M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

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.’

‘Why wasn’t I told about this?’

‘Mind your tone, Helen.’

‘Why wasn’t I told about this, Ma’am?’

Helen’s sarcasm was poorly disguised, her anger overcoming any restraint. Harwood rose and gently closed her office door, shutting out her eavesdropping secretary.

‘You weren’t told,’ Harwood continued, ‘because you weren’t here. McEwan is adept at disappearing, so we had to move quickly. I asked DC Brooks to bring her in and told her that I would explain the situation to you. Which I’m doing now.’

Harwood’s reasonable explanation did nothing to improve Helen’s mood. Was she justified in being so furious at being kept out of the loop or was she just pissed off because it was Charlie? If she was honest, she couldn’t really tell.

‘I understand that, Ma’am, but if there is information relating to the Alan Matthews murder, then I should be the first to know.’

‘You’re right, Helen, and it’s my fault. If you want to blame somebody, blame me.’

Which of course Helen couldn’t do, leaving her not a leg to stand on. But she tried one last time nevertheless:

‘McEwan may be involved in the Louszko killing, but I can’t see her connection to Matthews’ murder.’

‘We have to keep an open mind, Helen. You said yourself that his killing could be part of a turf war. Perhaps he was the collateral damage. Charlie’s turned up something genuinely interesting and I’d like us to investigate it fully.’

‘It doesn’t feel right. This is too elaborate, too personal. It has all the hallmarks of an individual who -’

‘An individual who has intelligence, ambition and imagination. Someone who’s happy to kill without qualm or conscience and who is adept at misleading the police. I’d say that’s Sandra McEwan to a T, wouldn’t you?’

There was no point fighting it any more so Helen conceded the point and departed for the interview room. Charlie was waiting for her and opposite her, flanked by her lawyer, was Lady Macbeth.

‘Lovely to see you, Inspector.’ Sandra McEwan’s grin spread from ear to ear. ‘How’s business?’

‘I might ask you the same question, Sandra.’

‘Never better. Still, you’re looking well. Don’t tell me you’ve got a man on the go?’

Helen ignored the taunt.

‘DC Brooks is investigating the murder of Alexia Louszko. She worked for you at Brookmire, I believe, under the alias of Agneska Suriav.’

Sandra didn’t deny it, so Helen continued.

‘She was murdered, mutilated and dumped in the open boot of an abandoned car. Her murder was meant to send out a message. Perhaps you could translate it for us?’

‘I’d love to help you, but I barely knew the girl. I’d only seen her a handful of times.’

‘She worked for you, you must have vetted her personally, spoken to her…’

‘I own the freehold of the building which houses Brookmire. I couldn’t say who runs the business.’

Her lawyer didn’t say a word. He was just window dressing really. Sandra knew exactly how she wanted to play things.

‘You plucked her off the street,’ said Charlie, keeping up the pressure. ‘Trained her, polished her. But the Campbells took exception, didn’t they? They abducted her. Killed her. Then put her back on the streets where she belonged.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Your girl. They took her from under your nose and killed her. How did the rest of your girls feel about that? I bet they were shitting themselves.’

Sandra said nothing.

‘You knew you had to do something,’ Charlie continued. ‘So why not kill two birds with one stone? Tell me about your properties on the Empress Road.’

Finally a reaction. It was small but it was there. Sandra hadn’t been expecting that.

‘I don’t have any…’

‘Let me show you this, Sandra,’ Charlie went on. ‘It’s a list of holding companies that have financial relationships with each other. Let’s cut the chat and acknowledge that they are all owned by you. This one’ – Charlie pointed out a company name – ‘purchased a row of six derelict houses on the Empress Road nearly two years ago. Why did you buy them, Sandra?’

There was a long pause and then the tiniest of nods from her lawyer.

‘To redevelop them.’

‘Why would you want to? They are rotten, derelict, and it’s hardly a neighbourhood that’s ripe for gentrification.’

‘You don’t want to do them up,’ interrupted Helen, suddenly getting it. ‘You want to knock them down.’

The tiniest flicker from Sandra. The closest thing they would get to an acknowledgement that they were on the right lines.

‘Nobody wants the properties in the red-light district – they are used by prostitutes on a nightly basis. But if you bought them, knocked them down and then neglected to rebuild them, what would the girls do? Risk their lives getting into punters’ cars every night or look elsewhere for employment? Somewhere safer. Somewhere like Brookmire. I bet if we do some more searching we’ll find a lot of property has changed hands on the Empress Road recently. Am I right?’

A hardness was entering Sandra’s eyes now. Charlie pressed home the advantage.

‘But what if you wanted to go a step further? The Campbells had struck at you, tried to unsettle your workforce. What if you decided to raise the stakes? You could have killed one of their girls in return, but far more imaginative to kill a punter or two. The press coverage alone would drive the Campbells’ clients away in droves. I have to hand it to you, Sandra, it’s a smart play.’

Sandra smiled and said nothing.

‘Did you single out Alan Matthews? Or was he selected at random?’

‘My client has no idea what you’re talking about and categorically denies involvement in any acts of violence.’

‘Perhaps then she could tell me where she was between the hours of nine p.m. and three a.m. on the twenty-eighth of November,’ Charlie butted in, determined to keep up the pressure.

Sandra looked long and hard at Charlie, then said:

‘I was at an exhibition.’

‘Where?’ barked Charlie.

‘In a converted warehouse just off Sidney Street. Local artist, a living installation where the punters are part of the art and all that stuff. It’s all bollocks of course, but people say the artist’s going to be worth something, so I thought I’d take a look. And here’s the funny bit. I’m no good with technology but the boy knows his stuff and he tells me the whole thing was streamed live on the internet. You can’t fake that kind of thing – you’re welcome to check it out. And if you still have doubts, you can confirm my alibi with some of the other guests who were present. The CEO of Southampton City Council was there, as was the Arts editor from BBC South – oh, and I nearly forgot… the President of the Association of Chief Police Officers too. What’s his name – Anderson? Buck-toothed guy who insists on wearing that awful wig – you can’t mistake him.’