Israel and the caretaker hurried up the big mahogany stairs to the first floor – hurrying past Ladies Fashions, which were mostly XL and pastel, past Accessories, which were mostly scarves and super size handbags, and past the Cosy Nook cafeteria, which was dark and empty and smelt of yesterday’s scones and lasagne and milky coffee, and further still, through double doors marked ‘Private: Staff Only’ – and then up another staircase onto the second floor.
They were in the eaves of the building. It was warm. Downstairs on the ground floor there were high ceilings and chandeliers, but up here, tucked away, it was all fluorescent lights and polystyrene tiling, and there was that eloquent whiff of bleach from the toilets. There were Health and Safety notices on the walls, and whiteboards and pin boards, and water coolers, and computers and reams of paper, and gonks and cards and piles of paper on desks – all the usual paraphernalia of office life.
Israel followed the caretaker through the open-plan area into a smaller private office.
‘Oh dear,’ said Israel. Chairs were tipped over, paperwork strewn all over the floor. ‘This doesn’t look good. Signs of a—’
‘Struggle,’ said the caretaker, his breathing shallow. ‘And look here.’
‘Where?’ said Israel.
‘There.’
The caretaker was pointing to a wall safe.
Israel had never seen an actual wall safe before – had never had use for one himself, barely required a wallet in fact – and he was shocked to find that a wall safe in reality looks much like it does in films and in the imagination: a wall safe looks like a little square metal belly-button, small, neat and perfect in the flat expanse of wall.
‘Huh,’ said Israel.
‘Look,’ said the caretaker.
Israel went over to the safe, pushed the little door shut, opened it again.
‘Double-locking system,’ said the caretaker.
‘Right. Er…’
‘Key and combination.’
‘Uh-huh. And this is where the money was stolen?’
‘Some of it.’
‘How much was in there?’
‘Few thousand.’
‘Ah well,’ said Israel breezily, ‘big business like this, be able to absorb that, won’t it?’
‘Come here till I show ye,’ said the caretaker, who really did seem to be taking things very badly, who looked like a beaten man, in fact, his whole body and his stomach sagging, and he walked through with Israel into another room off the office.
This room was warmer, and smaller still. There were no windows. And lined up against the back wall were two large metal boxes, like huge American fridges, though without the cold water and ice-dispenser facility – Gloria’s family had a big fridge, back home in London, and Israel could never work it properly; he always got ice-cubes all over the floor.
The doors of the safes stood open.
‘Wow.’
‘These are the deposit safes,’ said the caretaker.
‘Right.’ Israel went over to them. ‘Can I?’
‘Go ahead.’
Israel peeked inside. He stroked the smooth steel shelves.
‘They’re empty too then.’
‘Aye.’
‘But they should be full?’
‘Aye.’
‘Gosh,’ said Israel. He always sounded more English in a crisis. ‘So how much money would have been in there?’
The caretaker did not reply.
‘How much in these?’ repeated Israel, remembering not to add ‘my good man’ and sound too Lord Peter Wimsey.
‘A lot.’ The caretaker was ashen-faced.
‘OK. And how much exactly is a lot?’
‘Ach…’ The caretaker huffed. ‘Difficult to say. You know, Bank Holiday. There might have been farmers in yesterday, might ha’ sold a heifer, and that’d be the money for a new dining suite, so.’
‘Right. I see. So…how much, do you think? Thousands?’
‘Tens of thousands.’
‘Good grief. That much?’
‘Could have been. Busy time of year. These uns take about £100,000 apiece I think.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Aye.’
‘Gosh. Well…’
Israel looked around the room.
‘I just cannae understand it,’ said the caretaker. ‘All the security. CCTV and alarms and all.’
‘The doors look fine,’ said Israel. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone broke in.’
‘I can’t find Mr Dixon anywhere,’ said the caretaker.
‘Well, maybe he’s just—’
‘He’s always in his office by now. He arrives half six, parks up down below.’
‘Is that his car out front?’ said Israel.
‘The Mercedes, aye,’ said the caretaker.
‘Nice car,’ said Israel. ‘Maybe he’s just gone to the toilet, or—’
‘Mr Dixon doesnae go to the toilet at this time,’ said the caretaker.
‘Right.’
‘He doesnae go till eight o’clock.’
‘Erm. OK. Gone for a stroll then maybe?’
‘He doesnae go for a stroll.’
‘Well, maybe he’s just popped out. You know, to get a paper or—’
‘He wouldnae.’
‘Well. OK. So…’
‘I think something’s happened.’
‘Well, yes, I’d say
