Pop Goes the Weasel

34

Lady Macbeth lived in a huge detached house on the outskirts of Upper Shirley, much to her neighbours’ chagrin. They were all accountants and lawyers, Sandra McEwan was not. She made thousands of pounds a year selling drugs and sex. Southampton was the nerve centre of her business and she directed operations from her ritzy residence. Sandra was from Fife originally, but had run away from her foster home aged only fourteen. She was walking the streets before the year was out, working her way down the country before ending up on the south coast, where she was pimped by a fellow Scot – Malcolm Childs. She became his lover, later his wife, and then according to underworld legend suffocated him during an S &M session. His body was never found and she seamlessly took up the reins of his empire, killing or maiming anyone who tried to take it from her. She had walked free from court a dozen times, had survived three attempts on her life and now lived the high life on the south coast. It was a far cry from Fife.

Her maid protested vigorously – it was only 7 a.m. – but Charlie had a warrant for Sandra’s arrest and wasn’t inclined to hang around, in case the lady in question did a bunk. Security cameras covered every inch of her property and it was likely Sandra would see them coming. Fortunately on this occasion she was fast asleep, as Charlie discovered when she opened the doors to Sandra’s opulent bedroom.

Her lover – a muscular, athletic man – leapt out of bed the instant the door opened. He was intent on confronting Charlie, but paused when he saw her warrant card.

‘Cool it, boy. It’s all right.’

Sandra’s lover was a former boxer, whom she kept by her side at all times. He almost never spoke – Sandra liked to do that for him.

‘Climb back in. I can handle this.’

‘Sandra McEwan, I have a warrant here -’

‘Slow down, DC Brooks. It is DC Brooks, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Charlie replied tightly.

‘I recognize your picture from the papers. How you faring these days? Better, I hope.’

‘Everything’s rosy in my world, Sandra, so cut the crap and get up, will you?’

She handed her a robe. Sandra regarded her.

‘How long you been back, DC Brooks?’

‘I’m losing my patience.’

‘Tell me how long and I’ll get up.’

Charlie paused, then said:

‘Two days.’

‘Two days,’ Sandra repeated, letting the words hang in the air. She hauled her generous frame out of the kingsize bed, refusing the robe that Charlie offered her. She made no attempt to hide her nakedness.

‘Two days and you’re keen to make a name for y’self. Prove all those women-hating doubters wrong, eh?’

Charlie eyeballed her, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Sandra’s comments.

‘Well, I admire that, Charlie, I do. But don’t fucking do it on my time, eh?’

The bonhomie had disappeared now. Sandra’s snarl was unmistakable.

‘Unless you want my lawyers up your pretty backside night and day for the next week, I’d turn around and scurry back to Ceri Harddick, right?’

Sandra was close now, her naked body inches from Charlie’s smart suit. But Charlie didn’t blink, refusing to be intimidated.

‘You’re coming to the station, Sandra. Small matter of a double murder that we need your help with. So what’s it going to be? You going to walk out like a lady or be dragged out in cuffs?’

‘You don’t learn, do you? You lot never learn.’

Cursing like a Grenadier, Sandra stalked off to source some clothes from her walk-in wardrobe. In Sandra’s case crime certainly did pay, as she proved now, subjecting Charlie to an absurd pantomime which involved her choosing then discarding a number of designer outfits by Prada, Stella McCartney and Diane von Furstenberg… before settling on Armani jeans and a jumper.

‘Ready?’ Charlie said, trying not to show her irritation.

‘Ready,’ replied Sandra, her wide smile revealing two gold teeth. ‘Let the games begin.’