Gift of the Marge-i

“We have all the time in the world, Tom. Well, at least forty-five minutes. Anyways, we’ll be in and out before anyone even knows we were here.”

“But why are we breaking into a cop shop, Eric?”

“Coz, it’s between shift’s, Tom. It’s only been open a couple of weeks on the high street, and still understaffed.”

“That don’t answer why we’re breaking into the cop shop.”

“Tom, breaking-in infers smashing a window or kicking in a door. We are not breaking in. We are simply entering of our own volition.”

“Volition?”

“On our own accord, mate.”

“But why, Eric?”

“Coz, I have a key.”

“Why have you got a key?”

“How else are we supposed to get in? Now, quick, inside before someone sees us!”

“Stop shoving me, Eric.”

“You’ll soon change your tone when you see what’s in ‘ere, mate.”

“What’s on that piece of paper you’re reading?”

“Directions.”

“To what?”

“Remember the smash and grab last week - at the jewellers three doors up?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“It’s still under investigation.”

“Right. Thanks for the Police Five update, Eric. When I want further crime reports, I’ll just tune in to the telly.”

“Keep ‘em peeled!”

“What?”

“That’s what he says at the end of each Police Five show.”

“Who?”

“Shaw Taylor!”

“Yeah, well I’m keeping my eyes peeled for someone coming through that door, so we don’t end up on a five minute television crime report.”

“No, listen. All recovered valuables from thefts and robberies remain the property of the investigation unit - as long as there’s an ongoing investigation or relied upon at trial.”

“Get to the point, Eric.”

“Focus on what I’m saying, Tom.”

“What are we talking about? Watches, rings, that sort of thing?”

“Diamonds, Tom. Pure, uncut, South African diamonds, sittin’ on a shelf in a bag, in a box… in a cage.”

“What, here?”

“Can you smell them?”

“All I can smell is your body odour.”

“Sorry about that. Me weekly bathtime was cancelled yesterday, due to the hot water heater being on the blink.”

“There are other ways to heat water, Eric. Anyway, how do you know those diamonds are really here?”

“Well, you know me mum’s first cousin, Beryl?”

“What, Bludgeon Beryl? The one that knocked six bells out of her cheating husband with a cricket bat?”

“That’s her. All happily married again now to a spin bowler for the county cricket team.”

“What’s she got to do with this?”

“Well, her second cousin, Billy the Builder, was the contractor that renovated this place. When he handed over the keys, they let him keep one set for easy access, if any faults needed repairing.”

“So, how’d you get the keys?”

“From me uncle, Charlie.”

“Charlie the Sparky?”

“Yeah. He ‘ad to do a bit of re-wiring on the alarm here. Billy the Builder gave him the keys - to get in to work on the electrics, whenever the Nick was closed, and he still hasn’t finished installing the alarm yet. So, everything’s disconnected. No alarm, no-one knows we’re here, and there’s no risk of being found out.”

“Yeah, but it’s still early in the evening, Eric. I read this was supposed to be a twenty-four-hour police station. Why is the place empty?”

“Like I said, not enough rozzers to fill the place. So, the day shift and night shift don’t yet overlap. This is our window of opportunity, Tom. We’ll be made for life after this. Follow me. It’s just at the end of this corridor.”

“You’re tellin’ me that your uncle Charlie is in on this?”

“Nah, mate. He was over ours earlier with Auntie Margie for Sunday dinner. Mum had asked him to fix the water heater, and while he was doin’ that, Margie boasted ‘ow Charlie ‘ad the keys to the new lock-up on the high street, and if Charlie ever wanted to turn to a life of crime, she’d book the tickets to Brazil.”

“How’d she know about the diamonds?”

“Well, you see, Tom. Aunt Margie’s brother-in-law is the new Sergeant here. He’s a bit of a loose cannon when he’s been drinking, and down the Quiet Woman Pub last Saturday night, he told her and Charlie everything. Then, she blabbed it to me mum earlier, and mentioned that Charlie still ‘ad the keys to the door on him.”

“So, how’d you get them?”

“Well, overhearing this, I thought, bloody Nora, me and Tom could be there and back before mum serves the trifle. So, I searched through Charlie’s coat hanging on our hallway stand. He’d only gone and stuck a tag on them labelled, The New Nick’s Keys. He might as well ‘ave wrote, Not Charlie’s keys to home, but try the police station that has the stolen diamonds locked in a cage.”

“Amazing powers of deduction you’ve got there, Eric.”

“I know. If I wasn’t so spur-of-the-moment devious, I’d make a great Sherlock Holmes.”

“With all the drama you’ve put me through over the last year, the only Sherlock you’d get to play is down the community hall’s Amateur Dramatics Society’s rendition of the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“I’d like to see that. You wanna go wif me?”

“No, Eric. I hear the local vicar is the director.”

“What, Reverend Tucker?”

“Kath – the one that works in our local chippie. You know who she is.”

“The one wif the big..”

“..Bread rolls, yes. Well, she’s helping make the costumes for the play, and because the play opens two weeks before Christmas, the reverend has decided to combine the plot line with a nativity play. So, the story now takes place on Christmas Eve, where Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are disguised as wise men searching for a howling Jesus crawling around the moors at night; at - get this - Manger Hall, near the Bethlehem Mire.”

“Only two wise men?”

“No, there’s a third. Kath says, Freddie the Fence has found a creative outlet for himself. He’s posing as Balthasar, the keeper of the pot of gold, and also doubling up as the escaped convict character in the story – aka Joseph. No-one had the heart to tell Freddie during auditions that the gold was just painted bits of wood. He tried running off with them on the first night of rehearsals.”

“Poor Freddie. He’s never been the same after his arrest - when he took a truncheon to the head.”

“Yeah, I know. But it wasn’t fencing stolen jewellery that brought his little empire down. It was poncing. He foolishly thought that to sell tarts, all he needed was a bakery licence.”

“A bakery licence?”

“Yeah, he took some idiot’s advice who knew nothing about knocking shops. The council closed him down before he could even begin painting the place up. He’d already put a couple of grand into it, so wasn’t too happy about the misinformed tart advice.”

“Well, I misunderstood his question… Anyways, Freddie the Ponce just doesn’t ‘ave the same ring to it, does it, Tom.”

“Nah. I mean, there’s already Phil the Pimp, Peter Porn, and Eric the Prick!”

“Well, at least he’s Wised up since then. Get it? Three wise men, wised up?”

“Kath says he’s gone all Prima donna luvvie, and that at every rehearsal, he keeps arguing about the direction the play is going, repeatedly saying the three wise men were never in Conan Doyle’s book.”

“They were called the Magi.”

“Who were?”

“The three wise men. And their offerings of gold, frankincense, and myrrh are called, The Gifts of The Magi.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I spend a lot of time at the library, Tom. You know that.”

“In the bible section?”

“It’s called Theology, Tom.

“Better watch out, or you’ll end up singing and dancing down Oxford Street, chanting Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Harry-Harry, where’s the khazi.”

“That’s sumfin’ entirely different, Tom. Although, I do like the sound of those drums and finger symbols.”

“Fucking cult, is what they are. Once they get their claws into you, you’re stuck in there for life.”

“Well, there’s no danger of me joining them, Tom. I’m sticking to theology and history books. Anyways, they’ve got ‘orrible ‘aircuts.”

“Didn’t you used to say that the reason you go to the library is coz you fancy that Kimberley Callahan who works there?”

“Yeah, but if I don’t read anythin’ in those three hours every day, I’d probably get arrested for loitering. And you know what, Tom? I’m learnin’ a lot about things, and all that reading is making me become a self-taught person.”

“Got any pictures in those books, Eric?”

“They’re not comics, Tom.”

“So, what happens if Miss Callahan gets another job somewhere else – like in one of Freddie’s adult bookstores in Soho?”

“Then, I’ll wear looser clothing when I go in…”

“Hard to hide a tent peg, Eric. No matter how thick the canvas.”

“Right, here’s the key for the cage. Fuck me, it works! Now, look for a box labelled, Jeweller Job.”

“How original.”

“Yeah, don’t take much thinkin’ to become a copper these days.”

“Maybe you should apply to be one then, Eric.”

“Nah, mate. That’d be like putting the magpies amongst the dinnerware.”

“The what!?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Magpies like to steal silver things, Tom.”

“That’s a myth, Eric.”

“Well, if I was a magpie in a room full of silver dinnerware, I’d fuckin’ steal it, okay?”

“Calm down, Eric. Magpie or not, you’d steal anything that wasn’t nailed down.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“Magpies just like to pick up things coz they’re curious birds. Shiny or not.”

“What makes you such an expert?”

“Well, Eric. I do my bird watching on the BBC. Just so happens there was a documentary on magpies, recently.”

“Well, you know what I meant.”

“No, Eric, I didn’t. Try using another analogy next time.”

“What’s an analongy?”

“An-al-o-gee, Eric. It’s when you compare something to something else to paint a clearer picture.”

“What’s clearer than a magpie amongst the silverware?"

“..Eric, you didn’t say silverware. You said..”

“..Jeweller Job, Tom! There it is up there! ‘Ere, give us a leg up to that shelf, will ya? That’s it. Almost got it. Fuck, Fuck! Watch out!... Tom! Tom! You alright?”

“Get your bum out of my face, Eric.”

“Sorry, mate. I lost me balance. But look what’s inside the box. A bag labelled, Diamonds.”

“Fuck me, Eric. You’ve only gone and got us rich, mate. Why aren’t these in a safe?”

“Coz, they don’t have one, yet. Auntie Margie says it’s still on order. Margie, you beauty! I’m gonna buy you a new set of false choppers with my share.”

“So, Eric. Can we call this a gift from the Marge-i, then?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Margie, Marge-i, Magi?”

“Nope. Sorry, Tom. Still don’t get it.”

“Fuck off!”

“Heh heh! Just pullin’ yer pud, mate. I’ve gotten all excited inside… Hold on a tick! Why are the lights are comin’ on?”

“Shush, Eric! Someone’s up at the front desk.”

“Fuck! It must be the night shift! But according to my watch, they’re not due on for another thirty minutes. You don’t think the pubs closed early, do you? Coz, Margie said Sunday night shift always starts at Half-Eight.”

“Eric, silly question. But did you set your watch to Daylight Savings last night?”

“Yes, Tom. I’m not stupid.”

“You set it back one hour?”

“I did, yeah. Oh, dear. You know what I’ve gone and done, don’t-ja.”

“Eric?”

“I may have accidentally set it back twice. Once before I went to bed last night and again when I woke up this morning. I couldn’t remember if I’d set it back, so to be safe, I set it back another hour and forgot to compare it wif the clock on the mantlepiece downstairs.”

“They got any books on world clocks in the library, Eric? Like, really thick and heavy reference books?”

“Probably, why?”

“Well, if we get out of here without being caught. Next time you go googly-eyed staring at Kimberly Callahan for three hours – or two – depending on what time your watch says it is - find a book about clocks and smack yourself on the side of the head with it. Then, before you blackout, set your watch back to before you was born, you self-taught idiot!”

“Okay, wait. Let me think… that was a lot of instructions to remember.”

“Eric! Get back in the moment!”

“Right… Yes… Night shift. Right. Yes… I’ve got an idea!”

“Oh no, Eric. Not another of your stupid ideas.”

“No, hang on and just listen. There’s an open cell door over there. You see it? Go inside and wait for me. I’ll put everything here back where we found it.”

“Hurry, Eric. Someone’s coming! Eric!”

“On my way…! Right, close the door. Now, lay down on the bench and pretend you’re asleep. I’ll sit on the floor and do the same.”

“What’s wrong with your mouth?”

“I’ve got..”

“..What have we here, then? Jenkins!”

“Sarge!”

“Those day shift tossers have gone and done it again!”

“What’s that, Sarge?”

“They’ve left people in one of the cells.”

“Blame it on Sunday pub opening times, Sarge!”

“You two been in ‘ere since last night?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Drunk and disorderly?”

“Erm, Yeah. Yes, Sergeant.”

“Hang on a minute. I know you, don’t I? ‘Ere, you’re Margie’s nephew, erm, Eric, right?”

“Yes, Sergeant. And that’s me mate, Tom.”

“Well, look. I imagine you’ve been punished enough by my forgetful day-shift colleagues. Jenkins?”

“Sarge!”

“Two cups of tea and a couple of custard creams for these lads, please!”

“Comin’ up, Sarge!”

“That’s alright, Sergeant. Me mum will be wondering where I’ve gotten to, and Aunt Margie and Charlie will be over there right now for Sunday dinner.”

“Right, then! Let’s get you two on your way. Jenkins!”

“Yes, Sarge?”

“Cancel the tea!”

“Will do, Sarge!”

“Check the register will you, Jenkins? Sign these two out!”

“Yes, Sarge!”

“Follow me, boys. Ooh, Eric. You got tooth trouble?”

“Abscess, Sergeant.”

“Call me Uncle George.”

“I need to see the dentist tomorrow, Uncle George.”

“Sarge!”

“Yes, Jenkins!”

“There’s no record of them being signed in.”

“Well, aren’t you two blessed on the Lord’s Day. At least there’s one thing to thank the day shift’s incompetence for. Jenkins, see these two out, please.”

“Here you go, fellers.”

“And Eric, when you see my sister, tell her to tell her procrastinating husband to get around here first thing to fix the bloody alarm, will you?”

“I will, Uncle George.”

“Good lads. Off you go, then, and take it easy on the drink. You’re still young lads, and you don’t want booze ruining your lives, now do you.”

“No, Uncle George.”

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, Sarge!”

“Put the kettle back on, will ya?”

“Already boiling, Sarge!”

“Good man! Extra custard cream to you for showing initiative. Safe home, boys!”

“Thanks, Uncle George… Bloody hell, Tom! That worked better than I thought it would.”

“Stroke of luck that your uncle turned up.”

“You were a bit quiet in there, mate.”

“I was pretending to be hungover. Plus, I was waiting for you to stick your foot in your mouth. What is wrong with your face? Your cheeks look swollen. Is that really an abscess?”

“No, hang on. Fuck, nearly swallowed one. Bwah! Voila! Two pristine uncut diamonds to share with my mate, Tom.”

“Bleedin’ Nora, Eric! What happens when they open that bag and notice two diamonds are missing? Your uncle will know it was us.”

“Central to the operation of the appellate system, there is an imperative for forces to retain evidence in investigations where no perpetrator has been detected or convicted, to facilitate cold case reviews. In order to give effect then to an appellate system and enable cold case reviews, evidence needs to be retained, and properly stored. If materials are not retained and stored correctly, then re-investigations are rendered impossible.”

“What was that?”

“The police retention and storage of evidence page from a law book I read.”

“What’s it all mean?”

“It means, Whoa! Watch your step there, Tom! Someone should cover that manhole. Probably Uncle Charlie’s workers forgetting to cover it up. Almost fell down it into the drains. That’s typical Charlie for you. Always cutting corners and never finishing jobs.”

“Focus, Eric.”

“It means, Tom – my good mate. That until they get their safe installed, those diamonds are up for grabs, and I’m sure there’s a few bent coppers in that Nick who will help themselves to one or two before then.”

“I thought I’d never say this, Eric. But you are a genius. Still an idiot, but a fucking genius one.”

“Wanna go down Soho?”

“What about your uncle Charlie’s keys?”

“We’ll go see Freddy the Fence first. Charlie will do his usual falling asleep bit while watching Hymns on Sunday on the telly, then wake up and demand a cup of tea and trifle. They’ll be there till late, mate.”

“How much do you think those diamonds are worth?”

“Dunno. Maybe five grand apiece. Let me ‘ave another look at ‘em. Oh, no. Shit! Fuck!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I put them in me pocket just before I jumped over that open manhole back there.”

“And?”

“I forgot there’s a hole in that pocket. Tom, I think the diamonds have dropped into the drains.”

“…Eric, you fucking idiot!”

“It’s alright. We can come back next Sunday between shifts. I still have the… Oh, no.”

“You put the keys in the same pocket, didn’t-ja!”

“No, Tom. I didn’t.”

“So, where are they?”

“Still in the cage padlock.”

“Eric, you’re a..?”

“..Fancy some tea and trifle back at me mum’s, Tom…?”