Strike fast forwarded yet again, stopping at six minutes past five, when Pamela received yet another call on her mobile. With her mobile clamped to her ear, she pointed at Todd, who left through the front door. At nine minutes past five, both Wright and Todd reappeared, staggering under the weight of another large crate.
‘The Oriental Centrepiece has been delivered to the correct buyer,’ said Strike, as the two men staggered out of sight through the door leading to the vault.
Todd re-emerged from the basement, holding Pamela’s shoulder bag. She snatched it from his hand and, talking to him over her shoulder, strode towards the street door.
‘And she leaves,’ said Strike, pressing pause again.
‘For a woman who was punctilious about security earlier…’ said Robin.
‘Exactly. She’s buggered off, leaving two men in the shop who don’t have codes or keys – or shouldn’t have.’
Strike pressed play again. Jim Todd appeared to be having a coughing fit.
‘Is this where the heart attack happens?’ asked Robin.
‘He survives, but I think the manual labour’s taken its toll.’
He fast forwarded until five to six.
‘Wright comes back upstairs… Todd leaves…’
‘Hang on,’ said Robin, and Strike pressed pause again. ‘Wright’s holding something, isn’t he?’
Strike rewound and pressed play.
‘He is,’ said Robin. ‘A bag or something. He’s holding it to his chest.’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike. The film was so grainy it was hard to tell. ‘He puts down the blinds… the right-hand one still won’t go to the bottom of the window… turns off the light… and leaves, slamming the door.’
Strike paused the footage again.
‘Thoughts?’ he said.
‘The vault door could still be open. The front door hasn’t been properly locked. The alarm isn’t set.’
‘You’re good,’ said Strike.
‘Collusion between Wright and Pamela?’
‘Got to be a possibility. Now watch…’
Strike pressed fast forward yet again. The shop grew steadily darker as they watched. Ten p.m. Eleven p.m. Midnight. One a.m. A small amount of light penetrated through the sliver of window not covered by the broken blind.
At ten past one in the morning, Strike again pressed play.
Somebody was opening the shop door. The darkness was such that what was happening was barely visible: a faint glint on the glass in the door, a shadow moving across the shop floor. The camera was switched off at eleven minutes past one.
‘Keep watching,’ said Strike.
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.’
‘Why did the 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 upper right-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.
‘When?’ he asked.
‘Soon. Now,’ said Shanker.
‘Where are you?’
‘Clapham Junction. You’ll ’ave to come to me. I gotta stay ’ere. Meetin’ a geezer.’
Strike’s gaze moved to the window. It was another wintry, grey day; his leg was still sore and he’d been counting on an afternoon with his partner, hoping, however over-optimistically, that he might get a chance to declare himself, but Shanker rarely got in touch without having something that was worth hearing.
‘All right,’ Strike said reluctantly. ‘Give me an hour.’
‘Falcon pub,’ said Shanker, and hung up.
‘What does he want?’ asked Robin.
‘To meet,’ said Strike. ‘Now.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe he’s found out Dredge the drug-dealer did have Rupert Fleetwood murdered in the silver vault?’
‘So the case might be wrapped up by teatime?’ said Robin, conscious of a faint disappointment, because she, too, had been looking forward to an afternoon together.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Strike, hoping he was right. He needed this case.