Bye Bye Baby

12

My uncle, Detective Inspector James Fleck, was crouching in the corner of his office like a large duck. His hair was straight and as white as his shirt and slightly too long at the front.

"Come on in and shut the door," he said.

I was expecting a bollocking for not stopping Erica belting Dutton. She'd been sent home. It was hard to present striking a superior officer in a good light. No matter how much the superior officer was asking for it.

"Your back still no better?" I asked.

"Come over here." My uncle bared his teeth against the pain.

I walked past his desk in too much of a hurry, bumping it, making a photo of my Aunt Sarah wobble.

"Whoops." I caught it before it fell. I put it back alongside a photo of my uncle's boat. Lucky I hadn't knocked that photo off or there would have been big trouble. He'd had to sell the boat a few years back and Aunt Sarah had said the fuss he'd made, you'd think he'd been forced to sell one of his children.

"Never mind that," he said. "Take one of your shoes off."

He had strange notions sometimes. Although he hid it well. Still, almost everybody was scared of him. Even his superiors. And they thought I would be too. Which is why they moved me here."Come on, sunshine," he said. "I'm not asking you to flap your cock in my face. Just take a fucking shoe off."

I bent down, unlaced my shoe. Slipped it off. I stood there, feeling unbalanced.

"Good." My uncle waddled in a tight circle so he was facing the opposite way. "Now place the sole of your foot in the small of my back."

I raised a bent leg and let my foot rest on his shirt. "There?"

"Just a bit higher."

I moved my foot up a bit. Slipped for a moment. Then steadied myself.

"Super." My uncle stretched his arms out behind him. "Now grab my wrists."

I took hold of his wrists.

"Lean back and pull."

I said, "I don't know about that."

"Shitebags. Just fucking do it."

"Okay." I puffed my cheeks out. Then leaned back and tugged.

He yelled. He kept yelling.

I kept pulling as I leaned back. "Want me to stop?" I shouted over the noise he was making.

"No, keep doing it."

"You sure?"

"You fucking deaf?"

I had a good mind to let go. Watch him spring forward and headbutt the wall. But I didn't.

"That's better," he said after a while.

I relaxed my grip slightly.

"No, no, no," he said. "Keep the tension up."

I dug my heel into his back.

"Ah," he said. "That's good. Yes. Keep it there. Fuck, yeah."

"This is becoming a little too sexual for my liking."

"Very funny," he said.

"You getting any proper treatment for this?" He'd had a bad back for as long as I could remember. Although it came and went.

"I'm seeing a specialist tomorrow. Another one. Costing me a fortune."

"Any closer to knowing what's wrong?"

"They won't tell me," he said. "That's the way they like it, of course. More cash for them while they 'find out'. Let's try this treatment. Oh, it's not that. Then let's try this instead. Oh, dear. Not that either. Well, let's see… Meanwhile, I'm so skint I can't afford to put a few quid on the horses any more."

"You'll find a way."

"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."