Heather's Busy Week Pt. 04

Heather played off the men's tees as a matter of principle. Her best-ever score was sixty-nine (appropriately enough!). She wasn't inclined to brag, however. Eleanor's local course might be a much more testing one than hers and in any case, why pee in her stew?

'So I was steadily improving,' Eleanor said. Four or five rounds a week, always preceded by the gym and the practice ground. The twins had come up here and work couldn't be going more swimmingly. Then, on a sunny Sunday morning, I caught up with a mixed four-ball. As I had no status playing on my own, I was glad to be waved through. I was even gladder when my second shot landed on the green. It was only then, glowing with pride, that I recognized the two women. I'm going to call them "C" and "D". I knew them from the days when I used to play mixed four-balls with Guy.'

Eleanor chuckled. 'C obviously recognized me as well. Like a good, no-status golfer I was trying to hurry on through, but she wouldn't let me. She prattled on about Ladies' Morning . . . Tuesdays and Thursdays . . . and said they needed someone like me to make up their four. In the end I agreed, just to escape. But I turned up on Tuesday, as promised. After two buckets of balls, as my warm up. The other member of the four . . . "L" . . . was a stranger as far as I was concerned. She was very friendly though. The four of us hit it off and chatted all the way round. Agreeing to do it again on Thursday was a rubber stamp exercise. And it was even easier to agree the same again for the next week. By then I knew the other three were all single, amenable to a mixed foursome and its potential aftermath, but not interested in lasting relationships. "Men are okay in very small doses," C told me. "But I couldn't possibly live with one again. I value my freedom too much."

'Just so you know, we varied our Ladies' Morning four-balls by picking straws. And we were quite evenly matched, whatever the pairings happened to be. I think it was D who suggested we bet on the outcomes. A fiver each, to begin with. A fiver was next to nothing, of course, but the thought of having to hand it over was a great motivator. We stuck with that for months and months. Then, one Thursday morning, L turned up with ants in her pants. She wanted to raise the stakes. A fiver wasn't exciting enough. C suggested twenty and I agreed, wanting to keep the peace. But D wasn't having it. If L had ants in her pants, D must have had wasps.'

Eleanor laughed. 'We were standing on the first tee and, thankfully, there was nobody else around, because their exchange got heated. Eventually C stepped between them, straws in hand, suggesting we sorted the pairings, then agreed the stakes. So we drew and I got to partner L. "You and me for twenty quid," C said to me. 'Is twenty all right or would you prefer to stick at a fiver?" I said twenty was okay, noticing that D and L were conferring just out of earshot. They weren't exactly smiling but at least they weren't coming to blows. Some sort of agreement seemed to have been made.

'That round wasn't a happy one. I played reasonable golf but L struggled on just about every hole. We lost 2&1 and did well to drag it out as long as that. Our tradition was to settle up on the last green then head for the bar. So, when we'd all putted out, I handed C her winnings. D and L just nodded to each other. Still anxious to keep the peace, I said nothing. C got the first round and I intended to get the second, because we always had at least two drinks, taking our time over them. Not on that day, though. D and L bolted theirs down, made excuses and left. I was gutted, thinking our four-ball had just disintegrated. C said not to worry. According to her, D and L had an on-and-off thing going and, as the loser, L now no doubt owed D some sexual favour, repayable that very afternoon. That made me laugh. I asked C if the favour would be a fiver's worth or the full twenty. She laughed along with me and said I didn't seem too shocked. And an hour later we were in her bed.'

'Wow!' said Heather. 'Nifty footwork!'

'We've been lovers for six or seven years,' said Eleanor. 'Mostly on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. We were meeting up today for an out-of-the-ordinary Sunday lunch. I was half-dressed when Alex rang.'

'So the lovely lingerie was for C, not me?'

'I cannot tell a lie, Heather. Yes it was.'

'In that case I'm glad I usurped her.' Heather had already deduced "C" was "Claudia". Not that she'd burn Alex as a source. Instead she ran her hand down Eleanor's thigh. 'Are you actually being unfaithful right now?'

'No. We're allowed others. Boys and girls.'

'How often do you do boys?'

'I haven't yet. C keeps suggesting I make up a mixed foursome. I keep making excuses.'

'And girls?'

'Every now and then.'

'What about L and D?'

'We had a threesome. While C was on holiday last summer.'

'Oh really.' Heather was still stroking Eleanor's thigh.' 'Was that a golfing threesome, or . . .'

'Both. L insisted I joined them. We were coming down the fourteenth when she invited me and I simply had to say yes. And I'm glad I did. Having two women making love to me at once . . . it was marvellous.'

'Was that it? One afternoon of fun?'

'That was the Tuesday of C's holiday. D had something on for Thursday, so I went home with L. And it's happened again since. More than once.'

'You're refreshing adventurous, Eleanor. And you definitely seem to prefer girls.'

'I suppose I always have done, deep down.'

'Good, because you've got a girlie treat in store.'

'I thought it was my turn to do the business.'

'Shush and enjoy.' Heather moved into position and licked Eleanor's stocking tops, her tongue grazing bare flesh. 'I love the feel of legs in nylon,' she said. 'Against my cheek. Even better, I love them wrapped around my back.' Very slowly, she drew her tongue all the way down the length of Eleanor's leg. 'You have pretty feet.'

'Heather . . .'

Not listening to claims about ticklishness . . . not prepared to listen to them . . . Heather used both hands on her captive foot.

'Oh, Heather!' It was a sigh, not a complaint.

Heather ran the flat of her tongue over Eleanor's sole, doing it again and again and again. There was a slight aftertaste of shoe leather but nothing likely to deter her. Hearing the moans and groans was motivation enough. Satisfied she'd fulfilled that particular quota, she went for her toes, cramming them all into her mouth and sucking on them.

'Oh, Heather!'

Starting with the little one, Heather attempted to suck each toe in turn. Being stockinged, that wasn't so easy. The big toe was more accessible, though. She could almost fellate a big toe, moving the nylon over it like a synthetic foreskin. Eleanor's other leg got the same treatment. So did her foot and toes. She gasped something about "cumming" before nearly juddering off the bed. Heather's adrenalin was flowing freely by then. There was no way was she about to ease off. Not to any degree. She pulled Eleanor's legs together and lifted, bringing both feet close to her face so she could lick, nibble and suck at them one after the other.

'Oh, oh Heather . . .'

'Shush and enjoy. We've miles to go yet.'

CHAPTER NINE

(Monday, 22nd April 2002)

Unlike The Boomtown Rats, Heather didn't mind Mondays. She had one lecture, sandwiched between two tutorials, the first at ten o'clock, the last finishing at three. In her opinion that was a civilized start to the week. Nothing too strenuous for students or tutors. Everything nice and low-key.

Today was much as always. After a trip home to collect some books she made her opening tutorial with a couple of minutes to spare, getting there long before the tutor who, not for the first time, rolled in late. While they waited one of Heather's course-mates grinned at her.

'Well, well, well,' he said, 'you look radiant this morning, Heather. What have you been up to all weekend? Healthy things?'

Heather grinned back at him. She didn't do course-mates. Not as a rule, anyway. There had been exceptions, naturally, but this wasn't one of them. Not yet. 'Bryn,' she said, 'I've been up to all sorts of healthy things. You wouldn't believe me if I told you about them.'

'A likely story,' Ruth, the girl on Heather's right put in. 'You'll have been diving into rugby baths again.'

Heather rolled her eyes and left it at that. By and large her course-mates had been supportive when the rugby story broke. It still got mentioned, however, and she'd long since decided not to comment. Who was it who said, "Never apologize and never explain"? The Iron Duke or the Iron Lady? Maybe Churchill? They'd been right, whoever it was.

"Radiant" might be pushing it, but Heather did feel remarkably well after three nights without a lot of sleep. She was looking good too, mostly because Eleanor had insisted on doing her hair for her that morning. It had been quite strange, sitting in front of the mirror, watching the older woman blow-dry, comb and brush. The experience hadn't been sexual . . . not exactly . . . but it was definitely nothing as simple as maternal. Whatever it was, she'd done a great job.

Eleanor had pulled off a great con trick as well, come to that. After breakfast for two arrived she'd come clean. While checking in she had told the girl on reception that she'd brought along an "extra guest" for "one night only". That hadn't made waves. She'd just been charged a nominal fee and asked her preference for morning newspapers. The receptionist had no idea that the extra guest thought she was an interloper. Or that Eleanor was happy to let her to spend the night in fear of being nabbed.

Getting even with Eleanor was, therefore, a priority. Heather just wasn't sure how to go about it. In fact she wasn't sure if they would ever get it together again. She'd had to decline dinner tonight, blaming her overworked social diary. Tuesday night had been mentioned and was still a possibility. But there were complications to overcome.

Lunch came early for Heather on a Monday. Sticking to time-honoured practice, she went to the Union Bar and bought a pint of Marston's and a baguette, stuffed with cheese and tomato. The bar was quiet and wouldn't start to boom until just after midday. Finding a table at eleven thirty was a doddle. Halfway through her baguette she dug out her phone and checked all the missed calls. One from Eleanor, two from Rita. She rang Eleanor first.

'I'm at the hospital,' said the by-now familiar voice. 'Back in the same waiting room.'

'Are you free to talk?'

'Yes. Alex is in with Carrie. She's awake and rational. Best of all, she's agreed to the clinic.'

'That's great news. Did she put up much of a fight?'

'No, not at all.'

'What did she say about her finals?'

'That she knows she's going to fail and she's grateful for me funding another year. I haven't known her be so obliging since she started her secondary school. It's almost too good to be true.'

'She's had a big shock.'

'Yes, and she'll have another one if she thinks I'm going home before she's locked up in that clinic.'

Next, Heather rang Rita, who was dining in the refectory.

'Alex is keeping me posted about Carrie,' she said. 'How did you get on with his mum?'

'Rita . . .'

'No, come on Hev. Alex rang her dozens of times last night, wanting to share his woes. Her phone was off and so was yours. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce what you were up to.'

'If you've deduced so much, why bother asking?'

'Because I get off on juicy details. Always have done.'

Heather resisted the urge to kiss and tell and bought another Marston's. The bar was filling up by now. She spotted Bryn over by a quiz machine and wondered whether to go chat him up. Then she remembered the state of her diary and decided against it. Music suddenly blared as someone fed the juke box. Since You've Been Gone by Rainbow. She felt yet another stab of sadness. The juke box in the Union Bar was, to say the least, eclectic. It featured all sorts of golden oldies, many of them recorded before she had been born. It had Black Sabbath, Deep Purple . . . countless punk rock bands including lots of Ramones and just about everything the Pistols ever recorded. More modern, poppy stuff . . . Sugababes, Atomic Kitten . . . didn't get a look in. There even seemed to be a 1980s cut-off date for Michael Jackson. Juke boxes like this weren't ten-a-penny. Certainly not in Kettlewell.

The academic afternoon went smoothly enough. Heather checked missed calls again as she went out onto the campus. Only one this time, from a number she'd didn't recognize. She was interrupted before she could dial and check it out.

'Oh so you do sometimes switch on.'

Heather groaned. It was DC Stuffypants, there in person, obviously waiting for her. 'What are you doing here?' she said, tetchily.

'Looking for you.'

'What for? And how did you find me, anyway?'

'I'm a detective. We need to talk to you again.'

Heather checked for snoops. Stuffypants was in very casual plainclothes and could pass for a mature student. If she went along with her, nobody would think anything of it. Surely that was more sensible than telling her to go multiply and causing a scene.

'Okay. Where do you want to talk?'

'Back at the station. My car's over there.'

They walked to the nearest car park where, to Heather's disappointment, Stuffypants hadn't been clamped. Which was lucky for her. The university car parks were run by an outside firm, notorious for clamping first, asking questions later. Or not at all.

'I'd advise getting a ticket next time. Unmarked car and all.'

Stuffypants gave Heather a withering glance. 'They wouldn't dare.'

'Oh yes they would.'

They climbed inside the vehicle.

'Seatbelt, Miss Hunter.'

Heather belted up. 'I don't suppose you're going to tell me what this is all about?'

'I already told you. We need to talk to you again.'

'But what about?'

'You'll find out at the station.'

'I don't believe you.' Heather shook her head. 'Were you born old?'

'What?'

'You act like a forty-year-old.'

'I'm twenty-six.'

'Maybe in body, but not up here.' Heather tapped her own forehead. 'I bet you've never done anything impulsive in your life.'

'Like sleeping with complete strangers, you mean?'

'That isn't a crime, is it? Or has the law recently changed?'

Stuffypants started the engine. 'I'm sure I could find something to charge you with.'

'Have you got handcuffs? You could take me in like a desperado.'

The policewoman's mouth twitched in her faintest of smiles. 'You'd only enjoy it.'

'Yes, I certainly would.' Heather dropped the injured innocent act and grinned. 'Why aren't you ever in uniform, anyway?'

'I'm CID. We don't do uniforms.'

'That's a shame. You'd look good in one.'

They drove to the cop shop in silence, parking in a slot at the rear and going in the back way. An officer with three stripes on his arm looked at them suspiciously.

'Not a desperado,' Stuffypants said to him. 'Fazza wants a quiet word with her.'

The officer raised his eyebrows but didn't immediately comment. Then he narrowed his eyes. 'I never forget a face,' he said. 'It's Heather . . . Heather Hunter! Solving Fazakerley's crimes for him now, are you?'

'Fazza?' Heather said as the two females went along a corridor.

'We're not supposed to call him that. Forget I said it.'

'Fazza!' Heather chuckled. 'DC Parker, there's hope for you yet.'

It might have been the same interview room as last time, but it was hard to tell. It smelt of the same stale sweat and pee, anyhow. Heather took a seat while Stuffypants stared at her.

'What did Brian mean?' the policewoman finally demanded.

'Brian?'

'On the desk back there. About solving the DI's crimes?'

Heather shrugged. 'I did a witness statement here for something else, once upon a time. On the side of law and order, of course.'

Sensing she wasn't going to get anything more, Stuffypants offered Heather a hot drink. She chose coffee, over-optimistically thinking it couldn't be worse than the tea. Fazakerley arrived before the refreshments and today he didn't seem so amiable.

'Miss Hunter,' he grated, 'I didn't expect to see you again so soon.'

'I could say the same to you.' Heather tried a tentative smile.

'Are you deliberately gate-crashing my investigation? The very investigation I co-incidentally want out of.'

'I'm not gate-crashing anything. I was minding my own business, walking home from uni, and DC Stuff . . .' Heather broke off abruptly.

'DC Stuff?'

Heather blushed. 'She's so straight-laced,' she mumbled. 'Takes everything so seriously.'

'Using my incredible powers of deduction, I believe you think of her as "DC Stuffypants". Or maybe "Stuffydrawers". Fazakerley surprised Heather with a grin. 'Which is it?'

'Stuffypants.'

'Very well, let's move on before she shows up.' The DI cleared his throat. 'When I mentioned gate-crashing I meant yesterday, not today. I got an internal call saying you thought I should know about Carrie Hart's overdose.'

'I did. I still do.'

'So, in twenty-four hours, you went from knowing absolutely nothing about Carrie's habit to dobbing her in?'

'No, I . . .'

The door opened and Stuffypants came into the room, dishing out hot drinks before taking a seat. To her dismay, Heather noticed the police officers had both opted for tea.

'Everything I told you on Saturday was true,' she resumed. 'I honestly didn't know Carrie did drugs. That changed on Sunday, when it became obvious she does.'

'Why did you visit her in hospital?' Stuffypants demanded. 'I thought you'd fallen out.'

'I spent the night with Alex again. He rang me when he found her. I went to support him, I suppose.'

'And who exactly is Rita?'

Heather sighed. She wasn't capable of fibbing anymore. 'She's Alex's girlfriend.'

'So,' Stuffypants continued, 'you spent the night with Alex and his girlfriend.'

'Yes. Friday and Saturday night, before you ask.'

'It's not in your statement, but you implied you had sexual relations with Alex Hart on Friday.'

'I did. We slept three in a bed.'

Stuffypants' face was a picture. If Heather hadn't been so worried she would have laughed. 'I didn't tell an untruth,' she said. 'I just left Rita out. She didn't have anything to do with Ross on Friday. She never even spoke to him, so why should I involve her?'

'Because we wanted full names and addresses from everyone who was there?' Stuffypants suggested caustically.

Fazakerley spoke up again. 'A source at the hospital says you are Carrie's girlfriend.'

'They're wrong. Eleanor . . . Mrs Hart, Carrie's mother . . . told the doctor that so I could stay for the medical update. She said that Rita is Alex's fiancée for the same reason.'

There were more questions, a lot of them repetitive. Stuffypants gave the impression that she wanted to go on forever, but at last Fazakerley had heard enough.

'Okay,' he said, 'I accept you were trying to help us and Carrie yesterday. I accept you omitted Rita from your initial version of events to protect her reputation. I also accept you didn't know Carrie closely enough to be aware of her habit.'

'Thank you,' said Heather.

Fazakerley nodded acknowledgement but didn't smile. 'You'll have noticed,' he went on, 'that this conversation hasn't been recorded in any way at all. Tell me you stand by your statement in respect to Ross Walker.'

'I do. In every respect.'

'You'll swear to that under oath, when the time comes?'

'I will.'

'Is there anything you need to add to it?'

'Not unless you insist.'

'Very well. You're free to go. Just don't butt in again.'

Heather checked her watch. Yippee, it was rush hour.

'I'll run you home if you like.'

Fazakerley stopped, halfway out of the door. 'What's this, Parker? Are you moonlighting as a taxi driver?'