Friday at Nine

Ms Hartley arrived at ten to nine, twenty minutes before the first commuter train, with a tablet under her arm and a very straight back. “I like to start early,” she said. “Mistakes are easier to find before people arrive.”

She checked the shelves, the forms and the ledger. Noor’s hands were cold. Behind the counter, Mr Okafor stood next to the safe like a guard. “What is in there?” Ms Hartley asked at last. “Valuable items,” he said. “Please open it.”

Before he could answer, the door opened. The woman in the green coat walked straight up to the counter. “Excuse me,” she said, in a voice that was shaking but clear. “My name is Elena Marsh. I left a grey suitcase here last Monday, and I would like it back.”

“Can you prove that it’s yours?” Ms Hartley asked. “Rules are rules.” “It has a brass lock and no label,” Elena said. “The combination is the day and month of my last concert. Fourteen, oh-five.” Nobody moved. Then Mr Okafor opened the safe, lifted out the suitcase and put it on the counter. His hands were not completely steady either.

Elena turned the numbers, and the lock clicked. Inside, wrapped in a faded blue scarf, lay an old violin. Nobody spoke. Elena touched one string with the tip of her finger, and the note was small, but perfect. “I haven’t touched it for thirty-two years,” she said quietly.

Ms Hartley looked at the violin, then at the old man, then at the ledger. She took a pen out of her pocket. “Sign here, please, Mrs Marsh. Property returned to its owner.” She paused. “And Mr Okafor, we will talk about the storage fees later. Perhaps I will forget about them.” Elena signed, picked up the violin and turned to Noor. “Would you come with me?” she asked. “I would like to play where I stopped.”