Bench Three

On Tuesday morning, Jess arrived early and read the ledger again. She had slept badly, and she was worried about the old entries. Someone called E. Marsh had signed the three earlier entries, and each signature looked a little shakier than the one before. The address was always the same, 14 Alder Road, and the phone number had ten digits. When Jess called it, a recorded voice said that it no longer existed.

At lunchtime she went to the station café for a sandwich. Gina, the owner, had run the café on the concourse for more than thirty years. “Marsh?” she said, stopping with a cloth in her hand. “Elena Marsh? The violinist?” Jess nearly dropped her cup. “People used to travel to listen to her play. She was famous for one piece in particular. Then, one day, she stopped playing. That must be thirty years ago.”

Back at the counter, Jess tried to concentrate on a lost laptop, but something kept pulling her eyes towards the bench opposite. Bench three. A thin woman in a long green coat was sitting there very straight, with her hands in her lap. She looked at the office like someone waiting for a performance to begin.

“That’s the woman who brought the suitcase,” Jess whispered. “She hasn’t left the station.” “She arrived at ten,” said Mr Brooks, without turning round. “She’ll stay until we close. She always does, whenever the suitcase is here.” “Then why doesn’t she just take it back?” “Because she isn’t ready,” he said. “It depends on her, and I can’t tell somebody to be ready.”

Jess looked at the clock, then at the calendar behind the counter. “There’s a rule about unclaimed property, isn’t there?” “After seven days it goes to the auction house,” Mr Brooks said. “The seventh day is Friday.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “If she isn’t ready by Friday, I will have to choose between the rule and her.”