Heads I Win Tails You Lose. Lynne Fox
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.
CHAPTER 4
It’s on the local news. I nearly don’t hear it as I’m in the kitchen preparing dinner.
‘The police have today announced that the body of the man found in Melsham Park two weeks ago is that of Edward Howden.’
I almost miss catching the savoury pancake I’d just tossed ceiling-ward. Howden! Wasn’t that the name in the front of the book in Barry’s room? I’m sure it was. I wander through into the lounge, pancake pan in hand, and stand transfixed before the TV.
‘Originally from Sheffield, he was convicted of the involuntary manslaughter of his wife due to his alcohol addiction. Howden served three years in prison before being released on condition he attended a rehabilitation programme.’
A photograph is splashed across the screen. My God, I would never have recognised him. The tramp was a parody of the man in the photo. I shudder at what an addiction to alcohol can do as I reach for the glass I’d left on the coffee table and take another sip.
The screen switches to outside Endover Police Station and there he is, Detective Chief Inspector Munroe, preening before the cameras.
‘Unfortunately, it seems Howden didn’t continue his attendance at the rehabilitation clinic and all contact with him was lost until his body was discovered in our local park.’
‘Is it correct, Chief Inspector, that Howden has been seen loitering near West Park College?’
‘Yes, that’s correct. Our investigations are ongoing in that respect and we’re currently attempting to locate his next-of-kin.’
‘Any leads as to his assailant?’
‘We’re following up several lines of enquiry and would ask anyone who may have seen him in and around the local area to get in touch with us.’
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’
I press the ‘Off’ button, deliberately forcing the news out of my mind to concentrate on preparing my meal. If I don’t stay focused I’ll end up with half of my pancakes on the kitchen floor.
Thinking things through after I’ve eaten, I ponder the likely scenario that Barry’s real surname is Howden and if the Edward Howden on the news is a relation, then it’s not surprising that Barry would want to change his name. I recall the entry in his personnel file stating foster parents as his next of kin and it seems a fair assumption that Mason is their name that he has taken. Could Edward Howden be Barry’s father? If so, it might explain the assault; God knows, he’d have reason enough.
I think back to the inscription in the book. It wasn’t your usual book-signing; it seemed far more personal than that. Intriguing; I wonder if its author, John Simpson, can shed any light.
I spend a couple of hours on the internet. John Simpson has a website and is quite well known in the Sheffield area for his books on local wildlife but particularly for his hand-drawn illustrations which