Money in the Morgue. Stella Duffy

with the old man. Just at that point there was a huge roll of thunder, a crack of lightning directly above the hospital, and Jonty Glossop—who would not have admitted this to a living soul, and hadn’t even admitted to himself that his fear of thunder and lightning was one of the reasons he was not happy sleeping alone in the anteroom—turned back into the Surgery, put his hands over his ears and screwed up his face with his eyes shut tight. He opened them only after there had been another long rumble of thunder and the lightning had flamed all around, brilliant light shining through his closed eyelids. When he looked along the yard there was no one in sight. The Matron must have made her way back to Civilian 3 with the vicar and presumably the doctor, paperwork for the old bloke, death had its own offices. Good, it would give him time to set himself up in front of the safe, maybe he’d even play possum and pretend he was sleeping when Matron came back in. She could hardly send him back to that awful anteroom, all the way through the rain, once he was soundo, now could she?

      Head down, the rain slicking his greasy curls against his deeply lined forehead, Glossop made his way along the darkened yard. Arriving at the door to Matron’s office, he knocked politely. It was possible they had tried to step out when his back was turned or when his eyes were closed, and thinking better of it had gone back inside. He wouldn’t want Matron to find him lacking in manners. He knocked again and, satisfied there was no one in the office, he tried the handle and was immensely gratified when the unlocked door admitted entrance. Mr Glossop gave a curious shake of his shoulders, with his enormous belly and his wet curls, he looked for all the world like a drenched bulldog who had somehow acquired the coat of a poodle. Then he launched his bulk and the unwieldy cot into the office, closing the door behind him.

      He smiled, talking to himself as he often did on the long drives across the plains between his payroll drops, ‘Right then, Jonty Glossop, let’s get to work. You get this cot up and give her your best Sleeping Beauty impression when she gets back. By the time she’s done with the old man and the vicar and that daft-as-a-brush porter, not to mention the drippy Pommie doctor, she might even wake you with a peck on the cheek, glad to see someone with half a grain of sense in her office.’

      Glossop was still struggling to put the cot back together when, in a brief lull in the rain, he heard a woman’s voice. He stood stock still, terrified it was Matron returning before he had made up his bed. The voice didn’t sound like hers though, it was lighter, younger, and definitely more agitated than he would expect from that august lady. Glossop would not have called himself an eavesdropper, but it was an acknowledged fact that he preferred the company of the ladies to that of his fellow men. It was one of the reasons he had been glad to take on the payroll deliveries, volunteering to be drop-off man when the younger, fitter chaps who might have been a more obvious choice went off to do their bit. Apparently the government that considered him not fit for active service didn’t mind him taking the risk of actual highway robbery. His colleagues in accounts thought him both brave and a little foolhardy to give up the cushy nine-to-five and a desk of his own, but none of them had worked out that the payroll drop took him to four hospitals, three schools and the two factories on hush-hush war work. At all but one of these establishments there was either a young lady with a good head for figures—as if that was the most interesting thing about her—or an older lady with a willing ear for his traveller’s tales. If Glossop could persuade one of them to pour him a cup of tea after a long drive, then he’d not say no to a fresh girdle scone and a chat into the bargain, before he pushed off again on his lonely route. Despite his eagerness to lie down, Glossop couldn’t help leaning closer to the thin weatherboard wall to listen to the woman’s voice. It was hard to make out exact words, what with the wind and rain, but the young lady was clearly upset, her voice raised. He strained to hear what was said and to whom, but the wind in the middle of the yard whipped up and span around the office, so much that he was unsure if the voices were coming from the Transport Office on the far side of Matron’s or the Records Office he’d passed in his run and stumble along the yard. He caught a clipped tone to the ends of her sentences that made her sound as if she were one of those girls who’d been off to London or Paris and come home to New Zealand determined that everyone should know she had travelled, she was not just another country girl looking for a quarter-acre paradise and nothing more. Those girls he could do without. Glossop was attaching the last leg of the cot and he nodded to himself, he might be lonely sometimes, but loneliness had its compensations.

      Whether it was contemplating the compensations of his life, or the lateness of the hour, just past eleven o’clock and he was an early to bed, early to rise man, even on summer nights, Glossop’s fat fingers took on a sudden dexterity and with a snap, click, clunk, the cot was whole. Finally he lay down along the length of old canvas, the damp would not deter him now. Mr Glossop gave in to gravity and the fabric beneath him strained, shuddered, but held. The arguing voices were stilled, even the rain seemed to be lessening a little, or perhaps he was simply so used to it now that he didn’t notice, and he felt himself relax for the first time since that damned flat tyre this afternoon. He knew he might be in the bad books when Matron returned, but with any luck she and the vicar would be some time yet. He could rest here, perfectly stationed between the door and the safe. All he needed was forty winks and he’d be right as rain. Glossop chuckled to himself at the absurd term given the weather and the fact that Matron’s tin bucket was catching fat drips not two feet from his nose. He reached out his hand to the safe, giving it a solid pat to reassure himself that he was the close guard this moment needed. Disconcertingly, the safe rocked a little beneath his hand. He lifted and dropped his hand again, and again the safe rocked. Glossop opened his eyes, the cot groaned as he raised himself up on his elbows, and he stared at the safe. This time he slapped his meaty palm on the side of the heavy iron frame. As if affirming his worst fears, he heard a gentle click and the safe door swung open. It was empty. Horribly, obviously, empty. Glossop was suddenly very hot and at the same time, utterly chilled. He let out a strangled yelp that turned into a full-throated roar, rolling off the cot and up onto his knees he crawled his way to the office door. He wrenched the door back on its hinges, crying out into the rain and the wind in the yard beyond.

      ‘Thief! Robbers! Safe. Thief. Help! Thief. No!’

      It was a few moments before the lights in both Military 1 and 2 came on, the civilian wards took a little longer, the door to the Transport Office was flung open and Sarah Warne rushed out, quickly followed by Dr Hughes. On the other side of Matron’s office the Records Office door was opened and Rosamund Farquharson stood back, careful not to let the rain ruin her new dress or her beautifully set curls, careful too to ensure that no one noticed Maurice Sanders slip past her to join his fellows from the ward as they came rushing out to stare in bemused amazement at the round, red-faced man bawling highway robbery into the tempest from his place on his knees in Matron’s office doorway.