‘Right,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘And what about your friend, Mark Silver? What was his reason for not saying that he’d worked there?’
Wales looked to Professor Gassan, and then to Thornedyke, as though the question were unfair and he expected that one or other of them might step in to defend him. ‘Mark Silver wasn’t my friend,’ he said. The heavy emphasis on the last word left them to infer that there was a relationship there, but it wasn’t one he was going to elaborate on without being asked.
‘No?’ Kennedy’s tone was politely sceptical. ‘You arrived at the British Library together. You worked together. You left together. Then you both got jobs here within a few weeks of each other.’
‘Did we?’ Wales asked. ‘Mark must have worked in a different department from me.’
‘He was a security guard,’ Kennedy said. ‘It would have been hard to miss him.’
Wales didn’t answer — but then, she hadn’t phrased it as a question.
‘There was actually a gap in time between the two of you resigning from your jobs at the library and the start of your employment here,’ Kennedy took up again.
‘I was out of work for seven weeks,’ Wales said.
‘And in that gap — back in February — there were a number of attempts to break into Ryegate House. Attempts that failed.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘There’s nothing to link me to those attempts,’ Wales said.
‘Maybe not,’ Kennedy allowed.
She glanced at the file in front of her, flicked through its pages and checked them against another sheet on the desk: a yellow carbon copy from a multi-part document.
‘But I was curious about the timing,’ she said, ‘and I wondered whether either you or Mark Silver had any prior convictions for breaking and entering. I didn’t want to rely on something that might turn out to be complete coincidence. So I went back to the police background check that the Library ran on you when you started there. Do you know what I found?’
‘I’ve never been in any trouble with the police.’
‘Alex Wales has never been in any trouble with the police,’ Kennedy corrected him. ‘But you’re not him, are you? The real Alex Wales lived in Preston, until he left home three years ago, aged sixteen. His family reported him missing, but that was as far as it went. A routine security search would only be looking for convictions, so it wouldn’t pick up that missing persons report. You were safe unless the real Alex Wales popped up and asked for his identity back, and what were the odds of that?’
Kennedy stood. ‘I want to show you something,’ she said, crossing to a far corner of the room, where an object stood swathed in a green tarpaulin. She hauled the tarpaulin away and threw it aside, revealing a large cardboard box.
Wales stared at the box. A frown suffused his face in slow motion. Encouraged, Kennedy let the silence stretch out until it was really uncomfortable, but Wales said nothing.
‘So there were those attempted break-ins, back in February,’ Kennedy resumed at last. ‘And then there was an actual break-in, a few weeks ago. Quite a professional one. The police couldn’t offer any explanation as to how someone had managed to get past all the security to waltz into a locked room. The answer, of course, is that he didn’t. The burglar was already in the building when the annexe closed for the night. Already in the room, in fact. Curled up inside that box.’
Wales smiled coldly. ‘That doesn’t seem very likely,’ he said.
‘No,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘It doesn’t, does it? You’d expect the swipe records to show that someone didn’t go home that night. A Friday night, for the record.’
‘The break-in took place on Monday night or Tuesday morning.’ It was the first time Professor Gassan had spoken. He looked a little out of his depth, clearly not fully briefed, but trying to seem as though he were on top of everything anyway.
Kennedy gave the professor a brief glance, shook her head. ‘No, Professor, it didn’t. That’s how it looked. But it only looked that way because it went wrong. Mr Wales here got into position on Friday, just before the evening lockdown. He swiped into Room 37 at 4.53 p.m. Seven minutes later, right on time, he swiped out for the day and — to all appearances — went home. But you didn’t, did you, Mr Wales? You handed your swipe card to your friend Mark Silver at the door of Room 37. He swiped you out at the end of the day, while you went to the box, carefully chosen to be outside the field of vision of the two CCTV cameras, climbed inside and waited for everything to go quiet. Easy enough to arrange, and so long as Silver chooses his moment, nobody’s likely to notice one man swiping out with two cards, one after the other. All he had to do was swipe out as himself, then curse as though the machine didn’t recognise the card and swipe out again as you.’
Kennedy opened the lid of the box and tilted it to show the interior to Wales, and then to each of the others in turn.
She turned it in her hands so that they could see the discarded clothes and the thin layer of ash around and under them.
Wales murmured something under his breath. Rush couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like a foreign language.
Kennedy stared at the man curiously. ‘What did you say?’
Wales didn’t answer.
‘Not much to show for a three-day occupancy,’ she went on, tapping the box. ‘Did you fit yourself with a catheter or were you just wearing a nappy? Either way, it still meant three days without eating or drinking too much, because there’s a limit to what you can carry away with you.’
Wales met Kennedy’s gaze full on. ‘There are limits to most things,’ he said. His bland tone undercut the implied threat.
‘Mr Wales wanted to be alone with the books, for however long it took,’ Kennedy said, ignoring the remark. ‘His intention — his sole purpose for being there — was to search, box by box, for a particular item. Once he’d found it, all he had to do was to wait out the weekend. Because at start of day on Monday, Mark Silver was going to come back, swipe Wales in at the main entrance, then come to Room 37 to let him out.’
‘Heather,’ Gassan protested, ‘what are we assuming here? That these two men went looking for the Toller book at the British Library and followed its trail back to here?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m assuming.’ Kennedy was watching Wales’s face, which had changed at the mention of Johann Toller — his expression becoming first more intense and then more closed and guarded. ‘But all they could find at the library was the same list that Rush got for us. That got them as far as Room 37. From there on in, they were on their own.
‘And that was where things started to go wrong. Because Mark Silver didn’t come back on the Monday. He’d been killed, over the course of the weekend, by a hit-and-run driver. The kind of million-to-one accident you can’t plan for. Mr Wales had the book in his possession by then — the one that he’d been looking for all along—’
‘A Trumpet Speaking Judgment, or God’s Plan Revealed in Sundry Signes,’ Glyn Thornedyke read aloud from the piece of notepaper in front of him, in a tone that sounded slightly pained.
‘—but zero hour rolled round and Silver didn’t show.’ Kennedy turned back to Wales. ‘You didn’t know he was dead, of course, but you knew he’d miscarried. So now you had to come up with another way of getting clear.’
‘I really don’t understand,’ Thornedyke protested. ‘This book dates from the seventeenth century. I’m sure it’s quite rare, but it’s not as though this were a … a Gutenberg Bible or a Caxton hymnal. What was the point?’
‘Yes,’ Kennedy agreed. ‘What was the point, Mr Wales? Care to tell us? I’m wondering about the ashes in the box, particularly. Did you steal the book or did you burn it?’