Free The Sea Detective by Mark Douglas-Home Page A

looking down at the hurricane trail of papers and books. ‘There’s a photograph frame …’
    He didn’t need to tell her it was precious.
    ‘Has it gone?’
    ‘I don’t know; it’s hard to tell.’ Cal began collecting up papers. ‘If I can just clear up some of this. …’
    ‘Who did it, Cal? Do you mind me calling you Cal?’
    Get on first name terms. It was a card Rosie liked to play as quickly as possible.
    Cal shook his head. Rosie wasn’t sure whether the gesture meant he didn’t mind or that he was still distracted looking for the photograph frame.
    She knelt down as if to help him and picked up a book which was splayed open on the floor. It was called ‘Essentials of Oceanography’.
    ‘I see you go in for light reading.’
    ‘Sorry, who are you?’ His attention strayed from her again almost as soon as the question was out.
    ‘I’m Rosie,’ she held out her hand.
    Cal brushed the back of his left hand against her fingers. She noticed him wincing. ‘Are you hurt?’
    ‘It’s nothing; I gashed my side and had some stitches.’
    ‘Gosh, you have been in the wars.’
    Sympathy was the other card Rosie liked to play quickly.
    ‘Well Rosie, it’s nice meeting you but I’m not quite sure why you’re here.’ He gathered up a file which was spilling paper out of its ruptured spine.
    ‘I’d like to talk to you.’ Rosie made a show of rescuing another book. ‘Heavens it’s going to take you ages to clear all this up.’
    ‘You want to talk to me. Why?’
    ‘Didn’t I say? Oh I’m always doing that.’
    This was disarming ditzy Rosie. She handed Cal the book and said, ‘Hi, I’m Rosie Provan. I work for The Reporting Factory.’
    This was how she liked to do it. First, get over the doorstep. Second, establish a first name relationship. Third, say the name of the freelance agency but not its business. Fourth, say it’s a news agency. In Rosie’s experience the fourth stage was the trickiest. Some people reacted to it as though they’d been punched. Cal’s expression, she was relieved to see, didn’t change. ‘What’s The Reporting Factory?’
    ‘Oh it’s a news agency. We supply a lot of the London papers. You know The Times that sort of thing.’ Top of Rosie’s list of Don’ts was: don’t say ‘sell’ as in ‘Oh, we sell stories.’ Next was: don’t say red-top.
    Cal just mumbled ‘Mmmh’ and resumed lifting up the debris.
    Rosie said, ‘What about me helping you and putting this here and then we can clear this mess up and talk at the same time?’
    She balanced her digital recorder on the pile of books she’d tidied and switched it on.
    Cal wasn’t looking and didn’t seem to register the recorder. Did he think she was just putting down another book? Well, she’d been upfront about it. What else was she supposed to do, draw his attention to it again? She might as well invite him to clam up.
    ‘So, Cal, you’re the talk of the political classes.’
    ‘Am I?’ He didn’t seem surprised.
    Rosie said, ‘The world’s in a real mess. We’re ruining it for the next generation. It’s people like you who force us to think about it.’
    Cal stopped what he was doing. ‘Oh come on, you don’t really think that.’ Her earnestness seemed to amuse him.
    Rosie replied, put out. ‘Sure I do,’ straining for emphasis, ‘Of course, yes. Why wouldn’t I?’
    ‘Yeah, sure you do.’ Cal went back to his searching. Rosie was about to tell him she had enough to write a story whether he cooperated or not – it was a tactic that sometimes worked – when he stopped what he was doing.
    ‘Look, Rosie, there’s only one reason why I’d talk to you.’ He looked her straight in the eye.
    For the first time she realised he was fired up, angry.
    ‘What’s that?’ Was it something she’d done?
    ‘If you can promise it’ll be published in a newspaper with more than half a dozen readers.’
    ‘I think I can do that for you,’ Rosie said.
    ‘I want it in one of the