A thought occurs to me and I feel that with our newly found air of intimacy I can ask him this. 'You know that scooping business by the Journal?'
'Yeah?'
'Was it anything to do with you?'
James frowns and glances over at me. 'No, why do you think that?'
'I went up to the IT department.'
'I know you did. You told me,' he says patiently.
'Well, they said no one had been up to report the incident.'
'I reported it. Why wouldn't I? I reported it to, er, what's his name, Paul. I reported it to Paul. Who did you see?'
'A woman.'
'Well, there you are. Bloody IT department, they've always got their minds on other things.'
'But the scooping suddenly stopped after that.'
'That was me. I found out who it was.'
'You found out who it was?' I say, sitting up suddenly.
He glances over at me. 'Yeah.'
'Well, who was it?' I ask impatiently.
'You know Bill?'
'Bill? Nice Bill? Meek, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth Bill?' I say disbelievingly.
'I found him at my terminal one evening, when I came back to the office to collect some files. He said he was just looking something up. So a couple of nights later, I took a case we had just started that day, the drugs arrest one, off the main computer and put it on a floppy disk. When you were scooped the next morning, I knew someone had accessed that disk to get the information because it wasn't on the mainframe computer. So I confronted Bill and he confessed.'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I didn't want you to make trouble for Bill. He's got a lot of problems at the moment, financial ones. And it wasn't as if he was doing something awful. It was just unethical.'
'Well, it was pretty awful for me!' I reply hotly.
'It must have been. I seem to remember your editor reacted by asking you to try and get on with me a bit better. And you told him it was like trying to get on with Hannibal Lecter,' he observes drily.
I feel myself going a little pink. I start fiddling with the hem of my skirt. 'Well, it's not as though you were terribly easy to get on with when we first met.'
'Yeah, I know.' There's a small silence and then he says, 'But
Hannibal Lecter
?'
I grin. To change the subject I say, 'Actually, I remember you having a row with Bill now!'
'Yeah, I did.'
'I thought you were just being bad-tempered!'
'OK, enough of the bad temper/Hannibal Lecter thing.'
We fall into a convivial silence, staring at Mr Makin's door. With his eyes still fixed there, James says, 'Did Robin tell you what is going on?'
I jump uncomfortably at the subject matter. 'What? With you two?' I ask awkwardly.
'Yes.'
'Sort of.'
'It's over. That's why she's so upset.'
'So, there's nothing going on?
'No.' There's a pause until he adds, 'It really wasn't …' and then stops abruptly and leans forward. I follow his line of vision and spot Mr Makin carrying a briefcase and about to get into a car. James starts the engine and we both click our seatbelts on. I glance at my watch. We had been here for more than three and a half hours.
We travel in silence, distanced a few cars behind Mr Makin. The office buildings start to drop away as we move into residential areas and it becomes more difficult to maintain an unsuspicious distance behind him as the traffic becomes sparser. About a quarter of an hour later we have travelled right into the suburbs of Bristol.
'He's not going home,' James says suddenly as Mr Makin takes a right turn.
'How do you know where he lives?' I ask.
'Looked it up on the computer yesterday.'
Mr Makin takes a swift left, followed by another one, and we follow him. He finally comes to a standstill outside a semi-detached house and we pull into the kerb about five cars away from him. We watch as he climbs out of the car and walks up the path to the semi.
'What number is that?' I whisper.
'Why are you whispering?'
James reads the number of the house we are parked in front of and then counts down to the house Mr Makin has disappeared into. 'Number sixteen.' He then peers around, looking for the name of the road. 'Maple Tree Drive,' he says, getting out a notebook and writing it down.
'James!' I nudge him and point to something ahead of me.
A large ginger cat pads up the semi's pathway and disappears through a cat flap.
'The cat hair,' I breathe.
We turn around and head back towards the station. Once we have collected more fan mail from Dave-the-not-quite-so-grumpy-desk-sergeant ('I'm surprised we haven't had more for you after your recent TV interview, Holly,' he says, which raises a smile from James and a, 'Ha, ha. Very droll,' from me), we make our way up to the offices. James sits down at his desk and, after briefly leafing through his messages, logs on to the computer to check out the address of Mr Makin's rendezvous. I lean against his desk, watching the computer screen. We wait for a few minutes as we access the appropriate records and then James types in the address to check if the resident has a police record. We wait again. The computer bumps and grinds and then finally coughs up something. NO KNOWN RECORD.
James leans back in his chair and links his hands behind his head, absentmindedly staring into space.
'We should have waited for the cat to come out of the cat flap again and then wrestled it to the ground for one of its hairs. We could have sent it off for DNA testing to see if it matched the one Roger found,' I comment.
'The ridiculousness of that idea aside, it would take weeks for the results to come back from the lab.'
'Well, could we just go up and knock on the door?'
They could refuse us access without a warrant and then move all the stuff out if it's there.'
'What if he's just visiting his sister or something? Loads of people have ginger cats. Are you sure Mr Makin is anything to do with this? I mean, you could arrest my Aunt Annie. She owns clocks and a ginger tabby.'
'It's just a hunch.'
'A detecting thing?' I ask sarcastically. Please don't do the hunch thing. I was in the room when we spoke to Mr Makin and he seemed innocent to me. Journalists have hunches too.
'It's not just some clocks and a ginger cat. It all makes sense.' He frowns to himself. 'I'll get uniform to ask some questions. Also put surveillance on the house before we get a warrant. I need permission from the Chief.' And with that he disappears off in the direction of the Chief Inspector's office.
I really ought to be getting on with the diary, but instead I stare pensively into space, my mind full of the events of the last hour or so. I wander over to see Callum for a chat while I impatiently wait for James to return.
'So …' I sit on his desk and pick up his paperweight. 'You and Robin not getting on?' I ask ultra-casually. OK, it isn't the most innocuous of beginnings, but the eternal triangle of Robin, James and Fleur seems to be playing on my mind a lot lately. And it's not very often that Callum and I are alone together nowadays.
'I should say not. Has James told you then?'
I nod and fiddle some more with the paperweight. 'Are you pissed off with James as well?'
'Of course I am! He wants to invite Robin to the wedding. Can you imagine how awkward that will be? I've told him no way, but he's not listening. He seems to think that Robin needs protecting.' He sighs and leans back in his chair. 'You'll be well out of it by then though; the diary will have finished. What are you going to do after all of this, Hol?'
I shrug. 'Go back to features, I guess. I hope I might get some better pieces to cover as a result of the diary.'
'I'm sure you will. It's been a great success!'
I see out of the corner of my eye that James is back. I sling a hasty, 'See you later,' at Callum and run back over to our desks.
'Well?'
'The Chief has grudgingly agreed to put the house under surveillance for a few days.'
I write up my diary for that day. It is relatively thoughtful (for me anyway). It begins:
I
got to know Detective Sergeant Jack Swithen a little better today. We talked a bit about his childhood and where he grew up. He told me a story about a little girl
…
On Friday morning, James comes striding in. 'Dawn raid on Tuesday. I've got five other officers and until then to arrange it.'
My eyes open wide. I mean, how much can one journalist take? A stakeout and now a dawn raid! 'How fantastic!' I exclaim, clapping my hands together. 'So the surveillance was a success?'
'A lot of things were going bump in the night, apparently. Also, uniform has been talking to a few people and I got some of the other detectives to talk to their contacts in that area as well. Too much night-time activity has been going on at that place.'
'So what time are we leaving on Tuesday?'
'You're not coming.'
The smile slowly fades from my face. 'What do you mean, I'm not coming?'
'I mean that you're not coming.'
'Why not? Is it dangerous?'
'Not dangerous, just unpredictable. You might get hurt, especially with your overwhelming talent to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time.' He turns his attention back to the papers on his desk.
'You can't do this to me. This is my whole career.'
'I'm not talking about your career, I'm talking about you.'
'What if I stay in the car and don't come in until it's safe?'
He hesitates. 'You wouldn't move until I came to get you?'
'I promise.'
He sighs resignedly. 'OK then.'
"Vince too?'
'Don't push your luck, Holly,' he says, returning his attention to his papers.
We spend the afternoon in court as Kenneth Tanner, the hospital drug thief, is due to appear. James and I mooch about drinking endless cups of coffee, doing the crossword in the paper and reading out each other's horoscopes (he's a Scorpio and I'm a Virgo). It is a complete waste of time being there and James isn't even called to the witness stand in the end. Vince takes some photos of us standing in front of the courthouse though and even a couple of us larking about on the steps until I fall down them, needless to say nearly breaking both of our respective necks.
At the end of an unexciting afternoon, I gather my things together and go over to the paper to file copy. These burglaries and the solving of them (if this is the solving of them) could dramatically increase the diary's ratings. Sometimes journalism really is about being in the right place at the right time. I smile to myself as I wind up my laptop leads and wonder if I'll be given a new post after this or whether Joe will send me back to covering pet funerals.
I burst through the front door of my flat. 'Lizzie? Are you home?' I shout from the hallway as I tear off my coat, getting my hands stuck en route. A lethargic rustling greets me from the vicinity of the sofa. She must have found the custard cream hiding place. I walk through into the sitting room and her mournful face stares at me from the darkest depths of the couch. I wrinkle my nose sympathetically. 'How are you feeling? How was work today, any progress yet? Alastair still ignoring you?'
She valiantly stuffs another custard cream into her already full mouth and shakes her head. 'I even wore my sexiest two-piece,' she says, spitting crumbs at me. 'Nothing. Not a flicker, not a glance, not a word.'
'Oh,' I say dejectedly.
The clichés are starting to sound a little tired so we have agreed I can stop using them now. Please don't think Lizzie is wallowing in self-pity (although a wallow is good for us all from time to time) – she isn't. It's just a reaction to the strain of carrying on as normal in the office. Lizzie would rather poke herself in the eye than let people watch her cry. So at work she holds her head high and looks as though she hasn't a care in the world. When she gets home she collapses in a crumpled heap, exhausted by all that play-acting.
To take her mind off things, I tell her about the exciting developments in the Fox case.
To think we might even be able to put a name and a face to The Fox by next week!' I say excitedly.
'What time is a "dawn raid"?'
'I think James said about six a.m.'
'Aren't you supposed to be on that hen do the night before?'
I stare at her. I'd forgotten all about the damn thing. 'I have to go. I promised Fleur I would.'
'Why are you looking at me like that?'
'I really think it's high time you came out for an evening,' I say seriously.
'You. Must. Be. Mad. I'd be slitting my wrists by midnight!'
'Awww, come on! It could be fun!'
'Fun? FUN? Running around with veils and L-plates? I'll stay at home with some French Fancies and Ant 'n' Dec, thanks all the same.'
'I'm sure Fleur won't mind. I could just give her a call.'
'NO; unequivocally, positively, unconditionally NO.'
L
izzie and I stroll through the entrance to Henry Africa's Hothouse approximately ten minutes late. I spot Fleur sitting at the bar, surrounded by an odd assortment of friends. I can easily recognise the girls she must work with at the bereavement charity. They are huddled in a small group to the left of her, some sporting spectacles, others with haircuts so uninspiring that if I had been Nicky Clarke the scissors would have been whirring by now. One is even wearing a kilt (no, it isn't by Versace and no, it isn't twenty inches above her knee).
The other group are much easier on the eye but also much more terrifying. They probably are wearing Versace and their hair really is cut by Nicky Clarke. I would imagine these are Fleur's friends from home. I suspect Daddy has a private income. I can't really see James Sabine getting on with any of them. (I must not judge by appearances, I must not judge by appearances.)
I can feel Lizzie's eyes boring into the back of my neck as I lead the way towards them. I wince slightly to myself – Monday night telly was looking infinitely more appealing.
In fact, I had nearly been persuaded to stay in tonight, but not by Lizzie. Ben had come round after his rugby training, just as Robbie Williams and I were getting ready. Well, he was singing and I was getting ready.