– war. It’s this kind of dedication that brings in the awards year after year: ITV viewers’ Community Service Award three years running, Senior Citizen’s ‘We’re Fighting Crime’ special award for five years on the trot, Senior Ladies’ Circle best programme award. This is the cutting edge, but we mustn’t get complacent. Oh no – we need to continue with the good work, we must track these con men down, sniff them out wherever they’re hiding. We have a duty to the people of this country.’ Robbie allowed himself the ghost of a smile and turned up the Winston Churchill just a smidgen. He pulled himself up to his full five-foot-two-and-a-halfinches while holding tight to his lapel and tucking his elbow firmly into his side in his favourite ‘leader of men’ stance. Shame they weren’t filming him, really.
Lesley nodded enthusiastically – Robbie thought for one glorious moment she might actually burst into spontaneous applause, but no, she just blushed furiously and pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose with her index finger. It was an endearing little habit Lesley had, and sometimes when they were in bed together he noticed that she would do it even though she hadn’t got her glasses on and would then giggle self-consciously. Robbie smiled indulgently for a few seconds, coming over all soft and sentimental; what a precious little thing she was.
Lesley understood of course that Robbie would never leave his wife for her: he’d made that perfectly plain right from the very start. Robbie had decided that Lesley probably saw herself as the latest in a long line of valiant, self-sacrificing, much-overlooked women who attempted to sleep their way to the top and eventually settled for a place in the shadow of great men. The wind beneath his wings. Not that someone like Lesley was actually destined for the top, but even so he wasn’t the sort of man to disillusion a girl, particularly not one who was a natural blonde and so pleasantly perky and eager to please. No, Robbie Hughes was genuinely fond of Lesley, and shehadn’t said a word nor batted an eyelid when he’d slipped on her tights one night after work and suggested she might like to let him try on her shoes some time. Oh yes, as a personal assistant Lesley was perfect in lots of ways.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, as he opened up the first of the files. ‘It might help us to concentrate?’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. Not really a good idea, Lesley, not with my prostrate the way it is, I’d be up and down all night, but you have one by all means. We’re both in for a long hard session.’
She giggled although Robbie decided not to pick up on the double entendre; it wouldn’t do for them to get distracted when there was work to be done.
‘How about a mug of Cup-a-Soup instead, then?’ she suggested, padding over to the side table where the kettle, mugs and drinks were kept.
Robbie nodded, all the while surveying the notes he had piled on his desk. ‘Why not. I’ll have one of the ones with croutons. Now what we have to do is to imagine that we are big game hunters, Lesley. It’s important to understand our quarry if we stand any chance of catching him. So how do we find this man – where do we start?’ It was a rhetorical question and one that Robbie would try and work into the commentary if they ever managed to track Bernie Fielding to earth.
‘Let’s start with what we know, shall we? How about his background, his family?’
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Lesley gazed up at the ceiling and recited from memory, ‘Born 1952 to Shirley Elizabeth Fielding. His father Ernest Charles left when Bernard was just four years old, under a cloud of suspicion about his relationship with Lily Smith from the chip shop, to name just one of his numerous liaisons, and the whereabouts of the Glee Club Christmas money. Bernie left school at fifteen and has had various jobs since, including working on a market stall,
Lesley nodded enthusiastically – Robbie thought for one glorious moment she might actually burst into spontaneous applause, but no, she just blushed furiously and pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose with her index finger. It was an endearing little habit Lesley had, and sometimes when they were in bed together he noticed that she would do it even though she hadn’t got her glasses on and would then giggle self-consciously. Robbie smiled indulgently for a few seconds, coming over all soft and sentimental; what a precious little thing she was.
Lesley understood of course that Robbie would never leave his wife for her: he’d made that perfectly plain right from the very start. Robbie had decided that Lesley probably saw herself as the latest in a long line of valiant, self-sacrificing, much-overlooked women who attempted to sleep their way to the top and eventually settled for a place in the shadow of great men. The wind beneath his wings. Not that someone like Lesley was actually destined for the top, but even so he wasn’t the sort of man to disillusion a girl, particularly not one who was a natural blonde and so pleasantly perky and eager to please. No, Robbie Hughes was genuinely fond of Lesley, and shehadn’t said a word nor batted an eyelid when he’d slipped on her tights one night after work and suggested she might like to let him try on her shoes some time. Oh yes, as a personal assistant Lesley was perfect in lots of ways.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, as he opened up the first of the files. ‘It might help us to concentrate?’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. Not really a good idea, Lesley, not with my prostrate the way it is, I’d be up and down all night, but you have one by all means. We’re both in for a long hard session.’
She giggled although Robbie decided not to pick up on the double entendre; it wouldn’t do for them to get distracted when there was work to be done.
‘How about a mug of Cup-a-Soup instead, then?’ she suggested, padding over to the side table where the kettle, mugs and drinks were kept.
Robbie nodded, all the while surveying the notes he had piled on his desk. ‘Why not. I’ll have one of the ones with croutons. Now what we have to do is to imagine that we are big game hunters, Lesley. It’s important to understand our quarry if we stand any chance of catching him. So how do we find this man – where do we start?’ It was a rhetorical question and one that Robbie would try and work into the commentary if they ever managed to track Bernie Fielding to earth.
‘Let’s start with what we know, shall we? How about his background, his family?’
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Lesley gazed up at the ceiling and recited from memory, ‘Born 1952 to Shirley Elizabeth Fielding. His father Ernest Charles left when Bernard was just four years old, under a cloud of suspicion about his relationship with Lily Smith from the chip shop, to name just one of his numerous liaisons, and the whereabouts of the Glee Club Christmas money. Bernie left school at fifteen and has had various jobs since, including working on a market stall,
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