Passport - Part One by Dave Rigby

His death had come so suddenly. Not an old man at all.

  She’d ended up with the job of clearing her father’s house. None of her three brothers was ever to be seen if there was practical work to be done.

  Sorry sis, just about to fly to LA. Business you know.

  Not that they were all in the States, but they were all busy, busy men.

  It was partly guilt though. She’d seen little of her father over recent months. They’d frequently not seen eye to eye. Was she trying to make up in some way for that lack of contact?

  Order had always been her thing. Even as a girl, her bedroom had been so neat and tidy, everything in its place. The contents of her father’s house had succumbed to the same order, felt-tip ticks in relevant columns on her checklist, a testimony to her skills.

  Category one. The rubbish – junk as her mother would have called it. A cluster of king-size supermarket bags were lined up in the back porch, waiting patiently to be carted away by a man with a van.

  Next up the hierarchy were the bags destined for the charity shops. Her friend Melissa would love the job of stacking them neatly in her estate car and ferrying them to a range of deserving outlets.

  Which left the good stuff. We have some particularly fine pieces her mother used to tell visitors.

  Mr Gregory was perfectly on time, looking just as she’d imagined. Over-fussy, three-piece suit in a too-large check, pince-nez, the tip of a handkerchief just visible in the breast pocket of his jacket. Ever since a child, she’d always had to think twice about the different three-pieces – suit or suite?

  A quiet confidence, the occasional comment demonstrating an immediate depth of knowledge, as he moved slowly from room to room making notes on his phone and taking photographs of the more valuable items.

  Standing in front of the bureau, his demeanour changed, eyes suddenly sharper a noticeable exhalation.

  “Now this really is something, Miss Fincham. Late seventeenth I’d say and a particularly fine example.”

  “Please – call me Jack. Yes, my father always loved it, prepared his handwritten lectures sitting just here. We haven’t decided whether to offer it for sale yet, but we would like it valued.”

  There’d been an argument. All four of them wanted the bureau. Getting a valuation would be just the start of a long and no doubt acrimonious process.

  “Some of the older examples have secret compartments.” So, engrossed in thoughts about who would inherit, she almost missed Mr Gregory’s comment.

  “Secret! Gosh, how intriguing. Would it be possible for you to check somehow whether this one is holding something back?”

  “Indeed.”

  His hands moved expertly around small wooden drawers, cubby holes, ink well and pen holder. Just as she was preparing herself for disappointment, his eyes lit up.

  “Voila! A Hopton spring as they’re known. A section of wood in one of the drawer spaces slid back to reveal a void. A delicate search of the small space.

  A passport.

  “Goodness gracious,” she said.

  He passed the document to her.

  Date of expiry 10^th November 1988. An old photograph of her father stared out from one dog-eared page, with others displaying stamp after stamp, almost all, she realised slowly, Eastern European destinations.

  But he’d never been to that part of the world! Had he?

  Only when she turned back to the page of personal details did she notice that the passport wasn’t actually in her father’s name.