Playing James

  “When? When did he ask you?” I shout after her. She pops her head back around the door.

  “Who?”

  “Alastair.”

  She comes out of the kitchen and plonks herself on the sofa. “He hasn’t asked me, silly. It’s just that I was passing this wedding shop at lunchtime and so I thought I would pop in for a little look. It was gorgeous, Holly.” She stares dreamily off into space while I blink a few times and try to clear my fuzzy and confused brain.

  As she starts with a description of one of the dresses she tried on, I am forced to interrupt her. “What happened? I mean, a couple of days ago you were wondering whether Alastair was trying to finish with you, and now you’re getting married?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot these last few days and something you said the other night came back to me.” I really wish people wouldn’t do this. I hate anyone quoting myself back to me probably because I change my mind so much. I ought to make all my friends sign an agreement stating that while I mean everything I say at the time, all quotes expire after a ten-minute period.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said I ought not to sit back and let this happen to me!”

  “I said that?”

  “Yep!”

  “Well, I think I probably meant you shouldn’t mope about,” I say cautiously.

  “You also said I should be proactive!”

  “Did I?” I say slowly, playing for time. I frown to myself. I’m not completely sure I know what the word means.

  “Yes, you did! So I’m being proactive!”

  “How so?”

  “Alastair and I are going to get married!”

  “Does the groom know?”

  Lizzie looks impatient and swivels herself around so she is fully facing me.

  “What you said makes a lot of sense, Holly. I love Alastair, I truly do, and there is no way I am giving him up without a fight!”

  “OK,” I say slowly, “I understand that bit and that’s good. But where does the white dress come in?”

  “I’m going to make him marry me, Holly!” she says triumphantly. “That’s the conclusion I have arrived at! Admittedly I may have got ahead of myself a bit with the wedding dresses, but I just couldn’t resist it! Besides, it was good for me. Somehow it got me in the mood!”

  “Did you pick out a bridesmaid dress for me?”

  “Ha, ha. There is just no way I am going to let someone like Alastair escape. Good men are hard to come by.” Fair point, I suppose.

  “Well, how are you going to make him marry you? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but he does have to propose first. You can’t go ahead and plan a wedding and then take him to it like a surprise birthday party.”

  A delicious image of two hundred wedding guests, all in hats, plus the vicar standing at the altar, shouting “SURPRISE!” at a bemused Alastair flashes before me for a second. Actually, it would be quite fun, wouldn’t it?

  “I have a cunning plan and I’m going to need your help.”

  I relent a little and relax my taut face. I have to say I am a bit curious anyway.

  “Oh, all right. What is it?”

  “LOCAL HOSPITAL IN DRUGS BUST” screams the Journal’s headline the next morning. I grind my teeth and walk back to the car where James Sabine is waiting for me. I clamber in and snap on my seat belt.

  “It’s happened again,” I say indignantly and shove the newspaper over to him.

  “Do they mention the suspect by name? We’ll sue if they do . . .”

  “Don’t know, haven’t read it.” I look sulkily out of the window while he flicks in silence to the appropriate page and reads. “No, they don’t. A good thing too.” He hands the paper back to me, puts the car into gear and we whoosh off.

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  “Let IT sort it out.”

  Detective Sergeant Sabine and I, partners in the fight against crime, are on our way to interview someone about the Sebastian Forquar-White burglary. The other half of the magnificent duo isn’t looking too thrilled though; his habitual expression is now accompanied by the rather irritating drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel as we sit at some particularly arduous traffic lights.

  I get my notepad out of my bag. Right, down to business. Details.

  “How would you describe your relationship with the rest of the department?”

  “Good.”

  “Are there any competitions going on? You know, who can make the most arrests in the month?”

  “Nope.”

  This is going well.

  “Do you have lucky socks you wear in raids or anything?”

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  “Do you give your gun a name?”

  At long last he looks over at me. “Miss Colshannon,” he says patiently and I raise my eyebrows hopefully, “you would know if I had a gun.”

  “How would I know if you had a gun?”

  “Because I would have shot you with it by now. Please stop these ridiculous questions.” So much for personal details.

  “Who are we going to interview?” I ask.

  “Some of the staff at Sebastian Forquar-White’s house; I want to go back over their statements.”

  “Something there that you don’t like?”

  “No, but it’s got to be some sort of inside job because the burglar knew the layout of the house so well.”

  “Maybe they just got lucky.”

  “Maybe. There’s a list down there, if you want to see, of the stuff that was taken.” He gestures with his head toward my feet. I pick up a manila file, open it and pull out the top copy.

  Absolute gobbledegook.

  I’m sure there are quite a few people in the world that this list would actually mean something to. But I’ve never had a hotline to The Antiques Roadshow. It’s full of items such as “Ebonized Bracket Clock, c1780” and “Sèvres Vase, c1815.” I frown at it for a second.

  “How do you know that Sebastian Forquar-Whatshisgob isn’t doing an insurance scam? That he hasn’t just popped a few things, a few imitation knickknacks, down in the cellar to leave some empty spaces and reads Antiques Today on a regular basis? I mean, you would hardly know he has been burgled, you said so yourself. Sounds very suss to me.”

  He smiles a wry little smile.

  “Well, it had crossed my mind,” he admits, “but it’s because you can’t tell the burglar has even been there that I know he has.”

  I replay this remark a few times in my head, trying to make sense of it.

  “How do you mean? Exactly?”

  “Well, someone who attempts an insurance fraud always overdoes the breaking and entering bit. Instead of a forced window catch on a very small window in the larder, you find positively tons of broken glass, ransacked drawers, several fake footprints and a note saying WE DID THE PLACE OVER, SORRY. LOVE, THE BURGLARS. The owners of the house will always say, ‘Yes, Officer, we woke in the night to the sound of breaking glass and went downstairs in time to see two figures running across the lawn’, not like Mr. Forquar, er, Thing saying ‘Not a dicky bird disturbed me, best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.’ ”

  There’s a pause while I take all this in.

  “Besides,” he adds, “I checked with the insurance company. Every single thing on that list was a named item with them. So you see, he didn’t fabricate anything.”

  “Well, it sounds a very expensive list.”

  “About seventy thousand pounds’ worth.”

  I stare at him with my mouth open. “Seventy thousand pounds?”

  “Yeah, makes your TV and video thief pale into insignificance a bit, doesn’t it?”

  “I shouldn’t think the insurance company is very happy about that.”

  I jump in my seat as he leans irritably on the horn. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters impatiently. I peer ahead; there seems to be a problem a few cars in front.

  “Something’s happened,” I say rather needlessly.

 
He maneuvers the car to the side of the road, which affords me a great view of the increasingly tempestuous scene between two motorists ahead, snaps on the handbrake and turns off the engine.

  “I’d better go and see. You stay here.” He gets out of the car and strides off toward the two hapless motorists. I think there may have been some sort of accident. I fidget in my seat and peer anxiously out of the windscreen, trying to catch some of the action. Detective Sergeant Sabine always has this marvelous knack of making me feel like a grubby little six-year-old caught with my hand in the biscuit barrel. I settle down and turn my full attention to trying to lip-read the argument.

  I jump as a mobile phone starts to ring. I locate it in the well between the two seats. I look at it warily, remembering what happened last time when I answered the radio. He was really peeved about that; I think I’ll leave it.

  It continues to ring.

  I look ahead and try to ascertain whether the argument has moved toward some sort of finale. Quite a crowd has built up around them. I wonder whether I should just nip out and take the phone to him. Curiosity overtakes me a little—it might be his wife-to-be. I impulsively answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Holly?” A male voice.

  “Yep, it’s me!”

  “Where’s Detective Sergeant Sabine?” It’s the station.

  I narrow my eyes and look at the scene ahead. “Er, he’s a little tied up at the moment.”

  “Could you ask the detective to contact the station urgently as soon as he has untied himself?”

  “Er, yes, OK.”

  I get out of the car, intent on my mission. The row seems to be really hotting up now and the good detective is standing right in the middle of it, attempting to keep the two men from slugging each other. I reach the outskirts of the group and try to push my way forward. The surrounding people seem to be surprisingly unyielding. Hmm. I shove a little harder and chuck a few “Excuse me”s in for good measure. Nothing. I’m getting annoyed now. A man in a flat cap swivels his head around and glares at me. “Look, love, we were here first. You can’t just push your way to the front.”

  “POLICE BUSINESS, COMING THROUGH!” I roar.

  This time a good few heads swivel round to clock the nutter.

  “Give over, love,” mutters flat-cap. “If you’re police business then I’m Tom Jones.”

  There are titters from the crowd at this. Unable to face more humiliation, I give up and strop back to the car. Bugger. What now? I’m not going to attempt that mob again. I get into the passenger side and think. The messenger said it was urgent. How urgent is urgent? Drop-everything-because-if-you-don’t-react-then-we’re-all-going-to-die urgent or simply I’ve-left-the-oven-on urgent?

  I peer anxiously out the window. The row doesn’t seem to be abating.

  I think I’ll just flash the headlights. If he comes over, I can give him the message and absolve myself of all responsibility. If he ignores me then at least I can say I tried. Right. Yes. That’s what I’ll do and then no blame can be apportioned later.

  I clamber over the handbrake and sit in the driver’s seat. I peer and feel around for the headlight switch and in frustration start to push and pull all the levers. Suddenly, out of the relative quiet of rush hour Bristol, a police siren leaps into action.

  Right next to my ear.

  HOLY SHIT! I nearly leap out of my skin. I have a quick look around in case by some quirk of fate another police car has happened upon the scene and is parked on top of me making that God-awful noise. Then, seeing that there isn’t, I accept the fact it is the unmarked police car in which I am sitting that is making the terrible racket. What the hell is an unmarked police car doing with a siren?

  Shit, shit and shit. Like a woman possessed, I frantically start to pull and press everything I can to make the damn thing stop.

  I think I may have got James Sabine’s attention. And everyone else’s as well. The crowd of people who were until a moment ago surrounding the two rowing men have all turned and are gawping at me with their mouths open. Pedestrians have stopped and are staring, people have come out of their houses and are staring and Detective Sergeant Sabine is striding toward me.

  I increase my frenzied activity. The windscreen wipers come on and off. The headlights flash on and off. The radio turns on and off. James Sabine arrives at the car, throws open the door and reaches inside. The noise stops.

  I close my eyes and bite my lip. I can feel him standing next to me. I can feel the waves of ill-will flowing out of his every pore.

  “Did you want something, Miss Colshannon?” he says in a quiet voice. A dangerously quiet voice. “Were you perhaps trying to attract my attention?”

  “Er yes. The station want you to call. Urgently,” I say in a very small voice. Barely audible, in fact. I stare miserably down at my feet, wishing I could become something very tiny and slope away. Anything would do. Ant, earwig, whatever. Just as long as it was small and could disappear into crevices.

  “Could you perhaps have walked over and told me that? Or were you, for some mysterious and invisible reason, unable to leave the car?”

  “I did try but I couldn’t get through. I meant to flash you.” His eyebrows rise ever so slightly at this. “With the headlights,” I hastily jump in. “Wrong lever.”

  “Right. Would you mind terribly if I just finished sorting this problem out?”

  “No, no,” I mumble as I hand his mobile over to him. He turns away. Was there . . . ? No, I must be mistaken. I thought, for the briefest of seconds, there was the ghost of a smile there. I watch as he strides back to the accident, dialing his mobile phone as he walks. I feel unaccountably sulky. I mean, how the hell was I supposed to know there was a siren in this car? I’m not Inspector Gadget. I pout to myself and clamber back over the handbrake, careful not to touch anything else in case I flip another all-important, it’s-a-police-thing button. Like an ejector seat.

  After a few minutes he gets back into the car and, without another word, executes a U-turn and squeezes out of our traffic jam into the free-flowing lane going the opposite way.

  We sit in silence, as I am unwilling to increase his wrath any further by asking questions, until he says, “There’s been another burglary. Uniform seems to think it’s the same person.”

  “Really? Brilliant!” I enthuse. He gives me a look. I tone down my blatant elation and assume a more concerned air by tilting my head to one side, adopting my anxious face and examining the floor intently. He resumes his study of the road ahead.

  We travel the rest of the journey in silence. No need for directions this time; he seems to know his way to the house. It is in the same area as the first burglary but I suppose there is nothing strange in that as it is quite a prosperous neighborhood. We draw up outside a large Regency house which looks very similar to the other burgled residence.

  I leap out in a burst of enthusiasm and stride off along the pavement. My foot catches on something and with a loud shriek I stumble and rather inelegantly fall flat on my behind.

  “God! Are you OK?” James Sabine comes around from his side of the car.

  Flushed with embarrassment, I try to leap up in a sprightly way as though I was just investigating something very interesting on the pavement. “Yes, yes! Absolutely fine. Top hole, in fact. Seem to, er, have, er, tripped over something.”

  “You seem to spend an enormous proportion of your time doing battle with inert objects,” he remarks dryly as we both peer at the pavement, eyes searching for that jutting paving stone or uneven surface. Nothing. Smooth as silk. For goodness sake, there must be something. I look suspiciously at the ground while furtively trying to rub my throbbing bum. And then I peer closer.

  A fruit pastille sweet is stuck to one of the paving stones. Lemon flavor, by the look of it.

  “What’ve you seen?”

  “NOTHING. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  He squints at the ground. “You tripped over a fruit gum?” He stares up at me and his voice
is incredulous with disbelief.

  “Well, it’s stuck fast to the pavement,” I mutter, giving the life-threatening sweet a small kick with my foot. “I think it’s a fruit pastille anyway.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “I have a problem with my inner ear,” I say defensively.

  “Do you?”

  “Well, maybe.”

  He gives a small shake of his head and then walks off toward the front door of the house, muttering to himself.

  I eye the fruit pastille viciously. It is absolutely stuck fast to the pavement. The sun must have baked the damn thing on. I would like to vent my frustration on it but I have the feeling that if I enter into a bare-fist fight with my lemon friend I may come off worse. I trot after Detective Sergeant Sabine, swearing silently to myself. What is wrong with me? Could I just try and get through the rest of the day without anything else mortifying happening to me? Eh, Holly? Could you please try? More coordination is what’s required. Please think about your limbs at all times, I instruct myself. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right. See? Not so hard is it?

  I catch up with James Sabine at the front door. It opens just as I get there. He flashes his ID to the person on the other side.

  “Detective Sergeant Sabine. I believe you’ve had a burglary, Mrs. Stephens?”

  “Do come in, Officer,” says an old voice full of charm and serenity. As he murmurs his thanks and steps through the front door, I get my first view of the owner of the voice. She is an old lady. The sort of lady I would like as a grandmother, I decide within the same minute. She is dressed in a tweed skirt and a beige pullover. Her face, although creased with life, is carefully made up. She exudes tranquillity.

  I step into the bright hallway and on to polished wood. My mind is taken away from thoughts of the old lady by the wary look James Sabine shoots me, presumably because of the extreme volatility of my balance and the smell of beeswax which indicates the floor is polished regularly.

  “Could you attempt to try and stay upright?” he murmurs out of the side of his mouth.

  “Could you stop mentioning it?” I murmur back.

  We wait patiently as Mrs. Stephens very deliberately closes the front door and applies the door chain. She turns back to us.