Welcome, patient readers, to part three of four, in which Sandra gets desperate, and some patently O.O.C. shenanigans ensue. Relax, it's all in good fun. Also, I had the whole bet planned out before Gerry suddenly fell in love with all things French, so keep that in mind. This is taking place in spring 2011, pre-cooking lessons; assume our favourite Cockney is still francophobic.

Chapter Three: Playing Dirty

Sandra was feeling quite cheerful, as evidenced by her tuneless humming of something that could've been meant as anything from the Stones to Coldplay, as she slid behind the wheel of her freshly detailed, sparklingly clean car and gave the dashboard an affectionate pat. "Lookin' good, baby," she complimented the machine. She might ridicule Gerry's exaggerated affection for that old relic he drove, but she, too, was quite fond of her car, especially when it was squeaky clean and envy-inducingly gorgeous, the April sun was shining despite a sharp nip in the air, and Jack had just taken her for a Chinese before dropping her at the mechanic's.

She fitted the key into the ignition and automatically reached down to cradle the gear shift, glancing over toward the passenger seat as she did so. Her gaze was arrested by the blinding glare of the sunlight off something metallic.

Frowning slightly, Sandra picked up the plain, unlabeled CD that had magically appeared next to the cup holder and slid it into the CD player. Maybe one of the employees at the garage had fancied a bit of musical accompaniment whilst he or she was working inside the car.

She jerked back against the leather upholstery when "Baker Street" flooded through the interior at ear-splitting volume. Instinctively she reached out and wrenched the control down to zero. Jesus suffering Christ, the sodding song was stalking her.

Sandra stabbed the eject button with one manicured fingernail and yanked the offending CD from the changer to inspect it. It was still just a plain burned CD, with no helpful title like "World's Worst Pop Songs (Mix)" or "Gerry Wuz Here, Volume I."

Gerry. Sandra's eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. The two Gerry's, Rafferty and Standing, had both sullied the interior of her precious car within the past few weeks. Coupled with the Rafferty-related fiasco that had been the police gala, to suggest that this was a coincidence beggared belief.

Behind her an irritated motorist leaned on his horn. Sandra was blocking the exit. Ignoring him, she jerked the key from the ignition and stormed back inside the body shop.

"Excuse me," she demanded of the startled bloke just inside. "Where did you find this CD?" She presented said item with a disgusted flourish.

"CD?" he repeated blankly.

"It was in my car." Sandra jerked her thumb over her shoulder, where the silver convertible was clearly visible beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, as was the other driver, who was having a come-apart. "That one."

"Oh. Uh. Oh, yeah, I did yours mesel'. It was wedged under the passenger seat, like. Toward the back."

Toward the back, was it? How… illuminating. "Thank you," Sandra said grimly, sounding anything but thankful, and stalked out of the shop as abruptly as she had entered.

Outside she was greeted by a stream of invective from Mr. Jaguar, ending in a threat to call the police unless Sandra removed her car that very instant. She whipped her warrant card from her bag, smacked it against the man's windscreen, and challenged, "Then call them, dickhead," which wasn't the most effective way of resolving the conflict, but her day had just taken a dramatic turn for the worse.

There was only one way that CD could have ended up in Sandra's car. Oh, sure, there were loads of possibilities, but only one was actually plausible: Gerry had left it there after the police gala.

Which meant he'd been as hypnotised as she had been during that awards ceremony. The prick had planned the whole disaster, orchestrated it from soup to nuts, and blamed Frank. The double-dealing, slimy, cretinous, polyester-wearing little Cockney shit.

She'd murder him.

She'd drive right over to his flat and make him eat his sodding Gerry Rafferty CD.

Sandra was so enraged that not until she was only a few blocks from Gerry's did an exponentially more horrific thought, one that had her pulling over and pressing her shaking palms together, occur to her. If Gerry had faked being hypnotised this time, who was to say he hadn't faked it the first time round as well?

Prickly heat raced down her spine, and for an alarming fifteen seconds Sandra thought she was going to be violently ill right there in her freshly cleaned and serviced car. Not only had Gerry set the disastrous chain of events at the gala into motion, but he'd suggested their bet as well. Sandra's mind raced. If he'd never been hypnotised at the Magic Circle, he must have suspected that visiting a hypnotist for medicinal purposes would have no effect on him either. He'd just gone along with the idea because it provided him an opportunity to play on Sandra's sympathies. That meant he had to be expecting some big pay-off. The bet. Christ, who knew what she might have to do if she lost the bet? Her mind obligingly spewed forth a litany of horrifying prospects. The jokes Gerry and Frank played on each other were notorious and vicious.

She pulled herself up short. Why in the world would Gerry go to so much trouble just to play a nasty joke on her? She wasn't the one who'd given his personal details to .uk. She hadn't interfered with his beloved Stag. She was his bloody guv'nor. She sounded crazy – but then, what Gerry had done at the gala was crazy. He'd set her up, manipulated her, humiliated her – and she'd defended him to Strickland. The thought made her blood reach boiling point.

Totally frustrated, Sandra let loose an infuriated, strangled scream that was ratcheted up several decibels by the enclosed space of the car. The result made her wince as her eardrums shuddered in agony. Not productive, Pullman.

"Think," she said aloud. "Think, Sandra. You're an intelligent, rational, 49-year old woman. There is a solution to this problem."

There was, and she'd already thought of it: murder Gerry. Never before had the prospect appealed on such a visceral level. But anything remotely satisfying would've been horribly messy, and she could hardly claim self-defence. Even in her state of panicky rage, the thought made her snort.

Temporary insanity, on the other hand…

No, she decided immediately. Her rage was perfectly sane. Plus, since she wasn't big on the idea of shooting him in the back, she'd have to face Gerry to kill him, and the one thing she was certain of was that she did not want to face Gerry just now.

For once in her life, Sandra felt the opposite of confrontational. She'd have liked to find a nice, dark, deep cave to hide in for the next ten to twenty years. A cave with an endless supply of large G and T's and hot cabana boys.

Shit, she was thinking about cabana boys in the midst of this crisis? She needed to get out more. When was the last time she'd gone on a date? Not that she was interested in getting dressed up and making polite conversation. Ripping clothes off and having no conversation was more her speed these days, but she was rather short on likely candidates. Fifty was turning out to sort of suck.

Forty-nine, she reminded herself. And there was always Steve down in the lab; she had no doubt he'd be more than willing to help her scratch an itch. He wasn't terrible to look at. Maybe if she gagged him so she wouldn't have to listen to his drivel and handcuffed him to the –

She shook her head to clear it, the razor-cut ends of her hair lashing against her cheeks. Temporary insanity might work after all.

2.

The Detective Superintendent was already in her office Monday morning when she heard the first of the boys arrive. The weekend had given her plenty of time to move from stewing to strategising. In fact, she'd done more than that: phase one of Operation Make Gerry Lose the Bet had already been carried out.

You see, Sandra reasoned thus: if she called off the bet, Gerry would insist on a reason, and that would lead to the very conversation she wanted above all things to avoid. So she simply had to guarantee the outcome. Gerry had to lose the bet, and Sandra had only four days left to make sure that happened.

He had to be punished for having tricked her at the gala – but he had to be punished without knowing why he was being punished or, better still, that he was being punished at all by anything other than his own stupidity. Obviously the situation was delicate and would require some skill in order to be managed properly. Fortunately, Sandra had skills a-plenty.

The first rule of policing had led to Sandra's first step: when you give a villain enough rope, he or she will eventually hang himself. (This led to an amusing visual of Gerry strangled by one of his own hideous, beloved ties.) Gerry had been suspiciously cheerful since he had proposed their bet three weeks earlier, and the withdrawal symptoms he refused to discuss had largely subsided. He'd stopped biting their collective heads off, and his hands no longer trembled – with the exception of that day last week when both he and Sandra had indulged in two double espressos. Some men just couldn't hold their caffeine.

All things considered, and knowing Gerry as she did, Sandra figured there was a high probability Gerry had been sneaking fags on the side – the snake. And if he was smoking – the no-good, lying cheat – it was her business to find him out.

Saturday she had thoroughly searched the office, including all Gerry's "secret" hiding places. She hadn't found anything incriminating, but then she hadn't expected to. Gerry knew her, so he must've known she'd eventually be searching the office. She had, however, nicked his nearly-full bottle of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich, which had worked wonders for her disposition Saturday night.

Gerry, God bless and damn him, was pretty predictable, and one item in his weekly agenda never changed: Sunday night was dinner with The Girls. So Sunday afternoon Sandra had called Emily Driscoll.

Now Sandra snatched up the phone on her desk before it had even finished ringing once. Patience was not one of her many virtues. "Pullman," she announced brusquely.

"Hi, Sandra, it's Emily."

Sandra could hear the murmur of conversation and smell someone's bacon sandwich from the main office, so she lowered her voice as she cut right to the chase. "Find anything?"

"Nope. I think he's really done it this time." Emily sounded justifiably proud, and Sandra could easily picture her friend and mentee beaming as she sat at her rigidly organised desk, probably sorting paperclips.

"Great," Sandra responded, trying to force some fake enthusiasm into her voice. She had told Emily about the bet but not, of course, about her determination to see that Gerry lost. She'd presented the search as doing Gerry a favour in the long-run, making sure he really stopped smoking completely for the good of his health.

Her office door opened unceremoniously, revealing the subject of her conversation. "Gotta go," Sandra said immediately, replacing the receiver and hoping she appeared less shifty than she felt.

Gerry eyed her with his jaw set. He'd been unusually obedient and deferential lately – which Sandra saw as more proof that he was up to something nefarious – but he looked neither obedient nor deferential as he removed his keys from his pocket and dropped them in a jangling heap right in the middle of his governor's desk. "Here," he said flatly.

Sandra pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.

"Thought I'd make it easy on you," he elaborated with the quiet, dignified anger she rarely heard from him, only when he was truly offended. "You'll want to have a look in the Stag next, then I figure you might go by mine and make sure Emily thoroughly carried out her assignment."

For an instant Sandra felt ashamed and remorseful, which only served to stoke the banked fires of her very justifiable rage. How bloody dare he? After the way he'd lied and manipulated her so spectacularly, he had the unmitigated gall to stomp into her office and act all betrayed and self-righteous? She felt her features tighten into a scowl. "Get real, Gerry."

"That's one of the things I admire most about you, you know: your maturity," he sniped.

"Like you wouldn't do exactly the same thing if the roles were reversed."

"No," he responded in a low voice. "I'd trust you, Sandra."

When he had gone, closing the door behind him, Sandra looked at the keys and slumped in her chair, huffing out a breath of frustration. Maybe Gerry would have trusted her, because she'd never given him any reason not to trust her. The same couldn't be said for him, not after the gala. As for what had happened long before the gala – well, no use crying over milk spilled so long ago that it was curdled by now.

Of course, it was possible, she admitted, that the actual bet wasn't related to Gerry's charming little performance at being hypnotised. And he couldn't have demanded that she do anything overtly dodgy if he won, because Brian would have freaked. She was less sure of Jack; she could imagine him snickering into his sleeve and cheerfully approving something fairly depraved. So maybe Gerry really had just written that she'd have to clean his toilet, perhaps in the costume of a French maid.

No, wait. Gerry hated all things French, hence her side of the bet…

Which she was going to lose, unless she took drastic action.

Sandra sighed despondently, the sound loud in her quiet inner sanctum.

3.

Damn it, Sandra thought at 6:15 Thursday evening. This was a hell of a time for her blasted conscience to assert itself: while she was trapped in Gerry's linen closet with three cartons of his favourite Marlboro reds wedged between her calves.

With less than twenty-four hours to go before the official expiration of her month-long bet with Stand-Up Standing, Sandra was desperate. Gerry was walking around like the spokesperson for a new series of anti-smoking adverts, and she was going to lose. The time was now or never. Do or die.

Well, if she did lose, one of them might well die, but it wasn't going to be her. She wondered idly if the CPS would go easy on her in view of the extenuating circumstances.

Gerry was whistling as he clattered merrily around the kitchen. Shit, she had to get out of here. She was sealing her fate – she was definitely going to lose the bet – but she'd deal with that. She was not, however, going to be caught hiding in a closet, having attempted to sabotage Gerry and wimped out at the last, critical moment. She extracted her mobile from her pocket and scrolled quickly through her contacts.

"Sandra?" Jack questioned uncertainly. "I can barely hear you. Your voice is all muffled."

"I know. Look, I need you to do me a favour and not ask any questions. Please. I need you to go over to Gerry's and take him for a drink or dinner. Don't accept no for an answer."

"Er, Sandra, we all just had a –"

"Please, Jack," she hissed desperately. "Right now."

Jack obviously picked up on the desperation because he acceded to her odd request. After hanging up, she glanced at her watch and began a mental countdown. Jack should get there in fifteen minutes, twenty tops. As long as Gerry stayed in the kitchen until then, she'd be home free.

When the doorbell rang, Sandra almost collapsed to her knees in relief before realising she didn't have room. Shelves of neatly folded sheets and towels pressed painfully against her back. She couldn't hear the ensuing conversation, but she picked up the surprise in Gerry's voice. No wonder, since the three boys had adjourned to the put immediately after work, and now Jack was insisting they go for a drink – again.

Jack was persuasive when he needed to be, though, and a few minutes later Sandra heard the front door closing, and then – nothing. Blessed silence. Taking a few seconds to release a pent-up breath, she scrambled out of the closet and dashed into Gerry's bedroom where she began to undo her handiwork, collecting packets of cigarettes she had stashed in every conceivable location. Ten minutes later she was in her car with a mountain of Marlboros riding shotgun. This had been an expensive way to lose a bet.

She just hadn't been able to go through with it. She didn't have the heart, or she had too much heart. It was really too bad she wasn't as big a bitch as everyone thought she was. She'd already reached that decision when Gerry had unexpectedly arrived home at a quarter to six, far earlier than Sandra had anticipated.

It had been a stupid idea, the kind of idea you got when you woke up at 5 a.m. with clammy palms and feet that itched from anxiety. It probably wouldn't have worked anyway, but if it had, Sandra would have won the bet. But really, it was worse than having six pepperoni pizzas and a chocolate layer cake delivered to someone who was religiously attending meetings of Overeaters Anonymous. Planting cigarettes all over Gerry's flat to tempt him into smoking at the eleventh hour – Really, Pullman? she asked herself with disdainful gloom. That's what you came up with?

These cut-throat practical joke wars were not her forte.

Fortunately she had only done the master bedroom and bathroom by the time Gerry arrived home, so now he'd never know. That would leave her with some shred of dignity, no matter what she ended up having to do as the official loser.

She'd find out soon enough, now.

No matter how mad she was at Gerry – and she was plenty mad – she couldn't sabotage him like that. If she did and he eventually got something horrible like emphysema, it would be tantamount to killing him, wouldn't it? And blood-soaked fantasies aside, she didn't actually want Gerry to die – the tosser.

She sighed heavily and looked over at her own personal share of stock in the Phillip Morris Corporation. As if losing the bet wasn't bad enough on its own, what the hell was she meant to do with these things now?