Yes, Constable
Dale, I’ve seen the footage. And yes, I certainly can understand why the
detective alerted you. Definitely on the ball, there.
But there’s a
perfectly good justification for what you’ve seen. It just might take time to
explain. All the time in the world? Right. I’ll try my best…
Every family has its stories. Funny, tragic, weird.
For example, my grandma’s neighbours, the Dobbs, met twenty-odd
years ago when they got stuck in one of those see-through lifts in a
shopping-centre. He has no head for heights. She’s claustrophobic. But they
were practically engaged by the time they were rescued.
And my best mate Emma and her siblings were all born,
several years apart, in the first week of August. People speculate on how their
parents celebrate Bonfire Night.
What? Yes, I do think it’s relevant, Constable. I’m
scene-setting.
My family anecdotes, though, tend not to have happy endings.
For example, way back, my dad’s dad had a £50,000 win on something called the
Football Pools. The cheque came as a total surprise. My grandma was at the
bus-stop across the road, so he rushed over to tell her, and was killed by a
Number 9.
And when my Aunty Jo won a crystal decanter at a fete, she
tripped on the way out, crashing to the ground and landing on her prize. She
bled loads and the scar is huge.
So we never place bets, do the lottery or buy scratch cards.
We don’t Guess The Weight Of The Cake. If someone runs a raffle, we may donate,
but we refuse the ticket. It’s safer that way.
Yes, Constable.
Idiosyncratic maybe, but then you haven’t seen my aunty’s scar. Where was I?
So: I often shop for my gran, and sometimes her friend Sue
who, ever since a phantom pineapple mysteriously added itself to our bill,
likes to ‘check receipts properly.’ If I’d been paying attention, maybe I’d
have noticed the coupon attached to my receipt. But evidently I wasn’t. The
woman in front of me at the check-out, though, turning to make sure she’d
packed everything, squealed: “|Oooh look, you’ve got a ‘Pop-Me-In!’ coupon,”
plucked it from my hand, and ‘popped it in’ to a cardboard pretend computer
thingy by the door. Which shook and pushed out (I think it’s faulty) several
red tickets.
“There you go, dear – that’ll be nice, won’t it?” she said,
puzzlingly, dropping them into my carrier, and headed off. The person queueing
behind me coughed meaningfully, so I took my shopping and left.
I forgot all about the tickets until I was sorting stuff
(me, Gran, Sue) on my kitchen table. I gave a squawk when found them. They were
supermarket vouchers worth £15, £25 and £50.
Now you can see the problem, can’t you, Constable? Can’t
you? Well…
These vouchers were of course, indisputably, “winnings.” And
as established earlier, my family doesn’t ‘do’ winnings. They bring Bad Things.
I groaned, grabbed Gran’s and Sue’s bags and headed off.
Clutching the three blood-red rectangular omens…
What? Yes, Constable
Dale. I am getting to the point. Actually, I just had an idea. I happen to know
that Sue would absolutely love to meet a real policeman! Maybe you’d like to
interview her? You’ll see? OK. Where was I?
Well, quite logically, my grandma and I – given the family
history, which I have been at pains to explain – felt that there should be no
tempting fate. We couldn’t use the vouchers for Personal Gain.
And Sue decided that, out of loyalty, she would align
herself with us – after all, Gran’s her best friend – and that therefore, she
too would decline to use any of the vouchers.
This left us with the problem of what to do with the blessed
things. But the answer to that came to us all simultaneously, I think. The
vouchers should go to ‘deserving shoppers,’ as defined by yours truly, Anna
Blake. Designated Shopper.
Aha. I think you are on my wavelength now, Constable
Dale? No?
So I was charged – ha, ha – on my next trip, conveniently
close to Christmas, with what I and my, um, accomplices have christened
‘Shop-Gifting.’ I limbered up by slipping the £15 voucher into the bag of an
old lady who’d only bought yellow sticker stuff. I did that near the bus-stop;
maybe the CCTV doesn’t pick things up beyond the car-park? Anyway, the cashiers
will know if the woman with the purple coat and the white hat with those
ear-flap things has used a voucher. Or maybe just looked a bit happier of
recent…
I think I can tell
what you are going to say, but I’ll just finish, if I may.
Now, your CCTV footage there shows Mission 2: the £25
‘drop’, so to speak. The voucher is squeezed between my fingers as I flip it
into the man’s carrier. I expect it is zoom-in-on-able? I did have to drop my
brolly so he’d bend down to retrieve it. That’s a technique Gran and Sue hit
upon; I must say it worked a treat. Good job they’re on the right side of the
law.
Pardon? Yes, I realise
you’ll have to check this out. But since it’s perfectly verifiable, I have no
worries. Well, save the obvious one…
What? Well, the
blindingly obvious fact that I have not yet carried out The Biggie! The £50
voucher ‘drop’.
Actually, it occurs to
me, Constable Dale, that were you able to accompany me on my final mission, you
would constitute the perfect distraction. If you were to engage the young mum
I’ve nominated (two little girls, she has, and such a tired smile) in
conversation, I’m sure I could Do The Deed and slide that £50 voucher in her
bag easy as pie!
You would?!
A condition? What
condition?
Oh. Well. Now you
mention it, a glass of something to celebrate a final act of shop-gifting would
not seem inappropriate. OK – it’s a date!
Good news! Our family luck may just be changing…
About the author
Sara Knapp was born in Manchester (UK). A
sometime translator and teacher, she has always loved reading and listening to
stories of all genres. She has published non-fiction, short stories in Yours Fiction and more recently in
sci-fi anthology AI, Robot (JayHenge
Publishing KB).