'Sound like your fucking aunt,' he said.
'Just stating a fact. You won't let it stop you. Am I right?'
'The more that bag gets on at me, the more I'll bloody do it. Tells me to stop gambling. Gambling. I don't fucking gamble.'
'You don't?' I asked.
'Course I fucking don't. I'm a betting man. Gambling's a lottery. Odds are against you. Whereas a betting man looks for value. Only plays when the odds are favourable. Your aunt should know that. Old bag's been married to me for God knows how long. She doesn't listen.' He leaned forwards. 'No bugger does, mind you. Keep the pressure on, eh?'
I adjusted my grip on his wrists.
'Ah, yes,' he said. 'Oh, that's nice. See, a gambler will take any odds. Gambling's the thing if you're a gambler. Fucking profound, I know. Now a betting man, he'll look for value. A while back there was a football match on. European game. And I got a tip that one of the bookies had screwed up. There was a defender and striker in the same team who have similar names. And the bookies had listed them the wrong way round. Bulgarians, you see. Funny names. So, anyway, the striker's odds of scoring the first goal was 20/1. And the defender, he was listed as 2/1. There's your fucking value bet. I stuck a shitpile of money on the striker. 20 to fucking 1 when the true odds are nearer 2/1? Fucking value like you rarely find, sunshine.'
'How much did you win?' I asked.
'Not a penny. Some other fucker scored first. But it's the principle of the thing. It was a value bet. You get enough of them, then over time you'll come out on top. But you have to take some hits along the way. That's what your aunt doesn't understand. You get it?'
'Totally,' I said. 'Makes perfect sense.' And in a way, it did. Can't say I was a convert, though. I'd rather keep my money.
'Good. You can let go and put your shoe back on now.'
My leg felt stiff. I gave it a shake.
He turned, still in a crouch.
I slipped my shoe back on. 'You need a hand?'
'I'm more than capable of standing up,' he said.
I watched as he eased himself painfully to his feet.
'Is that all?' I asked.
'No,' he said. 'The Wilson case. Sergeant Dutton claims there was a mix-up and the right information didn't get through to you. That so?'
'No,' I said. 'It very much isn't.'
'He was fucking with you, I know that,' my uncle said. 'And while you may be a fanny now and then, it doesn't mean Dutton should get to slip you a length.'
He had a way with words, my uncle.
'Thanks,' I said. This kind of support was most unexpected. He was usually harder on me than anyone else. Just in case there were any cries of favouritism.
'I've sent DS Dutton home as well.' He cleared his throat. 'But I don't want to lose him. I promised I wouldn't say anything, but there's something you should know.'
'Tell me,' I said.
'His wife left him.'
I felt myself smile. I said, 'I'm sorry to hear that,' but I knew I didn't sound like I meant it.
'Don't be a shite, sunshine. Look, I don't want to lose Dutton. Any more than I want to lose Erica. They're good cops.'
'One of them is.'
'I'll be the judge of that. My job, not yours.'
I nodded. 'What's Erica saying?'
'She says Dutton could be right,' he said. 'There was a bit of a mix-up.'
That was unexpected too.
'She wasn't so sure at first but I convinced her after a while, ' he said. He stretched, pulled a face. 'Do you think I can convince you?'
'I doubt it.'
'Bad reception, maybe? And you missed hearing about the kid having died seven years ago?'
'I don't think so.'
'It's a possibility, though?'
'No.'
'Pity. Cause if that were the case,' he said, 'then we could resolve this situation fairly easily. You don't want Erica to lose her job, do you?'
'She struck a superior officer. Not much I can do about that.'
'She's apologised. Dutton's accepted. We'll find a way back for her.'
'And Dutton gets off the hook for wasting police time?'
'With a warning,' my uncle said. 'The threat of demotion. And if he fucks with you again, I'll punch him myself.'
'Okay.' I nodded. 'That seems fair.'
'Super.'
'Is that it?' I asked.
'Just one more thing. It's your Aunt Sarah's birthday next week. Any idea what I could get the old bag?' He stretched, winced. 'Nothing too expensive.'
13
That evening, I was at the kitchen table with Holly, topping up her glass of expensive French white. We were having a late dinner, which I'd cooked. When I say 'cooked', the truth is I'd stuck two packets of pre-prepared chicken tikka in the oven and boiled some extra rice. Tasted pretty good, anyway. The boys had eaten earlier with their friends and were out playing football.
Holly and I had the house to ourselves for a while.
I'd just finished telling her about Bruce Wilson and his crazy mum. About Dutton. About how he'd made me feel. I'd hoped Holly might be sympathetic.
But she just gave me a blank stare. Hazel eyes. Caramel skin, which the boys had inherited from her. My family all tanned. I burned.
She took a sip of her wine, licked her lips.
I was sticking with beer. Wine and curry didn't work for me.
Holly said, 'Is Erica going to lose her job?'
The reason I hadn't worked a case with Erica for a while was because we had some history between us. Me, Erica and Holly, that is. The three of us had slept together. First time was when Holly suggested a threesome one drunken night, and Erica said okay, it'd be a giggle. No need to ask what I said. But I can't say I'd enjoyed it much. It wasn't much fun being ignored.
Those two were right into it, though.
Second time, they slept together without me. Didn't ask or let me know.
I don't think Holly would have said anything about it if she hadn't got drunk and angry one night. She gave me more details than I needed. I'd never said anything to Erica but I could tell that she knew I knew. Holly must have told her.
Sex had never been the same between me and Holly since. In fact, these days we hardly slept together. And when we did, half the time she fell asleep part-way through. The other half of the time, I did.
'You like to go to bed with her again?' I said.
'Oh, for crying out loud.' She leaned her head back, her eyes squeezed shut.
