Playing James

by Sarah Mason

  “No need. It’s nothing to do with me, Robin.”

  “So did he tell you . . . ?”

  “We sort of discussed it,” I admit cagily.

  “I feel so guilty.”

  “Well, the wedding is quite soon, I suppose.”

  “That’s going to be awkward.” There is a small pause and then she continues, “You don’t know the whole story.”

  “You could always tell me.”

  “I will. Soon, I promise.” I don’t push her any further but just nod. She adds, “What did you want to see me about yesterday?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When you interrupted us yesterday, what did you want?”

  I hesitate for a second, thinking about my own, pressing problem of the scooping, and then shake my head. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  This week James surpasses himself with his bad temper. The sign of a guilty conscience. His ability to make me feel uncomfortable is without rival but it seems he doesn’t limit his bad humor to me. I have caught him rowing not only with Callum (and I ask you, who but the worst tempered person in the world could row with Callum?) but also a mild mannered, non-assuming bloke called Bill, who has always been polite and courteous to me.

  As bizarre as this may sound, my days have actually fallen into some sort of pattern. I arrive down at the station by around eight A.M. and exchange friendly banter with Callum, spend the rest of the day running around with James, exchanging non-friendly banter, and then write up my diary in the early evening. It’s been tough doing police work by day and then, when everyone else is packing up to go home, having to head off to the paper to write my obligatory two thousand words every evening. Particularly hard when all you want to write is “Nothing much happened today but we nearly ran over a pigeon.” Not that there have been very many boring days, but James has had a few leads to follow up from cases that were before my arrival on the team. So those are things I can’t write about.

  My life has also been made much easier by the fact that the leaks to the Bristol Journal have stopped! My cunning ruse to tell James Sabine about my trip to the IT department obviously worked. When I went to tell Joe, he gave a huge sigh of relief and became conciliatory, and I uttered a huge sigh of relief at the fact I don’t have to try and develop a better relationship with James Sabine.

  “Have you tried explaining to Detective Sergeant Sabine how important it is for us to try and stay ahead of the Journal?” Joe inquired.

  “Yep.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “I think he said he couldn’t give a shit.”

  “Ah.” He paced around the room for a minute and then said, “We need to try and safeguard our position against the Journal a little better, Holly. This whole scooping business could start up again at any time. The numbers aren’t showing any increase in our circulation. We’ve got to somehow make people sit up and take notice.”

  “How about some advertising?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve briefed the publicity department today. They’re going to try and get some mentions on local radio shows and local TV. We’ve put aside a small advertising budget as well. Back of buses, that sort of thing.” Terrific. I’ve always wanted to be on the back of a bus. I could imagine the comments back at the station.

  He paced for a while longer. Then he turned suddenly and gripped my shoulder hard. Oh-oh. He’d finally lost it. I tried to look over my other shoulder to locate the emergency exit in case he started to foam at the mouth but he had me in too firm a grip. “I’ve got it!” he announced to me. I looked nervously at him. Was I supposed to break into a spirited rendition of The Rain in Spain?

  “A photographer!”

  Joe wants me to try and persuade James to have a photographer along with us. He thinks the addition of photos will boost the ratings dramatically and that photos will provide their own story (which is just as well as Detective Sergeant Sabine doesn’t seem to be telling me anything). How I am supposed to persuade the good detective it’s a winning idea, I simply do not know. I am going to wait for inspiration to strike me.

  Since Roger has officially linked the two burglaries (Mr. Forquar-White and Mrs. Stephens) by formally matching the mysterious substance from the first burglary to the second, the pressure has been stepped up to catch the thief. Roger still doesn’t know what the substance is and so we are waiting on the result of the DNA from the hair in the high hope that it can just be run through the computer to cough up the name of the guilty party. According to the insurance company, the thief made off with approximately fifty thousand pounds’ worth of goods from the second burglary. You have to have a grudging respect for that. Since the burglaries have practically turned into a series, I have tagged the thief with the nickname The Fox on account of the stealthy fashion of the crimes.

  Arduous questioning of anyone and everyone connected with the two households has not brought anything fresh to light. James Sabine is still doggedly pursuing the line that the thefts could only have been committed by someone who has actually been inside both houses. I, on the other hand, am despairing of the crimes ever being solved.

  Joe, particularly since the intervention of the Journal, has been taking a special interest in the welfare of the diary. He is on my case about catching The Fox. Not for the sake of public safety, oh no, but because he doesn’t want me writing about a crime that will remain unsolved. And not only does he want it solved but he wants it done before James’ wedding. However, I have devised a cunning plan in the eventuality of it remaining unsolved. I am going to frame Steve from the paper’s accounts department for it. He’s always getting my PAYE wrong. Et voilà! Everyone is a winner. (Apart from Steve, that is. Ho hum. It will be a sharp lesson for him not to play fast and loose with someone else’s tax code.)

  I have unfortunately also missed out on meeting up with some of the detectives for drinks after work. Callum always asks me if I would like to come, or if I could meet them all after I have filed copy, but I haven’t been able to yet. I’m getting on really well with the rest of the department—everyone is friendly and pleasant and I am well looked after. Callum brings me endless cups of coffee and pointedly doesn’t bring James any since their stand-up row at the beginning of the week. Don’t ask me what the row was about as I only got back for the tail end of it. But Callum has been wonderfully sweet and cheerful with me. It’s amazing the difference that one person can bring to your day.

  Even though Robin and I have drunk coffee together a few times this week, things are still a little awkward between us and she hasn’t volunteered any further information about her relationship with James. Perhaps she feels she can’t trust me yet, especially since I am a member of a profession where the word trust doesn’t really exist. I have spotted the two of them together once or twice, talking earnestly. I catch her occasionally looking sadly into space when she thinks I’m not looking and my heart feels for her.

  Since the whole Robin/James affair came to light I have to say my interest has been piqued. Every time James speaks to his bride-to-be, I am ashamed to say I listen intently. He is exceptionally nice to her as well (considering what he is like with everyone else, I would imagine it’s the guilt talking). Oh, and I found out what she’s called! Fleur! What sort of girlie name is that?! (I mustn’t pre-judge people. I mustn’t pre-judge people.) The unfortunate thing is, once my lurid imagination gets going it’s hard to stop it. I spend my time wondering what she looks like and what they do together at weekends. But the more I overhear their conversations, the more I feel sorry for her. Does she have any idea about Robin? I am hoping we’ll bump into her over the next few weeks. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t blab the truth in some misdirected “doing the right thing” idea. Not something we journalists are stricken with very often.

  Talking of weddings, I think Lizzie is finally losing the plot. One particular evening she popped round for a chat on the way back from work. She dropped the bags she was carrying and chucked herself on to the sofa with a, “Go
d! What a day! I’m knackered!” I went through to the kitchen to forage for supplies and when I returned, bearing a bottle of wine and two glasses, she was poring over a magazine.

  “Which do you like best, Hol, orange blossom or jasmine?” she asked dreamily, looking off into the distance. I was just about to offer my very distinct views on the subject when a thought occurred to me.

  “What. Are. You. Reading?”

  She held the magazine up for me to see. Brides magazine. Hmm.

  “Isn’t this perhaps a little premature?”

  “Don’t be cross! I saw them in the newsagent, couldn’t resist. Here, you have one.” She chucked another magazine over.

  “How is the groom-to-be?” I asked, snuggling down with my legs crossed under me on the sofa.

  Lizzie’s face clouded over. “Oh, a bit distant. But that’s going to change soon. How’s Ben?”

  “Oh, fine, I think. The only time we seem to meet each other is either in bed or the hallway.”

  Out of curiosity, I did have a little leaf through the mag. And then another one, and before you could say, “I do,” I was well into the subject and Lizzie and I were comparing the virtues of a winter wedding against a summer one and what our bridesmaids would wear. Altogether a completely addictive subject. I can see perfectly well why some women get obsessive about it. It was midnight before Lizzie finally got up to leave but I was still completely absorbed in an article entitled “Real Life Proposals.”

  “Holly?”

  I barely lifted my head. “Hmm?”

  “I’m going now.”

  “Just let me finish this.”

  “Keep it. I’ll pick it up next time.”

  “When do you want me to start phase one of this plan you’ve concocted?”

  “How about next weekend?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll call you when it’s time.”

  “No problem. See you.”

  “Bye!”

  I finished reading the article and, deep in thought, went through to brush my teeth. Apparently all I have to do is get Ben, a mountain, a sunset and a bottle of champagne in the same place at the same time and plaster a surprised expression on my face. How hard can it be?

  thirteen

  I think the whole world is wedding-obsessed at the moment. Even my mother! I answer the phone to her before I leave for work. That is my first mistake of the day, answering the damn thing.

  “Hello?”

  “Daaaarlingg!”

  “Hi! How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but the question is, how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I reply doubtfully. Is there a reason I shouldn’t be? An urgent operation that perhaps has slipped my mind? I clutch my vital organs for reassurance. My mother doesn’t enlarge on her mysterious comment and sweeps on regardless.

  “Now, darling. Do you remember I told you about that wedding? The one we’re coming to?”

  “Er, yes.” Er, no.

  “I was just ringing to check if it’s still all right to stay in your box room.”

  This is an accurate but scathing description of my spare room. “Fine. Whose wedding is it? Am I invited?”

  “No, you’re not. It’s Miles’ daughter’s; do you remember him? Dreadful old letch. One of my play’s backers.”

  “No, I don’t remember. When is it?”

  “In about three weeks’ time. We’ve been invited to some drinks party with them the weekend before as well. A sort of pre-wedding thing, but I don’t think we’re going to bother with that.”

  “Fine.”

  “Talking of weddings, you’re not thinking about eloping, are you?”

  My mind reels at the sudden subject change. “Er, no.”

  “Good. I saw a hat recently that I want to wear at your wedding so I just thought I’d make sure before I bought it.”

  “But I’m not getting married,” I say slowly.

  “Never?”

  “Well, maybe not never, but not in the foreseeable future,” I bluster.

  “Well, darling, don’t hold out forever.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.” I am too tired to argue. She has probably been watching daytime television again and they’ve done a report on weddings. My mother absolutely loves to be aboard a band-wagon, regardless of its destination.

  “How’s your detective?”

  “James Sabine?”

  “Now, that name’s familiar . . .” she says thoughtfully.

  “That’s because you’ve heard me say it a million times,” I reply patiently. “You know him as Jack.”

  “Ah yes! Jack! We’re getting acquainted with him quite well from the paper. Have you caught The Fox yet?”

  “We haven’t got any leads.”

  “The suspense is killing me. I do hope it lasts. How is Jack?”

  “Bad-tempered.”

  “Good!” she says vaguely. “Darling, I have to go. One of your brothers has just arrived with a sheep in his car.”

  “See you soon.”

  I smile to myself. My family always amuse me. Especially with a distance of a few hundred miles between us.

  “So, James, how would you feel about having a photographer along with us?”

  I frown at myself in the mirror. Maybe that’s a little too straight. Maybe I should sugarcoat the request a little. It’s the start of my third week as crime correspondent.

  “My editor feels you shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel any longer. He wants your gorgeous good looks captured on film.”

  Too creepy-crawly. The door to the Ladies bangs open and two giggling WPCs barge in. I busily wash my hands at the basin and listen to their careless chatter as they shout to each other across the partitions. The problem with James Sabine is that he can cut through any sugar-coating with those piercing, I-can-see-straight-through-your-soul green eyes. I give an involuntary shiver.

  I press the button on the hand dryer and hot air whooshes out to supposedly dry my wet hands. I shake them impatiently. I really wish I didn’t have to ask James for this, but I popped into the paper on my way in today and Joe caught me. I dropped the mouse from my laptop into the loo last night (don’t ask, just don’t ask) and so had to make an unscheduled pit stop at the paper to beg and plead with the IT department to give me another one (it was my second this month so I was ready to use some good, old-fashioned bribery). Luckily the offices were half empty as the full day shift hadn’t started yet. I was just tiptoeing over to see Andrew, the IT head of department, whose bald patch I had espied over the top of one of the computers, when Joe roared behind me, “HOLLY!” I jumped and then turned around in what I hope was a jaunty fashion.

  “Joe! Morning! How are you?”

  “Fine. You were on your way to see me, I take it?”

  “Of course.” If you have to lie, I always say do it blatantly. I had actually been studiously avoiding seeing Joe ever since he’d told me he wanted to get a photographer out with James and me. Not that I didn’t want a photographer with us—obviously it would be marvelous for the diary—it’s just I had yet to actually ask James. I was waiting a li-tt-le bit longer until he’d become more used to me. I sighed and forlornly followed Joe into his office. I suppose it had been just a matter of time.

  Joe sat down at his desk, leaned forward and linked his fingers together. He fixed me with a stare. I wriggled uncomfortably and trained my gaze on a spot just above his head.

  “So, have you asked him yet?”

  “I’m just about to. This very morning.” I gave what I hoped was a sanguine and winning smile.

  “Well, seeing that you are so confident, I’ll book Vince to join you at lunchtime.” My cocksure smile drooped a little.

  “Vince?” I said doubtfully.

  “He’s the best that we have, Holly. You should be honored.”

  “Ohh, I am, I am,” I replied, nodding frantically. Vince? VINCE? Now, don’t get me wrong. I love Vince, I worship the ground that Vince walks on . . . in his elfin boots with
chains around them. You see . . . how can I put it? I’ll give it to you straight (or not as the case may be). Vince is gay. Very gay.

  If you want a chat about the latest fashions, then Vince is your man. If you want to talk over any problems with your love life, then you reach for Vince’s mobile number. If you want the best photographer on the paper, then you get Vince on the job. But James and Vince? I wasn’t sure they were going to get on.

  “Holly, are you listening to me?”

  “Hmm?” I said, dragging my thoughts back into the room.

  “Do you want the diary to do well? A photographer is just what we need to send the whole thing through the roof.”

  “Great!” I meant it. I suddenly felt excited. He’d put it all into perspective for me. The success of the diary was the most important thing. What was I? A woman or a shirt button? What did I care what James Sabine thought? As long as the diary did well, then that was all that mattered. You see, Holly, I told myself, you and James Sabine will part company in a few weeks’ time, but the work you are doing now will dictate your career for many years to come. Right. So, get down to the police station and tell him about the photographer.

  “And I have some more good news for you.”

  “What?” Can I stand any more good news?

  “The local BBC TV station wants to do an interview with you!”

  “Fantastic! When?”

  “End of the week. You know where the studios are?”

  “Whiteladies Road?”

  He nodded. “Be there on Friday at seven.”

  And that is why I now find myself in the Ladies loos at the police station, drying my hands under a hot air dryer in a rather maniacal fashion, trying to think of the best way to ask James Sabine about the photographer. Stop flapping about, just go and ask, I tell myself firmly.