over the door leading to the vault, ‘state-of-the-art security. Camera covering the shop and another one over the door outside – alarm – iron blinds over the windows at night – and down here’ – it took him two attempts to open the black door, which fitted poorly into its frame; on the second shove, it opened to reveal a narrow flight of stairs leading down to the basement – ‘we’ve got the vault. ’

He flicked a light switch and illuminated both the stairway and a cramped basement area.

The steep wooden stairs creaked as the threesome descended.

The small space below smelled slightly of mould and looked as though it had been fitted out on the cheap, many years previously.

The steel door facing them had a second keypad beside it and a wheel handle; to the right was a door that stood ajar to reveal a cramped toilet, and to their left was a sink, some laminate cupboards bearing mugs and a kettle, and a couple of wall pegs.

‘We’ll look away,’ said Strike, as Ramsay moved to tap in the code on the keypad.

‘Oh,’ said Ramsay distractedly, ‘yes – thank you.’

When the door had audibly swung open, Strike and Robin turned back to see the place where William Wright had died.

The vault, illuminated by a single bare lightbulb hanging from the low ceiling, was high enough for an average-sized man, if not Strike, to stand upright in, and deep enough to accommodate a man of the same height lying down.

The walls were of brick, and lined with currently bare shelves.

The vault contained nothing except five crates of varying sizes, all stamped with the name Gibsons, which Strike knew to be a minor auction house. He took out his notebook.

‘Those,’ said Ramsay, pointing, ‘are the crates the Murdoch silver came in… all stolen,’ he said, staring around at the shelves, ‘and I’d never even seen it.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes… it was supposed to arrive on Friday at lunchtime. I came here to receive it,’ said Ramsay, as though the silver had been a visiting potentate, ‘but Gibsons had lots of deliveries that day, so it was delayed, and I had to go back to work. Pamela called later to say it had arrived…’

‘Pamela is…?’

‘Pamela Bullen-Driscoll. My sister-in-law – my wife’s sister. She was helping us out at the time, with Rachel being so ill. Gone back to her own business now.’

‘You had houseguests over the weekend, didn’t you?’ asked Strike.

‘That’s right, and I couldn’t leave Rachel alone with them, so I didn’t come in over the weekend.’

‘But you were here on Monday morning, when the theft was discovered?’

‘Oh, yes, because I wanted to see John Auclair myself.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Very important silver collector,’ said Ramsay. ‘Very wealthy… he’d asked me to put the Murdoch silver aside for him to view, before we offered it to anyone else. That’s why Pamela never took it out of the vault, just unpacked it and put it on the shelves…

‘I came down here – opened the door… and it was all gone… and Wright – well, Knowles,’ said Ramsay, pointing at the floor, ‘was there. Face down. His hands were missing. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It didn’t look real.’

‘Face down, you say,’ said Strike, who was making notes.

‘That’s right. And there was dried blood around the head and…’

Ramsay swallowed, looking sick.

‘News reports said he was naked,’ said Strike.

‘Yes, he was, except – yes, he was naked.’

‘I heard a hallmark was carved into the body’s back?’

‘How do you know about that?’ Ramsay gasped, staring up at Strike.

‘It was mentioned in a news story,’ lied the detective.

‘Oh… I didn’t think they were going to give that out… yes, it was the Salem Cross. The Murdoch hallmark.’

Strike made a note, then said,

‘And the body was naked, except for…?’

‘I… DCI Truman told me not to talk about that.’

‘Really?’ said Strike, looking down at Ramsay.

‘Well, you see… they’d tried to make the killing look…

Truman said it would mean more trouble for me.

I saw his point. Considerate of him. I liked Truman, he was the only one who seemed interested in getting our silver back, but then he was taken off the case.

We weren’t told why, nobody told us anything…

I’m a big supporter of the police, very difficult job, but I haven’t been at all impressed with the lot we’ve had handling this business,’ said Ramsay resentfully. ‘Not since Truman left.’

‘Was the corpse wearing something masonic?’

Robin watched Ramsay’s weakening faith in the police do battle with his desire to assist the detectives he seemed to see as a last hope.

‘Yes,’ said Ramsay weakly, at last. ‘A masonic sash. I can’t remember which one. When they turned him over, I wasn’t… concentrating on the sash. The eyes and ears had been – Pamela screamed…’

Ramsay’s voice faded away.

‘All right, I think we’ve seen enough down here,’ said Strike. ‘Would you mind if I use your bathroom?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Ramsay, closing the vault door with what looked like relief.

‘Shall we?’ Ramsay said to Robin, who smiled, and the two of them climbed the stairs again.

Once they’d disappeared, Strike, who had no need whatsoever of the bathroom, advanced on the keypad beside the safe to examine it more closely.

Upstairs, Ramsay beckoned Robin to one of the two chairs facing his desk, on which a computer sat.