‘Ruby Reynolds,’ he shouted. ‘Next of kin for the belongings.’
‘What about my savings?’ an elderly woman at the front of the crowd asked, quietly.
‘What happened to your savings?’ the desk sergeant asked, not unkindly.
‘We went down the shelter like we was told, and when I came back someone had been in the house and taken my savings,’ she said. ‘Andthe piece of fish I’d left out for me tea.’
The sergeant brightened. Finally, his body language seemed to say, a customer he could help. He reached below the desk and produced a sheaf of paper. Small print, densely packed. Spaces for information. He handed it to the woman and pushed a pencil across the counter.
‘Fill this in,’ he said.
‘Will I get it back?’ she asked.
‘What, the fish?’ someone in the crowd joked. He was rewarded with a ripple of laughter.
‘Tell us the amount,’ the sergeant said, ‘and if we nick someone with that exact amount on him, we’ll let you know.’
‘Unlikely,’ opined the self-appointed commentator. ‘He’ll be right off down the pub.’
A constable appeared at a connecting door behind the counter with a brown paper bag. He handed it to the desk sergeant, who checked the label, then passed it to Cook.
Cook looked inside the bag. The remains of a black coat.
‘That’s it?’ he asked.
The sergeant shrugged. He looked tired. Soot in the creases around his eyes. He cradled his right hand on the counter. A nasty burn on the palm.
‘Were you there?’ Cook asked.
‘Not that one,’ the sergeant said. ‘He’s kept us busy though.’
‘Check it’s hers,’ the sergeant said, as Cook turned to leave.
Cook took the coat out of the bag and shook it out. It was a thin raincoat, scuffed at the elbows, hand stitching around the collar. A name written on the label: Ruby Reynolds.
‘I heard there wasn’t a body,’ Cook said.
The sergeant looked him in the eye. Shook his head.
‘There wasn’t anything,’ he said. ‘Surprised that survived. Must have been caught on the blast. They said it was across the street.’
Outside, Gracie took the bag.
‘That it?’ she asked, pulling out the coat.
‘Direct hit,’ Cook said.
Gracie was quiet.
‘She wouldn’t have felt anything,’ Cook said. ‘In the army, they used to say a bomb like that, the blast wave moves faster than your brainwaves. You’re gone before you know it.’
Gracie thought about this for a second.
‘You reckon that’s right?’ she asked. ‘Or just something they say.’
‘I reckon it’s right,’ he said.
Gracie fingered the coat. She brought it to her face and breathed it in.
