by Sarah Mason
“So how will you do it then?”
“Well, we don’t want any! We’re perfectly happy with life as it is! No point in ruining it!”
“Oh.” I raise my eyebrows in a vacant, stupid kind of way. And we move on to talk of other things.
Tongues loosened by the vast array of drinks that follow, we have a surprisingly good time. Fleur asks me about Ben and although I don’t know her well enough to share the rough patch we have been going through lately, I do tell her everything else. In usual female style we talk about a huge range of subjects but I couldn’t actually tell you what exactly. At half past eight, much to the disgust of the barman (he was doing a roaring trade), I glance at my watch and realize I am going to be late for Lizzie. I heave myself up from my now rather comfortable bar stool.
“Fleur, I have to go, someone’s coming over.”
“Yes, I’d better be off too. James will be wondering where I’ve got to.”
We say our goodbyes at the entrance and arrange where to meet on Monday for the hen do. I turn down her offer to share a cab as my flat is only about ten minutes’ walk away and I could do with the fresh air. I leave her manfully trying to hail a taxi as I head off toward Clifton, Lizzie and home.
I wander through the leafy avenues, not making any particular effort at all to get there quickly for Lizzie. I am now spectacularly late but I’m working on the premise that a few minutes either way aren’t going to kill her. As I walk and mindlessly pick leaves off hedges, I think about my parents coming to James’ wedding. It really is astonishing that they are invited, and now I think about it, I distinctly remember my mother saying they were coming down to a wedding soon and would be staying for a few days.
I turn the corner into my road and spy a very sulky-looking Lizzie sitting on the steps to my flat. I start walking a little faster. I wonder how she has fared with Alastair after my phone call.
“Hello!” I call.
Lizzie has her head cupped in one hand and is busy picking at her toenails with the other hand. She looks up as she hears my voice.
“Where have you been?”
“In the pub! Hic!” I grin at her and she smiles good-humoredly back. “With work?” she queries.
“No, with Fleur. She’s James’ fiancée.”
“Good time?” Lizzie asks as I fish my key out of my bag and let us into the building.
“Yeah, but I managed to get myself invited to her hen do.”
“Bad luck.”
“It was a bit.” We start up the stairs to the flat. “What’s up?” I ask. She’s not as lively as usual, her eyes aren’t quite meeting mine and she doesn’t seem as interested in Fleur as I thought she would be. She shrugs. “Alastair?” I press as I slot another key into the door of my inner sanctum and she nods.
I wait until we are settled down and then say, “Didn’t it go well on Saturday?”
“Not quite to plan.”
“What happened?”
“Well, nothing really. That’s the problem. I received the flowers in the afternoon after your phone call and I was expecting him to either go into a rage of jealousy and demand an explanation or fall on his bended knee and declare undying love. A big finale, whatever. But neither of those happened; he just seemed to go into his shell. He didn’t ask who was on the phone, he didn’t ask who sent the flowers, he just seemed to distance himself from me. And it got worse as the day went on. I had this big speech planned about how I just didn’t see him any more because of his work.” She is very close to tears, so I go into the kitchen and rip off a piece of kitchen towel. “Go on,” I say, sitting down next to her on the sofa and handing her it.
“I tried talking to him, Holly, really I did. I asked him what was wrong, was he OK, did he want to talk about anything, but he just withdrew further. It was horrible.” The tears are starting to fall now and once they start they come thick and fast. Any vague sense of inebriation is lost as the world comes sharply into focus for me.
“I even started jabbering that the flowers were from my mother, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. So we went to bed and I thought maybe everything would be better in the morning, but it wasn’t. It seemed there were miles between us even though we were only a few feet apart. In the morning he just left without saying anything. I’ve been so stupid.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, taking her hand.
“Well, I knew Ben was here and, to be honest, I was a bit ashamed. I was so convinced he would come round; not that he would ask me straightaway but that he would at least give a show of feelings.” I put my arm around her and let her cry for a bit, and then, just as she is reaching the catchy-breath stage, I reach over and pick up her wine for her. She takes a few shaky gulps. At times like these we could both do with being smokers.
“Do you know what the worst thing is, Hol?”
“What?”
“The feeling of hurt in his eyes. Not anger or love, but pain. He did show me how he felt, didn’t he?” I nod. “And now I’ve lost him.”
“That’s not true! You don’t know that. What happened at work today?”
“He didn’t speak to me all day. That’s what has really convinced me. And it’s not been one of those impossibly busy days full of meetings; I’ve walked past his office several times just to give him the opportunity of talking to me and he hasn’t.”
I let Lizzie talk and talk. Then, when she quietens down, I tell her what’s been happening with James and the diary. There is such an air of intimacy that I talk more than I normally do and tell her all about our day. Conversations that we’ve had, things that have happened. She laughs a little and I think she finds the conversation generally soothing. Lizzie stays the night on the sofa, not wanting to face the solitude of her own place. By the time we get to bed it is past two in the morning and we have drunk our way through two bottles of wine.
As I slip into Morpheus’ arms, albeit with a drunken stumble, I remember that on Thursday we are seeing Mr. Makin and my dreams are full of police cars, clocks and James Sabine.
nineteen
I seem to have spent the last day or so running between the station, the paper and Lizzie. The situation between her and Alastair seems to have rapidly deteriorated. On Tuesday afternoon she went to his office in a last attempt to try and explain but apparently he wasn’t interested in hearing anything. He just told her it was over and practically slammed the door in her face. I offered to call and tell him I sent the flowers and made the phone call but Lizzie seemed to think it would be useless, he wouldn’t believe me. I even tried to find the Visa receipt for the flowers until I belatedly realized I had paid in cash. All I could do in the end was be there for Lizzie. I have ensured we have a proper supply of tissues, wine and ice cream at all times and she has now taken up permanent occupation of my sofa. I have canceled all social activities, which means I haven’t seen Ben since Sunday. But that’s fine—I don’t mind doing it at all because what else are friends for?
The diary has been hectic as usual. James and I have spent our days going back over various statements from the burglaries, dealing with forensics and sorting out some of his cases from before I became the crime correspondent. James has been enormously annoyed with me as the latest line of people questioned in relation to the burglaries have all asked if they are going to be in the paper. I wouldn’t normally get involved in these interviews and most of the time I have simply gone along for the ride—even though I’m sure he’d rather have someone else along with him, I think James likes the company.
I also dropped by the paper to see Amy in the publicity department and ask how the recent opinion polls have been.
“Brilliant!” she exclaimed in answer to my question.
“Really?”
“Yep. I think the photos have made all the difference. And we all seem to be getting to know Detective Sergeant Sabine a lot better!” she added, giving me a wink and a nudge in the ribs.
“Amy! He’s getting married in a few weeks’ time,” I
replied defensively.
“I know,” she sighed, “we’re all a bit disappointed.”
“So, the opinion polls have gone well, have they?” I repeated, anxious to get her off this particular subject.
“Yes. A couple of people commented that they didn’t like the skirt you were wearing on Tuesday though.” She referred to a clipboard of notes.
I frown. “Which one was that?”
“The beige one with the huge poppies on it.”
“I like that one!” I exclaimed.
“And someone said she thought you ought to get your hair cut. She thought the detective might like you better if you got your hair cut.”
“What’s wrong with my hair? I don’t want the detective to like me better anyway!” I replied hotly, a slow blush coming up from my toes.
“And . . .”
“What about him? What have they said about him?”
“Well, some of them have asked for his phone number. Quite a few have asked if he’s married, but of course, as you know, Joe doesn’t want his wedding mentioned.”
“I’m beginning to see why,” I said darkly.
“And a couple have asked whether there’s going to be a happy ending.”
“Very happy,” I snapped. “He and I are going to part company for good.”
James’ fan mail has increased. He now receives on average two or three letters per day which Dave-the-desk-sergeant hands over every morning with barely concealed glee. The envelopes join the growing pile of other envelopes in the bottom of one of his drawers, and he has to put up with at least one member of the department pretending to fall into a dead faint every time they see him. Callum says he has set up a fan club for him and goes around wearing badges saying “I heart (picture of ) James Sabine” and “Dick Tracy for President.” Copies of the badges have even fallen into Vince’s fair hands and he gleefully turns up every morning with one on his hat and one on his left or right nipple, depending on how he’s feeling. James initially greeted all this hilarity with annoyance, then more annoyance, and finally resignation. He keeps asking them to take the badges off, which both of them duly do but immediately whip them back out and on again as soon as his back is turned.
“So what do you think of your fan mail, Detective?” Vince asked yesterday.
“I haven’t really read it.”
Vince pouted. “I spent ages writing that letter. Took me hours.”
“Vince, please don’t tell me you’ve been adding to these damn things?”
Vince winked at me, grinned and walked off, waving as he went.
Thursday morning dawns. I shower and dress quickly and, after waking Lizzie with a cup of tea, slip out into the fresh morning air. Today is the day we will interview the mysterious Mr. Makin and I am anxious to get on with it. I walk into the station a few minutes after eight. Dave-the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant has turned into Dave-the-not-quite-so-grumpy-desk-sergeant. Although we haven’t quite reached the pinnacle of an actual conversation yet, we do now smile at each other. Yep, that’s right. It’s not a beaming, can’t-stretch-my-face-any-further smile but it is a smile nonetheless. After being admitted to the inner sanctum by old smiler himself, I bound up the two flights of stairs and into the office.
I hail various officers as I work my way through the maze of desks, ending up at my own, now very familiar, working space. The equally familiar sight of James Sabine with a telephone attached to one ear greets me. We smile at each other as I plonk my laptop and bag on top of the desk and then I bustle off to complete our morning ritual by getting two cups of coffee from the vending machine. By the time I have returned, bearing two steaming plastic cups of caffeine, James is off the phone and writing notes. “So!” I say, sitting down, leaning back and sipping from my cup. “Mr. Makin!”
“Yep!” says James, mirroring my movements. “Mr. Makin.” We stare at each other thoughtfully for a second.
“Do you really think he may be the link between the four burglaries?”
“The more I think about it, the more I believe he might be. Maybe our Mr. Makin is feeding someone with information. The someone who is actually carrying out all these burglaries. From Mr. Makin they would find out the exact layout of the house, the exact value of any costly items on the insurance schedule and also what alarm system the house has in place. They wouldn’t need to gain access to the property to case it because Mr. Makin would have done it for them.” He looks into space for a few seconds and then his eyes seem to snap into focus. “Come on, we’d better get going. We’re supposed to be meeting him at nine.”
We quickly finish our coffee and I wait while James gathers some papers together. I have nothing to pack up since I hadn’t quite got around to unpacking anything.
We arrive at Mr. Makin’s offices just before nine. As James reverses into a parking bay, he places an arm behind my seat and peers over his shoulder into the space behind. I sharply breathe in the sweet tang of his aftershave. This and the sensation of almost having his arm around me is not altogether unpleasant. I have no time to even contemplate why as his voice breaks into my consciousness.
“Come on, Colshannon! Stop staring at the dashboard, I promise it will still be there when you get back.” And with that he is out of the car and impatiently waiting to lock it. I gather up my bag, get out of the car and together we walk toward Mr. Makin’s building.
Elephant Insurance Company is situated on the second floor of a well-kept building. A somewhat overweight, middle-aged secretary is halfheartedly stabbing at a typewriter as we walk into the reception area. She looks up swiftly as we enter. James introduces himself, still without mentioning the rather significant fact that he is from the police, and tells her we have an appointment with Mr. Makin. She purses her pink-frosted lips together, murmurs something about not keeping us waiting, at which we all look faintly disbelieving, and then disappears. James and I sit down on a couple of chairs placed against the wall.
“Don’t say anything in there.”
“I never say anything,” I whisper indignantly.
“I think ‘never’ might be a bit of an exaggeration,” he mutters.
We sit in silence for a second. I take in the slightly faded floral wallpaper, the old desk the secretary was sitting behind and the rather ancient typewriter that should have been retired and replaced by a computer system long ago. There is a slight air of refined shabbiness and the distinct impression that the offices, along with Elephant Insurance Company, have seen better days.
I glance over at James. He is quietly surveying the scene before him. This morning, I would guess in anticipation of this interview, he is wearing a smart blue shirt and tie coupled with faded beige chinos. His boyish, short-haired good looks are somewhat at odds with the room.
He looks over at me under the intensity of my glance and smiles. “What’s up?”
I quickly look back to the floor. “Nothing. Bit nervous, I think.”
I mentally give myself a shake. Good Lord, for a moment there I was almost lusting after him. Try not to make a complete tit of yourself, please, I tell myself firmly. He’s getting married to Fleur in a matter of weeks, Robin is doing a passably good impression of The French Lieutenant’s Woman and now even you are starting to hum “Another One Bites The Dust.” Get a grip. He barely tolerates me, let alone likes me.
The pink-frosted secretary comes back and tells us Mr. Makin will see us now. As we get up to follow her through to another office, James asks if Mr. Makin owns the company and the secretary answers in the affirmative. The room we are shown into is a complete contrast to the reception. A bejeweled chandelier hangs from an ornate ceiling and thick-sashed drapes hang at the windows. A gentleman, whom I presume is Mr. Makin, rises from a fine antique desk where a laptop lies open and moves toward us holding out his hand. He smiles jovially.
“Morning, morning! How do you do?”
I would place him in his late fifties. His gray hair is thinning, terrible bags hang from his brown eyes and he has a ruddy
complexion that to my mind speaks of too much alcohol. There is a faint smell of cigar smoke in the air. He is wearing a three-piece, dark, pin-striped suit with a perky red handkerchief poking out of his top pocket.
After shaking hands, James flips open his ID. “I am Detective Sergeant James Sabine and this is Holly Colshannon.” He waits for a reaction and apparently not in vain. A look of horror comes over Mr. Makin’s face and his mouth drops open.
“It’s not my wife, is it?” I don’t think this was the reaction that James was hoping for and certainly not the one I was expecting. Without me even being aware of it, I think I had all but sentenced Mr. Makin.
“No, Mr. Makin,” James says quickly. “We’re here about a business matter. We’ve made an appointment.”
Mr. Makin lets out a stream of air and stares at the ground for a second. He fishes the red handkerchief out of his pocket and mops his forehead.
“Thank goodness. I thought you were about to tell me my wife had been in an accident or something.”
“I’m sorry to have alarmed you, sir,” replies James. I think we’ve got the wrong guy—I was naively expecting him to hold out his hands to be cuffed and say, “It’s a fair cop, guv’nor.”
Instead Mr. Makin does none of that. He strides over to the door and pulls it open. His secretary almost falls in. He ignores her apparent over-enthusiasm and says calmly from his elevated position, “Ah! Miss Rennie. Could you kindly get us some coffee?”
She quickly nods and disappears off on her mission. He returns behind his desk and looks from one to the other of us.
“Now, I’m afraid I only have half an hour as I have to go out to an appointment later. So how can I help?”
