The Long Legs Of The Law

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`Not guilty.’ There were several audible gasps around the court as the foreman of the jury read out the verdict — but few quite as unmistakably outraged as that uttered by the arresting officer in the case, Detective Constable Maggie Fordham.
Maggie had been far more than just the arresting officer, though. She had built the case up from scratch over the course of six months; interviewing witnesses; painstakingly gathering evidence; working endless unpaid overtime to bring this scumbag to justice — only to watch the case crumble before her very eyes.
`Ronald Anthony Vernon,’ announced Judge Hargreaves, ‘You have been found not guilty of the charges brought against you.’ There was clear reluctance in his voice as he added, ‘Therefore, you are free to go.’ Maggie Fordham literally shook with fury as Vernon looked in her direction, a smug grin on his face, and blew her a kiss. She glared back at him with such burning hatred that if looks truly could kill she herself would have been up before the judge charged with murder.
Instead, Vernon’s slimy barrister, Maurice Matthews, put an arm around his client’s shoulders and led him out of the courtroom. ‘I’ll get you yet, you son of a bitch,’ muttered Maggie under her breath to Vernon’s back as he disappeared from view.
As she walked across the courtroom heading for the exit, the prosecuting counsel, whose incompetence Maggie blamed very much for Vernon being acquitted, gave her a lame smile and a weary shrug. Maggie just glowered back at him. He turned bright red and suddenly found something terribly interesting in the contents of his briefcase.
Maggie, her voluptuous figure and long, shapely legs accentuated by the tight fitting light grey business suit, strode along the corridor outside court number two and down the steps to the entrance hall; the four inch heels of her stylish black patent leather court shoes clacking noisily on the wooden floor.
She leapt into her dark blue Peugeot, reversed out of the parking space so swiftly that she almost mowed down an elderly couple walking through the car park, and sped out on to the main road. Honking her horn aggressively at anyone who got in her way, Maggie headed back to the station, turning over in her mind the events of the last six months.
Ronnie Vernon is what is referred to as a petty thief, albeit a rather prolific one. Maggie hated that term. His crimes may be petty in the eyes of the law but to some old dear who has just had the necklace that her late husband bought her back in 1955 stolen by some worthless scrote, the perpetrator is anything but petty.
It was more than just righteous indignation that was making Maggie’s blood boil. If she had got a result today then her promotion to Detective Sergeant would have been a sure thing. The deputy commissioner himself had taken a keen interest in the case. He was eager to see Vernon’s one man crime wave curtailed once and for all. His larceny was playing havoc with the area’s crime figures.
Now what? Maggie knew she wouldn’t be put back in uniform. But, equally, she also knew there would be no point in putting herself forward for promotion again until at least next year. Yes, that bastard Vernon has got a lot to answer for, she mused as she screeched to a halt outside the rear of the police station.
Maggie Fordham always wanted to be a policewoman. Even as a child, while her friends were happily playing with their dollies and teddy bears, Maggie’s favourite toy was the plastic handcuffs, truncheon and whistle that her parents had bought for her one Christmas.
It was when she was fourteen, though, that the notion of becoming a police officer took a step away from fantasy and towards reality — as Maggie made a citizen’s arrest.
A week before, she had been flashed by a middle-aged man while she had been riding her bike through the park. At the time, Maggie had been too embarrassed to mention the incident to anyone. But when she saw this very same man calmly walking through the town centre it made her see red.
She followed him into Marks & Spencers before suddenly leaping on him from behind and knocking him to the ground. After battering him in an angry frenzy she convinced a couple of nervous looking shop assistants to fetch the store’s security guards. They in turn called the police. It turned out that this man had exposed himself to plenty of other girls and Maggie was delighted to read in the local paper a few months later how the filthy old pervert had been sent down for five years. Served him right!
What it didn’t mention in the newspaper was the fact that have-a-go heroine, Maggie Fordham, 14, had left the miscreant with two black eyes, a broken nose, three cracked ribs and in need of fourteen stitches. Maggie was very proud of this. She was even prouder when she herself got her picture in the paper — receiving a citation for her bravery. So when the school’s careers officer came round the following term, Maggie was the one member of her class who knew precisely what she wanted to do when she left school.
She took and passed the right exams and at the age of eighteen found herself enrolled at the country’s top police training college, Hendon. Maggie loved being there and knew she had made the right choice. But it was more than just a career choice she made.
simply did it because it was the done thing.
plain stupid. It was while she was at Hendon, though, that she began to find herself drawn more and more to her own sex. She had always pre- ferred the company of other girls but this was something different.
netball – but she loved being in the changing rooms afterwards even more. She found the sight of all those fit young women unselfcon- She reluctantly went out on a few dates, none of which she enjoyed. She
attractive it was inevitable that she should find herself in great demand.
But she found boys uncouth, unpleasant, irretrievably dull and just Maggie had never really cared much for boys. Being so exceedingly
Maggie loved every aspect of physical exercise — track, cross country, netball – but she loved being in the changing rooms afterwards even more. She found the sight of all those fit young women unselfconsciously wandering about in the nude terribly exciting.
However, one afternoon, as she surreptitiously watched her fellow trainees going about their business in a state of undress, she noticed that the PT instructor, Sergeant Jane Bowles, was watching her watching them.
Initially embarrassed at being caught out, Maggie noticed there was no look of remonstration in the older woman’s eyes.
Far from it. Something passed between Maggie and Jane as they stared at each other. Some unspoken signal.
Maggie deliberately took her time getting undressed and by the time she stepped into the communal showers she was all alone. Everyone else had already left… except for Sergeant Bowles.
As the water cascaded down over Maggie’s body she heard a noise behind her and slowly glanced over her shoulder. Jane was standing there with her hands on her hips looking directly at her young pupil.
The expression of sheer, unadulterated lust on Jane’s face made Maggie’s heart skip a beat. Maggie turned away for a moment, trying to calm herself down. Panic washed over her. Is this what she really wanted? Would she find out that her interest in girls went no further than window shopping?
She looked back over her shoulder again. Maggie watched in breathless fascination as Jane calmly removed the whistle that hung around her neck and casually draped it on a hook on the wall beside her.
Never taking her dark, hungry eyes off Maggie for a second, Jane unzipped her tracksuit top and deposited it on the same hook. Jane gasped with a delicious mixture of desire and trepidation as Jane pulled her blue tee-shirt off over her head exposing a perfectly flat stomach and a pair of small but pert breasts clad in a white sports bra, their erect nipples straining against the tight material.
Jane sat down on a nearby bench and removed her trainers, her gaze never leaving Maggie’s voluptuous body.
Getting to her feet again, Jane removed the elastic band that had been holding her hair in a severe ponytail.
As Jane’s lustrous brown hair fell over her shoulders, Maggie felt like she was going to swoon.
When Jane hooked her fingers inside the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms and began pulling them down to reveal a pair of skimpy white panties it was too much for Maggie.
She turned back and looked unseeing at the lemon tiled wall, her heart pounding madly, breathless with exquisite anticipation.
She stood like this for about thirty seconds before she felt the gentle but electrifying touch of Jane’s hands on her hips.
Jane turned Maggie round to face her.
Jane explored Maggie’s beautiful face for a few moments before her gaze came to rest on Maggie’s sensuous mouth.
Without exchanging a word, Jane crushed her lips against Maggie’s, pushing her tongue deep into the trembling girl’s mouth.
The next thirty minutes under the hot spray, their bodies slippery with lather, entwined and writhing in ecstasy, was the greatest experience of Maggie’s life.
At last everything had fallen into place.
She was a lesbian and a policewoman — and equally proud of both.
Knowing that, if discovered, their illicit relationship could harm their respective careers, such is the straight laced attitude of those in power within the police force, Maggie and Jane kept their lesbian affair a secret, meeting only when and where they could be assured of complete privacy.
It was a purely physical relationship which, although she thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it, left Maggie feeling emotionally unfulfilled.
She didn’t just want to have sex with other women — she wanted to be in love too.
Maggie passed out of Hendon with flying colours and was assigned to a police station in Ipswich.
Admittedly, Ipswich wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity but it provided her with a good grounding in the everyday reality of police work.
Within a year she had been transferred to a considerably busier station on the outskirts of Manchester.
She was really enjoying her job but still dissatisfied with her romantic relationships.
She had a succession of brief flings, predominantly with her fellow officers; often one night stands with women who were at heart heterosexual but who were also tempted to taste forbidden fruits with so beautiful a young woman.
Ironically, Maggie found true love in the arms of a law breaker rather than a law maker.
Always eager to gain more experience, Maggie volunteered to go on a night-time raid with the vice squad.
“Cleopatra’s” was a massage parlour in one of the seedier parts of town.
Everyone knew what really went on there but the police generally turned a blind eye, thinking, quite rightly, that there were other considerably more important uses for their resources and manpower.
However, once every six months or so, the premises were raided to keep the local council happy.
To Maggie’s amusement, who should she find inflagrante with a young lady in one of the exotically decorated bedrooms, but a leading member of that very council.
As he was inevitably spirited out of the back door to be let off Scot free (surprise, surprise) Maggie took the girl into custody. Back at the station as she was being booked in, Maggie couldn’t help but notice how pretty Lisa (for that was her name) was, with her tousled short blonde hair and petite figure.
Later, as Maggie was passing the girl’s cell, she heard a faint moaning coming from inside. Worried that she might be ill, Maggie opened the slot in the iron door used for checking up on the prisoners and looked inside.
Her eyes widened as she took in the sight before her. Lisa was sitting on the edge of the low bunk, her hand between her splayed legs, openly masturbating. Thinking that she hadn’t been noticed by the girl, Maggie surreptitiously watched her languidly sliding two fingers in and out of her moist, clean shaven vagina.
Maggie found the erotic display so arousing that she was sorely tempted to do likewise. Suddenly Lisa looked up and straight into Maggie’s eyes through the slot. ‘See anything you like, officer?’ the girl asked with a cheeky grin.
`You little tart,’ said Maggie crossly, taking the set of keys chained to the belt on her skirt and opening the door.
As she stood framed in the doorway, her eyes blazing, Lisa giggled, `You’re beautiful when you’re angry, you know.’
Maggie stood there for a moment before closing the door again.
When, two minutes later, she opened the door for a second time, she stepped into the cell.
Maggie took a pair of thin rubber surgical gloves from her pocket, the kind that are used when dealing with forensic evidence, and began pulling them on.
With a final snap she flexed her fingers in their skin tight covering and said to the girl, `I’m going to give you a full cavity search.
And believe me, young lady, it’s going to be very, very thorough indeed.’ So saying, she shut the door firmly behind her.
Twenty minutes later the door opened again and Maggie stepped out of the cell, peeling off her gloves, tucking her blouse back inside the waistband of her skirt and with a satisfied smile on her face.
Behind her, also smiling, Lisa lay full stretch on the bunk, her skirt rucked up around her waist, her blouse open, her panties lying on the floor and her lipstick smeared.
The following day, thanks to a word in the right ear from Maggie, Lisa was let off with just a caution.
That evening Maggie and Lisa met up for a drink.
A week later Lisa moved into Maggie’s flat, where she still lives — three years later.
Lisa now works in a local art gallery but hasn’t entirely given up on her previous profession.
But now it’s on her own terms and she keeps all the profits for herself and her lover. The most important change is that all of her clients are women.
Maggie was a little sceptical initially, not believing there would be enough demand to make this a going concern but to her surprise Lisa is kept very busy three nights a week, usually with women in their forties and fifties.
Rich ladies she meets in the gallery are her biggest customers. Unbeknownst to them, their sexual antics are secretly captured on a hidden video camera. Not for blackmail, purposes but for Maggie and Lisa to watch together as a particularly stimulating form of foreplay.
Seeing other women having sex with her girlfriend doesn’t make Maggie jealous — she knows that they may own her body for an hour but only she owns Lisa’s heart. Maggie is intrigued by how similar to men’s some women’s erotic fantasies are.
Many of her clients love Lisa to wear a school uniform (even though she’s now 22) and then proceed to act out a scenario where they adopt the role of a strict headmistress disciplining a wayward pupil.
Even stranger, to Maggie’s way of thinking, is the way that quite a few women like to pretend that they are either Lisa’s aunt, or sometimes even her mother, and seduce her into an incestuous relationship with them.
Whilst she keeps this aspect of her life a strict secret, Maggie has always been upfront about the fact that she’s a lesbian. This doesn’t always keep the wolves at bay, of course. There’s never any shortage of men who want to persuade that she’s really bisexual or who stupidly believe that they can cure her of her Sapphic leanings. What this kind of attention gives Maggie is a golden opportunity to indulge in one of her favourite pastimes — hurting men. She really enjoys leading them on, letting the poor saps think they actually stand a chance with her — before cruelly dashing their hopes.
It’s not just their hearts she likes to break as many a male villain has found to his cost. Looking on Maggie as a mere woman they foolishly drop their guard in a manner they would never dream of doing with one of her male counterparts.
They smile smugly at her as if she can’t possibly be taken seriously; a woman trying to do a man’s job. Maggie relishes that moment when their smiles fade as she extends her baton and cracks it across their shins or drives her knee up into their groins.
Maggie’s methods may be a little unorthodox but they get the job done. One night, for instance, she was on patrol when she saw a teenage hooligan vandalising a phone booth.
When he saw her he set off at a fast pace, undoubtedly expecting to easily outpace her.
But her long legs, athletic physique and daily workouts in the gym meant that she soon caught up with the miscreant.
Extending a leg she tripped him up as he dashed down a darkened alley.
Maggie looked down at the figure sprawled on his back, his eyes filled with fear. He only looked to be about fifteen.
She knew damned well that if she took him in he would be let off with just a warning and be up to no good again the following night. Espying a lump of fresh dog muck a few feet away, Maggie went over and deliberately stepped in it.
Walking back to the boy she lifted her foot and smeared the canine excrement all over his face. She then threatened him with her baton until he licked the remainder of the filth from the sole of her regulation issue shoes.
Leaving him lying on the floor being violently sick, Maggie walked off back to the high street cheerfully whistling the theme from “Z-Cars”. The boy never reported her and, to the best of her knowledge, never re-offended.
Maggie often used her understanding of the male psychology to get away with murder. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) She knew that no man would have the balls to admit that he had been beaten up by a woman. Pathetic macho pride always got the better of them.
Through hard work and determination Maggie was promoted to the CID and became a Detective Constable. Her next goal was Detective Sergeant.
To help her achieve this she put everything she had got into apprehending a slimy little maggot called Ronnie Vernon.
He was as crooked as the day was long. Everybody knew he was a thief responsible for a spate of burglaries going back several years but nobody had ever gathered enough evidence against him.
So Maggie went after Vernon with a vengeance and after six months of back breaking work she believed she had him banged to rights. She took the risk of bypassing the chain of command and presented her findings direct to Detective Inspector Grant, her boss’ boss.
Under pressure from the Deputy Commissioner he too wanted Vernon behind bars and gave Maggie the go ahead to pick him up. It was an easy arrest, Vernon being no tough guy. But he became abusive in the car on the way back to the station.
`You’ve got a great set of legs on you, copper,’ he chuckled from the back seat. When Maggie didn’t react and just kept her eyes on the road he continued to goad her. ‘You know where those legs of yours would look really good?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘Wrapped around my back!’ He burst into fits of laughter, obviously considering himself to be God’s gift to comedy.
Neither Maggie nor DS Sally Harcourt shared his opinion and sat there looking out through the windscreen stony faced.
If Maggie had been on her own and Vernon hadn’t been so important to furthering her career she would have pulled up in a deserted side street, dragged him out of the car and given him a good kicking.
It had taken a mountain of paperwork to finally get the wretch into court and Maggie truly believed that nothing could go wrong.
But through a mixture of laziness and incompetence the prosecuting counsel let Vernon’s barrister run rings around him and convince the jury that his client was the victim of police harassment.
With these thoughts turning over and over in her head Maggie walked into the station to face the music.
The good wishes and commiserations of her colleagues simply made her feel worse and her interview with DI Grant was a grim affair.
`Better luck next time,’ he said as she left his office.
He could have been alluding to the possibility of going after Vernon again — but she knew in her heart that what he was really referring to was her now doomed application for the position of DS.
Her boss had gone home for the day so Maggie sneaked into his office and poured herself a plastic coffee cup full of scotch from the bottle that he keeps in the bottom left hand drawer of his desk.
She slumped wearily in his chair, sipped the dark liquid, enjoying its bite and soothing warmth and thought about Ronnie Vernon. He thought he had got one over on Maggie Fordham. Well he could think again! As she lay awake in bed that night with Lisa sleeping soundly beside her, Maggie concocted a plan to both put Vernon where he belonged and also, hopefully, to reawaken the chance of her being promoted to the rank of DS. Not to mention the added bonus of making Ronnie suffer into the bargain. Yes, thought Maggie with a smile as she closed her eyes, it was definitely time for a little payback.
Tracking him down was a cinch. Ronnie Vernon is a creature of habit and, after studying him for six months, Maggie knew those habits like the back of her hand. Sure enough, there he was on the other side of the U-shaped bar in the crowded backstreet pub, The Star & Garter.
This was a regular watering hole of Ronnie’s and Maggie had had no problem tracking him down here. It was a fortnight since the trial. Maggie had waited until now to put her plan into action so as to lull the idiot into a state of false security. Letting him think that he’d got away with making a fool of her.
Maggie was virtually unrecognisable in baggy jogging pants, baseball cap, hooded sweatshirt, black leather gloves and tinted spectacles. She watched as Ronnie downed his third pint. Any minute now, she thought. Sure enough, Ronnie made some jocular comment to the landlord and disappeared out through the wooden door beside the fruit machine.
Maggie had cased this joint very carefully beforehand and knew that
door led to the somewhat less than salubrious ladies and gents toilets. Going unnoticed and possibly even being mistaken for a man (something that has never happened to her before) in her nondescript masculine outfit, Maggie followed Ronnie out through the door thirty seconds later. She looked up and down the dingy corridor before stepping through the door marked “Gents”. Maggie wrinkled her nose at the stench that assaulted her nostrils. God, men are pigs! She thought with disgust. She tiptoed in and peeked around the corner of the wall. Three grotty, graffiti scrawled cubicles stood with their doors open. To the left of them were three far from pristine urinals. Vernon was standing with his back to her at the centre one. The distinctive sound of urine tinkling against porcelain reminded Maggie that she wanted to go to the loo herself. But that would have to wait.
Praying that they wouldn’t be disturbed, she went and stood in front of the urinal to Vernon’s left. Vernon barely noticed her presence, assuming she was just another customer relieving himself.
After making a show of pretending to fumble with imaginary flies in her jogging bottoms, Maggie reached into her pocket and took out the nasty little surprise package that she had in store for her unwitting victim.
It was an American “Tazer” gun, delivering a non lethal but nevertheless powerful charge of electricity when pressed against someone’s skin. It was illegal to own one in the UK but Maggie had commandeered this one several months earlier in a raid on a drug dealers house and had held onto it for just such an occasion as this.
Glancing over her shoulder to double check that the coast was clear, Maggie gripped the gun tightly in her gloved hand and sidled towards Vernon. “Ere, what’s your game?’ he asked indignantly. ‘A ball game,’ replied Maggie huskily, hoping that he wouldn’t recognise her voice. So saying, she switched on the device, listening with satisfaction to its high pitched, crackling hum, and rammed it straight into Vernon’s exposed testicles.
Even Maggie was shocked by Vernon’s reaction. Not as shocked as Vernon himself was, of course. He bucked wildly and flew backwards through the air, the back of his skull connecting with an audible clonk to a washbasin before he collapsed in a heap on the filthy tiled floor.
Maggie ran to him, checked his pulse and raised an eyelid. He was fine. Just unconscious. She looked at the back of his head. The impact hadn’t drawn blood. He would just have one hell of a headache when he woke up.
She knew that time was of the essence and, hooking her hands under his armpits, she dragged Vernon across the floor to the door. She opened it and looked out tentatively. There was still no one about, thank goodness.
Propping the door open with a waste bin, she hauled Vernon to his feet and half walked, half dragged him out of the toilet and over to the rear exit of the building. Knowing that the door wasn’t alarmed she raised her foot and kicked down on the bar that opened it with the sole of her shoe.
The door flung wide open and Maggie dragged Vernon over to the battered Ford that she had parked there when she arrived. Looking up and down the dimly lit street to make sure she wasn’t being observed, she propped Vernon against the rear wing and opened the boot.
With a final effort she roughly manhandled him into the boot and slammed the lid down. Running round to the unlocked driver’s door, she clambered in behind the wheel, shoved one of over fifty car keys on a large steel ring into the ignition, started the engine and sped off.
Reaching the main road she dropped her speed down below the limit and headed east. The last thing she wanted was to get stopped by the police. After all, she could have some difficulty explaining both Vernon’s presence in the boot and also the fact that she was driving a stolen car.
Maggie hadn’t stolen it but she had taken the call from a member of the public who had reported it being abandoned by the cretinous joyriders who had. Fifteen minutes later she arrived at a deserted row of dilapidated lockup garages.
Leaving the motor running, she got out, opened the door of the end garage, reversed her own Peugeot out and drove the Ford in. Closing the garage door and switching on a naked sixty watt lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, she opened the boot and looked inside.
Ronnie Vernon was dead to the world but very much alive. Maggie had drilled half a dozen small holes in the lid of the boot to make sure he could breathe. She didn’t want to kill him — she just wanted to make him wish that he had never been born.
With some difficulty she stripped him naked and stuffed his clothes into a black plastic bin liner. He wouldn’t be going anywhere without those.
She was just about to close the lid when her bladder reminded her once again that she was desperate to go to the toilet. A wicked smile spread across Maggie’s beautiful face. She clambered into the boot, carefully placed her Nike clad feet either side of Vernon’s head, slid down her jogging bottoms and panties, squatted down just above his face… and peed all over him.
An hour later as she straddled Lisa and nuzzled her neck with a giggle, Lisa said cheerfully, ‘You’re in a good mood tonight, darling.’ If everything goes to plan I’ll be in an even better one this time tomorrow, thought Maggie.
The following day Maggie was off duty. When Lisa’s alarm clock went off at seven the two women sleepily made love to each other, as always, before Maggie rolled over and went back to sleep while Lisa got ready for work.
It was nearly eleven o’ clock before Maggie pulled up outside the lockup in her blue Peugeot. There was no one in sight and she opened the door of the garage with its peeling green paint and rusty hinges and stepped inside.
The moment she did so, Vernon started banging on the lid of the boot. Maggie smiled at the thought of Ronnie waking up in the dark, enclosed space, drenched in piss and wondering what on earth was going on.
Maggie ignored the hammering and muffled swearing coming from the boot, got in the car and reversed out of the garage. It was nearly an hour before she came to a halt in a field miles from anywhere. She had chosen the location carefully in advance. She didn’t want anyone coming along and spoiling her fun.
She stepped out of the car and, ignoring Vernon’s pounding and cursing, stripped off her jeans and tee-shirt. Opening the back door she took out the holdall she had packed earlier that morning and began getting dressed.
When she was finished, Maggie stood and, with some difficulty, admired herself in the wing mirror. She looked stunning. She was dressed in a skin tight black rubber corset that really showed off her devastating cleavage, matching panties, slinky shoulder length gloves, a studded leather choker and a sensational pair of calf length black leather boots with spiked silver heels.
She wasn’t wearing this for Vernon’s benefit, obviously. On the contrary, knowing from studying his psychological profile what a pathetic little mummy’s boy he was, for all his macho bravado, and that he had never had a steady girlfriend, Maggie was convinced that this provocative outfit would probably make him feel very intimidated and ill at ease — which is exactly what she wanted.
Maggie unlocked the boot, deposited the ring of keys on the back seat and opened the lid. “Ello, `ello, `ello,’ she giggled mischievously, `what’s all this then?’ Ronnie, blinking like a mole in the sunlight, finally recognised his captor.
`What the fuck…?’ he stammered. Without a moment’s hesitation, Maggie clenched her fist and punched Ronnie square in the face. ‘Watch your mouth, boy!’ she shouted before punching him again.
‘If nothing else this afternoon, you’re going to learn some manners.’
As he lay there dazed and groaning, Maggie grabbed hold of him and began dragging him out of the boot.
The stench of stale urine was nauseating and she smiled maliciously at the thought of him being shut up inside there for such a long time.
She let him fall to the floor and stepped back.
He groggily sat down facing her, his back propped against the rear bumper, his legs splayed in the coarse grass. He looked up at her. ‘You’re… you’re a copper. You can’t do this to me!’ he stammered indignantly.
`Really?’ enquired Maggie with a mocking smile and an arched eyebrow. ‘And who exactly is going to stop me?’ she sneered before drawing back her foot and kicking Ronnie as hard as she could between his legs.
He screamed in absolute agony as the hard, pointed toecap of her right boot crashed into his testicles.
‘That slimy lawyer of yours isn’t here to protect you now, Vernon!’ she snapped angrily.
As Ronnie lay on his side clutching his aching balls and gasping in pain like a fish out of water, Maggie went around to the side of the car and picked up a long, slender riding whip from the back seat. It was a souvenir confiscated during a raid on a brothel.
A plump black lady had been lashing the protruding rump of a skinny little white man lying face down on a red silk sheeted bed. He must have been seventy if he was a day. Maggie had never used it on anyone herself — but that was all about to change.
Maggie pulled the distraught Ronnie to his feet and dragged him stumbling away from the car. She wanted plenty of space in which to show him the error of his ways. She threw him to the ground and stood over him bending the whip menacingly between her gloved hands. `You’ve been a very naughty boy, Ronnie,’ she said coldly. ‘The courts failed to deal with you properly.’ She paused. ‘Believe me, I won’t make that same mistake,’ she added ominously.
`Have you any idea of the misery and suffering you have caused to innocent people?’ she asked crossly.
`Do you ever think about the devastation that you inflict on people’s lives?’ She shook her head. ‘Of course not. You’re just a greedy, lazy parasite who hasn’t got the guts to go out and earn an honest living like the rest of us.’
Ronnie gulped and blinked up at her. He was very frightened and didn’t like the tone of her voice one little bit. ‘How about Eileen Walters? Did you give her a second thought when you broke into her house and stole her purse?’ Maggie snarled.
Ronnie’s mind raced? Who the hell was Eileen Walters? As if reading his thoughts Maggie said tersely, ‘Eileen Walters was an 82 year old lady living in Marston Crescent. Now do you remember her?’
The penny dropped. ‘But I only nicked fifty quid?’ he blurted, ignoring the fact that he had just confessed to a crime in front of a police officer. ‘It was all she owned, you selfish bastard!’ yelled Maggie furiously. `That was all she had to feed herself on and pay her bills!’ she added.
Maggie seemed to ponder something for a moment. `So you think fifty is a small amount do you?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘On your feet, boy!’ she suddenly roared, making Ronnie jump. Without waiting for him to obey her, Maggie hauled him up into a standing position.
`Bend over,’ she snapped aggressively. Without a moments hesitation she sharply kicked his shin. ‘Now do it!’ she shouted. Trembling with fear, Ronnie leant forward slightly. Maggie placed her gloved hand on his back and roughly bent him over fully.
She stepped round behind him and raised the whip above her head.
`I’m going to give you fifty lashes, boy,’ she said coolly. ‘But that shouldn’t worry you, Ronnie,’ she sneered. ‘I mean, its only fifty. And as you’ve said, fifty is really such a small amount… isn’t it?’
Without waiting for his reply, Maggie cracked the whip across his pale buttocks. She was very impressed with the results. Not only did he howl like a banshee; a livid red welt instantly painted itself across his pasty white skin.
`One down, just a teensy little forty-nine to go,’ jeered Maggie as she brought the whip down across his backside again. It took Maggie a good twenty minutes to deliver the fifty blows. Or was it sixty? She neither knew nor cared. She was having far too much fun to be bothered with such trivial details.
Ronnie was shaking and sobbing like a baby — much to Maggie’s delight. She reckoned on him being a wimp but she didn’t realise he’d be this spineless. ‘Now apologise,’ she snapped. ‘What?’ he replied. `”What” doesn’t count as an apology in my books, boy,’ she snarled. `Say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Walters.”‘ He gulped and licked his dry, cracked lips. ‘I’m… I’m sorry, Mrs. Walters,’ he said quietly.
`Not good enough!’ shouted Maggie angrily. She lashed the whip across the small of his back making him yelp. ‘Say it again,’ she snapped. ‘Louder this time. And you’re going to keep on saying it until instantly on his guard.
Where was she going with this, he wondered nervously. ‘Well, you certainly seemed to like them,’ she continued. ‘In fact, I recall you making some not at all gentlemanly comments about my legs when I arrested you. Do you remember?’
Ronnie was getting more and more worried as she went on. ‘They are gorgeous, though,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m always being complimented on them. They’re so long, too. Wouldn’t you agree, Ronnie?’
Ronnie didn’t know whether he should say anything. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ronnie,’ she said far too politely, ‘you obviously can’t see them clearly enough from there to make an informed decision. Here, let me give you a better view.’ So saying Maggie calmly stepped onto his chest.
`Is that better?’ enquired Maggie lightly as Ronnie struggled to draw breath with her full weight pressing down on him. ‘You’re… you’re squashing me,’ he gasped. ‘Well, isn’t that what your supposed to do with an insect?’ Maggie asked. ‘Step on it and crush it?’
She shifted her weight making him grimace in pain. ‘I bet you wished you’d kept your stupid, sexist mouth shut?’ she jeered coldly. ‘I’m… s… s… sorry,’ he stammered through clenched teeth. `I’m sorry, what?’ she snapped fiercely. She stamped her foot down on his chest. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ she said angrily. ‘Say it!’ Ronnie could barely fill his lungs with her weight on him but he managed to whisper, `I’m sorry, Ma’am.’
`So you should be!’ she roared furiously.
‘You cost me my promotion!’ she shouted angrily as she began trampling up and down on his chest, her spiked heels flaying off his skin with every step.
`I was really looking forward to being called Ma’am by all the junior officers,’ she said tersely, her feet pounding up and down on him mercilessly. ‘But you went and spoiled it!’ she yelled. Maggie didn’t speak again for the next five minutes — she let her high heeled boots do the talking.
By the time she stepped off Ronnie’s chest it was red raw. Maggie strode back to the car, tossed the whip onto the back seat and swapped it for a stiff black riding crop — which she had also confiscated from the coloured dominatrix.
Maggie turned and saw that Ronnie was trying to escape. He cut a pathetic figure, stumbling across the field with nowhere to run to. Nevertheless, Maggie was incensed and she took off after him, her eyes blazing with fury.
It took her all of thirty seconds to catch up with him and effortlessly wrestle him to the ground. Shaking with rage she wrapped her legs tightly around his throat and began choking the life out of him whilst viciously cracking the crop down on his face.
`Bad boy!’ she scolded angrily. ‘Bad, bad boy!’ When she finally regained her composure Maggie untangled her legs from around his neck and stood up, glaring down at him. Ronnie’s face was almost purple – as much from the beating as the lack of oxygen.
Maggie’s anger was far from sated, though, and she set about teaching Ronnie a particularly painful lesson by repeatedly gouging his cock and balls with the rock hard heel of her boot. Ronnie’s screams were so piercing that startled birds fluttered from their perches and nests in nearby trees.
When she had finished torturing him she knew that she had broken him. It was time to get down to business. Maggie sat down on Ronnie’s stomach and rested her feet on his heaving chest. She let him get his breath back as she fanned herself with her hand.
She pressed her heel into his throat and looked straight into his eyes. `Do you want this to happen again, Ronnie?’ she asked him calmly. ‘Oh God, no,’ he whimpered, ‘Please, I… I beg you…’
Maggie leant forward and slapped him very hard across the face. ‘Then shut up and listen,’ she snapped unkindly. ‘The only way you’re going to be safe from me is in prison. Right?’ Ronnie nodded eagerly. Anything was better than this.
`Good,’ said Maggie. ‘I know you’re guilty of far more offences than the ones I charged you with so here’s what you’re going to do…’ Three months later both Detective Constable Maggie Fordham and Ronald Anthony Vernon were back in court number two. Ronnie had given a lengthy sworn statement admitting to a long list of crimes. Even more than Maggie had imagined.
The clerk of the court had just spent the better part of ten minutes reading them out. ‘How do you plead?’ he asked the defendant as he stood there in the dock flanked by two uniformed officers.
Ronnie looked up at Maggie in the gallery.
She surreptitiously blew him a mocking kiss. He bit his lip, gulped and, hanging his head, said the word Maggie had been longing to hear. ‘Guilty,’ he muttered.
The deputy commissioner leant over from the bench behind Maggie. `Congratulations,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘Detective Sergeant Fordham.’ Maggie took it and beamed with pride.