I wake with a great sense of excitement on Monday morning. Today is the day I'm going to see my diary in print! I scramble to clothe myself and then zoom around to the newsagent where I buy three copies of the paper. I rush back to my flat and, while eating my cereal, read the first instalment of my diary. It's on page three of the paper, which is a really good place to be. It has a small picture of yours truly (fully clothed) and a huge heading. I peer anxiously at the picture, trying to remember when it was taken. I think it must have been last year when the paper was on a marketing splurge. I quickly scan the text but I am so familiar with my own words I can't tell whether it reads well or not. I ring Lizzie.
'Have you got it yet?' I say before she has chance to speak.
A dopey voice replies, 'Eh? Holly? Whatcha doing? What time is it?'
'It's er, –' I look at my watch '- seven-thirty. You're not up yet, are you?'
'Well, I am now.'
'Buy the paper and call me later.'
Buggery broccoli. I put the phone down and look again at my watch. I'm a little early but I might as well go down to the police station and wait for crime to happen. What might today have in store for me, I wonder. A spot of arson perhaps? Maybe some fraud? Perhaps I could persuade Ben to set light to the rugby club? The roads are clear and I arrive in record time. Even Dave-the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant isn't on duty yet. Instead I produce my ID to a complete stranger (who, may I say for the record, is decidedly too chirpy for this time in the morning and so on reflection I think I prefer Dave's economy with speech) and am buzzed through the security door.
Upstairs I meet the officers who are coming off the night shift. We exchange pleasantries and I ask them about the night's events. Gradually the rest of the office fills up and the night duty yawn and head off home.
Callum bounds in with his usual Labrador energy, waving a newspaper.
'Holly! It's great! Aren't you thrilled?'
'Yes, yes, I am,' I say, trying not to look too pleased. He chucks it over to another colleague who asks to see it and then turns back to me.
'I can't believe it's called "The Real Dick Tracy's Diary" though.' His mouth twitches.
'Yeah, I know. Joe, my editor, thought of that.'
'I don't think James is ever going to forgive you!'
I stare at him, aghast. 'Why? How do you mean?'
'What, "Dick"? Are you serious? He's not going to lose that little nickname for a long time to come.' He grins.
I frown, puzzled at this. I'd never even thought of that … 'People are going to call him "Dick"?'
Just as I say that, a resounding chorus of 'Morning Dick!' starts up from the other end of the room. I think Dick Tracy himself might just have arrived. I have no real wish to turn around. I know he's getting closer because I'm following Callum's eyes which are presumably tracking Dick's progress across the room. I bite my bottom lip.
'Good luck!' Callum murmurs, before straightening up and saying loudly, 'Why, if it isn't the real Dick Tracy!' and bolting for the relative safety of his own desk. I wish fervently that I could also bolt for cover with Callum. Tucked up in his armpit or something.
James Sabine sits down opposite me.
'Morning,' I whisper. His expression is very hard to read; unluckily the icy note in his voice is not.
'Couldn't you have come up with anything better than Dick?'
'It really wasn't me. It was my editor's idea,' I say in a very small voice.
His green eyes lock on to mine. 'Well, remind me to pass on my profuse thanks if I am ever fortunate enough to meet him. I am now going to be called Dick for the rest of my life.'
'Sorry,' I whisper.
'No, no, don't be sorry, Miss Colshannon. Because it is just another small incident in a catalogue of unfortunate incidents that seem to have plagued me since your arrival here.'
Bloody buggery beans. He really is quite annoyed. I feel thoroughly chastised and bite my lip uncertainly as he studies the mound of paperwork on his desk. Really, does he need to make me feel quite so uncomfortable? Couldn't he have said something nice about the rest of the diary? I catch Callum's eye. He gives me a wink and I grin back at him. James Sabine's head suddenly snaps up and he glares at me as though he can smell the happy juice. I wipe the smile off my face and study my notes.
His telephone rings. He quickly picks it up and snaps, 'Hello?', then, 'Yep, she's here. Unfortunately.' He hands the receiver over to me, saying, 'It's for you.'
'Thanks.' The temptation to add 'Dick' is almost too much for me. Luckily the steely look in his eyes dissuades me.
'Hello?' I say into the mouthpiece.
'Holly, is that you?' It's Joe.
'It's me!'
'Have you seen the
Journal
this morning?'
'No,' I say slowly. 'I bought our paper to see the diary, but I didn't really look at the
Journal
.'
'Get a copy as soon as you can,' Joe says grimly. 'We've been scooped.'
I
replace the receiver and stare thoughtfully ahead for a second. James Sabine is absorbed in flipping through his pile of papers. 'Back in a minute,' I say. I pick up my purse from my bag and scurry out of the office. Five minutes later, I find myself in the little newsagent around the corner buying the
Journal
. I run back to the station and huff and puff my way up to the second floor and back to my desk. I quickly sit down and scour the headlines, then start to look for the story page by page. I don't have to look for very long. On page three the headline 'CULTURED THIEF BAGS PRICELESS ANTIQUES' screams at me. I start to read.
Retired Colonel Sebastian Forkar-White was robbed of his family's finest antiques as he slept. The thief apparently forced a catch on a window and then stole into the house in the dead of night. 'They must have a wonderful eye for detail,' said a neighbour. "The Forkar-
Whites
only own the best.' An inside source revealed the police are baffled and have no clues except for a strand of hair
,
which will be sent off for DNA analysis, and a mysterious substance found at the crime scene. First to the incident were Detective Sergeant James Sabine and a reporter from the
Bristol Gazette
who is shadowing the detective for a supposedly exclusive six-week diary, but yet again your very own
Bristol Journal
brings you the full story. Continued on page seven
.
I take a long breath and stare unseeingly at the page in front of me. My brain is frantically turning over the facts. How on earth could someone have got hold of details like this?
'Er, Detective Sergeant Sabine?' He lifts his head and raises his eyebrows enquiringly.
'Have you seen this?' I ask, holding up the
Journal
.
'I prefer fact to fiction,' he says, shifting his gaze back to his paperwork.
'Well, I think you should take a look at this.' I hand the newspaper over and wait silently as he starts to read, watching as his face turns at first to disbelief and then to anger. His eyes lock on to mine.
'How the hell …? THAT'S IT!' he roars. 'I've had enough! You're responsible for this and I'm going to make sure the whole stupid diary thing stops now.'
A week's worth of tension snaps inside me. You can almost hear it. 'Stupid? STUPID?' I screech. Unfortunately screeching is a fair description. 'The diary is not STUPID. Just because some of us don't have your high-handed, God-like approach to life doesn't mean all other careers are STUPID.'
'Who's high-handed?' he shouts back.
'YOU'RE high-handed.' I look around for Callum. My eyes alight on him sitting innocently at his desk watching us.'Isn't he high-handed, Callum?' I shout over.
Callum grins and nods. A few other people in the department are looking over with interest and they bob their heads around in a the-girl's-got-a-point sort of way.
'See?' I shoot back at James Sabine. 'Callum says you're high-handed.'
'Actually,' interjects Callum as he wanders over, 'I didn't
exactly
say James was high-handed. I was merely agreeing because sometimes he can be a little …'
'Keep
out
of this, Callum,' thunders James Sabine.
'You have had it in for me from the start,' I continue, unabashed. 'You'll use any excuse just to get me off your back. You have been nothing but uncooperative, difficult and obstructive. What you don't realise though, Mr Hot-Shot Detective, is that while you are swanning around playing superhero, other people's lives …' I pause for a second; is this a little melodramatic? Sod it. '… other people's lives and careers are being stamped underfoot, all because you can't put up with me following you around for a few weeks. Well, shame on you,' I say, complete with some rather fancy finger-wagging. I sounded as though I'm from a bad movie made prior to 1940.
I stop and slowly curl up my finger. Some scattered applause comes from our newly acquired pavement audience, which quickly disperses as James Sabine turns his glare on them.
'What
you
don't realise, Miss Colshannon,' he says quietly, turning his gaze back to me, 'is quite how annoying you are to have around. It's like being followed by a particularly persistent little mosquito who refuses to be swatted. We are so understaffed here that each of us carries the workload of three officers, and in addition to this I now have to deal with the extra work that you seem so adept at creating. Why don't you press people do something positive instead of slowing down the progress of all my cases?' He pauses. 'I am going to have to report this leak to the Chief Inspector.' He turns on his heel and strides off, intent on his mission.
I wince and stare ahead for a few minutes. So, Holly, how would you say that went? How exactly were you safeguarding your future there? The mosquito jibe has particularly struck home. I muse to myself for a while, wondering who was really in the right and who was in the wrong. It seems that maybe we both have a point. Obviously mine is bigger than his though. I sigh to myself and miserably pick up the phone to break the news to Joe that the diary might be a little shorter than we first envisaged. I dial his direct line extension.
'Hello?'
'Joe, it's Holly.'
'Have you looked at it?'
'Yep. Detective Sergeant Sabine has just gone to report it to the Chief Inspector.'
'Shit.'
'Yeah. They may chuck me out.' This is understating the obvious a tad.
'Over my dead corpse,' he growls. I don't think it is the moment to pedantically point out that (a) it might well be that way if Detective Sergeant Sabine has anything to do with it and (b) 'over my dead corpse' isn't strictly speaking the correct expression. 'Do you know how the
Journal
could have got hold of this?'
'No, but I'll try and find out, if it will help. I'll speak to you later.' I replace the receiver, deep in thought.
Robin is my first port of call. She seems very distracted about something initially until I tell her in full what has happened and then her concentration seems to snap into focus. She is as appalled as I am, and very concerned about the future of the diary. She points out that the PR write-up has only been released today and naturally doesn't contain the two important pieces of information about the hair and the mysterious substance. I tell her about James Sabine and our small disagreement. And she does exactly what I had hoped she would. Robin gets on the phone to the Chief to safeguard the future of her project. I smile to myself and leave the room. I may be a little harder to get rid of than he thinks.
I go back to my desk and stare at the article. James Sabine returns to his desk. I look up. 'Well? Do I have to pack my bags?'
'Not yet. But don't get your hopes up,' he snaps. The Sabine family motto is obviously not 'forgive and forget'. 'The Chief just wants me to get to the bottom of it, for now.'
'Him and me both,' I murmur.
'What have you found out?'
'Nothing.' I stare down at the article on my desk.
'Wonderful,' he mutters sarcastically.
'I am trying,' I snap.
'Extremely,'he snaps back.
I ignore him and stare and stare at the text in front of me until something so obvious pops up that I cannot believe I didn't see it before.
'Detective Sergeant Sabine, how do you file the reports?' I say suddenly.
'How do you mean?'
'Do you have a file on each crime?'
'We write up the report on the computer and then file hard copies and additional documents in a paper file.'
'Where's the paper file?'
'All working paper files are locked in my desk.'
'How about the computer?'
'I don't think I could get it in the drawer,' he says drily.
'I mean, can anyone access the file on the computer?'
'Of course. Another officer may need the information on a case. You're not suggesting that someone here …'
'Can I see the computer file?'
He looks at me hesitantly and then shrugs. 'I suppose so.' He turns to the computer and after a few minutes pulls up the file. I walk around to his desk and look over his shoulder. He scrolls down.
There!' I say, pointing at the screen.
'What?'
'There! You've spelt Sebastian Forquar-White's name with a "k".'
'So?'
'The article did too. I checked the spelling of the name with Anton yesterday and it is spelt with a "q".'
James Sabine doesn't say anything but sits looking at the screen. 'That doesn't mean anything. Someone else could easily make the same mistake,' he says after a minute.
'Perhaps. But could someone from the outside have hacked into this computer? Is the mainframe connected by modem to anything?'
'No. You have to actually be inside this department to get into the files.'
'Can we see who last accessed the file?'
'I can't but the IT department probably could. I'll see what they can do.' He gets up and leaves the room.
I wander back around to my desk and sit down heavily. My momentary elation is replaced by frustration. I look around the department, wondering, aside from the obvious suspect, if anyone in this office is taking handouts from the
Journal
.