Anything For a Quiet Life by Michael Gilbert Page B

price of gold is today, but those six boxes are crammed with gold bars.”
    Light began to dawn. Jonas said, “Of course. The Heathrow robbery.”
    “Lifted from the bullion store fifteen months ago. We were sure it was the Catlins, but we couldn’t pin it to them, for there was no trace of the loot. We kept them under surveillance for months after the robbery. They were laughing. They knew they were safe. I’d surmise they came off the motorway, at the junction north of here, drove along until they saw a nice thick hedge, tunnelled through it, and buried the stuff. Lucky for them the bull was in the lower field at the time. Then all they had to do was wait until the heat was off. Only—”
    “Only,” said Jonas, and the full humour of it was beginning to strike him, “suddenly they read in the papers that the place they’ve buried it is about to be given a going-over by a gang of amateur treasure seekers.”
    “Aye. They had to get it out. That bull stopped them the first time. This time they’d got no option. They may have suspected it was a trap, and they came prepared for trouble.”
    “So why didn’t they put up a fight?”
    Anderson thought about it. He said, “That robbery was a brutal job. They crippled three of the security guards. One of them’s in hospital still. I expect they thought that if they started anything we’d shoot their legs off.”
    “And would you have done?”
    “That question,” said Anderson, in his dominie’s voice, “is what you might describe as academic.”
    At first light they all made their way up to the Top Field. It was whilst the photographs were being taken that the treasure hunters arrived: a party of four men and two girls, equipped with metal detectors, and led by Mr Westall in person.
    He looked with dismay at the open pit and the boxes beside it. He said, “I hope you’ve been very careful when removing whatever you’ve found. Old artefacts can so easily be damaged when handled by unskilled persons.”
    Anderson said to Jonas, “I think you’d better explain it to him, sir.”
    “I’ll try,” said Jonas.
    It took ten minutes. Five of the treasure seekers listened to him. One of the girls had wandered off on her own. A police van had been run up on the path between the fields and the last of the bullion was being manhandled on to it when she gave them a hail. She said, “I’ve never used one of these things before, but it seems to be getting excited.”
    Attention was switched from the open pit to the place where she was standing at the bottom of the field. The other girl said, “I expect you’re using it wrong.” Mr Westall walked over, used his own instrument, and said, “No, there’s definitely something here.”
    He had taken pegs from his pocket and was marking out an oblong site. “Perhaps we could borrow those spades?”
    The police seemed keener on helping than on giving up the spades, and the amateur treasure hunters soon became glad of professional assistance. If there was anything there it was buried deep.
    From time to time Mr Westall encouraged them by announcing a strengthening of the signals. It was when they were fully four feet down and the lifting of the earth was becoming a real physical effort that they heard what they had all been waiting for. A spade struck on something that was neither earth nor stone.
    Mr Westall jumped into the pit with a flurry of anxious advice. “Hands only, now,” he said. “No more spades. We must use hands.”
    Slowly the object in the pit took shape. They could see that it was a box, perhaps six feet long and two feet wide, formed of stout oak planks bound with strips of iron. The wood had stood up to the passage of time better than the metal which was rusted and fragile.
    “Two of you at each end. Lift it very gently. That’s it.”
    The box was laid on the edge of the pit. Mr Westall looked at it proudly. He said, “Really, we shouldn’t try to open it here. It ought to be taken to a place