Pop Goes the Weasel (12 page)

The house was an empty shell. A bare, functional space that like most rented properties never received much love. Jason Robins, sitting alone at the IKEA dinner table, felt much the same way. His ex, Samantha, had taken their daughter, Emily, to Disneyland for two weeks – with new man Sean in tow. And though he tried to block it out – by focusing on work, watching football, looking up old mates – in reality he thought about it all the time. The three of them having fun – eating candyfloss, screaming on the rollercoasters, snuggling up at bedtime after a busy day’s fun – fun from which he was utterly excluded. He had never called the shots in his marriage and now that it was over he was still on the back foot. He had put all his energies into bringing up Emily and providing Samantha with everything she needed, so much so that he had neglected his mates and family. When Samantha admitted her affair and ended the marriage, he had no one to fall back on, no one genuine at least. People looked sympathetic and asked a few questions, but their hearts weren’t in it. He could tell no one blamed Samantha for her choice. Jason wasn’t much to look at and was hardly scintillating conversation, but even so he had worked bloody hard to
make Samantha happy. And what was his reward? A lonely flat and a custody battle.

Jason scraped the remains of his ready meal into the bin and walked into what the letting agent called the study, but he called a cupboard. There was barely room to swing a cat in here, but it was his favourite room in the house – the only room that didn’t seem empty. He liked its warm embrace and he settled down into his chair, firing up his computer.

He looked at the BBC News site, then the sport, then checked Facebook. A quick glance, then he shut it down – he didn’t want to see pictures of other people’s happy lives. He checked his email – spam, spam and another lawyer’s bill. He exhaled, bored. He should go to bed really. He debated whether he could face an early night when he knew he wouldn’t sleep, but it was a false debate. He had no intention of going to bed. Opening Safari, he clicked on his bookmarks. Dozens of online porn sites presented themselves. Once they had been exciting, now they were just familiar.

He sat at his desk, bored and disconsolate. Time ticked by slowly, taunting him. God, it was only 11 p.m. Another nine hours at least before he could turn up at work. The night stretched out in front of him, a long blank vista.

He paused, then typed ‘Escorts’ into the search engine. Immediately lots of flash ads popped up in the margins, asking him if he wanted to meet girls in Southampton. He hesitated, weirded out that they knew where he lived, then
started to flick through them. They were all thinly disguised invitations to prostitution – girls pretending to be in search of company, but actually touting for business. Should he? He had never done anything like this and if he was honest he was scared to get involved. What if someone found out?

He flicked through more, his arousal growing. He had the money. So why not? If he got a disease he could get it fixed – it wasn’t like there was anyone else to pass it on to now. Why shouldn’t he do something exciting for a change?

His heart was beating faster now, scenarios playing out in his mind. He scanned escort sites, forums, video clips – there was a whole world out there, waiting to be explored. Why not take control? Use his money to get people to do what he wanted for a change. Where would be the harm?

Picking up his wallet, Jason left the room, turning off the light as he went. The night was calling to him and this time he wouldn’t resist.

He gripped the bullwhip firmly and let fly. It bit into her back with a satisfying snap. Her shoulders arched then slumped, but she didn’t make a sound. Whatever pain she was feeling she swallowed it down. Raising her shoulders again, she braced herself for more, throwing down a challenge to her dominator. Jake obliged, cracking the whip again. Still she made no sound.

It was now a couple of months since they’d renewed their relationship. Unquestionably it was different this time – he knew so much more about her and, though he never pried, he tacitly encouraged her to confide further in him by telling her
his
life story. He had shared as much as he was comfortable with – no one else knew that his parents were still alive but refused to talk to him – and yet he received so little in return. He understood that this was her safe space and he would never compromise that, but he wanted to move their relationship on. He had feelings for her – there was no point denying it. This should have prompted him to call time on their arrangement – any professional dominator worth his salt would do so – but he’d tried that before and it hadn’t worked.

It wasn’t love. At least he didn’t think it was. But it was
more than he had felt for anyone in a long time. When you’ve been so unloved, such a cast-off in life, you keep your feelings firmly locked down. Since hitting puberty Jake had had many relationships – they had been with men and women, young and old, but one thing had remained constant. His desire to be free. Now, however, he found himself less and less interested in playing the field. Monogamy had never been his thing, but now he could see the attraction. It was crazy really, given that he and Helen had never even come close to having sex, but then that wasn’t what it was really about. There was something about her that he wanted to protect, to save. If she would only let him.

She had been virtually monosyllabic tonight. It felt like a depressing step back to the early days of their acquaintanceship. Something had happened to upset her – Jake was debating whether or not to say something when, out of the blue, she suddenly said:

‘Do you ever feel cursed?’

It was such an unexpected question that Jake was at first speechless. Then, going too far the other way, he blathered ineffectually, trying to reassure her and at the same time probe without being intrusive. She didn’t respond.

He crossed the room and took her hand in his. He was talking all the while, but Helen stared straight ahead, hardly registering his presence. Eventually, she looked down, seemingly noticing for the first time that he had
taken her hand in his. She looked at him, not unkindly, then withdrew it.

She crossed the room, dressed, then headed for the door. Pausing, she whispered:

‘Thank you.’

And then she was gone. Jake was offended, bemused and worried. What the hell was going on with her? And why did she feel cursed?

There was so much left unsaid, so much bottled up inside her, and Jake was desperate to help her if he could. He was certain she didn’t have anyone else to talk to. But in spite of his desperation, he knew he couldn’t push it. He was powerless in this relationship and could make none of the running. He would have to wait for Helen to come to him.

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.’