‘Hi,’ she said, answering, ‘what’s up?’
‘Got news, if you can talk.’
‘Actually,’ said Robin, slightly panicked – she didn’t want Strike to say anything that would reveal to Murphy what they were up to, and least of all did she want Strike to mention that they knew the body wasn’t Jason Knowles – ‘could I call you back? I’m on my way to see another house.’
‘No problem,’ said Strike, ‘speak later.’
Robin hung up. ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ came back over the speakers.
‘What aren’t I allowed to hear?’ said Murphy.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Robin. ‘I’m just tired. I can’t be doing with a long work chat right now.’
They drove on through the fog, and after a while, Robin initiated a conversation about their imminent trip to Masham.
See? she thought. You’re the one I’m taking home. You’re the one I’m spending Christmas with.
‘This looks all right,’ said Murphy enthusiastically, half an hour later, when they arrived in Moselle Avenue. The terraced houses were of red brick, and all of them looking in far better repair than the one they’d recently viewed in Wanstead.
Robin had just got out of the car when her mobile rang again, and she recognised the same Ironbridge number she’d seen before. As she’d left yet another message for Dilys Powell the previous day, she said,
‘Ryan, I’ve got to take this, it’s about Rupert Fleetwood. You go in, I’ll be five minutes.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
She wondered whether he thought it was Strike calling back.
‘It’s freezing, go in and look interested, we don’t want to miss the slot.’
So Murphy headed across the road, and was admitted to the house, while Robin answered her call.
‘Robin Ellacott.’
‘This is Dilys,’ said a cracked voice.
‘Mrs Dilys Powell?’ said Robin. ‘Tyler’s grandmother?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, who sounded suspicious and befuddled.
‘I’m very glad to hear from you, Mrs Powell. I’m a private detective, and I was hoping to talk to you about your grandson.’
‘What? You called me.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘Your great-niece told me you were in hospital.’
‘What?’
‘I hope you’re better now?’ said Robin loudly.
‘Well, I’m home,’ mumbled Dilys Powell.
‘I called because we heard you were worried Tyler might have been the man at the silver shop. The body in the vault. Has he turned up since you contacted the police?’
‘No, he hasn’t turned up,’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Not a word.’
‘What made you think he might have been the man at the silver shop, Mrs Powell?’
‘What?’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’
‘Could I come and see you?’ said Robin, raising her voice and enunciating clearly. ‘To talk about Tyler? I could come to Ironbridge.’
‘Took off,’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Told Griff where he was going. Never told me.’
‘Is Griff a friend of Tyler’s?’ asked Robin, now groping one-handed for her notebook.
‘He’s up the road. What d’you want?’
‘To talk to you,’ said Robin, even more loudly and clearly, ‘about Tyler. Could I come to Ironbridge? Maybe after Christmas?’
There was a brief pause.
‘Yeah, you can come.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Robin. The front door of the house for sale had opened, and she saw Murphy watching her. ‘Could I call you back, Mrs Powell, and we can arrange a date to meet?’
‘Call me back? Yeah. All right.’
Robin hung up, then hurried across the road.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was urgent.’
A chatty pregnant woman of around Robin’s age started showing them around the house, which was bandbox neat. Her husband was entertaining a toddler and an older girl in the sitting room.
‘They were going to go to the park, but it’s so cold and Nate’s getting over a cough,’ the mother told Robin and Murphy as they moved past the rest of the family to look at the small, sparklingly clean kitchen. ‘It’s a lovely area, lovely neighbours. We’ve been so happy here, we just want a bit more space with another baby coming, and I’d like to be nearer my parents. Garden,’ she added, smiling, pointing towards the small, well-kept lawn outside the kitchen window.
Upstairs, she moved aside to let them look into the box room, which held a bed with the name Nathan carved into the headboard, and had planes in primary colours painted on sky blue walls. Murphy reached out for Robin’s hand and squeezed it. She felt a slight clenching of her stomach, and unbidden into her mind came the thought,
I will never live in this house.
‘And this is Laura’s, obviously,’ said the proud homeowner, beaming, as they looked into a second, larger bedroom, decorated in white and bubble-gum pink, ‘and ours.’
‘Lovely,’ said Robin automatically, looking blankly at the yellow duvet cover and pine furniture.
‘And the bathroom.’
Spotless, with blue and white tiles: a nice house in every way, except that Robin had already made up her mind. The stairs were narrow, and Murphy released her hand to let her walk down first. As they were descending, the doorbell rang.
‘Whoops, I think that’s the next lot, early!’ said the homeowner.
‘Have you had a lot of interest?’ asked Murphy.
‘We have,’ said the woman, with a note of apology. ‘If you’d like to go into the garden and have a proper look?’
So Robin and Murphy exited through the back door, to stand on the frosty lawn and breathe in the dank, sooty taste of the gradually lifting fog.
‘What d’you think?’ asked Murphy.
‘Nice,’ said Robin, who didn’t want to find fault too quickly.
‘I bet you it goes for way over the asking price.’
‘I was thinking that, too,’ she said, feigning regret, ‘and parking could be tricky, with two cars. Still, it is nice.’
Through the kitchen window they saw a family of four looking around.
‘Want to have another look upstairs?’ said Murphy.
‘There are good photos online. We could go and get a coffee, have a look at the area?’
‘Good idea.’
So they headed back through the house, thanked the owners, and emerged again onto Moselle Avenue. As they were about to cross the road, Murphy’s mobile rang.
‘Work,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
He walked away up the street, answering the call only once he was out of earshot. Robin waited until he was fifty yards away before calling Strike back.
‘How was the house?’ he asked.
‘Not great,’ said Robin, and she felt a sense of release in saying it, although she knew it wasn’t the house she hadn’t liked, but Murphy’s squeeze of her hand – in consolation? Hope? Encouragement? ‘Tell me your news, because I’ve got some, too.’
Strike told Robin about Ralph Lawrence’s visit to the office the previous afternoon.
‘God above,’ said Robin, immensely relieved that she’d prevented Strike telling her all this over the car Bluetooth. ‘MI5 are warning us off?’
‘Assuming he’s telling the truth about who he is,’ said Strike. ‘MI6 would be involved initially, if Semple was Regiment.’
‘What regiment?’
‘The Regiment,’ said Strike. ‘SAS, and, if I had to bet, I’d say E Squadron.’