activity, but I was desperate for a smoke. In dire need. I looked around, hoping that a new, small ashtray might have been provided as a courtesy for visitors, but in vain. The office, which had previously been a cluttered mess, was tidier. The wobbly stacks of files had gone from the floor, the books which Eric had left lying around ‘for easy reference’ were back on the shelves, the desk top was orderly. ‘Em of Bridgemont’ perfection may not yet have been attained, but it was within striking distance.
The new editor was also far tidier in his personal appearance than the old. Eric had frequently sported food stains down the front of his open-necked shirt and had worn ancient corduroys which were thin at the knees, whereas his replacement arrived each morning in a clean shirt, tie and well-pressed trousers.
Steve Lingard nodded. ‘The OAP brigade love them. We’re short of space and I’d like to include a photo of Kincaid, so no more than four hundred.’
‘You wouldn’t prefer to send Melanie?’
It wasn’t that I objected to doing an obituary – Duncan Kincaid had been a leading light – my objection was to being given instructions, down to the number of words.
‘No thanks. She may have a B.A. in Medieval Literature and 38D boobs –’
I gave a silent groan. ‘That right?’
Eric had been fascinated by the girl’s chest, which was, I felt sure, the reason why he had employed her, and Tony, too, never missed a chance to ogle. I had despaired of them both and here was a third lascivious male.
‘According to Tony. He seems to be a connoisseur.’
‘A.k.a dirty old man.’
‘’Fraid so – but her piece on the indie band is ungrammatical, unstructured and too casual. Sloppy, in fact. She –’
‘Melanie is sloppy because she’s been allowed to be sloppy,’ I cut in. ‘But this is her first job and if she’s given tighter guidelines, she’ll follow them.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I do. Tony would benefit from a stricter regime, too. What it needs is for him to be motivated, though kick-starting him could take time,’ I said, and stopped. The telephone on his desk was ringing.
Steve answered it, then held out the receiver. ‘For you.’
‘Quick word,’ the caller said, ‘to let you know that Gifford’s has been robbed.’
‘Robbed!’ I repeated, in surprise. ‘When?’
Gifford’s is the local jeweller’s, a sedate, old-fashioned family establishment, and my caller was Roger, younger brother of a one-time schoolmate and friendly policeman. For years he has given me the nod on anything he thinks might be of interest to the paper. He tells me off the record and I, of course, never reveal his input. In return I’ve passed on various bits of info which, on occasion, have pointed the police in the right direction.
‘Around half an hour ago. One guy with what appeared to be a wrapped up shotgun stood guard at the door, while two others smashed the display cabinets. They wore balaclavas and protective paper suits, and were armed with sledgehammers and machetes, which terrified the staff and a customer. They grabbed watches, rings, jewellery, then drove off in either a Ford Mondeo or a Vauxhall Vectra, the witnesses are divided.’
‘Colour?’
‘Blue or it could be green, again the witnesses, two old codgers, can’t agree. Seems one has cataracts.’
‘I meant the colour of the robbers.’
‘White – and professionals. Knew exactly what they wanted and what they were doing. Traffic are keeping a look-out for what could be the getaway car, but haven’t spotted anything yet. No one hurt, just frightened, shocked and talkative. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Who’s been robbed?’ Steve enquired, as I replaced the receiver.
‘Gifford’s, it’s the jeweller’s halfway along the High Street. Happened around thirty minutes ago.’ I rose to my feet. ‘I’d better get down there and –’
‘I’ll go.’
‘You?’ I protested.
‘Me.’
‘But Eric never did the
The new editor was also far tidier in his personal appearance than the old. Eric had frequently sported food stains down the front of his open-necked shirt and had worn ancient corduroys which were thin at the knees, whereas his replacement arrived each morning in a clean shirt, tie and well-pressed trousers.
Steve Lingard nodded. ‘The OAP brigade love them. We’re short of space and I’d like to include a photo of Kincaid, so no more than four hundred.’
‘You wouldn’t prefer to send Melanie?’
It wasn’t that I objected to doing an obituary – Duncan Kincaid had been a leading light – my objection was to being given instructions, down to the number of words.
‘No thanks. She may have a B.A. in Medieval Literature and 38D boobs –’
I gave a silent groan. ‘That right?’
Eric had been fascinated by the girl’s chest, which was, I felt sure, the reason why he had employed her, and Tony, too, never missed a chance to ogle. I had despaired of them both and here was a third lascivious male.
‘According to Tony. He seems to be a connoisseur.’
‘A.k.a dirty old man.’
‘’Fraid so – but her piece on the indie band is ungrammatical, unstructured and too casual. Sloppy, in fact. She –’
‘Melanie is sloppy because she’s been allowed to be sloppy,’ I cut in. ‘But this is her first job and if she’s given tighter guidelines, she’ll follow them.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I do. Tony would benefit from a stricter regime, too. What it needs is for him to be motivated, though kick-starting him could take time,’ I said, and stopped. The telephone on his desk was ringing.
Steve answered it, then held out the receiver. ‘For you.’
‘Quick word,’ the caller said, ‘to let you know that Gifford’s has been robbed.’
‘Robbed!’ I repeated, in surprise. ‘When?’
Gifford’s is the local jeweller’s, a sedate, old-fashioned family establishment, and my caller was Roger, younger brother of a one-time schoolmate and friendly policeman. For years he has given me the nod on anything he thinks might be of interest to the paper. He tells me off the record and I, of course, never reveal his input. In return I’ve passed on various bits of info which, on occasion, have pointed the police in the right direction.
‘Around half an hour ago. One guy with what appeared to be a wrapped up shotgun stood guard at the door, while two others smashed the display cabinets. They wore balaclavas and protective paper suits, and were armed with sledgehammers and machetes, which terrified the staff and a customer. They grabbed watches, rings, jewellery, then drove off in either a Ford Mondeo or a Vauxhall Vectra, the witnesses are divided.’
‘Colour?’
‘Blue or it could be green, again the witnesses, two old codgers, can’t agree. Seems one has cataracts.’
‘I meant the colour of the robbers.’
‘White – and professionals. Knew exactly what they wanted and what they were doing. Traffic are keeping a look-out for what could be the getaway car, but haven’t spotted anything yet. No one hurt, just frightened, shocked and talkative. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Who’s been robbed?’ Steve enquired, as I replaced the receiver.
‘Gifford’s, it’s the jeweller’s halfway along the High Street. Happened around thirty minutes ago.’ I rose to my feet. ‘I’d better get down there and –’
‘I’ll go.’
‘You?’ I protested.
‘Me.’
‘But Eric never did the
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