Free As The Pig Turns by MC Beaton

there was no need for the girl to come along, Agatha was determined to involve her whenever anything that looked important came up, in the hope that Toni might change her mind and stay on.
    ‘Where are we going?’ asked Toni breathlessly as she got into the back seat of Agatha’s car.
    ‘The Mircester and General Bank,’ said Agatha. She explained rapidly about the key.
    They all got out of the car and entered the bank, which stood between two shuttered shops. More failed businesses, thought Agatha. Town high streets are dying and all because we’ve become lazy and prefer to do our shopping in one go at one of the big supermarkets on the outskirts. It was also the fault of various councils who had a penchant for turning high streets into pedestrian areas and then charging high fees for parking at the nearest available car park. No one wanted to walk any more, carrying heavy bags of groceries and moving from little shop to little shop. Maybe in the end, high streets would be turned into museums with people in twentieth-century dress parading up and down.
    Agatha asked to speak to the manager. They were told to wait.
    Snow began to patter against the high windows. I should have bought snow tyres, mourned Agatha, but they’d take so long to arrive at the garage, and surely spring would come soon.
    At last they were summoned to the manager’s office. He was small, balding and fussy.
    After Amy had explained her visit, he examined the will, the passport and the key with maddening slowness, occasionally shaking his head and murmuring, ‘Dear, dear.’
    Agatha, who had been painfully trying to practice tolerance, burst out with, ‘What? What’s taking you so long? How long are we supposed to sit here waiting while you procrastinate?’
    ‘I have tae be sure,’ he said crossly. ‘There are a lot o’ bad, bad people about. Oh, yes.’
    ‘You’re not from Auchtermuchty, or one of these godforsaken places?’
    ‘I am from Stornoway and proud o’ it. I will get Gladys to take ye to the safe-deposit box.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk.
    A blonde, so pale she looked as if she had been bleached all over, told them to follow her. They descended stairs to a cavernous basement. Gladys opened one of the doors with two keys.
    ‘What is the number of the box?’ she asked.
    ‘I don’t know,’ wailed Amy.
    Back up the stairs again to wait for the manager, Mr Macleod. Then much humming and hawing and form signing before the number was released. Gladys appeared again like a pale ghost leading them to the nether regions. ‘You just shut the outside door behind you when you leave,’ she said. ‘It will lock automatically.’ She pulled out the box and set it on a metal table in the middle of the room and then left them to it. Agatha drew out three pairs of latex gloves and said they’d better put them on.
    ‘Here, you do it.’ Amy handed Agatha the key.
    Agatha unlocked the box and opened the lid.
    The three women stared down at the contents in amazement. There were four passports, all in different names but all bearing the late Gary Beech’s photograph. A pair of underpants, which Agatha unwrapped, revealed a small pistol. All that was left in the box was a small leather bag with a drawstring top. Toni opened it and peered in and then shook some of the contents out on her hand.
    ‘Pebbles,’ said Amy bitterly. ‘What’s he doing putting nasty dirty stones in a safe-deposit box?’
    ‘Wait a bit,’ said Toni excitedly. ‘I think they’re uncut diamonds. I saw a programme on diamonds, and this is what they look like in the raw. We’d better take them to the police. They could be conflict diamonds.’
    ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Agatha crossly, forgetting that she had resolved to be sweetness and light to Toni on every occasion.
    ‘Conflict diamonds or blood diamonds are used to fund rebel groups in places like Sierra Leone or Angola.’
    ‘But what on earth would a village copper be doing