Lynne Fox - Heads I Win Tails You Lose

HEADS I WIN;

TAILS YOU LOSE

by

Lynne Fox

Copyright © 2018 by Lynne Fox.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means including electronic reproduction and photocopying without written permission of the author.

ISBN (Print): 978-1-911124-92-4

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-911124-93-1

Dedicated to

my parents and my son,

Elliott

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to the team at Cornerstones Literary Consultancy whose guidance and advice helped me hone a promising draft into something so much better. To my readers, Pauline Newstead, Susan Hubbard and Anna Henderson for being prepared to give up their time to keep me on track. To John Fisher for pushing me to actually finish something for once and for his enduring patience and faith in my abilities. I cannot thank you enough. Also to my brother, Dr John Sadd, for his practical support and encouragement.

My love and appreciation to you all.

Lynne Fox

CHAPTER 1

‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.’

Well, I tried to let the Lord choose the time but I do feel I’ve waited long enough. It isn’t as if I haven’t given Him enough time; it’s been seventeen years! For someone so omnipotent, I would have thought that was more than enough but apparently not.

As a child I believed that Divine Intervention would balance the books if I just prayed long enough and hard enough. I went to church twice every Sunday for years; my head bowed, my knees dimpled with patterns from the heavily embroidered hassocks, the words of my prayers so familiar that I could feel their form in my mouth like soothing sweets but as time passed the words only seared like bitter lemons.

So, I no longer ape the contrite humility of the congregation, passively waiting for celestial intervention; instead, I’ve taken matters into my own hands. After all, there’s only so much disillusionment a girl can take.

I was nine when our family tragedy happened; too young then to actively pursue revenge. It was a difficult pill for me to swallow but swallow it I did and I learnt to play the long game.

The ‘long game’ is something DCI Munroe has little time for. All those years ago, when he was merely a Detective Sergeant, it was clear, even to my young eyes, that he was a man driven by his need to succeed; to gain results and quickly.

As he had walked the path to our front door, the darkening sky had unburdened itself of a summer squall so that he stood in the centre of our lounge, slowly dripping into the carpet. I watched, fascinated, as a thin stream of water ran down from the hair plastered to his forehead and onto his nose before gathering, a glistening orb, suspended at the tip. I silently counted the seconds until it dropped.

Tall, almost six foot and painfully thin, Munroe had exceptionally wide shoulders, his torso tapering to a narrow waist and hips giving the impression of an inverted triangle delicately balancing on its point yet this seeming fragility belied an overpowering presence. The scent of pipe tobacco, exaggerated by the damp that had infused his clothes and person, reminded me of decaying leaf mould, as though he’d just wriggled out from under some lichen-covered stone.

My family shrank under his scrutiny, pressed back into their seats; Mother alternately twisting her handkerchief or dabbing theatrically at her eyes; Father varying between expressions of incredulity at what Munroe was saying and querying looks of doubt in my brother, Matt’s direction. Matt, blank-faced, simply looked stunned and I? I was ignored; a thing of no consequence, barely acknowledged.

Since then, Munroe has never been far from my consciousness. Through the ensuing years of schooling, on to my degree course and then to my current employment at a Further Education college, the desire for revenge has never left me.

During the early years I could do little more than scrutinise the local police website and local papers, cutting out or making notes of any references to DS Munroe; all such snippets kept in a box on top and at the very back of my wardrobe. Yet time, as it passes, brings with it new opportunities, new solutions.

I grew up and as I grew DS Munroe moved up the ranks, eventually becoming a DCI and moving to where we both now live. Endover is a leafy suburb approximately fifteen miles from central London that boasts a police HQ covering three counties. Although the residential areas have slowly increased, expanding outwards, the town centre has remained relatively compact so it’s not unusual to encounter people you know or, at least, recognise when out and about. Lawns, flowerbeds and several benches adorn the walking precincts tempting shoppers to stop and linger on warm summer days; a theme taken up by the cafes and pubs encouraging al fresco dining.

The police HQ is situated on the outskirts of town, flanked on one side by a sports stadium and on the other by a man-made lake that provides some of the gentler water sports, along with fishing and wildlife reserve. I wonder if Munroe pays these benefits any attention at all.

I moved in autumn to the staccato of crisp leaves disintegrating under my feet as I trudged up the path to my rented apartment, carrying my few belongings. I became settled during early morning mists that lingered, hanging in heavy droplets on boughs denuded of leaves. I watched Munroe and his family in their new home during the first few months of winter as we all hunkered down against the biting winds and I bided my time.

Almost two years have now passed since Munroe and I moved so why, you may ask, have I not completed my task? I’ve wondered that myself, but it really isn’t that easy. If I were the Almighty I could have just cremated him with a massive lightning strike, wiped my hands and had a cup of tea – job done – but, for a mere mortal, things are somewhat more complex.

I’ve read lots of things about how other people have done it; poisoning, a car accident, pushed under a train, shot, stabbed, strangled, suffocated – Man’s ingenuity when faced with disposing of another is amazing but as I reviewed the options and played out likely scenarios in my head, I came to realise that I didn’t want him dead; I want him to suffer – years of suffering and to achieve that will require a degree of subtlety.

It’s cold in the park this lunch time. I tuck my coat tighter around my legs to fend off the spiteful wind. I guess it is a bit silly spending my lunch break here on such a day, the library would have been cosier, but I need the isolation, I need to think, to focus and I’m always so easily distracted. Like now, I can’t take my eyes off a snail that’s making its laborious way along the ground at my feet, its tell-tale trail of slime glistening in the cold sunlight, repulsively beautiful. I raise my foot, hover my shiny new boot above it, tantalisingly close. The snail, oblivious, continues on its way until I bring my foot down with clinical precision, smashing its shell into myriad pieces, leaving the snail naked and writhing in the wreckage of its home. I can’t help smiling at the analogy it represents.

I settle back on the bench, pulling up my collar a little further, sinking down into the folds of the cashmere scarf that had been a grabbed-for afterthought as I’d hurried from the college. I like this area of the park, even on a day like today. It isn’t used very much, probably because it seems to form a dead end and it isn’t as manicured as the main areas but it’s well away from the playground so always affords some quiet; a cherished interlude from the hubbub of college life.

The whole area is bordered by a mixture of deciduous and evergreen trees and autumn is once again painting the canvas with her vibrant colours. Rhododendrons and azaleas have been allowed to run rampant, smothering smaller plants yet I know that under their foliage a mass of crocuses and snowdrops are waiting in the cold earth, ready to assert them come spring.