It was as if World War 3 had broken out in Fenchurch East.
The reception area was bursting with people waving placards, or wearing t-shirts, proclaiming their opposition to the Poll Tax, with varying standards of spelling and punctuation. Loud chants of "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, out, out, out" rang around the room, while Police Officers dashed about in several directions trying to contain groups of the more excitable protesters.
Sarah sat at the very end of the wooden bench, feeling bewildered and a tad lost. For the life of her she couldn't work out why she'd come for an interview with the Police and certainly the scene before her wasn't exactly proving that she had made the right decision. She jumped as a door at the end of reception crashed open, and out stomped an angry looking man in a grey suit and...were those snakeskin cowboy boots?
"Oi, will you keep this bunch of dole scrounging soap dodgers quiet," he demanded, in a gruff northern accent. "Or I'll be shoving your pole where the sun don't shine; tax or no tax!"
He stalked back through the door, almost taking it off its hinges as he went.
"Miss Jenkins?" The harassed looking sergeant behind the desk called. "You can go through."
Sarah stood up and smoothed down her clothes. She'd chosen a black skirt suit for the occasion.
"Umm, where should I..?" she asked.
"Through there," the officer indicated the door, currently hanging off its frame, through which the shouty northern man had departed.
"Oh."
She took a deep breath and, sidestepping a police officer who was wrestling with a burly punk, walked through the door.
She found herself in a large office. There were a number of wooden desks, piled high with paperwork. At each desk sat a male plain clothes officer, save for one desk halfway down the room where a harassed female uniformed officer was hard at work. The rest of the men appeared to be on their lunch break, at least they were sitting, feet up on desks, reading papers or chatting; except for one youngish looking man, who was sat, head down, feverishly working on something. Down the far end of the office was another, smaller room, with large windows looking out into the main area. The name on the office door read 'DCI Gene Hunt' and she could see the man from earlier at a desk inside downing a tumblerful of something that looked suspiciously like whisky.
Sarah stood in the doorway, unsure of where to go next, but acutely aware that most of the male officers in the room had now turned their attention to her, and were staring unashamedly. She subconsciously pulled down the hem of her skirt as she walked forward. The female officer caught her eye and smiled in an understanding way.
She cleared her throat. "I have a job interview today. I'm not sure where to go. The letter didn't really say."
"What's going on in here then? I've seen more life in the morgue on bring your dead granny to work day." The gruff snakeskin booted Northern man appeared at the door to the small office. He surveyed the room before his eyes rested on Sarah. "Young lady, you appear to be interfering with my team."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr...err...Hunt?" Sarah stuttered. "I have a job interview..."
"Ah yes. That will be with old four eyes over there," Gene jerked his thumb in the direction of a grey door off the main office. "Lucky you. You lot, back to work."
Gene disappeared back into his office, while Sarah hurried over to the door. She knocked. No response, although she could hear the sound of frantic typing through the door. She knocked again.
"Come."
Sarah opened the door and stepped through. The first thing that hit her was the heat; it must have been thirty degrees at least. It was gloomy too and there was no natural light that she could discern. As her eyes adjusted to the semi darkness she could make out the glow of two electric fires, all three bars blazing. Down one side of the room were a number of filing cabinets, with what must have been hundreds of boxes neatly stacked on top. At the head of the room was a large desk, and behind the desk sat a man hunched over an electronic typewriter. He didn't acknowledge her presence, but instead continued to type hurriedly.
"Excuse me, I..." she began.
He held up his hand to silence her, and pointed to a chair opposite him at the desk. He continued to type one handed as he did so. Sarah sat down as instructed and waited. Up close, she could see that the man was probably in his early thirties, with dark thick hair which was faintly curly, quite short and slicked back with hair gel. He wore a pair of horn rimmed glasses, which he pushed up his nose frequently, a grey suit and tie and a white shirt. Sarah could see a long grey coat hanging on a nearby stand. His desk was immaculately tidy, in contrast to the desks in the other office, and the whole room had a feeling of order about it. His face was set in an expression of the utmost concentration. Above his desk, on the wall, was a large clock which ticked loudly.
Eventually he pulled the piece of paper from the typewriter, and stared at it for a few moments with a satisfied expression on his face. He then laid it carefully in a folder and placed it in a drawer. Finally he turned his full attention to Sarah.
"Miss Sarah Jenkins?" He smiled. "I apologise for my rude behaviour. Deadlines wait for no man, or woman, sadly. DCI James Keats, at your service."
He held out his hand to Sarah, and she shook it. His touch was ice cold, in contrast to the room. Surprise must have registered on her face.
"Poor circulation," he explained. "Hence the heat. You might want to take off your jacket."
Sarah rose and shrugged out of her suit jacket, turning to hang it over the back of her chair. As she turned back she caught his eyes skimming over her, and a blush came to her cheeks. She sat down again, slightly flustered.
"There's really no need to be nervous," he soothed, picking up another folder and leafing through it. "You're more than qualified for this job."
"Well, that's the thing," Sarah said. "I don't exactly know what the job is. A letter arrived inviting me to interview, but I don't remember applying. My memory isn't great recently, but even so. I checked with all my recruitment agents, and they don't remember applying for me either. Maybe it was a mistake?"
"Mistakes happen," Keats smiled at her again. "The job is very simple; some typing, filing, accompanying me to meetings. This is a trial to see if I'm happy with you. I'll be looking to promote you to the position of PA very shortly."
"I've not really done any PA..."
He waved his hand. "A formality. I'm sure you'll be promoted within no time," he picked a sheet of paper from the file. "Tell me, why did you leave nursing?"
"I...I...I'm sorry," Sarah stumbled. "I forgot. It was on the tip of my tongue. How ridiculous."
Keats burst into a peal of laughter. He dropped the file on the desk and sat back in his chair, regarding her with curiosity and amusement.
"You're an interesting one, aren't you? You and I are going to be very good friends, I can tell."
"I have the job?"
"Of course," his smile broadened, showing his teeth. "Be here at 9am sharp tomorrow morning. Now, if you'll excuse me. Deadlines."
"Oh. Of course," Sarah rose, taking her jacket from the chair, and made her way towards the door. She turned back; Keats was already busy with his typewriter again. "Mr...DCI Keats?"
He smiled up at her. "Please, call me James."
"James," she smiled. "Thank you."
She walked through the door, closing it carefully behind her.
Keats' smile dropped. "My pleasure."