Playing James (9 page)

'Oh, to be back in London,' she murmurs, looking down at her rocket-less, mayonnaised-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life, un-focaccia sandwich.

Again I have to wonder why she bothered leaving London if she is so anxious to go back there?

I walk back to the solace of my desk half an hour later. Callum waves as I wander past in a dream. I wave distractedly back. He's talking on the phone with his feet up on his desk and simultaneously eating a banana.

I settle down to write the introductory piece for the diary. I am desperately trying to think of an angle. Should it be serious and insightful? Or written with a touch of humour? What do people really want to read about? I chew my pencil thoughtfully and do a couple of spins in the chair just to get the old grey matter working.

People want to read about people. So this diary is going to be an absolutely honest account of my six weeks with James Sabine, right down to the sarcasm. As I know he's not particularly keen on the whole affair, I will change his name. To Jack. (Jack is one of my mother's cats at home. He is particularly vicious.) But you know what? I'm going to keep everything else the same. Warts, and in my opinion there are many, and all. The problem is going to be extracting enough personal details from Detective Sergeant Sabine for the readers to get to know him.

I stare thoughtfully ahead of me. Opposite, James Sabine is cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder and simultaneously trying to get into a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. He pauses now and then to talk passionately and gesticulate with one hand. Eventually, frustrated by the sandwich manufacturer's determined efforts at preservation, he reaches into his drawer, flicks open a pen knife and viciously stabs the sandwich to death. I smile to myself and re-focus on the computer screen. The man is really in need of a holiday.

I work for a couple of hours on the introduction to the diary while Detective Sergeant Sabine slaves over paperwork and phone calls. At one point he gets up. Petrified he is trying to give me the slip, I ask, 'Where are you going?'

He fixes me with a stare. I belatedly remember the fate of the sandwich and wince. 'I'm going to the men's room. Would you like to come? Take some notes perhaps?'

'No, no. Thought you might be going out,' I murmur with embarrassment. My blood tirelessly makes another trip skyward.

'Unfortunately, Miss Colshannon, as much as I dislike the fact, I have been told by our revered Chief that I am not allowed to go anywhere, except perhaps the bathroom, without you. So, believe me, when the time comes for me to go anywhere you will be the first to know.'

'Glad to hear it,' I mutter, staring at my computer screen.

'Why does he dislike me so much?' I ask Callum as he drops by my desk a few minutes later to ask if I want a cup of tea from the vending machine.

'Don't take it personally.'

'I think it's meant personally.'

'No, it's not. I told you before, he doesn't like reporters very much.'

'Why?'

'The past always comes back to haunt us,' he says mysteriously. 'Sugar?'

The introduction to the diary reads:

Day by day. Blow by blow. You're right there on the front line with our correspondent, Holly Colshannon. The Real Dick Tracy's Diary. Starts Monday …

I stare thoughtfully at the words and, after tinkering a while longer, close down the application, attach it to an e-mail to Joe and send it over to the paper.

I have arranged to meet Lizzie and Ben after work at the Square Bar. So once James Sabine and I have exchanged curt goodbyes, Tristan and I make our way up Park Street and, after a quick scout around, negotiate a rather tight parking space.

The Square Bar is a chic little place set in the basement of a house in one of the old squares of Bristol. I like the old squares; they remind me of bygone times when the Regency gentlefolk raced their barouches and partook of the waters at Bath.

They filmed 'The House of Elliot' in this very square. Yep, this very square. I know because I accidentally walked straight through the set one day. The cameras were rolling, children dressed in Edwardian clothes were playing with hoops, a carriage was waiting outside one of the houses and I didn't see any of it. I strolled straight through and the irate director yelled, 'CUT,' which did wake me quite suddenly out of my daydream.

I walk down the steps to the bar and peer in. Lizzie is thankfully already
in situ
, in possession of two bar stools and fighting off the throngs from her precious commodities.

I battle my way over to her, plant a kiss on her cheek, dump my bag at her feet and clamber awkwardly on to the bar stool. Sensing my need, she wordlessly passes me her drink and I take a couple of grateful gulps.

'How is the crime business?' she asks.

'Not good.'

As a matter of priority, she gestures to the barman and orders another couple of drinks. She turns back to me. 'I take it that things aren't much better with Morse?'

'Well, I don't think they could get much worse.'

'What happened?'

I rant and rave about James Sabine's sarcasm, the radio incident, and then, working backwards to this morning, tell her about being called to the hospital for a drug theft. 'And you'll never guess who I met there?'

Lizzie grins, thoroughly enjoying the whole account of the day.

'The doctor from last week. Ha, ha!'

The smile from her face fades as I raise my eyebrows at her. 'You're not serious?'

'Unfortunately, yes. He was the doctor we had to interview about the thefts. It was so embarrassing,' I say, taking another sip of vodka and lemon.

'What was his name again?'

'Dr Kirkpatrick.'

'God. I thought you were going to say Teresa the Holy Cow!'

A voice interrupts us. 'Hello Holly, hello Lizzie. My! What a surprise to find you two in a bar!'

It's Teresa the Holy Cow. Rhubarb.

We both say hello in very small voices because she's taken us aback a bit and probably overheard the Holy Cow thing as well.

'So, what have you two been up to?' she asks.

Lizzie replies acidly, 'We're here celebrating
actually
. Holly has just got an exciting new assignment.'

'How wonderful,' says Teresa, her lips scarcely moving and, needless to say, certainly not smiling.

'Yes, it is.'

'Doing what?'

'Breaking new ground, expanding horizons, ripping up blueprints, you know the sort of thing.'

'Don't overdo it, Lizzie,' I murmur out of the corner of my mouth. She is getting a bit heated on the subject, bless her.

'Yes. The newspaper is launching her new diary on Monday. You should look out for it,' she continues.

I kick Lizzie sharply on the ankle because, frankly, this is more information than Teresa needs to know. And, as we have learnt from bitter lessons in the past, the less information Teresa has the better. Lizzie winces but luckily Teresa doesn't notice as she turns to me.

'How brave of you, Holly, to do something so different. And in today's climate. I really hope it works for you.' Yeah. Right.

'What are you doing here, Teresa?' I ask pointedly.

'I'm here with the Bible Society. We're also celebrating so we've come down for a quick spritzer before the meeting. We've just had two new members join. It's so gratifying when a person sees the error of their ways. Sees their superficial lifestyle for what it is. Full of boys, alcohol and soap operas. Pathetic really.'

Just at this point Ben walks in, spots us at the bar and struggles across the crowded room. A grateful smile comes over my face. He has impeccable timing. He is looking, as usual, absolutely gorgeous. He smiles lazily as he smooths his floppy blond hair back with one hand. He gives Lizzie and me a quick kiss on the cheek and then turns to Teresa.

'I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced. I'm Ben.' The thaw in Teresa is sick-making. She practically throws herself at his feet like a fawning puppy welcoming its owner home. A big smile comes over her frosty face and it is surprising to see how pretty she would be if only she did it more often. Ben always has this effect on people.

'Teresa. Teresa Fothersby. I am a friend of Holly and Lizzie's from school,' she says, eagerly holding out her hand.

Lizzie takes another swig of her drink and womanfully murmurs under her breath, 'She bloody well isn't.'

'Can I get you a drink, Teresa? I was just getting one for myself.'

'Thank you, Ben. That would be lovely.'

After ascertaining whether Lizzie and I need re-fills, he sidles into a space a few feet away from us at the packed bar and Teresa follows him. Lizzie and I both raise our eyes at each other. I unashamedly watch their every move.

He's telling her something and she's laughing and has her hand on his arm. My top lip curls up in an unattractive snarl. What has happened to good old Christian values, eh Teresa? No sex before marriage and all that. I express this view to Lizzie.

'She's just showing us that she could do it if she wanted to,' Lizzie says. 'You know, telling us that she can get a man any time she chooses. Besides, she is wearing white ankle socks, for goodness sake!'

'Well, Ben isn't exactly fighting her off, is he? He's not swatting her arm as though it's a petulant wasp, IS HE?'

This has pissed me off, because not only does Teresa think she can get a man if she chooses to, she thinks she can get
my
man.

'Don't look at them! She knows you're looking over and she's playing up even more. Talk to me. So did Dr Kirkpatrick recognise you?'

'Almost immediately,' I say gloomily, dragging my eyes back to Lizzie. 'He's so nice though. If it wasn't for Casanova over there I'd be seriously tempted to have some more accidents.'

Ben re-joins us, carrying a pint.

'Are you both all right? That Teresa is a nice girl, isn't she?'

For a second I glare at him, then catch Lizzie's eye and smile. Men are so unperceptive, aren't they?

'Has she gone?'

'A couple of people she was meeting came in. Some sort of society thing. So how was your first day?'

I hesitate for a second and then say, 'Fine,' and smile at him. I might tell him later about James Sabine, but for the moment I've got my griping about the good policeman out of my system. Besides, I always find men singularly unhelpful when talking about such things. They always end up saying stuff like, 'Do you want me to sort him out?'

Ben gets distracted by some work friends and goes over for a chat. Lizzie and I are left alone again.

'Are you all right?' I ask. 'You seem a bit low.' She's been a little subdued all evening. Her smile isn't quite reaching her eyes.

She bobs her head up and down without directly looking at me and sips her drink. 'Yeah, fine.'

'Are you sure?'

'Well, it's just that …' She shrugs a little.

'What?'

'I don't know. Alastair is a bit distracted and although I understand he has to work, I'm upset he wasn't around at the weekend after the hospital thing.'

I reach over and pat her hand. 'I'm sorry. I'm sure he would have been there if he could have been.'

'And someone has just got engaged at work today. She seemed so happy. It sort of brought it home how distant Alastair and I have been lately. Sorry, I didn't mean to bring this up.'

'It's OK.' I look concernedly at her, wondering what to say.

'I'm worried he's gone off me and just doesn't know how to finish it, so he's hiding behind work. It was so wonderful at the start. I don't know how to get it back.'

'I don't think he's hiding behind work. He probably genuinely is under pressure and it's making him distant.' I'm not quite sure I believe this myself.

'Well, if he does want to finish it, I wish he would get on and do it.'

'Poor darling. But I don't think you should just sit back and wait for it to happen. Why don't you be the proactive one?' I pat her hand again as she looks miserably into her drink.

'Yeah, you're probably right. I'll think about it. Aren't you and Ben going to that pizza place tonight?'

'We are. Why don't you come too?'

That's kind of you but I'd be miserable company. Besides, you and Ben should spend time together. I'm going to have a hot bath and go to bed early.'

'OK,' I say, a bit loath to leave her. For a minute I'm tempted to tell Ben to cancel the restaurant. I look over at him. Probably feeling my look, he glances up himself and taps his watch. I nod and get up.

'Are you sure you'll be all right?' I ask Lizzie doubtfully.

'I'll be fine. Go on. You and Ben have a nice evening.'

The three of us walk out into the relative quiet and cool of the evening and say our respective goodbyes. I give Lizzie a hug and tell her I'll speak to her tomorrow. She walks across the square to her car and Ben and I turn and walk, hand in hand, down to our restaurant.

I
arise somewhat groggily from my pit on Friday morn-ing. From the mound of wet towels on the bathroom floor I conclude that Ben has already left for his early morning meeting.

I take care with my appearance as opposed to my usual method of grabbing the first thing to hand. This is a sort of psychological armour against the barbs of James Sabine.

I wend my way down to the police station, only stopping en route for a fruit smoothie in lieu of breakfast. This is a pathetic attempt on my part to feel better. After two days at the mercy of Detective Sergeant Sabine's tongue, I feel my self-esteem to be limping a bit. The emotional effect of having a fruit smoothie for breakfast makes me feel decidedly supermodel-esque.

I park in my usual spot at the station, successfully exit from Tristan and breathe in the early morning air. The sun bounces off the top few windows of the building and the air has a sweet, fresh tang.

'Morning!' I say brightly to Dave-the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant. He at least makes eye contact and, with a curt nod, buzzes me through the security doors.

I pop my head around the door to the PR office and exchange morning pleasantries with Robin. Once up in the detectives' office, I make my way towards my desk. The room is half empty as some of the officers are on later shifts. Callum is already in state and greets me with a blaring, 'Morning! How are you? You're looking downcast. Not the puckish young thing we've come to know over the last few days. Not been dreaming of the harsh Detective Sergeant Sabine have you?'