by Sarah Mason
“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 overworked and underpaid. 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 toward 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?”
“I’ll 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 inquiry 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.
six
One 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.
“Oh, to be back in London,” she murmurs, looking down at her rocket-less, mayonnaised-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life, un-focaccia sandwich.
Again I have to wonder why she bothered leaving London if she is so anxious to go back there?
I walk back to the solace of my desk half an hour later. Callum waves as I wander past in a dream. I wave distractedly back. He’s talking on the phone with his feet up on his desk and simultaneously eating a banana.
I settle down to write the introductory piece for the diary. I am desperately trying to think of an angle. Should it be serious a
nd insightful? Or written with a touch of humor? What do people really want to read about? I chew my pencil thoughtfully and do a couple of spins in the chair just to get the old gray matter working.
People want to read about people. So this diary is going to be an absolutely honest account of my six weeks with James Sabine, right down to the sarcasm. As I know he’s not particularly keen on the whole affair, I will change his name. To Jack. (Jack is one of my mother’s cats at home. He is particularly vicious.) But you know what? I’m going to keep everything else the same. Warts, and in my opinion there are many, and all. The problem is going to be extracting enough personal details from Detective Sergeant Sabine for the readers to get to know him.
I stare thoughtfully ahead of me. Opposite, James Sabine is cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder and simultaneously trying to get into a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. He pauses now and then to talk passionately and gesticulate with one hand. Eventually, frustrated by the sandwich manufacturer’s determined efforts at preservation, he reaches into his drawer, flicks open a pen knife and viciously stabs the sandwich to death. I smile to myself and re-focus on the computer screen. The man is really in need of a holiday.
I work for a couple of hours on the introduction to the diary while Detective Sergeant Sabine slaves over paperwork and phone calls. At one point he gets up. Petrified he is trying to give me the slip, I ask, “Where are you going?”
He fixes me with a stare. I belatedly remember the fate of the sandwich and wince. “I’m going to the men’s room. Would you like to come? Take some notes perhaps?”
“No, no. Thought you might be going out,” I murmur with embarrassment. My blood tirelessly makes another trip skyward.
“Unfortunately, Miss Colshannon, as much as I dislike the fact, I have been told by our revered Chief that I am not allowed to go anywhere, except perhaps the bathroom, without you. So, believe me, when the time comes for me to go anywhere you will be the first to know.”
“Glad to hear it,” I mutter, staring at my computer screen.
“Why does he dislike me so much?” I ask Callum as he drops by my desk a few minutes later to ask if I want a cup of tea from the vending machine.
“Don’t take it personally.”
“I think it’s meant personally.”
“No, it’s not. I told you before, he doesn’t like reporters very much.”
“Why?”
“The past always comes back to haunt us,” he says mysteriously. “Sugar?”
The introduction to the diary reads:
Day by day. Blow by blow. You’re right there on the front line with our correspondent, Holly Colshannon. The Real Dick Tracy’s Diary. Starts Monday . . .
I stare thoughtfully at the words and, after tinkering a while longer, close down the application, attach it to an e-mail to Joe and send it over to the paper.
I have arranged to meet Lizzie and Ben after work at the Square Bar. So once James Sabine and I have exchanged curt goodbyes, Tristan and I make our way up Park Street and, after a quick scout around, negotiate a rather tight parking space.
The Square Bar is a chic little place set in the basement of a house in one of the old squares of Bristol. I like the old squares; they remind me of bygone times when the Regency gentlefolk raced their barouches and partook of the waters at Bath.
They filmed The House of Elliot in this very square. Yep, this very square. I know because I accidentally walked straight through the set one day. The cameras were rolling, children dressed in Edwardian clothes were playing with hoops, a carriage was waiting outside one of the houses and I didn’t see any of it. I strolled straight through and the irate director yelled, “CUT,” which did wake me quite suddenly out of my daydream.
I walk down the steps to the bar and peer in. Lizzie is thankfully already in situ, in possession of two bar stools and fighting off the throngs from her precious commodities.
I battle my way over to her, plant a kiss on her cheek, dump my bag at her feet and clamber awkwardly onto the bar stool. Sensing my need, she wordlessly passes me her drink and I take a couple of grateful gulps.
“How is the crime business?” she asks.
“Not good.”
As a matter of priority, she gestures to the barman and orders another couple of drinks. She turns back to me. “I take it that things aren’t much better with Morse?”
“Well, I don’t think they could get much worse.”
“What happened?”
I rant and rave about James Sabine’s sarcasm, the radio incident, and then, working backward to this morning, tell her about being called to the hospital for a drug theft. “And you’ll never guess who I met there?”
Lizzie grins, thoroughly enjoying the whole account of the day.
“The doctor from last week. Ha, ha!”
The smile from her face fades as I raise my eyebrows at her. “You’re not serious?”
“Unfortunately, yes. He was the doctor we had to interview about the thefts. It was so embarrassing,” I say, taking another sip of vodka and lemon.
“What was his name again?”
“Dr. Kirkpatrick.”
“God. I thought you were going to say Teresa the Holy Cow!”
A voice interrupts us. “Hello Holly, hello Lizzie. My! What a surprise to find you two in a bar!”
It’s Teresa the Holy Cow. Rhubarb.
We both say hello in very small voices because she’s taken us aback a bit and probably overheard the Holy Cow thing as well.
“So, what have you two been up to?” she asks.
Lizzie replies acidly, “We’re here celebrating actually . Holly has just got an exciting new assignment.”
“How wonderful,” says Teresa, her lips scarcely moving and, needless to say, certainly not smiling.
“Yes, it is.”
“Doing what?”
“Breaking new ground, expanding horizons, ripping up blueprints, you know the sort of thing.”
“Don’t overdo it, Lizzie,” I murmur out of the corner of my mouth. She is getting a bit heated on the subject, bless her.
“Yes. The newspaper is launching her new diary on Monday. You should look out for it,” she continues.
I kick Lizzie sharply on the ankle because, frankly, this is more information than Teresa needs to know. And, as we have learned from bitter lessons in the past, the less information Teresa has the better. Lizzie winces but luckily Teresa doesn’t notice as she turns to me.
“How brave of you, Holly, to do something so different. And in today’s climate. I really hope it works for you.” Yeah. Right.
“What are you doing here, Teresa?” I ask pointedly.
“I’m here with the Bible Society. We’re also celebrating so we’ve come down for a quick spritzer before the meeting. We’ve just had two new members join. It’s so gratifying when a person sees the error of their ways. Sees their superficial lifestyle for what it is. Full of boys, alcohol and soap operas. Pathetic really.”
Just at this point Ben walks in, spots us at the bar and struggles across the crowded room. A grateful smile comes over my face. He has impeccable timing. He is looking, as usual, absolutely gorgeous. He smiles lazily as he smooths his floppy blond hair back with one hand. He gives Lizzie and me a quick kiss on the cheek and then turns to Teresa.
“I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Ben.” The thaw in Teresa is sick-making. She practically throws herself at his feet like a fawning puppy welcoming its owner home. A big smile comes over her frosty face and it is surprising to see how pretty she would be if only she did it more often. Ben always has this effect on people.
“Teresa. Teresa Fothersby. I am a friend of Holly and Lizzie’s from school,” she says, eagerly holding out her hand.
Lizzie takes another swig of her drink and womanfully murmurs under her breath, “She bloody well isn’t.”
“Can I get you a drink, Teresa? I was just getting one for myself.”
“Thank you, Ben. That
would be lovely.”
After ascertaining whether Lizzie and I need refills, he sidles into a space a few feet away from us at the packed bar and Teresa follows him. Lizzie and I both raise our eyes at each other. I unashamedly watch their every move.
He’s telling her something and she’s laughing and has her hand on his arm. My top lip curls up in an unattractive snarl. What has happened to good old Christian values, eh Teresa? No sex before marriage and all that. I express this view to Lizzie.
“She’s just showing us that she could do it if she wanted to,” Lizzie says. “You know, telling us that she can get a man any time she chooses. Besides, she is wearing white ankle socks, for goodness sake!”
“Well, Ben isn’t exactly fighting her off, is he? He’s not swatting her arm as though it’s a petulant wasp, IS HE?”
This has pissed me off, because not only does Teresa think she can get a man if she chooses to, she thinks she can get my man.
“Don’t look at them! She knows you’re looking over and she’s playing up even more. Talk to me. So did Dr. Kirkpatrick recognize you?”
“Almost immediately,” I say gloomily, dragging my eyes back to Lizzie. “He’s so nice though. If it wasn’t for Casanova over there I’d be seriously tempted to have some more accidents.”
Ben rejoins us, carrying a pint.
“Are you both all right? That Teresa is a nice girl, isn’t she?”
For a second I glare at him, then catch Lizzie’s eye and smile. Men are so unperceptive, aren’t they?
“Has she gone?”
“A couple of people she was meeting came in. Some sort of society thing. So how was your first day?”
I hesitate for a second and then say, “Fine,” and smile at him. I might tell him later about James Sabine, but for the moment I’ve got my griping about the good policeman out of my system. Besides, I always find men singularly unhelpful when talking about such things. They always end up saying stuff like, “Do you want me to sort him out?”
Ben gets distracted by some work friends and goes over for a chat. Lizzie and I are left alone again.
“Are you all right?” I ask. “You seem a bit low.” She’s been a little subdued all evening. Her smile isn’t quite reaching her eyes.
