Playing James (17 page)

Muttering furiously to myself, I slowly walk towards Robin's office. I need to talk to someone and I feel I can trust her as she wants this diary to work as much as I do, for whatever personal reasons of her own. What I would really like to do right now is have it out with Detective Sabine, but I know that since there is no direct proof against him it would probably result in me being thrown out of here. My options are really quite limited and I hope that Robin may have a solution. I stride into her office.

'Robin, have you got a …' I stand rooted to the spot and the hairs instinctively go up on the back of my neck. You know how, if you interrupt two lovers having a row, or a very intimate conversation between two people, there is a certain atmosphere of intensity and high emotion? Well, I've just walked in on such an atmosphere. I feel my arrival has sent shock waves around the room. Emotions are running high in here. James Sabine holds Robin in his arms. He looks crossly at me.

I say, quickly, 'I'll come back,' and turn and walk out of the room.

B
en comes over for the evening but I am so distracted that I either ignore his questions altogether, laugh in the wrong places during his account of the day or come out with peculiar responses like 'would you prefer sausages with that?'. He finally gives up on me and watches
A Question of Sport
, but not before tipping his dirty kit into the washing machine and then asking me how to run the cycle through.

I toss and turn all night, listening to Ben's rhythmic breathing beside me. Questions run through my head. Are Robin and James having an affair? Is that why Robin wants to leave Bristol so badly, because James Sabine is getting married?

James Sabine just doesn't seem the sort to be having an affair though. Maybe it was one of those poor-sods-just-can't-help-themselves things. But Robin has only been there a few months. I suppose these things can develop quite quickly and she is so glamorous. In which case, why is he still getting married?

Whatever is going on between those two still leaves the problem that I can't trust Robin now she is sharing pillow talk with James. I don't know who else to turn to regarding these leaks. Now that I have officially told the IT department about them, they can be traced. In fact, I think suddenly, if I subtly let James Sabine know that I have been up to the IT department to alert them to the leaks, he may feel obliged to stop as they won't be able to find anyone getting into his computer but him.

Even with some sort of plan in place, sleep still eludes me. Eventually I drop off into a restless doze, my dreams punctuated with images of James, Robin and computers.

I get up early and, after kissing a sleepy Ben goodbye, leave for the police station. I am already at my desk and working on my laptop by the time James Sabine arrives. We eye each other warily. My hackles are up. The last time I saw him he was with Robin and I had just learnt he was shopping me to the
Journal
. He is the first to speak.

'Look, I know what it must have seemed like yesterday—'

'I don't think it's any of my business,' I say. I really don't want to have this conversation and so stare stubbornly at my laptop screen.

'It's just that … I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone.'

'Sure,' I snap.

So there is definitely something going on then. If there is just an innocent explanation, surely this would be a great opportunity to tell me? We work in silence for a few minutes more, then I say casually, 'By the way, I went up to the IT department yesterday to see if they've managed to trace the leaks.'

I think he suddenly looks wary. 'And what did they say?'

'They said they haven't been able to yet.'

In the true spirit of nosiness, I drop in to see Robin later in the morning. She is looking a little subdued, but still exudes glamour. Looking at her beautiful and troubled face I decide that James could be excused for falling for such a gorgeous woman, even though she is as hard as nails and it
really
isn't any of my business. Besides, I don't know the full story and it's easy to make quick judgements about people. Before I can even open my mouth, she says, 'I'm sorry about yesterday. I was going to come and find you today to apologise.'

'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 humour 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 for 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 enquired.

'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, 'God! 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?'