Playing James

by Sarah Mason

  Thinking is too much of an effort.

  In the morning I lie in bed for a while, contemplating the day ahead, before remembering my rash promise to Lizzie. I groan softly to myself. Damn. Why couldn’t I have resisted the very considerable charms of my vodka and water and tried to talk her out of her ridiculous plan?

  I faff about in my dressing gown for the next hour or so, drinking tea and opening post and basking in the joy of a whole weekend stretching before me. Ben is coming over tonight after the obligatory rugby game and bonding and then we’ll spend the day together tomorrow. Normally the very thought of this should have me squealing for joy on the one hand and reaching for the polish and clean bed sheets on the other. I should be chilling wine, scrubbing the place clean and artfully chucking fresh flowers about like a woman possessed. But not today because I really can’t be arsed. I frown to myself, deep in this particular line of thought. What does this mean? Am I going off him? No—I can’t expect to remain in the “honeymoon” phase forever; besides, with recent events I don’t want to be seen to be too keen. Right, absolutely. Don’t want to seem too keen. Conscience appeased, I get dressed and wander into Clifton village to execute Part A of OPERATION ALTAR.

  The lady at the flower shop says she can deliver the flowers later today and I hand over the name and address. The lady looks at me highly dubiously, probably imagining me in some sort of lesbian sex triangle. I mutter goodbye, wildly hoping I will never have the occasion to send flowers again. Why can’t Lizzie send Lizzie flowers you might ask? Yes. Quite.

  To sum OPERATION ALTAR up, the plan is to drive Alastair (or “POB” as I think of him nowadays, standing for “poor old bastard,” or “poor old beetroot” according to the vegetable system) into a frenzy of jealousy, culminating in him realizing that he cannot live without Lizzie, throwing himself at her feet and immediately proposing marriage. Well, that’s her version anyway. I’m not actually sure this will run completely to plan. But then I do have a very reliable past record of being completely and utterly wrong.

  As soon as I arrive home, I decide to get part B over and done with and dial the number of Lizzie’s mobile. What I do in the name of friendship. She answers after four rings.

  “Lizzie? It’s me.”

  “How nice to hear from you! How on earth did you get my number?” Her voice and tone are distinctly flirtatious. It is a peculiar sensation, being flirted to by your best friend. I have obviously called at exactly the right time and she and Alastair are together.

  “Is Alastair there?”

  “Oh, I’m not doing anything. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing much, just sent your blasted flowers.”

  “Yes! I would love to!”

  “This is absolutely ridiculous, you know! Pretending that I am a man!”

  “See you then. Bye!” This is said in low, sultry tones that should be reserved for four-poster beds, champagne and the like. The woman means business.

  “Call me later. Bye.”

  I stare at the receiver for a second in disbelief. I mean, she actually did it. She actually pretended another man was calling her. I sigh. As long as she knows what she’s doing, and I’m in no position to judge with my past history in the relationship department. I go back to my sofa with no intention of moving from it for quite a while.

  seventeen

  It’s Monday morning and I am on my way to the police station. Tristan is behaving himself and even my black eye has reduced sufficiently for me to be able to remove the sunglasses that have become such an essential fashion accessory. Now I just look like I have black circles under my eyes. Well, one eye anyway. Nothing that half a tube of concealer couldn’t fix. I had quite a nice weekend but to be honest I’m glad it’s over. Ben and I were a little strained with each other, as though treading on egg shells, but I think that’s only to be expected for a while until recent events have blown over and we get back to some sort of normality.

  It is a beautiful day and even the hustle and bustle of the city seems peaceful as I wend my way through the traffic. I park Tristan, snap on the handbrake and gather up my bag and laptop.

  As I bounce up the steps to the front desk, James appears in the doorway.

  “Turn around!”

  I stop on one of the steps and stare at him. “Why? What’s happened?”

  He looks resigned, pissed off and furious all at the same time. “Another burglary.”

  I remain fixed to my step. “Not another one? The Fox again?”

  “Probably. It’s an antiques shop.” He marches past me and leaves me standing with my mouth open.

  “Come on, we’ll go this way to the car pool. Caught your TV interview by the way,” he shouts back over his shoulder. I catch a flash of a smile but I am more intent on the burglary. I determinedly chuck my bags over my shoulder and set off at a trot after him.

  “That’s a bit blatant, isn’t it? An antiques shop,” I say breathlessly.

  “Yeah, it is. The owner has just called us. It must have happened sometime over the weekend. Here, let me take that,” he says, holding out his hand for my bulky laptop case.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “Forensics are meeting us down there. Thank God that no one was hurt this time.”

  “Maybe he got scared after slogging Mr. Williams and decided an empty shop would be easier.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Blimey, this is the fourth one in as many weeks.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, when burglaries are this intensive, it usually means the burglar intends to do just a few of them. Then they’ll suddenly stop and we’ll never hear from him again.”

  We reach our usual discreet gray car.

  “I’ll drive,” says James, heading for the driver’s side.

  Once inside, he shoves a piece of paper in my hands.

  “Directions.” We set off out of the underground car park.

  As we swing up the ramp to the outside world, I reach into my bag for my mobile. “Just going to call Vince; he can meet us there.”

  “Fine.”

  I duly hand over the address details to Vince (ignoring Vince’s pleas of “Put him on, put him on!”) and then settle into my seat and snap on my seat belt.

  “So, what did you get up to at the weekend?” he asks.

  “Oh, usual stuff,” I say, privately adding to myself, You know, sending fake flowers, pretending to be someone else in order for your best friend to trap her boyfriend into marriage. Usual stuff. “How about you?” I ask.

  “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 toward 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 i
f we were traveling 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 materialize.

  “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 seat belts 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 toward the address. Vince’s customized lilac Beetle pulls up behind us.

  “Coo-eee!” He waves at us out of the window. James groans. Vince gets out and minces toward 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 toward 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 mustache 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 toward 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), endeavoring 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.