Thursday legends

58

'You mean you don't plan your own programmes?' Andy Martin asked, gazing at a computer monitor screen in a small, second-floor office in the Forth Street radio headquarters.

'No way,' Spike Thomson replied with a dismissive grin. 'We have what we call music co-ordinators, two of them, who do all the programming for all the presenters. I'm one; although my show's on Forth AM now, I do all the programming for our FM station.'

'Christ, how much of your day does that take up?'

'Less than you think, Andy. We have our toys, you see. Watch.' He turned to the keyboard on his desk. 'We have software that does most of it for us. We load all of our play-list — that's all the music currently selected for airing — and the computer makes a random selection for each hour, with everything timed. Three tracks then a break, then another three and so on…'

He hit the Enter key and a programme schedule appeared on the screen.

'My skill is in knowing where the computer's wrong. Some artists just don't fit together. Look there, for example,' he pointed at the monitor, 'We're not going to have two rap tracks on the trot.'

'One on the trot's too much for me,' the detective chuckled.

'Ah, but you're a red-neck polisman… not that I disagree, mind you.' He pulled another title from the play list and substituted it for Puff Daddy. 'There're other things too,' he went on. 'The computer hasn't seen our research; it doesn't know that if you play three female artists in succession, your audience starts to switch off.' He saw Martin's surprise. 'Don't ask me why, but that is true. Doesn't matter who they are, either, and it doesn't work the other way around.'

Thomson made a few more adjustments, then said, 'Fine. That's tomorrow's breakfast show done. I'll print it out now, and Madge, our production assistant, will put it on the presenter's desk.'

He stood. 'Come on. We're on air in five minutes; we'd better get down to the studio.' He led the detective back down the stairs and past the entrance hall, to the basement nerve-centre of the building. As they walked, he explained the format of their on-air discussion. 'I'll play three music tracks at the top of the programme, past the news and traffic, go to commercials, then I'll introduce you.

'We'll talk about police work in general; the overall role of the force; about five minutes of that then I'll play another three tracks, more commercials, then back to discussion of the role of the CID. No live cases — I'll make that point on air — just general. How a typical investigation runs.

'Our discussion will split into three segments, and after about forty minutes, we'll be finished, and I'll cue you out.'

'Fine,' said Martin. 'Do I have to keep my mouth shut in there, other than when I'm speaking?'

'Hell no,' said Thomson. 'It's not like that any more. Nothing is as it was any more.' He stopped at a solid wooden door with a single small glass panel and punched in a code on a small keyboard.

'You should change the code. Three, one, four, two.'

The presenter looked at his guest, puzzled. 'How could you see? I had my hand over the panel.'

'First four digits of the decimal form of pi. Most common office-security code in the business.'

Spike gasped. 'Hey. I wonder if I can work that into the discussion?'

It was Andy's turn to gasp as they stepped into the Radio Forth studio. He looked around for turntables and CD players, but saw none. 'Where's the gear?' he asked, as his host waved farewell to the out-going presenter, and pulled a second chair up to the beechwood console in front of the yellow-covered microphone which hung from the ceiling. There was a production booth on the other side of a thick glass panel but it was empty. The full complement of the Drive-Time show was them, and a programme assistant. 'This is Audrey,' said Spike. Martin smiled at the woman across the console as he sat down.

A jingle sounded from the big speakers, followed by a woman's voice. 'I'm Lesley Davis and this is Forth News.'

The broadcaster pointed to a video-display screen, bigger than the computer screen in his office. It seemed to be an integral part of the console. 'That's it. All of it. This studio is state-of-the-art; everything's on digital audio tape now and the whole show, other than the live voices, are on that touch-sensitive screen.

'No more cueing up vinyl. Now, I just do this.' His fingers flashed in a complex demonstration of the screen's functions. As Martin looked he saw that it was all there; the whole programme, set out in different sections, all of it timed to the second. He watched as the news-segment indicator counted down to zero.

And in that instant the man beside him changed; the quiet, chatty figure turned into the broadcast version of Spike Thomson; right out there and in the listener's face. 'Hi and welcome to Drive-Time, on Forth AM. Three hours of the music, news, conversation and traffic that means the most to east Central Scotland.

'A little later, I'll introduce today's special guest, the man in my hot-seat. But first…' He touched a corner of the screen, and the sounds of Gloria Estefan's brass section rang out.

He leaned back in his chair. 'That's us for nine minutes twenty, then ads. Relax. At least we can; I know of at least one FM station where they don't allow the presenters chairs. They like to keep them on their toes, literally. Seriously, though; you feeling comfortable?'

Martin nodded. 'I'm fine,' he said. 'I'm just gob-smacked by all this stuff.' i love it,' said Spike. 'I'm real a tech-head. This is like Toy Town for me.' On the desk a phone flashed, without ringing; he picked it up and spoke to the caller for several minutes. 'Okay, if that's your advice,' he said at last, 'sell the Royal Bank shares and buy Barclays.'

He hung up, with a quick glance at the screen. 'You saw the light as far as Rhian was concerned, I hear,' he murmured, casually.

'Yeah,' said Martin. 'She made me see a lot of things; I owe her that.'

'You're well shot of her, though. I didn't like to say at the time, but she's a man-eater. She tried for me, you know; I'm sleeping with her mother and she tried for me.'

'She and her sister will have had a bet about it. That's how it was with me. I should have seen it but I was thinking with my dick at the time.'

'Her sister?' Spike mused. 'Her big butch sister? You reckon?'

'Yup. You still keen on Juliet?'

'Oh sure. I've asked her to move in with me; she's thinking about it. Not the bloody parrot though,' he laughed. 'That stays.'

He looked at Martin. 'Rhian'11 grow out of it one day,' he said. 'She's not a bad girl; just a bit screwed up over her father.'

'What, about him running off you mean?'

'That's what she told you. It's what Juliet told me too. 'S not true, though. Lesley Davis, the queen of our newsroom, spread the real story all around the office when she heard we were seeing each other; hell of a bloody gossip, Lesley, like all journos. She told the whole damn place that Juliet's husband committed suicide; it was hushed up at the time by the media, as these things often are.'

He held up a hand as the light on top of the console shone red.

'Okay!!!' Spike Thomson's alter ego reappeared like a genie from a bottle. 'Now, I promised you a special guest, and here he is…'