It was funny how now I barely considered myself an amateur, it felt as if id been built for the job and I never wanted to do anything else. My boss gave me a shiny reporters badge to pin to my jacket while on the job, although more often than not I wore it on the inside of my tie or lapel. You would be surprised how much a dark jacket and a quiet demeanour lets you weasel your way into places you are definitely not supposed to me. I am neither quiet nor unassuming but I learned quickly that sometimes you had to learn to hold your tongue – I was just spectacularly bad at it. During the stabbing story I actually had to go up to Scotland Yard to give evidence as I had somehow managed to interview a witness that they had missed. I guess I was just that good, or maybe they were just terrible at their job, whichever way it was I found myself there for the first time not in police custody and itching to leave. It felt odd, not having eyes on me at all times, I was actually dressed up and felt darn professional. I was also the last person called in and by that time had been there over two hours and was very crabby. By this point my experienced businessman knot in my tie that I had learned specifically for this purpose looked less slick, my hair less brushed, and my shoes less shiny. I was in and out as fast as possible using the curtest possible phrases and when I got outside it was already dark. I groaned and leaned against a wall lighting up a cigarette.
It was there, collar turned up against the night and a hat obscuring most of their face that I first spoke to my rival reporter. I was almost unnoticeable in the shadows, the only indication of my presence the flame of my cigarette bouncing against the wall. I must have looked very cool looking back on it. It was late, so late that most of the building was shut up for the night and it puzzled me why any self respecting reporter would head into the den of lions without two policemen flanking them. Still, my nemesis, as I liked to think of them now walked straight up to the door and knocked. Foolish, they had locked it after I left and certainly wouldn't be letting journalists in, who did they think they were? I watched intently ready to make a snarky comment but my rival set down an envelope which was too far away and in shadow for me to read what was written on it on the doorstep and turned, hurrying away into the shadow of the wall around the side of the building. I was aghast by this point, this was every reporters dream by this point, a shady tip off to Scotland Yard? What had been in that envelope? More importantly I had to get a photograph of their face. Taking a drag on my cigarette I waited for them to remerge around the side of the building, thankful finally that the night was mild.
The door was opened and the police officer glanced around and then down at the mat, picked up the envelope and went inside. Damnit, I had really wanted that envelope. I readied my camera and got ready to shoot a picture as my rival walked back past. They emerged from behind the building after a few minutes and walked briskly back down the drive. My shutter clicked. It was my shutter that gave my away. They turned and looked right at me I knew then that shadow or not they definitely saw me. I remember I was filled with a kind of strange elation, finally we were going to meet, my questions answered.
"Who do you think you are?" the voice mirrored my thoughts but came at a sharp contrast to the figure in front of me.
They were taller than me I could see that now, and all of a sudden I felt a wave of intimidation roll over me, this guy could definitely take me in a fight.
"I asked you a question, seen you around enough to know you're not mute. Who. Do you think. You are?" Sharp, quiet yet with a lot of power behind each syllable spat at me, the hint of an upper class accent, something about the way they made an a sound, and yet… what was wrong with this picture?
"Cat got your tongue?" it was the mocking tone that dragged me out of my puzzlement and to the realisation that had been slapping me in the face for the last few minutes. The higher tone of the voice, the well dictated, clipped words I had never heard a reporter use in my life, and the tone – the way of not needing to shout to make themselves heard. My brain was clicking into a conclusion.
"Who are you?" I straightened my jacket trying to regain my air of professional standing.
"Did you get a photo of me there? Because if you did I'm going to need that film."
"No," almost the top reporter's tool of trade, lie.
"Do you understand the concept of an anonymous tip?" An edge had crept into their tone and that feeling of intimidation crawled back into my skin
I folded my arms defensively. "Yes obviously I just watched you leave one."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No…"
"Good because I'm a detective so I'm definitely not."
I hadn't been expecting that. "Sorry, what?"
"Just give me the camera."
I clutched it close to my chest, "absolutely not – no way."
"What can't you get into your head I don't want photos of me out there."
"Well, I'm a reporter, I expose people that's what I do. Can we rewind to the moment you said you were a detective, I didn't think there were any official freelance detectives in London anymore?"
"There aren't."
"What are you then?"
"An unofficial detective. I leave them tips and sometimes I get paid in acknowledgement for that." This time there was an underlying tone of disappointment in their voice.
"Why not just work with Scotland Yard? Actually wait no I understand completely why you wouldn't want to work with them."
Finally, resignation: "they wouldn't hire me, and they wouldn't officially work with me either."
Bingo, and there was my story. "Why would they hire you if you're helpful to them? Oh! Do you have criminal ties? Are you part of the underworld? Is it something really cool?" I couldn't help myself the possibilities for this were endless: 'Scotland Yard incompetence covered up by mystery detective', 'Criminals. Friend or Foe of London Police?', 'The Dark Reality of the Real Sherlock Holmes'. I could see the titles swimming in front of my eyes, that was before they took their hat off.
Blonde hair fell out of the pile tied on top of her head, sharp cheek bones, eyes that shot straight into me, and a dirtied jaw to imitate stubble glanced down at me. "Are you still in need of an answer to that question?" Putting a face to her voice was almost impossible, my entire perception of this person had changed so much in so few minutes, I felt off guard and surprised was an understatement.
There was also the fact that for a moment there I had been genuinely intimidated by her; a fact I wasn't going to admit quickly. I had only been scared of a woman once and it had been at a nightclub where she had whacked me round the face with a plate – for your information I did not deserve it and it really hurt.
"Look, please don't release those pictures it'll get incredibly complicated for me if the press figure out who I am and I'll lose my job." She looked genuinely concerned and a little of the strength had dropped out of her tone. "No one wants to hire a free lance detective anymore they have their own ones and me being, well me, doesn't help."
I just stood there stunned, weighing up my options: on the one hand this story would be golden, I mean nothing like this had been in a paper for years, on the other hand I would have to be okay with directly ruining her career for money and while I wasn't as offput by that I should have been I wasn't completely immoral.
"I want money, not a lot, just compensation for not printing the story."
"Are you blackmailing me?" Now she looked angry, her eyebrows knitting together and she advanced a few steps on me, again with the jump in my gut that I did not have the upper hand here.
I waved a hand casually, "think on it, the name's Dawson if you want to contact me. I work for the Evening News, I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement."