Lynne Fox - Heads I Win Tails You Lose

‘Mmm, possibly, thought I’d better just let you know though, so you can get your story straight.’

‘Story? Why should you think I need a story?’

‘Well, you’re the one in the park most lunch times, although, as I told the police, I can’t think why, especially in this cold weather. That’s somewhere else he went, apparently, so I guess that makes you more interesting than the rest of us. There’s no need to look at me like that; I was only trying to help with their enquiries. That isn’t a problem, is it?’

‘No, why should it be? Are they here now? Perhaps I ought to speak with them, clear this up.’

Janet gives a shrug and turns away. ‘I expect they’ll get in touch with you when they’re ready,’ she smirks, ‘I gave them your address.’

Gritting my teeth, I watch Janet’s bulk receding down the corridor. I could spit venom.

CHAPTER 3

At eighteen I was no longer an uncoordinated tomboy but had, to the dismay of my mother, morphed into an object of male admiration and desire; a change that I was eager to exploit.

My mother was beside herself with a mixture of disgust and envy.

‘Do you have to sleep with all of them?’

Her raised octave reverberated around the kitchen, bouncing off the metal saucepans hanging from their hooks like a badly tuned set of hand bells. Flapping the tea towel toward my face she used such force it cracked like a whip.

I smiled sweetly.

‘No, Mother, I don’t have to.’

My most useful conquest materialised whilst I was studying for my degree with the Open University. I’d chosen not to move away, mostly so that I could stay in close proximity to Munroe but also so that I could remain at home.

‘But why?’ my mother wailed, her red-painted lips a livid gash across her face, her features contorted in a paroxysm of frustration.

My father, raising his head from the Financial Times he was reading, said,

‘Because she doesn’t want to support herself; it’s easier and cheaper living at home, isn’t it?’

Smiling, I walked up to his chair, placed my arm around his neck and leaning close, purred,

‘And because I love you both so much.’

My father merely shrugged and returned to his paper.

The boyfriends I bedded were not, as my mother supposed, simply random choices; they were, in fact, chosen with the utmost care; the main criteria being their association with the local police force, whether a member of the ranks, a civilian employee or just someone related in some way.

Of course, not all proved useful but, at the age of twenty and two years into my degree course, I struck lucky.

Mick, four years older than me, was a delightful specimen; blonde, tanned with an engaging smile and easy manner. Obviously comfortable in his own skin he moved with assurance and confidence that I found particularly seductive.

I met him at a police gala day; it was held every year to raise funds for the families of officers injured or killed in the line of duty and I’d made a point of attending since I was fourteen. Mick was explaining to some locals the level of fitness required to be a member of the police force, demonstrating the Dynamic Strength and Endurance or Bleep Test which requires candidates to run to and fro along a fifteen metre track arriving at each end line in time with a series of audio bleeps. He suggested some of those watching give it a try only to shrug his indifference as the onlookers drifted away. I, however, remained.

‘I’ll give it a go.’

I grinned as I stepped forward.

‘That’s nice of you but you don’t have to pity me, really.’

‘I’m not pitying you; at least let me have a go at the Bleep Test, it looks fun. I’m good at running; school’s athletic champion two years in a row.’

Mick eyed me up and down and made his decision.

‘OK then, gorgeous, you show the lads how to do it. Ready?’

‘Yeah!’

I knew I could do it. I’d stolen the practice CD from a previous boyfriend’s flat simply because it amused me to give it a try. I can even run it backwards!

‘Fancy a coffee?’ Mick asked, impressed by my performance, ‘it can be your prize for showing more guts than any of these lads.’

‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

As we walked toward the refreshment tent I casually enquired,

‘How long have you been in the police?’

‘Since I was eighteen; I really want to get into CID.’

‘Is that difficult?’

‘Positions don’t come up that often but I might be in luck. One of our DI’s has agreed to give me a try; it’s a great opportunity.’

‘That’s brilliant. Congratulations.’

This was the kind of close contact I’d been hoping for and made the ensuing four year relationship with Mick worthwhile. Through him I gleaned snippets of information about Munroe and his family, slowly building up my picture of his work and home life. Nothing particularly earth shattering, you understand; Mick wasn’t about to jeopardise his career through idle gossip and I had to be careful to avoid any unwanted probing into my reasons by asking too many questions. Yet it was the little things that helped build up the picture; hearing about Munroe’s wedding anniversary and his pleasure at how well his daughter was doing at school, his occasional bad tempers when cases weren’t progressing as well as he wanted; innocuous in itself but all useful.

I’d known for some time that Munroe had a daughter; I’d seen them together at a few of the police gala days and picked up her name when he’d called out to her. I’d been following her on Facebook ever since; not that there was usually much of interest until, four years into my relationship with Mick, she was posting whining complaints about the family’s impending move to Endover.

Mick confirmed Munroe’s promotion and relocation one evening just as we’d started a second bottle of wine and, feeling sorry for himself that, according to him, one of the top detectives was leaving, he’d reached the maudlin stage. His usefulness at an end, I’d dumped him the following week and started to make arrangements for my own move. Mother could hardly disguise her delight.

My encounter with the tramp has left me with a mission to replace my damaged boots. Fortunately Saturday morning turns out to be another of Britain’s glorious winter gifts; a clear blue sky with a sun so bright it sparkles off the wet leaves that are burnished to a golden glow. Glistening puddles dot the pavement like jewelled stepping stones as I make my way into the city centre.

I make a beeline for the shop where I bought the original pair but, ‘Sorry, we no longer have them in your size,’ is a response I did not want to hear. ‘No, there’s nothing else here I’d like to try on, thank you,’ and so I begin the laborious task of trudging around every shoe shop I can think of. It’s so difficult to settle on anything else when I’d found the pair that I particularly liked. My anger at the tramp increases with each unsuccessful shop visit until, ‘Yes, yes, yes, these will do! More expensive than the others but actually, yes, I think I prefer them.’

Sitting in a window seat in Costas, sipping my coffee and enjoying an enormous slice of coffee and walnut cake, I’m feeling quite mellow, at peace with the world when, across the street, I see DCI Munroe. The repugnance and anger of my childhood has matured into a more considered appraisal so that nowadays I’m able to view him with the cool detachment of predator and prey.

He’s some distance away but even so is unmistakable. I recognise his walk, a kind of loping gait with his head thrust slightly forward so that one almost expects him to break into a trot. His head is turned slightly to his left and he appears to be in conversation but is blocking my view of the person beside him. However, just at that moment they stop and turn to look into the window of the local cycle shop and I can see who his companion is even though they have their backs to me; it’s his daughter, Lily.