Heather's Busy Week Pt. 05

Heather grimaced at that. 'They're twins,' she said, trying to sound upbeat. 'We lesser mortals wouldn't understand.'

'I understand that I got a flea in my ear this morning. For visiting out of hours. That sister's not as nice and sweet as she looks.'

'Set her on Alex,' Heather suggested.

'She's already on his case. He's got until ten tomorrow morning then he's out of there. And she's not letting him back until Afternoon Visiting on Thursday.'

'What does he think about that?'

'Nothing. Sister Angela doesn't take prisoners so he's reluctantly agreed. That's why I rang you, actually.'

'Is it?'

'Yes. He won't go home to his own home. He insists on stopping at mine. I'm not going to be able to make it tomorrow night.'

'That's understandable. I mean, I'm gutted, of course. But we'll find another opportunity.'

'No, Hev, we'll find another six opportunities, preferably next week.'

'You've the memory of an elephant.' Heather chuckled. 'Okay, we'll find six opportunities. But not all in one week.'

'Between you and me, I'm worried about this not going home lark. What if he moves in with me permanently?'

'You'll have to put him in that spare room. Do a timetable, giving yourself nights when you might stay out and nights when you want him in your bed. It could work out very well.'

'You're not off the hook for Friday, Heather Hunter. With any luck he'll have pulled himself together by then.'

Heather rang off and wondered about her new-found Wednesday freedom. Up until now she'd had four different lovers since Friday. Rugby baths aside, that was a record. And it would be a shame to stop while she was on a streak. There was football tomorrow afternoon. Maybe she could squeeze Sam in straight afterwards and Ruth later on. That would give her six out of six without letting Eleanor down . . .

Not knowing what to expect, she opened Stuffypants' text.

GIVE ME BACK MY

HANDCUFFS!

Heather blinked. This was clearly another message that couldn't be answered in writing. She shifted on her bench, trying and failing to find a more comfortable position. Wondering where the sun had gone, she glanced up at slate grey sky. Then, having exhausted her stock of delaying tactics, she dialled.

'DC Parker speaking.'

'Hi, it's Heather. That's Miss Hunter, to you.'

'Ah, the elusive Miss Hunter.'

'Little me. Er . . . are you driving?'

'Yes, but don't worry, I'm hands free.'

'I don't doubt that for one second.'

'Drop the verbal jousting, Miss Hunter. This is not a laughing matter.'

'Your text mentions handcuffs . . .'

'I said drop the jousting. Return them today and I'll say no more.'

'I haven't got your blooming handcuffs.'

'Ha! You'll be saying you don't call me DC Stuffypants next.'

Heather looked at her phone as if it had suddenly turned into a snake. 'Honestly,' she said, 'I haven't got your handcuffs.'

Stuffypants wasn't listening. 'It's all over the nick,' she went on. 'Fazakerley started it, although he's not admitting a thing. And he got it from you, I know that. I'm already gathering evidence. Take my word for it, I'll have you both banged to rights.'

Heather wasn't sure about the criminality of coining nicknames, so said nothing. She liked the idea of "Stuffypants" spreading throughout the nick, though. Obviously it had enough truth in it to stick.

'I'll leave your slanderous behaviour for now,' Stuffypants resumed. 'Nobody knows about the cuffs yet. I'm accountable for them, though. So I need them back like yesterday.'

'I already said it twice. I don't have your handcuffs.'

'Heather, look at it from my point of view. A police station is a very intimidating place. There's a lot of ribbing that goes on. Some of it comes close to bullying. I hold my own all right, but if it comes out that Stuffypants has lost her handcuffs . . .'

'I honestly haven't got them.'

'Think about this scenario, then. I get a call right now. A murder two streets away. I get there first, before the uniforms. How am I going to restrain the killer without getting slashed or shot?'

'DC Parker, what on earth would I want with your handcuffs?'

'For use in a sex game? To piss me off? Both?'

'Have your keys gone as well?'

'What?'

'Assuming I stole your cuffs . . . which I certainly did not . . . I'd want the keys too, wouldn't I? It wouldn't be much of a sex game if it took the fire brigade to set me free.'

'Huh,' said Stuffypants, sounding less than convinced, 'you'd probably enjoy having firemen crowding your bedroom.'

'So you do still have the keys?'

'Yes.'

'Well there you go.'

'No I don't. You could have just taken my cuffs to wind me up.'

Heather sighed. 'Where am I supposed to have stolen them from, anyway? I haven't noticed them hanging from your belt.'

'I don't keep them on my belt. They live in my glove compartment. At least, they did live in my glove compartment. They were there yesterday morning and they're gone today. And you are the only person I've had in the front seat.'

'How circumstantial is that! I thought you guys hated circumstantial.'

'It's co-incidental Fazza doesn't like, not circumstantial. Fazakerley, I mean.'

'How accountable are you for handcuffs?'

'Don't go there.'

'There must be lots of pairs hanging around in a police station. Can't you just pinch some?'

'Heather, I'm a policewoman. I'll pretend I didn't hear that.'

'That's twice you've called me "Heather".'

'What can I say? This is very important to me. I can't become a laughing stock.'

'DC Parker, listen to me. Was I in your car for even a second without you being there?'

'No.'

'And wouldn't you have noticed if I rummaged in your glove compartment?'

Silence.

'Who else has been in your car?' Heather persisted. 'During the time the cuffs disappeared, I mean.'

'Only other coppers.'

'And were any of them in there alone?'

'No! Well . . . possibly, yes.'

'Would your cuffs be of use to another copper? Without the keys, I mean.'

'Yes and no.' Stuffypants hesitated. 'Trade secret, but most of our cuffs have the same keys. That's so I can bring someone in and hand him over without having to unlock him.'

'And they know who made the arrest and give you your cuffs back.'

'Correct.'

'Right then, the way I see it there are only two possibilities, both involving cops. I'm ruling out theft for re-sale, because the keys would have been needed then, wouldn't they? That leaves another cop who's lost his or her handcuffs . . .'

'Possible, I suppose.'

'. . . or someone playing tricks on DC Stuffypants. How likely is that?'

There was a brief hesitation then: 'Quite likely.'

'A friend of mine at school used to do practical jokes. She'd pinch something important and put it somewhere else. Somewhere so obvious you wouldn't look for it there. If I were you I'd search in your desk and your locker, places like that.'

'What do you know that I don't, Miss Hunter?'

'Miss Hunter again, is it?'

'Don't try to sidestep me. What do you know that I don't?'

'I know I don't have your precious handcuffs. Why don't you come and search my house?'

'I'd have done it already . . . If I dare ask for a warrant.'

This was hard work. Heather sighed again. 'I don't suppose you want my advice.'

'Go on.'

'I'd work out which of your colleagues had chance to bag your cuffs. Then I'd nick his or her cuffs and find a new place to keep them.'

'Heather, I'm a policewoman.'

'Perhaps I misused a few words. I should have said "retrieve your cuffs". Because that's all you'd be doing: getting back what's rightfully yours.'

'You should be a barrister. For the defence, of course.'

'Thank you. I think.' Heather grinned. 'Oh, and check your obvious places first.'

Another moody silence. Then, not very graciously: 'I'll think about it.'

'Before you hang up on me . . .'

'What?'

'Two things. You will let me know how it turns out with your handcuffs, won't you? I'm too involved to leave it at this.'

'I can't be ringing you every day,' Stuffypants said grumpily. This is my official phone. The calls are monitored.'

'Drop me a one word text. "Found" or "retrieved" will do the trick.'

'Okay. What else?'

'What's your first name?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'Because you know all sorts about me. And besides, I need it for my next fantasy.'

The policewoman tutted loudly. Still grinning, Heather fully expected to be cut off. She wasn't. Instead she got an answer . . . of a kind.

'I've actually got a double-barrelled surname. Pants-Parker. That makes my first name Stuffy.'

'DC Stuffy Pants-Parker! I like it! There really is hope for you yet.'

But she was speaking into the ether. Their connection had been broken.

*****

Heather arrived at the restaurant at ten to eight. She had intended to lurk safely out of Mario's line of sight, but that drizzle had developed into a downpour, so she was obliged to shelter in the doorway. When he tried to usher her inside she warded him off with a smile. 'I'm waiting for you-know-who. I'm sure you know why.' Mario smiled back and left her to it.

Eleanor's cab pulled up at five to. She'd obviously found a worthwhile shop after all because her jacket and skirt were new.

'Nice outfit,' Heather said as they embraced. 'What's underneath?'

'I've stuck to my winning formula. What's under your stunning little green dress?'

'Nothing at all. What you see is what you get. Are you ready to go in?'

'As ready as I'll ever be.'

Mario had the door open before Heather could get hold of the handle. 'Ladies!' he cried. 'My pleasure as always!'

They followed him to the same table they'd shared on Sunday and he pulled out a chair with a flourish. 'Eleanor, if you please.' She sat and he pulled out another chair. 'Miss Hunter.'

'How many times, Mario?' Heather said as she took her seat.

He beamed at her then turned to Eleanor. 'Shiraz to help you with your selection?'

She nodded and managed not to giggle when Heather kicked her under the table. Leastways, she held it until he was gone.

'Eleanor,' Heather stage-whispered, 'what did you do to him?'

'I'm not sure exactly, but it worked. He's taking me to Chester tomorrow.'

'What!'

'He called me shortly after you did. I mentioned train times and . . . Well, he did insist.'

'Good grief.' Heather shook her head. She was used to being the centre of Mario's attention but, for once, didn't mind playing second fiddle.

The wine waiter brought their litre carafe of red before Heather could further her enquiries. No doubt in cahoots with his boss, he poured a mouthful into Eleanor's glass. Smiling Sphinx-like, she passed it across. 'You try.'

Heather downed the wine without even trying to get a taste. 'Perfect,' she said. 'Fill 'em up.'

Eleanor endorsed her decision and, as the waiter left, Mario hand-delivered menus. Resisting the opportunity to tease, Heather watched him turn on the charm. There was no formal "Miss Eleanor" tonight; tonight it was "Eleanor" all the way. And talk about invading air space! He was hanging over her, pointing out seemingly dozens of choice options on the bill of fare. Not content with that, he took her arm and led her across to inspect the specials board. As if she couldn't have seen it from her chair.

And I pictured her lonely and ignored!

Heather had a big swig of Shiraz and, grateful for the hit, refilled her glass to the brim.

'I'm daring to be different,' Eleanor said as she sat back at the table. 'Minestrone followed by authentic Neapolitan lasagne.'

'And you, Miss Hunter?' Mario prompted.

Heather hadn't even opened her menu. 'The usual,' she said, reaching for her drink.

'The fillet tonight,' said Mario. 'Bella. I have one cut . . . it is the biggest and best. And it is for you.'

Heather felt better for that. At least she wasn't completely unnoticed.

'Listen, Eleanor,' she said once they were alone again, 'I can buzz off after our mains, if you want.'

'No!' The older woman caught Heather's hand. 'I've been looking forward to this all day. Don't run out on me now.'

'I wasn't going to run out on you. I was doing you a favour.'

'Favours come later.' Eleanor gently squeezed Heather's fingers. 'Guess what's happening tonight? Tonight I really am sneaking you up to my room. You'll have to hide in the loo when the breakfast trolley arrives.'

'How exciting.' Heather laughed. 'I mean it. My nips are hard already.

'So I see,' said Eleanor. 'Are you really completely naked under that dress?'

'Yes. Are you really wearing the same . . . you know.'

'Similar, not the same. I bought something a little more . . . elaborate. Especially for you.'

'Okay, you've convinced me. I'll stay.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

(Wednesday, 24th April 2002)

Wednesday afternoons were devoted to sports and lecture-free. As a consequence of this the mornings were challenging. They were in Heather's opinion, anyway. She had three tutorials on the trot, all of them interactive sessions with nowhere to hide. Not that she ever wanted to hide. Today, buoyed by the usual after-sex high, she arrived early for the first, a spring in her step even if she was overladen.

'Look out,' said Bryn. 'Wide load coming through.'

Heather dumped her hefty backpack on a vacant desk and shoved her sports bag under the chair. 'You're looking radiant today, Bryn. How's Lucy?'

'I dunno,' he said, colouring just ever-so-slightly. 'She's not in this group, is she?'

'I'm betting she looks radiant too. Didn't you notice over tea and toast?'

Reverting to type, Bryn muttered something in Welsh. Heather wasn't fluent but, thanks to five years at school in Cheshire, she got the drift. Smiling serenely, she told him to eff off in Latin. He didn't seem to understand her but must have realized he was on a loser. Or maybe he just made a good judgment call. Whatever, he decided he needed to go and discuss something of great importance with Sam.

'You're not really playing hockey in this weather, are you?' Ruth asked, pointing at the sports bag.

Heather was already drenched and she'd travelled by taxi, door to door to door. She glanced out of the window and saw no improvement. Last night's downpour had become a monsoon. There must be something nasty out there over the Atlantic, pushing half the sea water into the air and away, in an easterly direction.

Rain like this wasn't fair! Even now, after almost a decade away from God's Own County, she classed herself as a "Yorkshire lass". And every Yorkie knew that God had built the Pennines for the same reason Hadrian built his wall: to fend off unwanted invasions. The only difference was that, rather than kilt-wearing barbarians, Yorkshire's defences were against the elements. Put simply, through an administrative oversight, Our Maker had given Ireland, Lancashire and Yorkshire a huge quota of rainfall compared to everyone else. By the time He realized His slip it was too late for Ireland and the Lankies. So, no doubt gritting His teeth, making the best of a bad job, He'd created the Pennines to ensure most of Yorkshire's share bounced back to fall over Manchester and Liverpool, where it belonged. As a child Heather had thought that was a good deal. Right now, however, with a match ahead of her . . .

'Not hockey.' She sighed. 'I'm supposed to be playing football.'

'That lasts even longer, doesn't it?'

'Yes, we do ninety minutes.'

'Sounds like a life sentence to me.'

Heather was checking her address book. She dialled out.

'Naz? It's Hev. How are you doing, babe?'

Ruth was frowning. She clearly didn't get Heather's bantering relationship with Carrie's vice-captain. Naz was Asian and at uni with the (supposedly) begrudging consent of her family. Sporty and bright, Naz had resisted countless attempts to marry her off. Although she referred to her parents as "the dinosaurs", they always seemed to let her have her own way. There had never been any threats or kidnappings and, unlike most other students, she was never short of money. Heather thought that deep down, Mum and Dad were very proud of their headstrong, westernized daughter. Of course they didn't know about the drinking, smoking and sex. Or so she sincerely hoped.

'Hev,' Naz replied. 'My favourite bi girlfriend. Ringing to hear my sweet voice, are you?'

Heather laughed. Naz was bi-curious without ever having done anything about it. Well . . . not really. Once, under the influence of gallons of Marston's, she'd admitted fancying tall girls with jet-black hair. They'd shamelessly flirted together ever since. Time was running out on them, as it was on everything else these days, but half-promises had been made.

'I hear your voice every night,' said Heather, 'in some of my best-ever dreams. But never mind that, how's it looking for this afternoon?'

'Pretty grim, from where I'm standing.'

'Where's that?'

'In the entrance to the changing rooms, watching them putting up signs with PITCH CLOSED stencilled on them.'

'Are you calling it off, then?'

'Me?' Naz sounded genuinely surprised. 'I'm waiting for Carrie to show up and take over.' Then, after a pause, 'Don't tell me the rumours are true.'

'She's in hospital, if that's what you mean.'

'Shit! Is it really an overdose?'

Heather couldn't see any alternative to the truth. Diluting it as much as possible, she said, 'It wasn't an overdose as such. She just took more than her body was used to taking.'

'Cocaine then. Am I right?'

'How do you know about stuff like that?'

'I'm from Bradford,' Naz said, as if that explained the meaning of life and everything. 'So she's still in, is she?'

'Her mum's on her case. It looks like she's going to be out of circulation for a while. You'd best plan on taking over for the rest of the season.'

'Wow!' Naz quickly pulled herself together. 'Okay, I'll call the opposition and put them off. I'm not going to call our lot, though. We can bag the sports hall and play seven-a-side.'

'No we can't. The hockey team's booked it all afternoon. They're having a mini-tournament.'

'They can't do that.'

'Yes they can. It was booked weeks ago, when they couldn't rearrange a match for this evening. And nobody objected. It's a bit late to complain now, just because it's raining.'

'Frigging hockey players!'

'Don't include me in that. I forsook hockey for football today, remember?'

'Okay,' Naz said decisively, 'here's the revised plan. We go for a training run . . .'

'In this monsoon?'

'. . . and then we shower. But we leave our hair wet and straggly. Then we all go in the Union Bar and make out we played our match while everyone else wimped. That should get us the sympathy vote when we go round with twice as many domino cards as usual. Obviously we won't need to pay for the pitch, the referee or kit washing and drying, so we'll be quids in. I'll let the girls off subs for this week and stand them a few pints of ale into the bargain. And even then there'll be money left over for team funds.'

'Bloody hell, Naz, you worked that out fast.'

'It's good, isn't it?'

'What happens when the result comes out as "cancelled"?'

'We say we broke some prehistoric rule by playing on a closed pitch, so the result hasn't been acknowledged. We're going to win 4-1, by the way. To keep up the heroic image. Impressed?'

'I certainly am. Never mind your dad's supermarkets, you're going to end up running FIFA.'

'Are you up for it, then?'

'I'll have to check in with my hockey mates first. They'll want me to fill in if they're short.'

'Come on, Hev. This might be the day you get to scrub my back in the showers.'

If only Ruth hadn't been listening to her half of the conversation! Heather could have made a meal out of that. Instead she just laughed and said, 'if not this Wednesday, maybe next.'

'Who's "Naz"?' Ruth asked as Heather's phone went back in her pocket.