The Chief stands up from behind his desk with a jovial smile as we enter. He is obviously a PR man at heart. He reminds me of a benevolent bank manager (not that I have met many of those in my time, it's just how I think they ought to look). He is a large man with a moustache and a spreading waistline. He says heartily: 'Aah! Here they are now!'
He walks round from his side of the desk and pumps my hand.
'You must be Holly!'
'Er, yes. Nice to meet you.'
'We're so pleased to have you on board! Robin tells us she knows you from the London circuit and I have been hearing all about your journalistic adventures! She says you're used to ground-breaking assignments! Say, you must tell me sometime about being undercover in Beirut. That sounds quite something!'
'Hmm. Yes. I must,' I say in a voice that doesn't actually sound like mine at all. I haven't been to Brighton, let alone Beirut. I manage to shoot a look at Robin, who smiles brazenly at me with a warning look in her eye. I have a feeling she usually gets what she wants.
'This is Detective Sergeant James Sabine. James, meet your new shadow!'
James grimaces. 'We have met,' he says through gritted teeth, but nevertheless he steps towards me and, with pursed lips that I presume are supposed to pass for a smile and without meeting my eyes, shakes my proffered hand. Hell, he damn near throttles it. I try not to wince.
'Holly, I have arranged for a desk to be cleared for you up here so that you can write your stories while James writes up his paperwork,' the Chief continues. 'That's something you'll have to learn about! The huge amount of paperwork these officers have to deal with! But I expect you found out all about patience on the Arctic expedition!'
The closest I have been to an Arctic Expedition is getting an Arctic Roll out of the freezer. An expedition of sorts, I suppose.
'I'm sure I'll have a lot to learn!' I say in a conciliatory manner, anything to get us off the subject of expeditions and anything else from my fictional career.
'Do you have the signed agreement from your editor?'
I fish into my bag for the faxed wad of papers that the
Gazette's
lawyer had been poring over at lunchtime. Joe's hasty signature is at the bottom of the last page and I bend over the desk to add my own next to his. As I do so, I feel James Sabine's eyes boring into my back. I shift uncomfortably. As I straighten up and hand over the agreement, the Chief says, 'Good! Why don't you two go and grab a coffee in the canteen and get to know each another a bit better? I need to finalise a few things with Robin here.' And with this, my new buddy and I are thrust out of the office.
James Sabine sets off down the corridor at breakneck speed. I walk behind with an uncomfortable view of his tense, broad back clad in a tweed jacket. He strides along while I perform some sort of comical half-run in an effort to keep up. His legs seem to be twice as long as mine.
I arrive back at the canteen – my second visit in twenty-four hours. The inmates eye me suspiciously. James doesn't say a single word to me as we order our coffees; he won't even look at me. He gets his cup first and whooshes off to one of the tables and so I trot behind with mine. I timidly sit down opposite him, feeling like a little girl anxiously seeking for approval from a parent. He speaks without looking up.
'Well, you must be pleased with yourself. Managing to persuade Robin and the Chief this is a good idea.'
I gulp. Golly, do we have to get straight into the boxing ring without gloves on? Can't we limber up a little first, with a few verbal stretching exercises? A bit of 'the weather's been rather inclement lately'?
'Well, I realise this may be a bit of an inconvenience for you but …'
'A bit of an inconvenience? Having to wet-nurse some opportunistic reporter who's anxious to cut her teeth on me? No, no. It's not an inconvenience at all. IT'S A BLOODY MAJOR PISS-TAKE, THAT'S WHAT IT IS!' This last bit is shouted at about two million decibels and pretty much brings the canteen to a standstill. People stare and I slip down in my seat but James Sabine doesn't take his piercing green, serpent eyes from my red, cringing face. 'Don't you think I have enough to do without having to hump you around with me as well?'
I bristle at this, especially at the use of the word 'hump'. It implies weight issues.
I try again. 'But James …'
'It's Detective Sergeant Sabine to you,' he growls.
'Detective Sergeant Sabine. It's a major PR opportunity. Imagine what it will do for the reputation of the local force.'
'You mean our reputation will be gutter level, the same as the press', by the time you've finished with it?'
I suspect he doesn't like the press very much. I am tempted to ask him if he has had some sort of bad childhood experience with reporters. Perhaps one took his mint humbugs away from him or something. 'No, I mean that it will create good PR. It will show people what wonderful work you do here.'
'I am sure the criminals of Bristol will sleep safer in their beds knowing you will be on the scene.' And he gets up with such force that his chair falls over backwards, and then he strides off. Ignoring the chair, I get up and scurry after him because, to be honest, I'm getting annoyed now. If he thinks he can bully me, he can forget it. I have got my chance of a lifetime, one that might land me my dream career, and there is no way that he or anyone else is going to mess it up. Watch out James Sabine, you have a bona fide shadow for the next six weeks.
I follow him back into the office. As he wends his way through the maze of desks, I can see that the rest of his colleagues are finding all this extremely amusing. Every single one either grins or winks at him as he passes them by. The fact that he seems to be in a filthy mood delights them even more. I avoid eye contact with any of them, anxious not to exacerbate the situation. He sits down at his desk. The one opposite to him has been cleared, presumably for me, so I sit down there. I say, in a really low voice so the rest of the department can't hear, 'Listen. I am really sorry you feel this way. I can assure you that I will do the best PR job I can.'
He looks extremely cynical at this.
'Have you asked if someone else in the department can take me on?' I add hopefully.
'It was my first question.'
'And what did they say?'
'What do you think? Why don't
you
ask if someone else will take you on?'
'Oh no. I only get one chance at this and if you're it, I'll have you.'
'Well, don't expect an easy ride,' he snarls.
I continue regardless. 'We are stuck with each other for the next six weeks. If it would make you feel happier, why don't you lay down a few rules?'
We sit in silence for a few seconds as he considers this. Then he says slowly, 'OK, rule one. You are not to interfere in any of my work. I do not want to hear a peep out of you. You are here to observe only.'
'Understood.' I make a zipping motion with my hand over my mouth. His eyes flicker.
Warming up, he starts to speak more quickly. 'Rule number two. You consult me if you want to use any detail of my cases in your newspaper. Do you hear me? Any detail whatsoever. You could ruin an entire case by giving out information. And rule three' – he leans over his desk – 'you will do the best PR job you have ever done, Ms Colshannon.'
'I fully intend to.'
'Fine.'
'Fine.'
There is a pause. I add, 'Good. Well, I think we understand each other. I am due to start tomorrow morning. What time do you come in?'
'Eight o'clock sharp.'
'I will see you then, Detective Sergeant Sabine.'
And with that I get up and a great cheer breaks out from the rest of the department. I can't help but smile and nod as I make my way through the throng. In fact, it almost completely restores my humour. I may never get on with James Sabine but I can tell that I'm going to like the rest of the department.
S
o what is he like, this Detective Sergeant Sabine?'
I'm on the phone to Lizzie. I take another huge slug of my vodka and lemonade, sit cross-legged on the floor, lean my head back against the wall and settle down.
'What do you mean? I've told you what he's like. Mean, moody …'
'No. What does he look like?'
'Look like?'
'Yes Holly,' says Lizzie patiently, 'look like. Any warts? A squint? Buck teeth? You know, HIS APPEARANCE.'
'Didn't you see him down at the hospital?'
'Well, yes,' she admits, 'but only the back of his head.'
'Oh! Oh.' I shrug to myself. 'Well, I suppose he's quite average-looking. You know, boy-next-door.' I use Robin's phrase.
'Boy-next-door? You mean he looks like Warren Mitchell? YUK! How gross! How …'
Lizzie and I have had much the same experience of boys-next-door. Not very talented. In fact, couldn't shake a bum cheek at a Levi's ad between them.
'No, Lizzie. Not literally. Not Warren Mitchell.'
'Then who?'
'He's just nice-looking. Well, we know he's not NICE, but he's nice-looking. Green eyes. Dark blond hair. Tall. Well-built. Usual stuff, usual stuff.'
Now it's not like me to describe a good-looking man and then say, 'Usual stuff, usual stuff afterwards. But James Sabine really isn't making me very enthusiastic. You see, a man's personality matters a lot to me. He needs to be amusing without being too sarcastic. Detective Sergeant Sabine has certainly failed on that score as he is just plain sarcastic. He needs to be warm and friendly. Again, nil points. And kind. I like kindness best. And is it kind to be unpleasant to a girl on her first day on the job? NO, IT IS NOT.
'He sounds quite nice to me,' says Lizzie dreamily.
'He isn't nice. He makes me feel about ten years old and he really doesn't want me around,' I grumble.
'He must be quite fit, being a police officer.'
'Where's Alastair tonight?' I say pointedly.
'In Scotland for some meeting.'
'How is he?'
'I think he's fine. I haven't really seen him since the weekend.'
Lizzie and I say our respective goodbyes and I put the phone down. I quickly turn my thoughts to weightier issues. What is a reporter on her new assignment shadowing a detective supposed to wear? What would Cagney and Lacey wear? No, too eighties. I think a touch of glamour may be needed. I put on some Aretha Franklin to inspire me, and clasping a new re-fill, I toddle through to my bedroom, fling open the doors of my wardrobe and survey the contents. Hmmm. I start emptying the clothes on to my bed in search of that elusive
je ne sais quoi
. Eventually I settle on a pair of black suede trousers, a little lilac jumper and a pair of high black boots. Which, to be honest, are the first items I took out.
'… no, I am sure cream will be fine … chocolate ink? What's that? … Oh. OK, it sounds nice … no, it does. Look. I have to go … that reporter's here … what? Cream ink on chocolate? Are we talking about the same thing? I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine. I really have to go.'
James Sabine has been on the phone since I arrived, the latest call presumably with his fiancée. Or at least I hope it is. It is a conversation I have unashamedly been trying to listen in on; it's enlightening to hear Detective Sergeant Sabine being pleasant for a change.
I have surprised myself this morning. With the assistance of a radio, two alarms and a wake-up call from the talking clock I have made it down to the police station for eight a.m. Rather like a kid at a new school, I have pilfered the contents of the generous stationery cupboard at the
Gazette
and armed myself with new notepads, pencils and several blank tapes for my dictaphone. I have to say I wondered briefly whether to sew my name into my pants.
I have been putting my time to good use while James Sabine has been on the phone by making friends with the rest of the department. Or rather I have been made friends with. No effort has been required on my part. Various bods have just come up to me and introduced themselves. All rather jolly. And they seem to be really nice. Why I have got stuck with the Mr Grumpy out of all the Mr Men available I will never know.
I am happily swivelling in my swivel chair while James Sabine continues his phone conversation when a backside parks itself on my desk and a voice says, 'Hi, I'm Callum. You must be Holly.' He grins cheekily at me.
I grin back at him. Sometimes there is just something about people that makes you know you are going to like them. And I am going to like Callum.
'You know my name?' I say in surprise.
'The whole department has been talking about nothing else. It's caused quite a stir! The Chief and Robin have given us all a long lecture about this project.' He looks extremely grave.
'What about him? I don't think they lectured him.' 'Don't mind James.' He gestures with his head towards James Sabine. 'He's just being a grouchy bugger.' I grin widely at this.
'It's because he's getting married next month,' Callum says cheerfully and draws his finger across his throat, just as a ball of paper hits him squarely on the back of the head. 'Which newspaper do you work for?' 'The
Gazette
.'
Callum lowers his voice to an exaggerated whisper and leans towards me. 'He doesn't really like reporters, you know.'
I lean forward and whisper back, 'I know. Any suggestions?'
'Get on the nearest plane with me to Greece?' I eye James Sabine. 'Tempting, but unfortunately not possible.'
'Oh well, I'll ask you again in a week's time. You'll probably jump at the chance.' He gets up and says, 'Have a good day, Holly, see you later.'
As soon as James puts the phone down he gets up.
'Come on, we have to go. There's been a drug dieft at the local hospital.'
Oooooh. My first piece of action. Detective Sergeant Sabine is already walking off as I scramble after him.
We descend into the bowels of the building. Well, I say 'us'. James Sabine is marching a good ten steps ahead of me and I'm scrabbling after him like a disabled spider. Pesky black boots. Just as I think we're going to the canteen again in some bizarre quirk of fate, we take a quick left and emerge into what is an underground car park. James marches over to a little booth, claims some keys off the man inside and then walks over to a discreet grey saloon car. He has already started the engine and fastened his seatbelt as I climb into the passenger side.