'I don't know yet. We still put stuff in there found on corpses, don't we? It's the same place?'
The sergeant produced a key. 'Stiffs' lost property is in the cabinet on the right,' he said. 'How's your lady friend?'
'Fine, thanks,' he said, taking the key. 'She sends her love.'
'I wish she'd bring it herself,' said the sergeant. 'I can never understand how you got locked in there at Christmas.'
'It's a mystery,' acknowledged Davies. 'But we deal in mysteries, don't we.' He went down a corridor, opened a door and turned on the light switch. It was a small room, little more than a cupboard, green-painted and smelling damp, hung with coats and hats, umbrellas, and other mislaid personal belongings, including - he was briefly intrigued to see - a red flag, three pairs of heavy boots and a box of fireworks. The cabinet on the right had a key in its lock. He turned it and opened the door. Everything in there was contained in plastic bags. On each bag in thick ink was a name. Davies searched. Many people had died leaving little personal bits and pieces behind them. Most of the packets rattled with small change, there were the shapes of several pairs of glasses and the ghostly outlines of false teeth. He had turned over half a dozen before he came to a plastic envelope with the inscription 'Wilfred Brock'. He picked it up. There was only one thing inside it. He could feel its shape. A single key.
They were waiting at The Babe In Arms. Mod was professing embarrassment that financial circumstances had ruled that Jemma had provided the last round of drinks. 'When I get my police reward,' he promised, 'we'll have a party.'
Davies sat at the table and took out the plastic bag with the key. He held it in the palm of his hand, an old-fashioned, yellowed key with a ragged luggage label attached to it. 'No. 134. SRCB,' he read from the printed label. He looked around at them and sighed: 'The clues don't get any easier.'
They had a guessing game as to what the letters might mean. Tennant had gone but, as an apology for the coat, had left five pounds with the barman for Davies to disburse as he thought fit. 'He didn't mention it to me,' grumbled Mod.
They all had drinks. Shiny Bright came in looking prosperous: a new suit, a flower in his lapel and a twinkling pair of brown shoes. 'All honest, Dangerous,' he assured before Davies had asked the question. 'I found a dog that runs with six legs. You should have backed it yourself. It's called Dangerous Moonlight.'
He bought all three of them a Scotch, and then Davies bought another round and the evening went swiftly. They left The Babe In Arms and walked along the main shopping street towards Harry's All Night Refreshments. There were stars caught in the rooftops; the air was bland.
'"On such a night as this,"' quoted Mod, looking at the sky.
'"When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
..."'
Jemma laughed. '"On such a night, did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew
Davies said: 'Oh, God, don't start all that now.'
'How about this?' chortled Mod. On the corner was a white Barclays Bank. He struck a pose. '"How sweetly sleeps the moonlight on this bank
They groaned and laughed and went on to Harry's. 'You're still worrying about it,' said Jemma like a mild accusation.
'Well it's not finished, is it,' said Davies. Moodily he drank his coffee. He took out the key and recited the message on the label again. 'No. 134. SRCB.'
They drank their coffee, said good night to the illuminated Harry and walked home. Jemma had another social worker, who had been thrown out by her husband, staying with her. Davies kissed her on the doorstep and turned home. The moon had cleared the house-tops and was running like a river through the empty streets. As he passed the bank, Davies tried to remember what Mod had quoted. 'Moonlight on Barclays,' he said to himself.
He went to bed, lay thinking in the dark and then slept. He woke at three. 'Bank,' he said to himself. He sat up abruptly in his bed. 'Bank.' He believed it; he knew it must be right.
The Simmonds, R
owe and Campbell Bank of Bright
stone-on-Sea, Essex, had, like so many of the small pre-War banks, been absorbed in 1940 into the more widespread East Anglian Bank and this, in turn, had found itself taken under the arm of Barclays after the War. 'We have, however, remained under the same roof since the early thirties,' said the manager, Harold Buss. 'In the nineteenth century Mr Simmonds, Mr Rowe and Mr Campbell all had their separate banking houses, so we go back quite a long way.'
'And the safe deposit is still the same, intact, since before the War?' said Davies cautiously.
'Indeed, as I told you on the telephone. We've modernized of course but the old cellars are still much the same and some of the safe deposit boxes there go back to the beginning of the century. The number, I believe you told me, was 134. You have the key?'
Davies took a deep breath and handed over the key. 'Ah, yes,' said Mr Buss. 'Quite a museum piece. It's certainly one of ours. This way please, gentlemen.'
Mod and Davies followed him through the lime-green office, nodding at the girls working at computers as they went. 'Banks don't smell of money any more,' whispered Mod.
'Did they ever?' whispered Davies.
'Here,' said Mr Buss as they entered a glassed inner office, 'we keep some of the old registers. It's not often we have to consult them now. And even these have found their inevitable way on to a computer.' He took down a worn red leather book from a high shelf. 'No. 134.' He glanced at the label on the key. 'Nor these days would you have the pleasure of dealing with such a simple, uncomplicated number as 134. He turned the ledger pages. 'Yes, here we are. Mr Augustus Bryant.'
Davies saw Mod's face drop and felt his do so also. But he quickly said: 'Yes, that's the chap. He had various names, but that's him all right.'
'Well,' said Mr Buss. Prudently he looked at the letter of authority with the heading 'Metropolitan Police'. Davies swallowed heavily. 'Well, that seems to be in order.' He glanced up with a professional smile which Davies returned timidly and Mod scarcely at all. 'Let's go down to the depths,' he invited.
Some of the girls looked up from their keyboards and the men from their telephones and papers as the two bulky men followed the manager through the airy office. Spring sun was drifting through the windows. Mr Buss unlocked several doors, the third one opening on to a set of stairs. 'This is the oldest part of the establishment,' he said. 'Some of the safe deposits down here have not been disturbed for seventy years.'
'I'd
be tempted to have a peep,' admitted Mod. 'Come down here with the master key and open them up.'
'Banking,' said Mr Buss a little reprovingly, 'is not that sort of business. Fantasy is frowned upon.' He paused. 'Here we are. Box No. 134.' He handed the key back to Davies. 'If you would like to open it, Mr Davies, I will leave you.'
'No,' said Davies hurriedly. He caught the manager's arm. 'If you didn't mind
...
if it's allowed
..
. would you like to hang around? I may need a witness
Mr Buss looked secretly pleased. 'Yes, of course, if you wish,' he said. 'There's nothing that says I shouldn't be present. It's merely that we imagine people want privacy.'
'Not,' answered Davies, 'in this case.'
He felt the key had become warm in his hand. The box was shallow, about eighteen inches long and twelve wide. It was made of sturdy wood which, as his fingers disturbed the dust, was revealed as veneered, not unlike the lunch-box of Sergeant Emmanuel. There was a cobweb over the keyhole. Davies brushed it away with his hand. Mod and Mr Buss looked on with silent expectation. Davies inserted the key and felt it turn. 'It still fits,' he said quietly. He took the weight of the lid, easing it up. It squeaked softly, like a mouse. A dusty smell came from within. A creased piece of red silk was revealed, covering the contents. Davies, hardly breathing, pulled it away. Underneath was a crumpled copy of the previous day's
Daily Mirror
and a personal note addressed to Davies from Inspector Joliffe of the Essex Constabulary.
'Just look at that,' said Inspector Joliffe. 'Have you ever seen a nicer haul?'
The jewellery was spread on a baize-covered table in his office. There were diamonds, emeralds, opals, zircons, mounted on silver and gold and platinum; necklaces, brooches, rings, chains and chokers.
'It's very nice,' conceded Davies.
Joliffe came around the table and put a senior officer's friendly arm around him. 'Mavis Prenderley has been able to identify quite a lot,' he said. 'Some pieces came from Sandringham. She's got an amazing memory for an old dear. Still, I suppose she helped to nick some of it.'
'People around here,' observed Davie
s begrudg
ingly, 'are very co-operative with the police, aren't they.'
'They're well-trained,' agreed Joliffe. 'People tend to come to us when they're "not sure". Mr Buss, the bank manager, gets a letter with a Metropolitan Police heading and the first thing he does is dial 999. Then you telephone him and give him the number of the safe deposit box. They have a master key, you know, even when they go back to the year dot. So we opened it and this is what we found.'
Davies said: 'You even put the cobweb back.'
'Over the keyhole! Yes, we did. Sorry to take the glory from under your nose, Davies.'
'The carpet from under my feet,' mentioned Davies sombrely. 'The second time this week.'
'Ah, yes. We know all about that. We've been keeping a general eye on you, of course, since you first put in an appearance on our patch.'
'When Mr Linder and the landlord of the pub both shopped me,' sighed Davies.
'Well, you do rather trudge around.'
'I suppose I do. I've got a talent for causing small hurricanes. And I'm usually the one who's shipwrecked. You know all about the drugs thing then?'
'We had a full summary. You did pretty well there, Davies, and of course it all followed on from this Billy Dobson case.'
'Lofty Brock,' muttered Davies. 'That's right. But all I got was trouble. I fouled up a master plan of the drug squad.'
'Never mind,' said Joliffe.
'We're
pretty pleased about the whole business. I'm afraid the headlines will say: "Essex Police Recover Million-Pound Proceeds of Pre-War Robberies". They'll quote me, my chaps will get the credit but, since you were, shall we say, ex
officio,
you won't get a mention. But you'll have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.'
Davies shrugged: 'I'll still be in the mire about trespassing on your territory, I suppose. I'm on compulsory leave now. I'm expecting to be back on the beat any day, if I'm not thrown out.'
'It's in the gubbins,' said Joliffe, shaking his head. 'And, as I told you before, once it's in the gubbins it's in there for good.' He patted Davies on the shoulder once more. 'However, I'll do what I can,' he said. 'A few words here and a few there, and things can be erased from the gubbins. It's difficult but it can be done.'
'Thanks very much,' said Davies. 'I don't look good in uniform.'
Joliffe laughed. 'It'll be all right, I'm sure,' he said jovially. 'But don't forget that chap you know who knows Max Bygraves. When we get around to arranging next year's police ball, we might take you up on that.'
'Oh, that
...
well, yes. Just contact me. I'd better go, I suppose.'
Joliffe shook hands firmly with him. 'You're not a bad copper, Davies,' he said. 'You've got a lot of good points even if you're not very careful. If you weren't so old I'd say you had a promising future.'
'Thank you,' said Davies again. He turned to go.
'There was one more thing,' said Joliffe. 'The pearl. The one you showed Mavis.'
'Oh
...
oh right. Yes,
that
pearl.' He fumbled in his pocket desperately hoping he had not lost it. With relief he located the ring box. He opened it. Joliffe smiled and took out the pearl. 'Last bit of the jigsaw,' he said. He stepped to the displayed jewellery and placed the pearl as a pendant at the bottom of a fine necklace. 'Fits perfectly,' he said. 'Mrs Simpson lost that. The Duchess of Windsor.'
He had his arm around Davies's shoulder all the way to the door and then offered his hand for a final shake. As Davies went out, Joliffe called after him: 'I'll contact you about Max Bygraves, Dangerous. I'll know where to find you, won't I?'
'Yes, usual place,' answered Davies. He turned and walked alone into the streets. 'In the shit,' he said quietly.
Jemma went into The Babe In Arms and saw Mod sitting at their table, wondering how long he could eke out half a pint. It was just after midday. The bar was otherwise empty. 'I thought he'd be back by now,' said Jemma.
'An essential part of the third-degree torture,' said Mod, 'is that it takes a long time.' He looked cornered. 'May I buy you a drink?' he asked discouragingly.
'No thanks. I think I'll walk down to meet him. He may need some comfort.'
'Very probably,' answered Mod. His deep eyes unfolded. 'He had another development this morning, you know. In the post.'
'What
...
how do you mean?'