Читать книгу Heads I Win Tails You Lose - Lynne Fox - Страница 8

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.

Swiftly, I gulp down the last of my coffee, wrap the uneaten portion of cake into a paper napkin and, grabbing my shopping, hurry out of the café and make my way across the divide until I’m on their side of the road, but several yards behind, a place where I can observe but remain unnoticed.

As I follow behind along the High Street, staying back but close enough to overhear most of their conversation, Lily’s exasperation is palpable.

‘Look, Dad, I want to just pop into the library. I’ve been told they’ve some leaflets on evening classes being held locally. I want to see if they’ve got anything I’d be interested in. Why don’t you go over to Dougie’s café and I’ll see you there in a few minutes.’

Munroe doesn’t look too pleased at this suggestion but turns away and heads in the opposite direction. I seize the opportunity and follow Lily into the library foyer where a large table is laid out with piles of various leaflets. As I start flicking through, I deliberately catch my sleeve, knocking a pile onto the floor between us.

‘Oh hell! Trust me.’

Lily turns at my exclamation and as I bend down to start scooping them up she kindly joins me.

‘Thank you,’ I smile, ‘I’m so damn clumsy.’

‘It happens.’

‘Yeah, but why does it always happen to me?’

Lily grins warmly as we try to rearrange the mess I’ve made of the display.

‘Loads to choose from,’ I remark.

‘Yeah, can’t really make up my mind. I thought I might go for the watercolour painting; a friend did it last year and reckoned the tutor was brilliant, made it really fun.’

I casually pick up the relevant leaflet and give it a quick read.

‘Mmm, maybe; I think I’ll take this one home and a couple more and give it some thought. Enrolment’s Tuesday, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, so you’ve got time to decide.’

I notice Lily puts the art leaflet into her handbag.

‘Bye.’

‘Bye and thanks for helping me pick up.’

‘No sweat.’ and she was gone.

As I make my way home I play the encounter over in my mind. It’s the first time I’ve actually spoken with Lily. She strikes me as a naturally kind and helpful person, a little guileless perhaps but that should make her easier to manipulate. She’s definitely attractive; I can only hope that Barry will feel the same.

Tuesday evening comes round surprisingly soon and at six o’clock I’m standing in the college foyer, keeping watch for Lily. Fortunately, the foyer is crammed with posters and leaflets so I’m able to look busy rather than just aimlessly loitering.

It’s 6.45 before Lily arrives. She’s wearing a bright red tailored coat, the collar turned up against the chill wind, making a striking backdrop to her hair, strands of which lay coiled like copper wires across her shoulders, having escaped from where they had been tucked inside. She strides purposefully across the foyer and into the enrolment hall, her head held high, an unaffected elegance in her movement accentuated by her tall, slim build. Envy almost undoes me as I follow in her wake. I’ve always yearned to be taller, it’s an asset that seems to exude a commanding authority which is difficult to achieve when you constantly have to look up to people.

I hold back until Lily joins the short queue for enrolling in the art class, letting a couple of people join the line before me. As Lily completes her application form and turns to leave I deliberately catch her eye.

‘Hi. So you did decide on the watercolour course.’

Lily takes a second to register who I am.

‘Oh hi, yeah; my friend almost bullied me into it so it better be as much fun as she reckons or I’ll kill her!’

‘Too right; I’m hoping I haven’t made a mistake but the other things all seemed pretty heavy.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’

Lily looks at her watch,

‘I must be off. See you at class in January.’

‘Absolutely, see you there. Bye.’ I watch as Lily moves through the glass doors and out into the December night. I realise how much she reminds me of Addie, Matt’s girlfriend. She has the same unguarded openness of the innocent. Not the best asset for survival.

Today at college has been somewhat irksome, my afternoon class more interested in the latest football results than learning about Byzantine art so, despite getting home early, I’m not in the best of moods when there’s a gentle tap at my door. I know who it is; Mrs Lewis, my neighbour from across the hall. Widowed a few years ago, she’s a tiny, fragile sparrow of a woman, constantly in need of reassurance. To take the edge off my annoyance I take a quick swig of the Cabernet Sauvignon I’ve just opened and go to the door, my smile plastered on with such determination it feels more like rigor mortis.

Despite being small myself I’m quite a bit taller than Mrs Lewis who resembles a prematurely aged seven year old, so as I open the door I automatically look down to her level and am startled to see she’s flanked by two broad bodies. Raising my eyes I know immediately that these are police officers even though they’re not in uniform. Something about their demeanour singles them out; that self-assured arrogance of people in authority.

The young one on the left I don’t know but the other is as familiar as my own reflection.

‘Hello my dear, these gentlemen are police officers, I was just coming in the front door myself when they arrived so I said I’d show them to your apartment. One always likes to help the police when one can.’ She beams up at both men in turn.

The one on her left coughs quietly, ‘Thank you for your assistance, Mrs Lewis; we can take it from here. Miss Thompson, may we come in?’

I really don’t want them in my apartment, invading my privacy and contaminating my personal space.

‘What’s this about officer?’

‘Perhaps we could just come in for a moment?’ the other one interrupts, pushes at the door and whispers ‘We don’t want to give the neighbours a floor show, do we?’ He smiles slightly and glances towards Mrs Lewis.

‘Very well.’ I reluctantly stand back and hold open the door.

‘Thank you again, Mrs Lewis.’ The young one, as he enters, gently closes the door in Mrs Lewis’ disappointed face.

I lead the way into my lounge and deliberately stand with my back to the window through which the bright afternoon winter sun is shining, making it difficult for the officers to see my face clearly.

‘Is it bad news?’ I conjure a slight, tearful tremble in my voice.

‘No, nothing like that, we just need to ask you a few questions. Please don’t be alarmed.’

I walk slowly from the back of the sofa and sit facing the officers, making a small gesture with my hand, indicating for them to sit on the seats opposite. ‘I’m sorry,’ I manage to produce a weak smile, ‘it’s just I haven’t had any dealings with the police before so I just assumed…’

‘Perfectly understandable.’ The young officer leans forward in a friendly manner, his forearms resting on his knees.

The older man is still standing. He has an air of bored efficiency as though he has done this sort of thing so many times before, which I suppose he probably has.

‘Miss Thompson, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Munroe and this is Detective Constable Wilson. We’re hoping you can help us with our enquiries.’

‘Enquiries? Into what?’

DC Wilson holds out a small plastic bag. He’s tall, clean-shaven with highly polished shoes and an air of newness about him, like he’d just been taken down from a shelf in Harrods. ‘Is this your pen, Miss?’

I take the bag and turn it over in my hands. ‘Yes, it is or rather it’s my propelling pencil. I didn’t know I’d lost it. Where did you find it?’

‘Would you tell us where you were Tuesday lunch-time last week, around one o’clock?’

‘Why?’

‘Please, just answer the question, Miss, it will be quicker for all of us.’ The Chief Inspector, still standing, saunters by where I’m sitting on the sofa, so close that his coat brushes my arm and I can smell a faint whiff of pipe tobacco. The image it recalls is so vivid, for a second it takes my breath away. Oblivious to my discomfort, he continues past me to stand looking out of the window.

‘Such a long time ago but … lunchtime … I would probably have been in the park. I am most lunch times.’

Chief Inspector Munroe continues. ‘Did you see anything unusual when you were there?’

‘What do you mean by unusual?’

‘Anyone loitering about or acting suspiciously?’

‘No, I don’t think so; it was very quiet. Why do you ask?’

DC Wilson answers.

‘A man was found dead in the park last week.’

‘Really? How dreadful. I didn’t know.’

DCI Munroe turns from the window toward me, a look of scepticism on his face.

‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard; we’ve been making enquiries at the college where I understand you work.’

‘Oh that, I thought that was about the tramp who’s been seen near the college grounds.’

‘Have you seen him?’ Wilson asks.

‘I recall once seeing a man at a distance but I would never recognise him again. Is that the man found dead in the park?’

My question is ignored.

‘So, you go to the park at lunch times most days, even in this cold weather; that seems rather extreme.’ Munroe smiles sarcastically.

‘I suppose it is, a bit,’ I concede, ‘I just like the fresh air and the quiet; college life can be extremely hectic and noisy.’

‘Perhaps you should have chosen a different vocation.’

I smile sweetly.

‘You don’t seem particularly happy in your work either, Inspector; perhaps you should consider a change of vocation too.’

Munroe observes me coldly, his face a stone mask.

Wilson shoots a look at us both and coughs uncomfortably, wanting to move matters on.

Munroe holds out his hand.

‘OK, Miss Thompson, that’ll be all for now. Could we have the pencil back please?’

‘Oh, I thought you were returning it. It’s very important to me; it’s solid gold and a gift from someone close.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t take better care of it then.’ I catch my breath at Munroe’s sarcasm and will myself not to retort.

‘’I’m afraid we have to keep it for now,’ Wilson says in a placatory tone, ‘it’s evidence.’

‘Evidence! Of what?’

DCI Munroe sounds almost self-congratulatory.

‘It was found near the victim’s body and the post mortem indicates the time of death would be around the time you frequently spend your lunch breaks at the same spot.’

‘But you can’t possibly think I had anything to do with that man’s death, surely?’

‘All lines of investigation are open at the moment,’ Munroe informs me. ‘We haven’t ruled anything out as yet.’

His statement seems like a thinly veiled threat. I need some clarification.

‘May I ask how you knew the pencil was mine and that I was in the park that particular day?’

‘You were seen.’

‘What?’

‘You sound alarmed.’ Chief Inspector Munroe is studying me closely.

I force steadiness into my voice. ‘Not alarmed Chief Inspector; simply surprised. I hadn’t noticed anyone else about. It was such a chilly day, the place seemed deserted.’ I’m so concerned it was Barry; I have to ask, ‘Who saw me?’

‘A woman walking her dog; she noticed you standing at the brick pillars examining your boots. Why was that?’

Relief washes over me. ‘Oh, yes, I remember; I’d only bought the boots recently, they were really quite expensive but one of the heels had come loose. I’ve had to buy another pair but, my pencil, how did you know it was mine?’

DC Wilson’s tone is quietly conversational. ‘The woman recognised you; her daughter attends the college. What with that and the initials engraved in the top of your pencil, it was easy to locate you. Of course, the moment we’re able to return it we will.’

‘Thank you officer, I would appreciate that.’ I give the young man a friendly smile.

Up close, Chief Inspector Munroe shows signs of the wear and tear of the last seventeen years. His face has lost the youthful smoothness I remember – those are not laughter lines but the etchings of strain.

As I show the two officers out Munroe hesitates a fraction, staring hard into my face as if trying to answer some query in his mind but he dismisses it and walks back to their car.

I’m certain he hasn’t recognised me. A girl changes a lot on her way to womanhood; I’m now twenty-six and bear little resemblance to the gawky nine year old he’d previously encountered.

My name would mean nothing to him either. I wasn’t called Amelia Thompson back then. I had to keep the same initials – my gold propelling pencil, my final gift from Matt, dictated that. I’d changed my name when I began my Open University course, as by then there was no pretence. My change of name was an act of acknowledgement of my parents’ lack of feeling toward me and defiance at the carefully constructed illusion they presented to the world.

Closing the door, I wander back into the lounge and reflect on the interview. I’d thought the police would turn up at some point after Janet’s spiteful intervention but dropping my pencil is an unforeseen complication. They said they regarded it as evidence but they can’t prove I lost it on the day the man died; it could have been any of the lunch times, any week. No, they’re just clutching at straws.