Playing James

by Sarah Mason

  “What’s that?” asks James.

  “Vince’s pictures of yesterday.”

  “How do they look?” he asks, trying to glance at them as we go along.

  “Good. There’s a great one of your elbow making contact with my head.” I hold it up for him to see.

  “Shit! I bet that hurt!” he says, looking across.

  “It did rather.”

  “I think you really must have something wrong with your inner ear.”

  “Why do you say that?” I retort huffily.

  “Nobody can be that uncoordinated. Do I really look like that?”

  “Yes, you do,” I snap. James’s mobile rings shrilly, interrupting us before the row escalates.

  I close the newspaper and stare out of the window. James barks down the phone as I try frantically to catch one of my running thoughts. Ben, The Fox, Mr. Williams, Dr. Kirkpatrick. They all go round and round in my head without slowing down. I feel as though I’m on a rollercoaster ride and I’m not allowed to get off.

  It’s still only mid-morning by the time we get back to the station. The desk sergeant is his normal cheery and charming self, completely ignoring yours truly while asking after James’ health. We walk into the offices upstairs and are stopped continually en route to our desks by officers asking me how my eye is and telling James off for doing it. I keep shooting glances at James, wondering just how long his temper is going to hold out under this barrage. It seems to be weathering it tolerably well. Callum is not around but he has bought me a pirate’s black eye-patch as a joke and has left it on my desk with a note.

  I am determined to sort out this wedding-magazine-thing with Ben as soon as I possibly can. I find the opportunity when James is seated at his desk. I slip out to the corridor and dial Ben’s direct line work number into my mobile.

  He answers.

  “Ben, it’s me.”

  “Oh, hi,” he says awkwardly.

  “Ben, I know why you rushed off last night and I’m just calling to explain . . .”

  And I go on to tell him all about Lizzie’s marriage fetish and how she left the magazines at my house.

  “. . . and I have no interest whatsoever in marrying you. I haven’t thought about it at all. Not that I might not want to marry you at some point in the future or . . .”

  “I believe you, Holly. I’m sorry for getting the wrong end of the stick.”

  “Oh, OK.” I breathe out in relief and let my shoulders go—I hadn’t noticed they were tense but they seem to visibly sag. “Right.” I can’t think of anything else to say and because my playing-it-cool method has been shot to bits I think it may be wise to finish the conversation as quickly as I can.

  “Well! Glad we sorted that out then! Have to go, see you soon.” We say our respective goodbyes and hang up. I’m just about to make my way back to my desk when my mobile rings. I look at the number and answer it.

  “Hi Lizzie. How’s it going?”

  “I know you don’t like to be disturbed at work, but I had to call and say how fabulous the pictures are!” Her voice ends in a high-pitched squeal of excitement.

  I smile, genuinely pleased. “Oh, thanks.”

  “So how are you?”

  “OK, I suppose,” I say wearily.

  “What’s up?” So I tell her about Ben finding the magazines and leaping to the wrong conclusion.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lizzie says forlornly.

  “I think we’ve patched things up now.”

  “No, I’m sorry because they’re my magazines.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” I say a trifle pointedly. “Don’t worry about it. Look, I’ve got to go. See you tonight?” She agrees and I return to my desk.

  A while later, I am tapping away on my laptop in preparation for this evening’s diary edition and wearing my eye-patch from Callum to annoy James. Vince has been dispatched to the hospital to take some pictures of Mr. Williams. James is on the phone to the DNA lab. I am halfheartedly listening in, but start to listen intently as a few snippets reach my ears.

  “God, I’m really sorry. No, we had absolutely no idea. Of course Roger wouldn’t have known . . . I didn’t see it myself. Yeah, I do know how much all this costs. Yeah. Thanks again. Bye.”

  “What’s up?” I ask as soon as he puts the receiver down, my one eye wide with excitement.

  “The hair we sent away for DNA testing turns out to be a cat hair.”

  “A cat hair?”

  “A cat hair.”

  We look at each other doubtfully for a second, then both of us start to smile.

  “They were furious,” he says. “Accused me of wasting time and resources.”

  “You would think Roger would know the difference between a cat hair and a human one.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘cat burglar.’ ”

  “You’re not going to print this, are you?”

  I smile. “Our secret. What color was the hair, by the way?”

  “Ginger.”

  “Pity you can’t run it through the computer. Known felons who own a ginger tom.”

  He grins, but then slowly his smile fades. “Damn, it was our one strong lead. I spoke to Roger earlier today. That peculiar substance was only on the one door handle in the third burglary. Someone has got into all those houses previously to case them. How did they do it? Who would you let into your house?” He uncaps a pen and reaches for a notepad to make a list.

  I rack my brains. “Er, gas and electricity people, telephone too. How about builders? Piano tuners?” He raises an eyebrow at this one but humors me by writing them all down. “. . . salesmen, finance people perhaps, about pensions or something. Accountants. Erm, can’t think of any more.”

  We look at each other for a while, he adds a couple of his own ideas and then recaps the pen. “We need the common link among all the houses. Come on.” He gets up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the beginning.”

  “Could we put the siren on this time?”

  “NO.”

  fifteen

  Firstly we visit the homes of Mrs. Stephens and Mr. Williams. We write down the names of anyone they can remember who has visited their house in the last two months. Plumbers, delivery men—anyone and everyone. We then emerge forty-five minutes later from Sebastian Forquar-White’s house. We have cross-referenced the lists and exhausted every possibility of a link between the three houses. We’ve drawn a complete blank.

  I follow James down the path and out on to the road. He leans against the car and distractedly runs his hand through his hair.

  “Are you sure the burglar would have been in these houses before he robbed them?” I ask, exhausted with the list-making.

  He looks up at the grand house before him. “They have all said the thief knew exactly where to find everything and how to disable the alarm systems. The thief would have known these houses have good security systems in them. It would have been too risky just to wing it. None of the neighbors claim to have seen or heard anything at all. Whoever it was must have had prior knowledge of the houses. Besides all of that, the substance we can’t identify is only in the rooms where goods were removed and even then very sparingly. The thief must have known exactly where everything was. We’re just missing whatever the link is.”

  We drive back to the station and, since it is toward the end of the day, park in the above-ground car park. We pull into the entrance and sweep into a parking space. I am just wondering what the next step is, as we walk together toward the reception, when I notice a girl coming toward us.

  A singularly beautiful girl.

  Her hips sway gently as she carefully places one long-limbed leg in front of the other. She walks with a grace and an elegance that would not look out of place on the catwalk. Her hair is a cropped, shiny black mass and her makeup has a chic nonchalance I could never hope to achieve. It seems James has also noticed her presence. She com
es straight up to him and plants a kiss squarely on his lips. This must be Fleur. I can see why Robin wants to leave Bristol now. She’s got more than a little competition on her hands.

  “Hello darling! I thought that we could travel home together.” She turns to me and extends a hand.

  “Hello! You must be Holly! I have heard so much about you!” I daren’t look at James at this point because we both know it can’t have been anything good. “I’m Fleur, James’ fiancée.”

  I shake her hand and say hello. She comes and walks between us, linking her hand through James’ arm.

  “So, have you two had a good day? Or has it been all blood and guts?” she asks chattily.

  “No, it’s been fine. How was yours?” James says.

  “Oh, the usual.” The usual what? I think. The usual fashion shoot? The usual PR for celebrities? Her glamorous presence seems to make me feel strangely shy.

  We reach the entrance and James says, “I just need to pop up and collect some things. I’ll be two secs.”

  “Don’t worry! I’ll stay here and have a nice chat to Holly.”

  In actual fact I need to collect my stuff as well and shoot my little ass over to the paper, but let’s just say I am inquisitive. All right then, nosy.

  She plonks herself down on the steps and smiles up at me. I join her on the steps.

  “So, how are you finding it?” she inquires sweetly.

  “Oh, fine thanks,” I say a little warily, because although she seems very nice and I am sure she is very nice, I know whatever I say will go straight back to James. She politely doesn’t mention the shades I am sporting and I wonder if she realizes I am wearing them because her future husband has given me a beauty of a shiner. I opt for a swift change of subject.

  “Congratulations! I hear you two are getting married.”

  She smiles, a little mistily. “Yes, we are. In three weeks’ time. It will be bliss! We’re going to the Maldives for our honeymoon! Imagine! Two weeks away from work! I can hardly wait!”

  “What do you do?”

  “Didn’t he tell you? Well, that’s how we met. It was last year. I work as the administrator for a bereavement charity. His brother was killed.”

  Oh. My. God. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “He was killed in a sailing accident, no one’s fault. So tragic. James was devastated. He came to us for counseling.” Golly, not only does she look like a ministering angel, she is one as well. A picture flashes before my eyes of a grieving James, slowly brought through the mourning process by this beautiful woman and falling in love on the way. I inwardly gulp. This is way out of my league. I feel like a big cheese plant next to her stunning orchid. A skilled conversationalist, she leads the way out of our slight pause by asking, “Have you met Callum?”

  “Yes, yes, I have.”

  “He’s nice, isn’t he? He’s going to be our best man.” I didn’t know that.

  “I didn’t know that.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise and suddenly wonder if the row they had last week was about Robin.

  James appears at the top of the steps. “Come on, Fleur. Stop telling Holly our deep, dark secrets.” He looks at me intently as if to warn me off from telling Fleur a couple of his deep, dark secrets.

  We both scramble up. Fleur turns to me. “It was really nice to meet you at last, Holly. We must go out for a drink sometime, just us girls.”

  “I would like that,” I say truthfully.

  “Take care of him, won’t you?”

  “I will. Bye Fleur, bye James.”

  I decide to walk the three flights of stairs up to the paper as a little exercise wouldn’t go amiss. I bang open the emergency exit doors that lead into our offices and then make my way to Joe’s office.

  I knock and wait for the habitual “COME!” Upon hearing it, I walk in and, seeing that Joe is on the phone, make myself comfortable and await his attention, my thoughts still full of James and his brother.

  Joe puts down the receiver.

  “Blimey, Holly! It’s turned into a blinder, hasn’t it?”

  I look at him, absolutely mystified. What are we talking about? The diary? The Fox’s latest job? What?

  “All the colors of the rainbow.” Still I stare at him. What is this? Some sort of new code language nobody has bothered sending me a memo about?

  “Your eye, Holly. Your eye,” Joe says patiently.

  “Oh!” My hand flies up to touch it. I had completely forgotten I’d taken my sunglasses off. I get up and examine it in the mirror on his door. Even I wince at the sight of it. Damn, I should have been making more of it. What is the point of having an injury if you don’t exploit it to its full advantage?

  I immediately adopt an injured animal air and go back and sit down.

  “All in the line of duty, Joe, all in the line of duty,” I murmur faintly.

  “How’s it going?”

  “It’s still a bit sore,” I say pathetically.

  “Not your eye, the diary. How’s it going?”

  “Oh!” I adopt a more businesslike air. “Another burglary today.”

  “Another one? The Fox again?”

  “ ’Fraid so. Unfortunately a bloke got hurt too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he interrupted the burglary. Got walloped over the head. The Chief wants us to make it our main priority from now on. Vince went down to the hospital to take some photos of the victim. Probably still developing them.”

  “Will these burglaries be solved before the diary finishes?”

  “Maybe!” I say brightly. Well, maybe they will and maybe they won’t. There’s a pause as he mulls this over.

  “Had the opinion pollsters out today as it was the first day with photos.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Brilliant. People are loving it! Circulation is up. Don’t forget the TV interview; we started trailing it today. I want you to really play up the live aspect. You know, fly on the, er, door, that sort of thing. Basically, do the PR blurb that you did to trail the diary.”

  “Yeah, I will.” I get up to go.

  He frowns, looking at me. “I hope your black eye will still be there by then. Is there anything you can do to prolong the bruising? Syrup of figs or anything?”

  “A little self-flagellation perhaps? Would you like me to take to my head with a frying pan?” I’m not sure that I like this attitude. Clonked yourself around the head? Oh, terrific stuff! Could you see your way to managing a broken limb next time?

  I gather up my bag and make my way to the door. Just as I am about to leave, Joe calls out, “How’s Buntam?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Buntam, your cousin. How is he?”

  “Er, Buntam’s fine,” I reply, blinking a little.

  “I didn’t see him playing last weekend.”

  My mouth opens and shuts a few times and I blink some more. Normally I would be prepared for this sort of eventuality but the diary has been all-consuming. I wonder briefly what sort of miraculous story-telling my mouth is going to come out with.

  “Did I say he is fine? I meant he’s fine after his accident.” I nod gravely.

  “Accident?”

  “Runaway golf buggy on the sixth hole. Very nasty. Hit and run too. Looks like dear old Buntam will be out of the game for a few months.” Bravo mouth! A fine effort!

  “Hit and run? In a golf buggy?” There is a note of incredulity in Joe’s voice that makes my brain pause for a second. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to slow my over-ambitious mouth up at all.

  “It was one of those new speedy American ones. Nobody got his license plate.” Do the damn things have license plates?

  Joe shakes his head and tuts to himself for a while, then mutters, “License plate?”

  “Well, the new ones have to have them. Because they go so fast.” Even I inwardly wince at this. My problem is too much embroidery. Why couldn’t I just leave it at a simple accident? Oh no, I had to bring in golf buggies too. But the important thing is to le
ave and quickly before any more awkward questions come up. “Anyway! Got to go! A friend is expecting me!”

  “Give Buntam my regards!” shouts Joe after my disappearing back.

  It’s about eight o’clock when I reach home. As soon as I put my handbag down, Lizzie arrives.

  “How was your day?” she asks.

  I frown. “Interesting. How was the wonderful world of computers?”

  “Tedious.”

  “Did you read the diary today?” I ask, noticing the paper poking out of her bag.

  “God, yes! I read it every morning. Honestly, I look forward to it.” I walk over to the fridge and open the door. I am greeted by a very mopey-looking lettuce and some out-of-date yogurts.

  “Do you mind if we go to Sainsbury’s?”

  “Not at all.”

  Lizzie and I meander our way down to the supermarket in her car and on the way she insists I tell her why my day was interesting. So I talk about Mr. Williams and the hospital (which she will read about tomorrow in the paper) and then about meeting Fleur (which she won’t read about tomorrow in the paper).

  She sits up suddenly. “You mean he’s got a fiancée?” wails Lizzie.

  I glance over at her impatiently. “You knew he had a fiancée.”

  “I thought she might be made up or something. For the diary.”

  “Er, no. Why would we make that up?”

  “I don’t know. Extra publicity or something.”

  “Lizzie, I thought you were trying to get Alastair to marry you.”

  “I am,” she says sulkily, staring out of the windscreen. “It’s not rocky or anything is it?” she carries on hopefully.

  I shake my head firmly. “Rock of Gibraltar, I’m afraid. She’s absolutely gorgeous and inordinately nice to boot,” I add pointedly. “Why are you so interested anyway?”

  “Come on, Holly,” she says, wide-eyed with the obviousness of it.

  “What?”

  She nearly chokes in the effort to tell me exactly what. “He. Is. Ab-so-lute-ly. Gorgeous.”

  I shrug. I mean, I know he’s good-looking. And tall. And broad.

  “The girls in the office are in a right tizzy about him.”

  “Well, they wouldn’t think he was quite so gorgeous if they’d had the sort of start I’ve had with him,” I say, leaning to one side as she narrowly avoids a kid who is insisting on roller-blading in the gutter.