– you know, I write up the PR releases, hand them over and then you report on them for the paper, usual stuff, blah, blah – you can actually go out with a detective and then write up the experiences yourself!'
'Like a sort of diary?'
'Yes, yes, a sort of diary. You can accompany the detective all day and tell your readers first-hand how it feels. Everywhere he goes, you go. A fly-on-the-wall documentary.'
It's brilliant. Simply brilliant. And I, Holly Colshannon, get to do it. It's my big break and it's all I can do not to get up and dance a jig around my desk.
'Robin! You're wonderful!' I breathe down the receiver. Steve from accounts gives me a strange look as he passes my desk.
'Darling, I
know
. There are obviously some rules which will accompany it though.'
'Why me? Why not the guy from the
Journal
or a freelance?'
'Well, you are from the region's largest paper. Besides which, we women should stick together.'
Hurray for the sisterhood! I bombard her with questions.
'When can I start?'
'Immediately.' I blink. This is quick, even by our standards.
'Do I need to meet the Chief?'
'Of course!'
'When?'
'This afternoon.'
'Can I write about everything I see?'
'Yes, except confidential case details, certain parts of police procedure and the identities of anyone involved in a case. We will need you and the
Gazette
to sign various confidentiality agreements and indemnities.'
'What do the police get out of it?'
'The best PR boost this region has ever seen. You have to write favourably, another part of the agreement.'
The big question then occurs to me. 'Who am I going to be assigned to?'
'You remember the man in the canteen yesterday?"
'Green Eyes? The boy next door?'
'Yep! Him! You're assigned to him!'
My little cloud of euphoria bursts with a small PHUT! because, although I do not know Green Eyes, my one brush with him tells me that he won't like this. Not one little bit. But I don't want to appear ungrateful to Robin and presumably this could still be given to someone else if I object too strongly. On the other hand, being on the receiving end of his sarcastic comments for over a month isn't looking too attractive. I say in a small voice, 'Why him?'
'Well, he's getting married next month. You've got six weeks and an immediate start. We thought it would give some sort of finite timescale to the diary since this is experimental. Also, it's likely that he won't be assigned to any dangerous cases from now on so nothing bad can happen to him before his big day. The Chief thought we could keep an eye on you both at the same time. So you see, he is the obvious choice.' Yeah, right. Obvious.
After lunch I have to go to the police department as that is when the Chief is breaking the news to Green Eyes.
That is Robin's turn of phrase, by the way, and not mine. 'Breaking the news.' That's what you do with news people don't want to hear. Hmm, doesn't bode well for a good reception by Green Eyes. He has a name, too. It's Detective Sergeant James Sabine.
I barge into Joe's office. He is, surprise, suprise, on the phone and frowns heavily at this breach of etiquette. I need to tell him that he has to call the Chief immediately to discuss the finer points of the agreement. He puts down the phone and before he can even say, 'Here's your P45' or 'How's Buntam?' I jump in with both feet, negating the need for such piffling chit-chat.
Joe is thrilled. In his excitable state, he mixes his metaphors more than ever, telling me gleefully that This will knock the Journal's crime page into a hen cap'. He gets on the phone straightaway to the Chief. After about twenty minutes of discussion and a promise from Joe to send a signed copy of the faxed agreement back with me this afternoon, he whisks me out for a celebratory lunch (merrily chortling about the Journal's reaction all the way) on a nearby canal barge called The Glass Boat. Truth be told, the slight swaying motion of this restaurant always makes me feel sick, but it is
'Like a sort of diary?'
'Yes, yes, a sort of diary. You can accompany the detective all day and tell your readers first-hand how it feels. Everywhere he goes, you go. A fly-on-the-wall documentary.'
It's brilliant. Simply brilliant. And I, Holly Colshannon, get to do it. It's my big break and it's all I can do not to get up and dance a jig around my desk.
'Robin! You're wonderful!' I breathe down the receiver. Steve from accounts gives me a strange look as he passes my desk.
'Darling, I
know
. There are obviously some rules which will accompany it though.'
'Why me? Why not the guy from the
Journal
or a freelance?'
'Well, you are from the region's largest paper. Besides which, we women should stick together.'
Hurray for the sisterhood! I bombard her with questions.
'When can I start?'
'Immediately.' I blink. This is quick, even by our standards.
'Do I need to meet the Chief?'
'Of course!'
'When?'
'This afternoon.'
'Can I write about everything I see?'
'Yes, except confidential case details, certain parts of police procedure and the identities of anyone involved in a case. We will need you and the
Gazette
to sign various confidentiality agreements and indemnities.'
'What do the police get out of it?'
'The best PR boost this region has ever seen. You have to write favourably, another part of the agreement.'
The big question then occurs to me. 'Who am I going to be assigned to?'
'You remember the man in the canteen yesterday?"
'Green Eyes? The boy next door?'
'Yep! Him! You're assigned to him!'
My little cloud of euphoria bursts with a small PHUT! because, although I do not know Green Eyes, my one brush with him tells me that he won't like this. Not one little bit. But I don't want to appear ungrateful to Robin and presumably this could still be given to someone else if I object too strongly. On the other hand, being on the receiving end of his sarcastic comments for over a month isn't looking too attractive. I say in a small voice, 'Why him?'
'Well, he's getting married next month. You've got six weeks and an immediate start. We thought it would give some sort of finite timescale to the diary since this is experimental. Also, it's likely that he won't be assigned to any dangerous cases from now on so nothing bad can happen to him before his big day. The Chief thought we could keep an eye on you both at the same time. So you see, he is the obvious choice.' Yeah, right. Obvious.
After lunch I have to go to the police department as that is when the Chief is breaking the news to Green Eyes.
That is Robin's turn of phrase, by the way, and not mine. 'Breaking the news.' That's what you do with news people don't want to hear. Hmm, doesn't bode well for a good reception by Green Eyes. He has a name, too. It's Detective Sergeant James Sabine.
I barge into Joe's office. He is, surprise, suprise, on the phone and frowns heavily at this breach of etiquette. I need to tell him that he has to call the Chief immediately to discuss the finer points of the agreement. He puts down the phone and before he can even say, 'Here's your P45' or 'How's Buntam?' I jump in with both feet, negating the need for such piffling chit-chat.
Joe is thrilled. In his excitable state, he mixes his metaphors more than ever, telling me gleefully that This will knock the Journal's crime page into a hen cap'. He gets on the phone straightaway to the Chief. After about twenty minutes of discussion and a promise from Joe to send a signed copy of the faxed agreement back with me this afternoon, he whisks me out for a celebratory lunch (merrily chortling about the Journal's reaction all the way) on a nearby canal barge called The Glass Boat. Truth be told, the slight swaying motion of this restaurant always makes me feel sick, but it is
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