‘But I’ve been all through the Ramsay Silver camera footage for the relevant days,’ said Strike. ‘If you come round here, I’ll show you the edited highlights.’
So Robin picked up her coffee and rolled her chair around to sit beside Strike, and he smelled a trace of the perfume he’d bought her.
‘Right,’ he said, opening his notebook to a page on which were listed many different times, so he knew where to stop the footage. He pressed play and, immediately, fast forward.
‘Oh dear,’ said Robin.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
The quality of the black and white film was very poor, the outlines of the cabinets, tables and silverware in the empty shop fuzzy.
‘Knew that camera was a pile of shit. Right,’ said Strike, watching the minutes pass rapidly on the small digital clock in the corner of the screen. ‘Twenty to nine, Pamela Bullen-Driscoll arrives.’
He pressed play. A boxy-looking woman appeared in silhouette behind the door’s glass panel, her facial features indistinguishable. She entered, turned on the lights, then punched in a number on the keypad beside it to turn off the alarm. Strike pressed fast forward again.
‘She opens the warped door to the basement on the third push, and we can deduce she was hanging up her bag and making herself a coffee, because she comes back upstairs minus handbag and plus mug. She raises the blinds,’ said Strike, as Robin watched Pamela wield a metal crank to do so. ‘Note, by the way, that the right-hand one’s damaged. It doesn’t go fully to the bottom of the window – another supposed bit of security Ramsay hasn’t bothered to fix or replace. At eight fifty-four, our murder victim arrives. That,’ he said, pressing play again, ‘is William Wright.’
A suited man as fuzzy and indistinct as Pamela entered the shop. His dark beard covered a lot of his face, as did his glasses, which had thick frames that were visible even on this poor-quality film, and Robin was reminded of Daz’s comment that Wright had looked like a character from Guess Who?. Wright raised a hand in greeting to Pamela, who was now sitting at the desk.
Strike pressed fast forward again.
‘Nothing interesting in the morning,’ he said, while Pamela and Wright moved around the shop floor in comically quick fashion. ‘Business is slow. Three browsers, only one of whom buys anything – him,’ said Strike, pointing at an elderly man zooming between glass cabinets.
Strike pressed play again at 11.46, and they watched William Wright write a receipt for the old man.
‘Definitely left-handed,’ said Robin.
‘Exactly,’ said Strike, pressing fast forward again. ‘Then, at three minutes past one, Kenneth Ramsay turns up.’
Sure enough, Ramsay appeared, recognisable to Robin because of his blur of silver hair.
‘Excited,’ said Strike, as the fast-forwarded Ramsay paced and gesticulated, exchanging comments with Pamela and Wright, ‘because he thinks the Murdoch silver’s about to arrive.’
The on-screen Ramsay left the shop three times to look up and down Wild Court in hope of seeing the Gibsons delivery van, but returned disappointed each time.
‘He hangs around till fourteen minutes past two,’ said Strike, ‘decides he can’t stretch out his lunch hour any longer, and leaves. Then, at a quarter past three, the stuff finally shows up.’
He pressed play.
A large delivery man in overalls appeared outside the door, which Wright opened. The man entered, pushing a sack truck loaded with two medium-sized crates and a smaller one.
‘Wright drags the first three crates off the trolley,’ said Strike, as Robin watched this happen on-screen, ‘and goes outside to help the delivery man with the largest crate. They get it off the trolley together – dump it beside the others – now, watch this… the delivery guy’s saying it’s not his job to carry the crates further than the shop floor.’
Pamela was now gesticulating; the delivery man was shaking his head. Pamela signed a document he offered her. The delivery man departed.
Pamela headed once more for the basement.
‘She’s gone to unlock the vault,’ said Strike. ‘Note that she doesn’t do it in front of Wright.’
They watched Wright lift the smallest crate and stand waiting for Pamela to reappear. When she’d come back upstairs, Wright headed down to the basement, and Pamela made a call on her mobile.
‘We’ll see the result of Pamela’s call at a quarter to four,’ said Strike, pressing fast forward again.
A blonde woman entered the shop and began darting between cabinets. In double-quick time, Wright lifted one of the medium-sized crates and hurried off towards the vault with it. The blonde customer spoke to Pamela, who donned white gloves to open a cabinet. While she was showing the customer indistinguishable small objects, Wright reappeared and took the third crate down to the basement.
At 15.47, yet another man appeared in the shop. He was balding, almost spherical in shape, wearing a backpack, and also appeared to be wearing overalls. Strike hit pause.
‘That’s Jim Todd, the cleaner.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Because when I spoke to him, he assumed I already knew he’d been summoned to the shop by Pamela, because Wright needed help getting the biggest crate down to the vault. Todd cleans for a local office on Friday afternoons, so he was in the vicinity. Pamela pressured him into leaving early and helping her out.’
‘He doesn’t look the heavy-lifting type,’ said Robin.
‘You’d be right about that,’ said Strike, pressing play again. ‘Watch.’
Wright, who’d just returned from the vault, joined Todd in lifting the largest crate, though Todd was clearly struggling to support the weight of it, and they edged, crab-like, towards the stairs to the vault and disappeared. Pamela was still busy with the blonde customer. Strike pressed fast forward. Wright returned to the shop floor alone.
‘I think Todd’s having a minor heart attack downstairs,’ said Strike. ‘Keep watching.’
The blonde customer was still making her choice of purchase, and Robin remembered the little silver orb charm she’d liked. Todd finally reappeared, massaging his chest. The blonde left the shop. Pamela descended the stairs to the vault alone.
‘This,’ said Strike, ‘will be when Pamela started prising off crate lids and realised part of the delivery’s got mixed up… she comes back upstairs…’
Pamela returned to the shop floor, holding unidentifiable objects in her arms.
‘The “minor items” Pamela bid on, that should have gone to Bullen & Co?’ said Robin.
‘You should be a detective,’ said Strike.
‘She finds a bag for the stuff, gives it to Wright, tells him to take it to Bullen & Co… he leaves… and now she makes another call.’
Strike pressed fast forward again. Pamela finished the call on her mobile, then had a conversation with Todd, who seemed, from his gestures, to be telling her he needed to be elsewhere.
‘Saying she still needs him,’ said Robin.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘because Wright won’t be able to carry the centrepiece down into the vault alone, once they’ve got it back from Bullen & Co.’
Pamela went back down to the vault, reappearing at 16.42. She took something from her jacket pocket.
‘Watch closely,’ said Strike, hitting play again.
‘A text?’ said Robin, as the on-screen Pamela stared at whatever was in her hand.
‘I think so,’ said Strike. ‘Watch the body language.’
Pamela stood frozen for almost a minute, before Todd spoke to her. She looked up at him. Another animated conversation followed, Pamela pointing at the vault, then making hand-chopping movements.
‘Laying down the law,’ said Strike. ‘He wants to go, but she wants him to stay to help Wright downstairs with the centrepiece, once it arrives.’