Playing James

  “Thanks for the advice,” I remark dryly.

  “I always pass on good advice. I’ve got no other use for it. Shit MacGregor, darling! Have to fly! The cat’s on fire!”

  I raise my eyes heavenward, replace the receiver and go and get dressed.

  Ben arrives twenty minutes later. I open the door to him and he recoils at the sight of my swollen face.

  “What the hell have you done?”

  “Accidentally got hit in the face.”

  “Well, I can’t take you out looking like that. People will think I did it.” He troops into the sitting room and plonks himself on the sofa. “Did it hurt?”

  “A bit.”

  “Get them all the time in rugby,” he says with an attitude lacking in the relevant sympathy.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  “Really good. Do you remember that bloke I told you about? From accounts? Well, he came up to me today . . .”

  After half an hour I decide I’m a little bored of staring at him adoringly and admiring his teeth.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how it happened?”

  He stops mid-flow, surprised at my interjection. “Of course I am, babe. I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it.”

  And so I relate my story again.

  “You’ll read all about it tomorrow anyway, so you’ll just have to skip over that bit.”

  He stares at me. “Read about it?” he asks doubtfully.

  “Yes. In the diary,” I say patiently.

  “Of course, of course! The diary. Could you try and plug the game on Saturday?”

  “It might be a little difficult as it’s about the police. But I’ll try.”

  I get up and go through to make some omelettes for supper. I busy myself getting eggs, milk and cheese out of the fridge. “Do you want cheese or herbs or both, Ben?” I shout.

  No answer.

  I walk through to the sitting room. Ben is standing over the magazine rack, staring down with the strangest expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His head jolts up. “Eh?”

  “Cheese or herbs?”

  “I, er, just remembered. I can’t stay. Got a team meeting.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Er, yes. On, er, team strategy.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “Yes, very important. Can’t miss it, in fact.”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise and then shrug. “OK,” I say and walk with him to the door. I open it and lean on the frame.

  “Well, might I see you later in the week?”

  “Er, yes, probably. I mean, definitely!”

  I lean forward to kiss his mouth. He moves, probably to kiss me, and so I end up planting a square one on his ear.

  “You moved!” I say embarrassedly.

  “Yes! Sorry! See you soon! Bye!” he says and sprints out into the hall and down the stairs. I close the door and stare at the white paintwork for a minute, biting my lip. How strange. He was behaving a little oddly. Almost as though . . . I wander back into the sitting room, sit down on the sofa and stare into space. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him about my TV interview.

  My face suddenly gets very hot and I involuntarily clench my hands into fists. He didn’t have a rugby meeting. He wanted to leave, to get away. I remember where he was standing when I came into the sitting room. I get up and walk over to the magazine rack and stare down. A beautiful girl dressed in pure white and clutching a bouquet of flowers stares straight back at me. A bride. It’s one of Lizzie’s bridal magazines.

  fourteen

  I glare at the magazine, my thoughts racing. What had Ben been thinking? That I was plotting to marry him? Or I was a closet wedding freak? I walk back over to the sofa and sink into its cushions, wishing the whole thing would just swallow me up instead. Oh God, he must have thought this was a rerun of Fatal Attraction. He is probably sitting in the nearest pub right now, nursing a large brandy and telling a sympathetic barman all about his lucky escape. A groan unwittingly escapes my lips and I cover my face with my hands and then wince as one of my fingers catches my sore eye.

  I’ll just call and explain, that’s what I’ll do. I sit up eagerly. I’ll ring him and explain that the magazines are Lizzie’s. I sink back into the soft cushions and wonder despondently to myself if he’ll believe me. Lizzie’s not even engaged, and this little escapade has come hot on the heels of my parents arriving dressed up to the nines and eager to greet the prospective son-in-law. So what if that wasn’t how it really happened? The point is that it doesn’t look that way. And now this.

  Surely he’s got to believe me. It’s the truth, for heaven’s sake! A nagging little voice at the back of my head asks, why should he be so averse to the idea of marriage anyway? And why to you? Would he still run a mile if Cindy Crawford said, “How’s about it, big boy; you and me, Gretna Green?” Or is it just the idea of matrimony that panics him, whoever it’s with? Do I really want to be with a man who bolts at the sight of a wedding magazine?

  I don’t know. All I do know is I can’t bear to let it finish this way. I can’t bear to let him think I have been running around covertly plotting to have him “for better, for worse.” And what would you do, whispers the little voice, if it did finish? Would you collapse in a heap on the floor, or would you secretly, in your heart of hearts, be just a little relieved? No more Saturday nights in, waiting for him to turn up. No more fascinating discussions about Jonny Wilkinson.

  I shake my head resolutely. Am I mad? I don’t want this to finish. Girls would kill to go out with that boy. Those shoulders, those eyes, those golden looks. No, no. I set my teeth determinedly. “You can butt out, girls,” I say to an imaginary group of circling harpies. “He’s mine and I’m going to keep him that way. Jonny Wilkinson or no bloody Jonny Wilkinson.”

  I walk resolutely over to the telephone and dial his number. He probably won’t be home yet but I’m too anxious to care. No answer. I replace the receiver and pace my flat nervously for the next ten minutes. I go back and try again; still no answer. I put the television on in an effort to take my mind off things, but my thoughts keep straying back anyway. Just tell him straight, I say to myself. He has to believe you because it’s the truth.

  All in all, I must dial his number at least ten times. Each time the phone just rings and rings. Where is he? Where the hell is he? At midnight I give up and go to bed. I pull the duvet up to my chin and then lie on my side in the fetal position, praying for sleep. Willing for its gentle oblivion. Finally I think I must doze off, because I am awakened by a persistently shrill noise. I blink my eyes blearily and turn off my alarm clock, but still the noise persists. I focus at the hour on the clock. It isn’t even time for the alarm to go off. I suddenly realize it’s the front door buzzer and I leap up and run through to the hall. It must be Ben! He must have realized he’d made a mistake and come round on his way to work. He couldn’t bear for the day to pass without apologizing! I lift the receiver of the entry phone.

  “Hello?” I say eagerly.

  “Holly?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s James.”

  “James?”

  “Buzz me up.”

  I duly do as I am told. I can hear him coming up the stairs as I run back into my bedroom. I hastily wrap my dressing gown around me and then run back into the hall just in time to open the door.

  “James? What are you doing here?”

  “There’s been another burglary. This time someone was hurt. Are you, er, OK? I mean, apart from the eye thing,” he says, peering at me.

  I put a hand up to my face. “Er, yes, fine. I think. I’ll just go and get dressed. I’ll be two seconds. Help yourself to a cup of tea if you want.” I point the way through to the sitting room and the kitchen.

  “Thanks.”

  I go back to the bedroom and peer in the mirror. I recoil instantly. Well, I can see why he might be concerned. My black eye has almost completely closed up and is surrou
nded by a tapestry of glorious Technicolor. My other eye is looking as bad, full of sleep and puffed up. My hair has its parting halfway down my head, hovering a fraction above my left ear, and I am looking pasty and tired. Nothing half a day with the Clarins range wouldn’t fix but unfortunately I have no time for that now.

  “How did you know where I lived?” I yell through to the kitchen.

  “Robin!” he yells back. Of course, Robin. Is he still seeing her, do you think? Or is it just old-fashioned little moi who thinks he ought to break it off before his wedding? “Do you want tea?” he adds.

  “Yes, please!”

  I have no time for a shower and so I hastily throw on some black combats and a black polo-neck sweater instead of my habitual pencil skirt and little top. With my black eye I might as well look as Reservoir Dogs as I possibly can. I perform damage limitation on my face and hair as far as possible and then walk through to the kitchen in my bare feet in search of some suitable shoes. James hands me a mug of tea.

  “I could only find some of that disgusting Earl Grey stuff.”

  “That’s all I drink.”

  “Oh.”

  We sip our tea and lean against the countertops. “How’s the eye?” he asks.

  “OK, thanks. Doesn’t look too attractive though. Has the person been hurt badly? In the burglary?”

  “I don’t know. He’s in the hospital. The night shift took the call but they thought it might be the same thief so they called me early. The Chief wants these burglaries to be my priority now. Sorry to wake you, but I thought you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I collect some things together and then we walk down to the car and head off toward the hospital.

  “You’re very quiet. Are you sure you’re OK? You haven’t got concussion or anything?” he asks.

  For a second I’m tempted to pour all my troubles out, to tell him about Ben and how he thinks I’m plotting to marry him. But I don’t think James will be able to cope with such sensational revelations. He might even think I’m lying about the magazines being Lizzie’s etc., so I decide to keep my mouth shut. Like the wide-mouthed frog.

  “No, no,” I murmur out of the corner of my tightly shut mouth. Besides, James has his own wedding issues right now. He’s getting married in a few weeks’ time and poor Robin must be devastated.

  En route, James calls the station to request that the forensics officers go to the address of the latest burglary.

  As he turns the mobile off, I ask, “Do you think it’s The Fox again?”

  “The Fox?”

  “That’s what I call him in the diary. The same person who did Mrs. Stephens and Mr. Forquar-White?”

  “Oh, well, I don’t know. But hopefully Roger might find something. At the very least that peculiar substance so we can link all the burglaries.”

  We travel in silence, each musing on our own private thoughts until we reach the hospital car park. We come to a standstill. James pulls up the handbrake.

  “Holly?”

  I look inquiringly at him and raise my eyebrows.

  “Would you mind wearing your sunglasses? People are going to think I’ve hit you or something.”

  “But you have,” I say, intentionally missing the point.

  “But not deliberately.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t?”

  “Just put the damn sunglasses on.”

  Once in the hospital we ask to see Mr. Williams and then set off down the labyrinth of corridors in the direction we are told. Mr. Williams looks to be asleep when we reach him. For an awful moment I actually wonder whether he’s dead. Two ladies who are sitting on either side of him rise as we approach. The older woman, I discover, is Mrs. Williams. She is tearful and distressed, constantly wringing a white handkerchief she has in her hands. We go through the normal rigmarole of IDs and introductions. James suggests tea in the canteen which is a few doors down from the ward. Mrs. Williams leaves instructions with the younger lady, who I think from the resemblance is her daughter, and accompanies us down the corridor.

  While James and Mrs. Williams sit down at one of the Formica tables, I trot up to the counter and buy three teas. Suitably equipped with a tray I head back toward them, anxious not to miss anything. James is sitting next to the lady on the same side of the table and has his arm around her. Her head is down and she is silently weeping. He looks up as I place the tray gently down and smiles at me.

  “Thanks, Holly. Here, Mrs. Williams, have some tea. You’ll feel better. Is there anyone I can call who could look after you?”

  She snuffles into her handkerchief and accepts the proffered cup of tea.

  “That’s my daughter in there. She’s staying for a few days. Thank you anyway.”

  “I’ve sent some forensics officers to your house, if that’s OK? I’m told that your neighbor is there.” She nods and James continues. “When is your husband expected to be released from the hospital?”

  “They’re keeping him in for observation. Maybe tomorrow, they said.”

  “In that case, we will need to interview him today. It really is important to get his statement as soon as possible. Mrs. Williams, I know this is difficult for you but I also need a list of everything that has been taken. Could you send it over to my office this afternoon please?” She nods. James writes down his fax number for her and then goes on to ask her a few more questions, but it is clear the poor lady really isn’t up to talking very much.

  We go back to the main ward. Mr. Williams still has his eyes closed. The young lady excuses herself and leaves us to it. James says loudly, “Mr. Williams?” The man opens his eyes hazily. He’s probably around retirement age—just like my father, really. I don’t like the thought of this frail old man being hit over the head. He has a large bandage on his forehead and his left eye is black. It’s horrible to see old flesh torn and bruised.

  James Sabine makes the appropriate introductions while Mr. Williams sits up and takes sips of water from a glass at the side of his bed. James then says, “Can you take us through the events of last night please, Mr. Williams?”

  “I’ll try, it’s a bit hazy, like,” he responds. “I woke up at about three in the morning because I’d heard a noise. It wasn’t a loud noise but I’m a very light sleeper, see? On account of my prostate. Need to widdle in the night a good few times, you see? Anyway, I looked over at the clock and saw the time and then listened for more noise. I didn’t hear anything but I just had this feeling something wasn’t right, so I got up and went downstairs to check. I suppose that after reading about The Fox I’d been feeling nervous. Not that I’d mention anything to Marjorie—that’s my wife—but I was feeling a bit on edge. You see, Marjorie inherited the house from her mum, along with pretty much everything in it, and we do have loads of little precious knickknacks; well, that’s what the insurance man told us anyway. She won’t get rid of the house, oh no. She says it would be a step toward the nursing home. She says—”

  “Mr. Williams?” says James gently. “You were telling us about last night?”

  “Oh! Yes, sorry. Anyway, I went downstairs and went into every room and turned the light on. He was in the dining room. I suppose he must have been hiding behind the door because just as I turned around to come out I remember a whoosh of air and a terrible pain in my head and then nothing. I came to in here. Marjorie says it was about six this morning when she found me and called the ambulance immediately.”

  “So you didn’t see the suspect at all?”

  Mr. Williams shakes his head. “Sorry.”

  James sighs. “Well, thanks, Mr. Williams, for your help. I promise that we’re doing all we can to find the culprit.”

  I spontaneously lean across and pat Mr. Williams’ hand. He looks over at me and smiles. “What’s up with you, love?” he says, gesturing to the sunglasses.

  I take them off. “Snap!”

  “How did you do that?”

  “He smacked me in the face.” Mr. Williams looks over
at James, aghast and just a little confused.

  “Accidentally,” says James patiently and probably getting on for the hundredth time.

  I wait in the corridor while James tries to find out exactly when Mr. Williams will be released.

  “Hello! Fancy seeing you here!” says a friendly voice behind me. I spin round.

  “Dr. Kirkpatrick!” I am tempted to add he is a sight for sore eyes because he is just that. His dark hair flops sexily down and his lazy smile almost meets his eyes.

  “I suppose it’s not such a surprise considering your past record of self-mutilation.”

  “One tries one’s best,” I say, grinning delightedly at his flirtatious tone.

  “What are you here for this time?”

  “Official business.”

  “Are you sure?” he says, pointing at the sunglasses.

  “Ah. Well.” I take them off and display my vibrant eye. “Wasn’t me though.”

  “Official business?”

  “Yep, Detective Sergeant Sabine accidentally hit me.” Dr. Kirkpatrick leads me to some chairs and sits me down. He stands over me and peers closer at my eye. I think I’m about to pass out.

  “Hmm, looks OK. I’ve been following your diary, you know,” he says, still peering.

  “Have you?” Unfortunately this comes out as a rather high-pitched squeak.

  “Yes.” He releases me. “It’s developed quite a little cult following.”

  “You can read all about this in today’s episode,” I say lightly.

  He grins at me. “I will.”

  “Holly!” James makes me jump and Dr. Kirkpatrick stands up. They shake hands in a manful, hearty fashion.

  “Just looking at Holly’s eye. Quite a bash you gave her!”

  “It wasn’t deliberate,” James says, practically through clenched teeth. He glares at me in an if-you-tell-anyone-else . . . kind of way. I quickly put my sunglasses back on. My jolly banter with Dr. Kirkpatrick culminates in a pledge to injure myself again soon. Unfortunately, he isn’t aware of just what an easy promise that is to make.

  On the way back out to the car I buy the Bristol Gazette from the hospital shop. Today is the first day that the photos appear. In the car I quickly turn to the diary pages.