Playing James (8 page)

'You're going to have to move faster than that, Ms Colshannon, if you don't want to miss anything. I will have no hesitation in leaving without you.'

'I wasn't aware I was missing anything and it's Miss Colshannon. I am not ashamed to be single,' I reply haughtily.

He raises his eyebrows and says, 'Ah,' in a tone that suggests my statement explains it all. I hunch my shoulders huffily, furious with myself for walking straight into that one. 'May I suggest a more appropriate form of footwear?' he says, looking at my beautiful, to-die-for but admittedly high black boots.

'I will make a point of digging out my trainers as soon as I get through my door this evening,' I say through gritted teeth.

The car emerges from the subterranean car park and into bright sunshine. I give Tristan a mournful look as we pass him in his space on the way out.

I look determinedly out of the window until it occurs to me that that's exactly what the marrow wants. So I get out my notebook, clear my throat pointedly, try to ensure my tone is at least civil and ask, 'So, what do detectives do? I mean specifically.'

'Anything, from rape to burglary to murder. Anything that needs detecting, as opposed to something uniform can take care of.'

'Uniform?'

'Yeah, the boys in blue, Miss Colshannon. As opposed to this.' He points down to his trousers. He is wearing a pair of beige chinos. My eyes rove up and take in the Ralph Lauren shirt and subtle tie. I quickly start writing his last comment down in my notepad lest he thinks I'm looking at him. 'So, how long have you been in the police force, Detective Sergeant?'

'Nine years.'

'Did you join from school?'

'University.'

'Which one?'

'Durham.' I stop scribbling and raise my eyebrows in surprise. He glances over at me. 'Does that astonish you, Miss Colshannon? That I'm qualified? Or were you expecting me just to have a GCSE in woodwork?'

'Well, if you had, you might have been able to chisel that chip off your shoulder,' I reply acidly. He's starting to rattle my cage.

'Touché,' he murmurs. The rest of the journey is completed in silence.

As soon as we enter the doors of the hospital, the strong, familiar smell of disinfectant assaults us. I wrinkle my nose as cringe-making memories of the condom incident last week hit me. I look around me warily, hoping not to be recognised, and then give myself a shake as logic asserts itself. They must see hundreds of people here every day, so it's not likely they'll remember me. I follow James Sabine more confidently up to the front desk. He flashes his ID at the lady on reception.

'I'm here to investigate the thefts.' The lady picks up a phone, speaks to someone briefly and then replaces the receiver.

'You'll need to speak to Dr Kirkpatrick. He is in the Munroe wing, ask at the desk there.' And with these words we are instantly dismissed as she turns her attention back to the magazine lying open in front of her.

I freeze. Dr Kirkpatrick? DR KIRKPATRICK? Oh no. This cannot be happening to me. James Sabine strides off at a breakneck pace, throwing doors open as he makes his way relentlessly towards the Munroe wing. I am lagging behind in an attempt to give my brain time to think. He shouts over his shoulder, 'Keep up!'

On the way there I consider the various options open to me, including getting lost, catching chicken pox between the reception and the Munroe wing and various other extreme case scenarios. The problem with all of them is that I really need to be present at my first case otherwise James Sabine will think he's got the better of me somehow. Right. Only one thing I can do and that is brazen this out.

We reach the Munroe wing in Olympic record time and James Sabine asks for Dr Kirkpatrick. The great man himself appears and there is much ceremonious hand-shaking as Detective Sergeant Sabine introduces himself. I surreptitiously scrape some hair over my face and wonder if I could squeeze between the bin and the vending machine. James Sabine then turns to me and says, This is Miss Holly Colshannon. She is here for
observation only
.' He says this to Dr Kirkpatrick but the emphasis is really directed at me as a reminder of rule number one. As if I could forget. Dr Kirkpatrick is staring at me.

'My word! There's a name I can't get away from! They should give you your own parking space!' Oh bum. This is going to be worse than I thought. Many curses upon his pedantic memory. I look through several strands of hair and smile weakly. Detective Sergeant Sabine has his eyebrows raised so high I think they're going to pop off the top of his head.

'Ha, ha! Hello again,' I say in a pathetically weak voice.

'You were here last week, weren't you? Interesting, er, scenario.' Now they are both staring at me.

'Yes, yes, I was,' I say, maniacally twiddling my hair around my finger and going bright red. Goodness, do we have to spend so much time on the subject? Surely there are more important things to chat about? The Euro? Global warming? Third World debt?

'How's your friend? Is she OK now?'

'Yes, fine, thank you. Never better.' For a rash moment I consider shouting, 'Quick! Look over there!' and then making a run for it, but I uncomfortably hold my ground.

'You'll laugh about that in years to come!' Really? I think we'll probably smile awkwardly and change the subject. But I say in an unnaturally high voice, 'Yes! I'm sure we will.' Now James Sabine's mouth is almost open. To indicate my part in the conversation is over, I take out my notebook, open it up, lick my pencil (which I have never, ever done before) and wait. They still stare and finally the penny drops that I'm so terribly sorry, boys, but this particular freak show is now most definitely over. The detective manages to drag his eyes, which are out on stalks, away from me and turns back towards the fair physician. I think he's almost forgotten what we came for.

'Er, right,' he says dazedly. 'Er, where were we? So, Doctor. Could you tell us a bit more about the thefts?'

And we're off! At quite a pace too. It's James Sabine's turn to get a notepad out. Firstly the doctor shows us the cupboard where the drugs were taken from. We ascertain there is no sign of forced entry. James says, 'I take it this cupboard is usually locked?'

'Absolutely. We're very strict about it. There are only four key-holders on this wing, myself included.'

'What exactly was taken?'

The doctor reels off a list of ten ten-syllable drugs. Detective Sergeant Sabine does a better job than yours truly of getting them all down. He asks, 'Do they have any street value?'

'Some of them, not all of them.'

'Do you or does anyone else remember when the cupboard was last locked?'

'Well, all of the other key-holders were in there yesterday but we didn't discover the drugs were missing until first thing this morning.'

'How often is the cupboard used? Say, on a busy day like yesterday?'

'About once every hour; sometimes more, sometimes less.'

'Did you see anyone suspicious?'

'I didn't, but you'll have to ask the rest of the staff on the ward if they did.'

'So, one of the key-holders could have accidentally left the cupboard unlocked and the thief just slipped in. Do you trust all your staff, Doctor?'

'Implicitly.'

'So you don't think they took the drugs themselves or that the cupboard might have been left open deliberately?'

'Definitely not.'

'I'll send uniform down to interview the key-holders and maybe have a general ask around the ward and the rest of the hospital too, to see if anyone has seen anything suspicious.'

As I've stopped taking notes, it gives me time to observe the fine doctor. He's distractedly running his hand through his short dark hair. I find myself thinking that I wish it was my hair. I give myself a little shake; I am shocked at the lengths my pornographic imagination will go to. But he's nice, I think dreamily. Really nice. A voice breaks into my thoughts.

'Miss Colshannon? Hello?'

I'm jolted out of my rather delicious deliberations. I look at James Sabine. 'Hmm?'

'We're leaving.'

'Oh. Right.' I hastily gather my bag and stand up, blushing guiltily. My poor blood seems to have had rather a lot of exercise recently.

'I'll see you out,' says Dr Kirkpatrick.

The two men make their way through the double doors and the doctor drops back to join me.

'So, you work with the police?'

'No, I'm a reporter actually. I am shadowing the detective here for a six-week diary for my paper.'

'I haven't seen that before.'

'No, it's a new thing – today's my first day.'

'For which paper?'

'
Bristol Gazette
.'

'I'll look out for it.' We walk on in silence and my brain scouts desperately around for a topic of conversation. The seconds tick by. Eventually I say, 'So, you're a doctor?' Nice one, Holly. Conversational hari-kiri.

'So they tell me.' He smiles and his eyes go wrinkly. He must smile a lot. I search for another topic and gratefully seize on one I unearth from the back of my mind.

'Do you have to work long hours?'

'Yeah, I'm over-worked and under-paid. Still, I get to meet nice people.' His eyes twinkle at me and my heart misses a beat. In the midst of all this emotional turmoil I nearly trip over a wheelchair and several pairs of crutches someone has left at the side of the corridor.

When we reach the main entrance of the hospital, Dr Kirkpatrick shakes Detective Sergeant Sabine's hand first and then mine. 'It was nice to meet you, Holly. Again. I mean on a non-professional basis.'

James Sabine and I walk towards the car.

'So last week wasn't just a one-off, I take it?' he asks.

'I'm in there more than most. I'm just accident-prone.' I grin inanely, buoyed up by Dr Kirkpatrick.

'Terrific,' he mutters.

We zoom away from the hospital and I ask, 'So, what do you think?'

Til send uniform down to question the staff. They might have been involved. And I want to see your copy before it goes into the paper. I don't want you cocking this enquiry up.'

'You've already made that perfectly clear.'

'Well, you know reporters. However often you say something, they always think they hear something else.'

We stop for coffee en route to the police station. James Sabine goes into a café to get a takeaway, after grudgingly asking me if I would like one. I sit in the car and wait for him but the radio is talking to me. It keeps on talking to me. Is this like a sub-section of rule one (that's where I'm not allowed to talk to anyone)? On the other hand, he might be cross if we miss something.

It's still talking to me.

I tentatively press a button and say, 'Hello?'

'Is that unit seventeen?' it says fuzzily.

'Er, maybe.'

'You're the reporter, right?' There are big pauses between each reply.

'That's me!'

'Where's unit seventeen?'

'Er, gone for coffee.'

'Tell unit seventeen there has been a code five at eleven Hanbury Road.'

'Yep, will do, er, ten-four,' I say, lapsing into TV crime-show speak.

My first radio call! I am so excited! James Sabine gets back into the car and hands me a steaming and welcome cup of coffee. I take it from him and say, 'We've just had a call on the radio!'

'We have not had a call,
I
have had a call, and what are you doing answering the radio? What was rule number one again? Don't. Talk. To. Anyone. And what the hell were they doing talking to you over the radio? It's supposed to be classified!'

I think I will wait until he has had some caffeine before I say anything more. I sip my coffee and stare determinedly out of the window. I can feel him looking at me.

'Well? What did they want?' he asks impatiently. I quell my childish urge to ask what the magic word is.

'They said there was a code eleven at five Hanbury Road.'

'A code eleven? Oh shit! Drop the coffee! Drop it! Out of the window!'

Our first call! Oh my God! We're on our way, the siren is blaring, we're ducking and diving in and out of traffic. Whoaaa! We just took out a traffic cone! This is fantastic! People are moving to one side as we … A tiny thought filters through my consciousness. Do you think that was …? I flip my brain back to the ride but the feeling of discomfort persists until the thought finally surfaces. It wasn't code eleven, was it? Do you think the number bit is important? Do I tell him now? I say, in a really, really small voice, quite hoping he won't hear me, 'Er, Detective Sergeant Sabine? It wasn't code eleven. It was code five.'

'WHAT?!'

I'm in the queue at McDonald's to order some more coffee. He was pretty annoyed. I might have to introduce him to the fruit and veg swearing system. He practically had a whole guide dog going there.

O
ne of the smaller prerequisites of the arrangement between the Chief and my paper is that I keep Robin completely abreast of all the diary's developments. So with this in mind, I drop by her office at lunchtime. We walk down the now-familiar route to the canteen together to collect a sandwich.

'Can I have a tuna, no mayonnaise, on focaccia with rocket leaves please?' she snaps out to the lady behind the counter, fixing her with a stare that you could slice a ten-inch piece of steel with. 'What would you like, Holly?' Robin asks.

'Just a tuna sandwich, thanks. However it comes.'

We sit down at one of the Formica tables and await our sandwiches. While we wait, Robin asks; 'So, how has your first day gone?'

'OK.' I tell her about the radio incident and she laughs.

'It'll get better. He'll grow on you.' Yeah, right. Like fungus.

I talk her through some of the ideas I've had for the diary.

'That sounds great, Holly! Just remember our part of the bargain. Keep the good stuff rolling and we'll both be out of here before you can say …' She stops mid-flow and glances over at me, aware she might have said too much. Just at that moment the canteen lady brings our sandwiches and so I pretend not to have noticed.

The lady plonks two plates with identical squares of Mother's Pride and tuna mayo in front of us. She goes off without a word. Robin looks defeated in the face of such mutiny.