‘MortonFarrier?’ the fire officer questioned.
Morton noddedand he thrust a meaty hand towards him. Morton’s insides sagged when thefire officer managed to effortlessly balance the nappy box in his upturned lefthand while the other rigorously shook Morton’s hand. ‘AssistantDivisional Officer Stephenson. I’m afraid that what the fire didn’tdestroy, the sheer quantity of water that we had to use probably did.’ Hepassed over the Pampers box. ‘Apart from this lot that my boys pulled outyesterday.’
‘Thanks,’Morton said doubtfully. The box was virtually weightless.
Stephenson madea noise that sounded like a cross between an incredulous laugh and ascoff. ‘Whoever did this used enough Semtex to bring down a largesuperstore. Amazing.’
‘Yeah,’ Mortonagreed. He wasn’t sure that amazing was the adjective he would have used,but it wasn’t worth splitting hairs over.
‘Is thereanything else I can help you with?’ Stephenson asked.
Rebuild myhouse? Catch the people who did this? Find me somewhere tolive? Help me solve the Coldrick Case? What could the AssistantDivisional Officer help him with? Nothing, that was what. ‘No, I don’tthink so.’
‘Well, goodluck with it,’ he said, his job done. He turned on his heels and returnedto his vehicle.
‘Thanks,’Morton said vaguely, unsure of what he was thanking him for. It was acurious parting comment, he thought. He took one final glance at hishouse then he carried the Pampers box into town in search of a decent cup ofcoffee. It was a deliberate ploy to delay opening the box for as long aspossible. Once he looked inside, he would know exactly what had survivedand all the rest of his possessions would be forever consigned tooblivion. The longer away that moment was, the better.
He took amini-statement from the hole-in-the-wall and stared at his bank balance, as ifthey were an assortment of random numbers. From fifty to twenty-five thousandin seven days – that had to be some kind of record. Jesus. Wherethe hell had twenty-five grand disappeared to? He marched inside thebank, the ping-pong ball on the side of his head throbbing with each footfall,and demanded a full statement from a harassed-looking woman at the customerservice desk.
The car hadobviously taken a fair wodge and then there was his new Apple Mac. Therest, in the spirit of egalitarianism, had been evenly distributed among TopShop, Miss Selfridges, H&M, Mango, Laura Ashley, Debenhams, Karen Millen,John Lewis, French Connection, Jaeger, and Marks and Spencer. Juliettereally had gone to town. Christ. And she’d complainedbecause she’d had her shopping spree cut short because he’d had the audacity toask her to collect him from Sedlescombe. Now he understood why richbusinessmen had offshore accounts out of reach of their wives.
Jempsons alwaysdid a good cup of coffee. And they had air-conditioning. He triedto force his dwindling bank balance from his mind, as he sat down in a seatbeside the window with a large latte. He stared at the passers-by andtried to avoid the inevitable: the time had come to open the Pampers box; afeeling of mild nausea prickled his stomach. He pulled open the box andtook the items out one by one, setting them out on the table in front of him. A black granite squirrel. A darts trophy. A briefcase. Asilver jewellery case. James Coldrick’s copper box. It was like asick joke – just five items had randomly survived the explosion. Well,four actually since the black granite squirrel didn’t belong to him. Itwas the kind of thing Mrs McPherson next door might have owned though. Quite how it ended up in his box of last worldly goods was another matter. He realised then that he hadn’t even asked the fire officer about hisneighbours. Poor Mrs McPherson was in her eighties and had lived in thathouse since before the war; a shock like this could have killed her if thehouse crumbling around her hadn’t already done the job. He’d have to findout where she was staying and return the squirrel to her: that might cheer herup. He looked at the other items. How had the darts trophy thathe won at the age of twelve survived the inferno? It was madeentirely of cheap, gold lacquered plastic.
He opened thesmall black briefcase and was relieved to find that actually the sales pitchabout it being ‘the black box for the home’ was quite true. All theirimportant documents, passports, certificates and insurances (including buildingsand contents, thankfully up-to-date) were safe and untouched by theblaze. Last but not least there was James Coldrick’s copper box,blackened and scratched, but with the coat of arms still clearly visible on thetop. He unhooked the clasp and fully expected to find the box empty, thatsomeone had got to the contents first, but the letters and the photo hadmiraculously been preserved.
Morton swiggedhis latte and stared at the lamentable assortment of junk on the table in frontof him. An elderly lady at the next table was staring, looking entirelyflummoxed. ‘The summary of my life,’ Morton said helpfully.
‘Oh,’ the oldlady replied.
Morton pickedup the copper box. It was the only piece of tangible evidence still inhis possession and he was stumped by it. Well and truly stumped. Itwas time to seek help from an old acquaintance.
He gulped downthe remainder of his drink, left the coffee shop and made his way back to thecar to visit Soraya.
As he walked,he dialled the headquarters of the Forensic Science Service in Birmingham.
‘He's only been to school
