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Some people collected seashells, stamps, dolls, or car parts. Robbie Lewis collected keys.
Now, they weren’t just any keys, mind. Each key was a specific memory, and each was dear to him. He had a key from his first house, and still had the key to the small house in Oxford where he’d lived as a sergeant. Even though that key was filled with painful memories, it held pleasant ones as well.
There was the spare key for the jag on his keyring still, even after having to sell it. Robbie had hated that day, still felt bitter about leaving an old friend behind. But he honestly thought that he was never coming back to England.
But there was one key that he shouldn’t have. It was a key that didn’t even open anything special, just a three-bedroom semi, and not even that anymore. But it still held some of his fondest memories as a sergeant.
Robbie tossed his keys at James. “You drive. I’ve had one too many.” Not necessarily true, but he was tired, and besides, it gave him a chance to tease his sergeant about his driving.
James caught the keys deftly in his long-fingered hands and sorted through the variety of keys on the ring. “Christ, how do you open your flat, Sir?”
“I know me keys, James,” Robbie replied with a hint of humor as James opened up the Vauxhall and he climbed in. “Home, James.”
“Yes, Sir.” James took his time starting up the car; he was staring at a key that was different from the others. It was old, but not tarnished, though it had obviously seen use. And, unlike Robbie’s other keys, it was pearlescent silver.
Robbie knew James would never ask on his own. “C’mon, James. I woulda thought we were mates now, too.”
James cleared his throat. “Um…the silver key…”
“Which?”
“The car key is for the jaguar you used to have. I know that.” James replied; even now, Robbie could smell the leather of the jag, mixed with his boss’s cologne. “The house key, I mean. What’s it to? You and Laura looking at houses without me?” It was a joke, but the question was all too serious.
“Maybe we are, canny lad.” Robbie teased easily back; the rapport was better now that he had the ease of experience. “But no, it’s not that. It’s a key to Morse’s house.”
James stayed silent, eyes on the road, but he raised an eyebrow. Robbie noted that he missed the turning for the station; that alone told him his detail-oriented sergeant was interested in this story.
So he settled in to tell it. Unlike stories of the house he shared with Val, memories of Morse’s house were awash with warmth and companionship; odd for a man like Morse, but there it was. “Yeah, Morse was like that. A little weird, but you got used to it. He jes needed someone with a more patient temper and enough bravery to kick him in the teeth when he needed it.” He chuckled, thinking of his not infrequent scraps with Morse.
“So, how’d you get his key?” There was a dangerous glint in James’s eye. “Is there something you haven’t told me, Sir?”
Robbie almost hit him playfully, but refrained. “No, it wasn’t like that! Christ, we were married! No, it was…Morse’s way of opening up, letting me know he trusted me.”
“Still an odd sort of gift.” James commented. “Did you ever actually use it?”
“Surprisingly…yeah.” Robbie replied honestly, earning him another curious eyebrow. “I was nervous at first, but after crossing the threshold, so to speak, it was easy. After all, I did know where Morse hid his spare. My coming into the house without him opening the door wasn’t unheard of.”
James seemed agog with this new information. “And to think I’d never have known if I didn’t ask.”
“Smartarse.” Robbie said fondly; James grinned.
“So, was it only for business?” James asked.
Robbie barked a laugh. “God, no! We were friends, too, as unlikely as it was. If I needed a break from spring cleaning and the kids were off doing their own things, it was a safe haven. Morse kept himself to himself, but he was glad for company, I reckon.”
James nodded, and Robbie could tell he had some verse or quote on his tongue, so he continued before James could say it.
“We drank beer, chatted about things. He taught me a lot about music and literature. We joked about things. Morse didn’t really have a gift for funny stories, but he had been with Thames Valley for a while. That was what it was called back in my day,” he added for James’s benefit. “He knew what me C.S. was like as a sergeant, even as a PC. He could be wickedly funny when he was in the mood. He had a sort of dry humor; you had to get used to it like everything else.”
“I heard he was as mean as a rabid cat.” James interjected.
Robbie thought a minute about how best to answer that. “He could be. He was impatient, and could be rude and stubborn as anything when he got his teeth in something. But I don’t think he wanted to hurt me feelings on purpose. He needed an outlet when he was mad, and that cut me up a bit, but deep down, he didn’t mean it.”
James nodded. The station was now in sight. “Thank you for telling me, Sir.”
“My pleasure.”
“I don’t suppose it opens the house now…?”
“No. The house changed hands after Morse died. First his kin, then others.” James hummed, and Robbie could tell he was interested. “Now that’s a story for another day, clever clogs.” He held out his hand. “Now, give us back our keys.”