‘Oh, but I don’t know that we should . . .’ The girl receptionist’s mouth had tightened disapprovingly.
‘Where’s the harm? It’s all published material. Nothing more or less than could be found on the microfiche. And it looks to me as if this young lady doesn’t want to be walking any further than she has to.’ He indicated my crutches and flashed me a grin.
‘That’s hardly the point,’ the girl said crisply.
‘Oh, lighten up, Tara!’ He grinned at me again. ‘Come with me and I’ll sort you out.’
The phone on the reception desk was ringing again.
‘On your head be it,’ Tara said grimly and turned away to answer it, effectively distancing herself from what was going on on our side of the desk.
The young man led the way between the work stations towards the portioned-off office and I followed, swinging on my crutches, something I’d become proficient at by now, though the calluses on the palms of my hands were testament to the chafing it had inflicted on them.
The office was small but uncluttered, the desk clear but for the computer, a notepad and a pot of pens and pencils. Files were stacked neatly on shelves and a large calendar, a clock and a corkboard adorned the walls. The only jarring feature was a table at the rear of the office on which a number of photographs had been spread out haphazardly.
‘This is very kind of you,’ I said inadequately.
‘Consider it part of the service.’ The young man was running his finger along a row of box files, all neatly labelled. ‘I’m Josh Williams, by the way. And in case you’re wondering, I’m a staff photographer.’
‘Oh right.’ That would explain his cavalier attitude – and also his easy charm.
‘And you are . . .?’
‘Sally . . .’ I almost said Sally Proctor, but caught myself it time. ‘Sally Jacobs,’ I said, and immediately felt guilty for the deception.
‘Here we are.’ Josh Williams pulled out a box file, placed it on the desk and rifled through, extracting a purple folder.
‘Belinda likes to keep files of important local stories for easy reference,’ he explained, ‘and this one seems to run and run. Pretty well everything we’ve ever printed about the Brian Jennings case should be here – and a few more bits and bobs besides, I shouldn’t wonder. Belinda’s hot stuff as a chief reporter. Not much gets past her.’
Certainly the file was encouragingly fat.
Josh Williams pulled out the chair – a high-backed, comfortable-looking swivel covered in brown faux leather – from the well in the desk.
‘Will this be all right for you, or would you prefer an ordinary upright?’
‘This will be fine.’ I lowered myself into it, glad to take the weight off my leg.
‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars,’ Josh said conversationally.
‘Skiing accident.’ I pulled a rueful face. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Skiing, eh? Never done it myself. A group used to go every year from my school but my parents didn’t have that sort of money to throw around.’
‘It’s not that expensive a holiday,’ I said, a bit defensively. ‘And it’s terrific fun.’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said, his tone heavy with irony. ‘But I think I’ll stick to sailing in Greece, thanks all the same. That’s what I call a holiday. Anyway,’ he tapped the purple folder, ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m off to take some pictures of a couple who are celebrating their diamond wedding. Sixty years – can you imagine it? When you’ve finished just leave the file on the desk. I’ll put it away when I get back. Keep Belinda happy.’
He reached for a leather bomber jacket that was hanging on a hook on the back of the door and shrugged into it.
‘If you need anything, just ask Tara, Her bark is worse than her bite.’
‘I’ll believe you.’
‘Honestly. She’s only been here a couple of weeks, and she’s very much in awe of Belinda. Don’t take any crap from her and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.’
‘Hmm.’ I could well imagine Josh could wind the redoubtable receptionist around his little finger – he was a very likeable character. Whether I could do the same I rather doubted. And I had not the slightest intention of pushing my luck.
When he’d gone, closing the door after him, I opened the purple file on the desk in front of me, glad that the plasterboard meant I was now out of sight of the receptionist. With her suspicious gaze on me I would have found it difficult to concentrate and I suspected the other girls working in the outer office would probably have me under surveillance too. As a journalist myself my skin should be thick enough to work despite it, another sign I was going soft. But perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing. Sometimes in the past I’d taken a good hard look at myself, the professional trying to piece together stories that often exposed vulnerable people to the glare of publicity, and not much liked what I’d seen. But this was different. It might well be a chance to right a wrong. The idea of becoming a crusader buoyed me up again, adding to the excitement that always went with starting on a new and juicy assignment and I felt alive for the first time in months. With a sense of anticipation I slid the wodge of cuttings out of the file.