Playing James (24 page)

'The wedding. There seems to be loads to do.' The mention of the wedding seems to have a curiously dampening effect on both of us but I haven't time to even contemplate why as James is looking impatiently over at me. 'Right, where now?' he asks as we reach the end of the main one-way system.

Oh, buggery broccoli. Directions. I look nervously at the piece of paper in my hands. I'm not very good at directions. I don't know my left from my right, and since Detective Sergeant Sabine is doing such a spectacularly good job of making me feel utterly useless and generally a pain in the tubes, I daren't admit it to him.

'Erm, er, we want Richmond Road, in Clifton,' I say cagily. He obligingly heads towards the area of Clifton and gives me a few minutes to try and decipher both his handwriting and the actual directions. To distinguish left from right, I covertly hold both my hands up and make an 'L' shape with my thumb and first finger. Only one hand shows an actual 'L', you see. L for left.

'Where now?'

'Er, just looking.' Right, mustn't get flustered. Need to concentrate. The roads flash by and then I spot the one I'm looking for.

'TURN!' I shout.

'Which way?'

'Er, er, left. No, no, RIGHT.' Too late. We've missed it.

'Could you possibly tell me a little earlier? Like before we've actually passed the turning?'

'It would help if we were travelling slightly more slowly,' I say emphatically. We both glare ahead of us. Really, the man is absolutely intolerable. We do a highly illegal U-turn in the middle of the street and head back.

'Left or right, which was it?'

'Right,' I say confidently – but then we've turned around, haven't we?

'No! Left! I mean left!' He screeches to a halt and pulls in by the side of the road.

'You. Are. Driving. Me. Mad! Which is it? And what are you doing with your hands?'

There is a pregnant pause while I consider various lies to explain the situation. The problem is I can't think of a good enough one. I look at my hands, hoping they might give me an answer. They are being particularly uncommunicative. Truth is my final option.

'I don't know my left from my right,' I say in a small voice. I'm really not having a very good day so far. There's silence in the car. I await the firing squad, but to my surprise it doesn't materialise.

'Here, shove over. You drive and I'll do the directions.'

He gets out of the car and goes around to the passenger side while I climb over the handbrake into the driver's seat.

'Are you dyslexic?' he asks as we both re-attach our seatbelts and I adjust the seat for my shorter legs.

'No!' I reply hotly. ' I just don't know my left from my right.'

That's not dyslexia?'

'No, it's not.'

I start the engine and wait for instructions. He studies the directions for a second. We smoothly arrive at our destination within ten minutes or so and not once does he use the words 'left' or 'right'. He just constantly points with his hands and says 'Turn here'. I have to say I'm nicely surprised. In fact, James Sabine appears almost human for a minute.

We pull up outside a quaint little shop in the depths of Clifton Village, an opulent part of Bristol. The shop is just how I would have imagined The Olde Curiosity Shop to be. There is a silence as we get our stuff together. We look at each other, not really sure what to say. His mobile rings shrilly, interrupting our awkwardness, and he answers it.

'Hello? Hi, yeah, quite busy … Don't worry, I remembered. Where does he live again? Is he going to ask how many times I go to church? No problem … see you there around eight. Bye!' The future wife, I presume. I, in the meantime, have picked up my handbag and fiddled around with a few things, trying not to look as though I am eavesdropping on his conversation. Our moment of awkwardness over, he reverts to his usual efficient self.

'Ready?' he asks as he slips his mobile back into his pocket. I lock the car up and together we walk towards the address. Vince's customised lilac Beetle pulls up behind us.

'Coo-eee!' He waves at us out of the window. James groans. Vince gets out and minces towards us. Today he is wearing white jeans and a turquoise T-shirt with the emblem 'Shag-tastic Baby!' on it. A beret sits perkily on top of his spiky hair and the whole ensemble is completed with, yep, you've guessed it, elfin boots with chains around them. I can't help it. I love him. He kisses me on both cheeks.

'Darling! Saw you on the telly. You made my night when you emptied that glass of water over Giles! The beast dumped me last month!' He doesn't pause for breath as he turns towards James. 'Good morning, Detective Sergeant! You're looking very summery!'

Thank you, Vince.' James smiles awkwardly and I look at him. He is dressed in an open-necked blue shirt, sleeves folded up to show tanned forearms, and a pair of faded corduroys. Quite a contrast to our photographer.

'Vince,' James continues, 'would you mind terribly putting a jumper on or something? It's just that it's supposed to be a police inquiry and I don't think …' He looks pointedly at the phrase 'Shag-tastic Baby!'.

'Detective Sergeant Sabine, of course I will. I understand what you're saying but don't you worry, I'll just
blend
into the background.' Vince makes sweeping motions with his hands to indicate his blending abilities. 'You won't know I'm there.'

James looks enormously doubtful.

As Vince turns around to go back to his car, we catch a glimpse of the phrase 'Do you feel horny?' emblazoned on his back. James and I just look at each other.

An old-fashioned bell rings as we enter the shop. James has to bend his head to get through the doorway. The musty smell of age welcomes us. Furniture of every shape and size visually greets us. The shop is lit by a dingy half-light as the windows are too small to let an acceptable amount of light in. At the sound of the bell, a man appears out of nowhere to receive us. He is small and dressed from head to toe in tweed (including a matching waistcoat). He has a little moustache and round glasses. James flips open his ID.

'I am Detective Sergeant Sabine and this is—'

'Holly Colshannon.' I step forward eagerly. 'I'm here for observation only.'

He duly shakes both our hands rather limply. 'I'm Mr Rolfe, the owner of the shop.'

'Can you show us where the burglar got in?'

'Certainly.' We move with him through to the back of the shop. 'I arrived, as usual, at about eight o'clock this morning. I rarely use the back door, just occasionally for putting the rubbish out, but it was soon apparent to me that some items were missing and so I came through here to find out where the intruder might have got in.' He gestures towards a glass-paned door which has a pane broken and a lock that looks as though it has been forced.

'Do you have an alarm at all, Mr Rolfe?'

'Yes, I do. I think it's been disabled in some way. It wasn't working when I put the code in this morning, but I thought there might have been an electricity cut or something. The actual alarm seems to have been placed in a bucket of water outside.' He starts to move outside, presumably to show us the water-logged alarm, but James puts an arm out to stop him.

'I'd rather our forensics team had a look first, Mr Rolfe. They're on their way down. While we're waiting, could you make out a list of what's missing please?'

We walk back through to the main room. I spy Vince taking some shots of the shop outside.

'I've been doing that while I've been waiting for you,' Mr Rolfe says as he bustles to a desk, produces a sheet of paper and hands it to James.

James fleetingly looks down at the list. 'How would you rate the value of the items taken?'

Mr Rolfe clears his throat, 'Well, I would say that whoever has taken these things has a remarkably good eye for quality. For instance, they took the Lalique vase and yet left this little trinket box.' He points to the item on a table. 'Reproduction. Relatively worthless.'

He looks up as the bell on the front door rings. Roger and his team enter, and amid all the introductions Vince slips in too. He mouths, 'I'm blending in.'

James hands the list over to me as he leads the team through to the back of the shop.

'Is all this going to be in that diary, then?' Mr Rolfe asks me.

'Er, yeah. If that's OK?'

'Out tomorrow?'

'Should be.'

Vince takes a couple of shots of me as I frown, and study the list. He then gives up on an unresponsive subject and follows the others through to the back of the shop.

I continue to study the list. There's something here that I'm not happy about. I just can't put my finger on it. The thought had flitted through my head but then the noise of Vince's camera disturbed me and I lost it. I frown even more, trying to remember. My eyes read down the list again and then stop on one item.

EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY ACT OF PARLIAMENT CLOCK.

Light chinks through my brain. Wasn't there a clock on Sebastian Forquar-White's list? And didn't Mrs Stephens say that the burglar even took a clock her late husband had given to her which wasn't working properly? I can't remember if there was one on the Williams' list.

I walk through to the rear.

'James?' He spins around and I beckon him over.

'Have you noticed there is always a clock on the list of stolen items?' I say to him in a low voice.

'Yeah, I have.'
_;

'So doesn't that help a bit?'

'I don't know,' he sighs. 'You see, all the items taken have to be small enough for the burglar to carry, so it could just be a coincidence. It's not like we're going to find too many Louis XVIII sideboards on there.'

He turns around and goes back to where the work is progressing. I shrug to myself. Oh well, I suppose I should stop playing detective and let the real ones get on with their job. I sigh, get out my notebook and take notes as everyone goes about their work. Someone has put tape all around the affected area of the entry point and Roger is there, dressed in a white plastic jumpsuit (the forensics team's habitual uniform), endeavouring to lift some fingerprints from the door frame. Someone else is examining the floor and James is talking to Mr Rolfe over to one side. Vince is standing on the outskirts of all of that with his camera clicking away.

When James has asked all his questions, he starts to make the appropriate leaving noises. I make wild jolting head gestures at Vince to indicate that we are going. Mr Rolfe takes off his glasses and tiredly rubs his eyes, saying as he does so, 'The insurance company may want to talk to you. Is it OK to give them your number?'

James nods his acquiescence, Vince joins us and all three of us leave together, the bell on the door ringing joyfully as we go.

As James and I head back through the city traffic, I chew on my lip thoughtfully. Something else is bothering me now. Something that someone has just mentioned. What is it? I suddenly sit bolt upright in my seat with a gasp. James instinctively brakes.

'What? What?'

'Insurance!'

'Oh.' He breathes a sigh of relief. 'I thought I'd ran over something.' He settles back down into his seat. 'What about it?'

'Maybe that's the link. Maybe that's how the burglar knew where to get in and out of the houses so easily and just what to take. If all the details were listed with an insurance company, they wouldn't have to get into the house to case it. All the information would be on file.'

James stares at the car in front for a few seconds.

I continue. 'Didn't you say that everything stolen from Sebastian Forquar-White's house was a named item with the insurance company?'

'Yes, it was. And I remember him saying that his insurance company had requested he have the catch fixed on the small window where the burglar got in. I remember thinking how ironic it was to be burgled straight after that.' His brow creases thoughtfully.

'Do you know which insurance company the other victims use? Mrs Stephens, the Williamses and Mr Rolfe?'

'No. But we can call as soon as we get back.'

'Would an insurance company actually look around a property though? I mean, I've never met anyone from the company who insure my home. I arranged it all over the phone.'

'Somebody would look around a property that's of a considerable size, especially if they have a number of expensive items which need to be named. They would have to check that they actually exist. Good idea, Holly.' I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Goodness, that was close to an actual compliment.

We travel in silence for the rest of the journey. I feel just a little excited. I mean, what if I'm right? What if it is something to do with the insurance company? We drive into the underground car park and then make our way up towards reception.

'Morning Dave!' says James to Dave-the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant. Dave looks up and greets him with a smile.

'Morning sir! I've got a few things for you!' He bends down and fishes underneath the desk, then produces some gaudy, handwritten envelopes.

'What on earth …?'

Dave leans forward conspiratorially and loudly whispers, 'Fan mail, sir, if I'm not mistaken. Strong smell of perfume.' James stares at him and a large grin spreads across my face which I instantly wipe off as James turns towards me. I look at him concernedly as though I haven't heard.

'This is your fault,' he says through a pursed mouth. I can't help it. The grin starts across my face again.

'James, I can't help it if women write to you. That's nothing to do with me.'

'Hmph.' He turns back to Dave. 'You haven't, er, told …'

'Our little secret, sir.'

'Right. Good. Thanks.'

We sweep through the security doors. Dave doesn't glance at me but he smiles down at his desk without looking up.

We climb the stairs to the second floor in silence.

'So,' I say eventually, 'fan mail, eh?'

'If you dare mention this to anyone, anyone at all, I'll …'

'You'll what?'

'You'll see. It won't be pleasant.'

We enter the offices and a chorus goes up as we pass by the desks. 'Oh James, we love you soooo …' says one high-pitched voice. 'Dick, you're my hero!' says a second. Another officer called John falls into a mock swoon in front of us and we have to step over him.