chests wouldhave assumed they contained some kind of trap or device, and wouldn’t have risked trying to open them. And in that case, the clue—whatever it is—would have to be visible on the outside. Well hidden, obviously, but certainly visible, which means it would have to be somewhere in the scrollwork.”
Robin looked completely unconvinced.
“I suppose you could be right,” she said, the tone of her voice making it clear she thought this a most unlikely possibility. “And if you are, then the only way we’re going to find it is if we look at these images on a full-size computer screen, not this microscopic tablet. The only bit of good news, I suppose, is that we both took several photographs of the chests when we found them, so if there is some hidden meaning lurking in the metalwork, there’s a fighting chance we’ll be able to see it on at least one of the pictures.”
Mallory finished his coffee and glanced at Robin, who nodded. She slipped the tablet computer into a leather case and put that in her handbag. Then they both stood up and walked out.
5
Exeter, Devon
As they left the café, a man who’d been sitting at a table against the opposite wall lowered his copy of the
Daily Mail
newspaper and looked thoughtfully at their retreating backs. He was in every way average, and that was, strangely enough, his strength, his edge. Average height, average build, average and unmemorable features, his clothes carefully chosen so as not to stand out in any way in a crowd.
He was a member of one of the smallest professions in the United Kingdom: a private inquiry agent. Unlike America, where according to some reports you could find the office of a “private dick,” a PI, on almost every street corner, in Britain they were comparatively rare. Those who did exist tended to work either in the commercial sector, checking for an insurance company that one of their policyholders who claimed to have broken his back at work wasn’t in fact playing tennis every afternoon, thatkind of thing, or out gathering evidence for suspicious wives that their husbands’ excessive overtime was being spent in hotel rooms with secretaries rather than analyzing and reviewing important balance sheets, which was what these errant males frequently claimed. Or occasionally vice versa, when husbands started to suspect that their wives were enjoying entirely different kinds of ball games with their tennis coach than might be expected.
Gary Marsh—that was his real name, though it wasn’t the name printed on the business cards tucked inside his wallet—was rather more of a specialist than that. He didn’t usually get involved in matrimonial matters, because these usually ended in either screaming matches or violent recriminations, or sometimes both, and he much preferred the quiet life. And he found the commercial field—sitting for hours in a parked car staring through the viewfinder of a high-spec camera waiting for the person he was investigating to finally appear and do something that he shouldn’t—too utterly boring to bother with, despite the fact that it usually paid well.
Marsh was both more and less of a specialist. He’d realized at a fairly early age that his appearance was a considerable asset. He was so nondescript that he could almost literally spend an evening at a party talking to a dozen or so people, and at the end of the evening not one of them would be able to provide anything like a useful or usable description of him. His specialty was nonmatrimonial close-quarters surveillance. Specifically following people to see where they went, who they met, and, where possible, whatthey did, and ideally obtaining both photographic and audio evidence of whatever deeds or misdeeds they got up to. It was the kind of work often commissioned by companies that were worried they had become the victims of industrial espionage, and which usually suspected one of their employees to be the person playing both sides against the
Robin looked completely unconvinced.
“I suppose you could be right,” she said, the tone of her voice making it clear she thought this a most unlikely possibility. “And if you are, then the only way we’re going to find it is if we look at these images on a full-size computer screen, not this microscopic tablet. The only bit of good news, I suppose, is that we both took several photographs of the chests when we found them, so if there is some hidden meaning lurking in the metalwork, there’s a fighting chance we’ll be able to see it on at least one of the pictures.”
Mallory finished his coffee and glanced at Robin, who nodded. She slipped the tablet computer into a leather case and put that in her handbag. Then they both stood up and walked out.
5
Exeter, Devon
As they left the café, a man who’d been sitting at a table against the opposite wall lowered his copy of the
Daily Mail
newspaper and looked thoughtfully at their retreating backs. He was in every way average, and that was, strangely enough, his strength, his edge. Average height, average build, average and unmemorable features, his clothes carefully chosen so as not to stand out in any way in a crowd.
He was a member of one of the smallest professions in the United Kingdom: a private inquiry agent. Unlike America, where according to some reports you could find the office of a “private dick,” a PI, on almost every street corner, in Britain they were comparatively rare. Those who did exist tended to work either in the commercial sector, checking for an insurance company that one of their policyholders who claimed to have broken his back at work wasn’t in fact playing tennis every afternoon, thatkind of thing, or out gathering evidence for suspicious wives that their husbands’ excessive overtime was being spent in hotel rooms with secretaries rather than analyzing and reviewing important balance sheets, which was what these errant males frequently claimed. Or occasionally vice versa, when husbands started to suspect that their wives were enjoying entirely different kinds of ball games with their tennis coach than might be expected.
Gary Marsh—that was his real name, though it wasn’t the name printed on the business cards tucked inside his wallet—was rather more of a specialist than that. He didn’t usually get involved in matrimonial matters, because these usually ended in either screaming matches or violent recriminations, or sometimes both, and he much preferred the quiet life. And he found the commercial field—sitting for hours in a parked car staring through the viewfinder of a high-spec camera waiting for the person he was investigating to finally appear and do something that he shouldn’t—too utterly boring to bother with, despite the fact that it usually paid well.
Marsh was both more and less of a specialist. He’d realized at a fairly early age that his appearance was a considerable asset. He was so nondescript that he could almost literally spend an evening at a party talking to a dozen or so people, and at the end of the evening not one of them would be able to provide anything like a useful or usable description of him. His specialty was nonmatrimonial close-quarters surveillance. Specifically following people to see where they went, who they met, and, where possible, whatthey did, and ideally obtaining both photographic and audio evidence of whatever deeds or misdeeds they got up to. It was the kind of work often commissioned by companies that were worried they had become the victims of industrial espionage, and which usually suspected one of their employees to be the person playing both sides against the
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