Page 72 of The Hallmarked Man

A second’s blackness, then the clock restarted at 3.07. A shadow again crossed the shop floor in the opposite direction. The almost indistinguishable figure paused by the alarm. The door opened and closed, and they were gone.

Robin picked up her lukewarm coffee, a nasty prickling sensation running up her spine. In the blank interlude on tape, a murder had happened, and she seemed to feel the eyes of the men on the corkboard behind her staring down on the pair treating the matter as an interesting puzzle.

‘And that’s all, for the night of the murder,’ said Strike, hitting fast forward again. ‘Literally nothing happens over the weekend… shop’s empty through Saturday… continues being empty on Sunday… then, on Monday the twentieth, we’ve got early opening. Eight o’clock in the morning, so Todd can clean before customers arrive…’

They watched Pamela Bullen-Driscoll appear in silhouette again and unlock the front door. Todd followed her inside, in his overalls.

‘Todd hasn’t got a key,’ commented Robin. ‘She has to let him in.’

‘Correct.’

Strike hit pause as Pamela was turning off the alarm.

‘Either she’s forgotten she didn’t set the alarm on Friday, or she expected someone else to have done it. She doesn’t seem concerned or confused about it being reset.’

‘Whydidthe killer reset it?’ asked Robin.

‘Very good question,’ said Strike. ‘Resetting it makes it look as though the culprit was either somebody who worked at the shop, or had a connection to one of them. On the other hand, it gave Todd a handy hour in which to wipe away as many fingerprints as he could,’ said Strike. ‘Now watch…’

Strike pressed play again. Todd disappeared down the stairs to the basement. Still in fast forward, they watched Pamela crank open the metal shutters. Todd reappeared, holding a bucket containing cleaning supplies, and began polishing the glass cabinets and desk.

‘Nine o’clock comes,’ said Strike, as the clock in the upperright-hand side of the screen ratcheted up the minutes. ‘Wright should be there, but isn’t. Pamela makes a call… no answer.’

Todd disappeared into basement.

‘He’s cleaning the staff kitchen area and bog. Pamela goes to look up and down the street for Wright, who’s now forty minutes late. She goes back to the desk, makes another phone call… no answer… and here’s Kenneth Ramsay.’

Robin watched Ramsay arrive. He disappeared down the stairs to the vault. Now Strike hit play again.

‘So, out of sight, Ramsay’s opened the vault door… I think he must’ve yelled out, because watch…’

Pamela moved hurriedly to the head of the stairs, looking down them.

‘Then she goes down, too…’

For two minutes, the shop was empty. Then the front door opened, and a small, bearded man in a dark suit entered.

‘That,’ said Strike, pausing again, ‘is John Auclair, the collector Ramsay thought he was going to flog the Murdoch silver to. I looked him up. Advertising millionaire.’

Pamela emerged from the stairwell, staggered to the phone on the desk and made a call.

‘Calling the police… she collapses into a chair… presumably tells the confused Auclair what they’ve just found… and, unsurprisingly, he buggers off…’

On-screen, the advertising mogul was backing towards the main door. He opened it and exited at speed. Strike pressed pause.

‘Rest isn’t worth seeing. Police turn up and it’s exactly what you’d expect. Door locked, Ramsay, Pamela and Todd corralled for questioning.’

Strike’s mobile rang, and to his surprise, he saw his old friend Shanker’s name.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Wanna word,’ said Shanker.

‘What about?’

‘In person.’

As Strike knew, Shanker was generally averse to long phone conversations. This was mostly because he preferred to do business in person, because it often took the form of beatings and stabbings.