The Lipstick Killers (14 page)

41

Margaret elected to stand, and a few minutes later a tall, balding, slim man in a beige suit entered through a door on the left of the foyer. ‘Detective,’ he said. ‘Peter St Cyr. How can I help you?’ he said, his smile never reaching his eyes. He looked to be in his late forties.

‘Can we talk privately?’ said Margaret.

‘Can I see some identification first,’ said the man.

Margaret showed him the warrant which he
examined
closely, peering at the photograph for longer than seemed necessary. ‘Constable Hartley,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Come up to my office.’

He led the way back through the door to another, smaller lift, went up one floor, turned left through more doors, along a wide corridor to an office at the end. It was large, well furnished with a breathtaking view over the park. There was a sofa and armchair by the window next to his desk and he motioned her to sit while he sat in the chair opposite. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Constable Hartley?’

‘I came to see a Mr Haywood,’ said Margaret. ‘I believe he’s the CEO here.’

‘Correct. Concerning?’

‘Concerning a Mr Monty Smith.’

She saw a flash in his eyes – it vanished almost
immediately
, but Margaret noticed.

‘I don’t think I’m acquainted with the gentleman,’ he said.

‘He was at a meeting with Mr Haywood at a hotel in Lovedean, near Southampton, three nights ago.’

‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘That may be so. On his way home he was involved in a car crash and died.’

‘I’m very sorry. That’s a tragedy.’

‘Quite,’ said Margaret, keeping her eyes fixed on his at all times. ‘Then yesterday, we discovered his office had been broken into, and some time later, his employee – a Joyce Moody – was found dead. Murdered in her own home,’ she said, her eyes boring into him, in her best interrogation mode.

‘This is appalling. Where are we talking about?’

‘Guildford.’

‘Let me check,’ he rose from his seat, went to his desk and started to type on his computer. ‘Monty Smith, you say?’

‘Yes. He was an accountant.’

‘Ah. Yes. Here we are. Goodness. We have used his professional services regarding a promotion on the south coast. But it was last year. Nothing since.’

‘So why was he at the meeting?’

‘I don’t know. Security is my forte. Perhaps another promotion? We do them from time to time,’ said St Cyr,
coming back to sit on the chair.

‘Promotions for what?’

‘We have many irons in many fires. That project last year was a new-build office development in Portsmouth.’

‘But Mr Haywood would know, I assume,’ said Margaret.

‘I’m sure. Unfortunately…’

‘Yes I know,’ interrupted Margaret. ‘He’s “out of the office” today.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Then I’ll make an appointment. I do need to speak to him as quickly as possible – as I’m sure you’ll
understand
.’

‘Please do. Is there anything else?’ said St Cyr, making it clear that he wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible.

‘Not for now.’

‘Then I’ll show you out.’ He wrote a number on a card. ‘This is his PA’s direct line. I’m sure she’ll slot you in at a convenient time for you both.’

‘Good. Thanks.’

He led the way back down to the reception and waited for the lift. ‘Good day detective Hartley,’ he said. ‘Please be sure to send our condolences to his family.’

‘I’ll do that.’ And when the lift arrived she entered, pressed ground, and was sure she saw another flash in his eyes as the door closed. Not a pleasant one.

42

Margaret went back to the car where Roxie was waiting patiently. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

‘Crap,’ said Margaret. ‘Haywood was out so they said, and I saw their head of security. Peter
Sincere
,’ she mocked.

‘Sincere? What you on about? What was the place like?’

‘Really swanky. Someone’s doing well for himself. And it’s spelled S-T-C-Y-R, just pronounced sincere.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘More oil than my motor. Denied all knowledge at first, but it was plain to see that he knew something. Then, surprise, surprise, he found Monty in his records, said he’d done some work for them last year. But knew nothing about any meeting. Could be a future
promotion
, he said.’

‘What?’

‘Some bollocks about Monty doing a bit of work on a promotion for a new building in Portsmouth.’

‘Why would he?’

‘Precisely. It’s too vague. Why would a firm in Kensington use a firm in Guildford? Monty was up to something – and he pissed somebody off. Pissed them off enough to make it worth killing two people for.’

‘What now?’

‘I dunno. I’ll grill Mahoney when we get back.’

‘He must really fancy you if he’s given you inside information. What happens if they find out some fake copper looking like you has been sniffing about?’

‘Then I’ll lose my job good and proper. But I don’t care. I was fond of Joyce. And Monty. Well, he
was
family – and Peter and Susan’s dad.’

‘My heart goes out to those little mites. I know how they feel.’

‘Right, let’s get back, stash the pistols and see what else rotten has happened.’

‘Pessimist.’

‘Just the way I feel right now.’

‘Then we’d better get something to liven us up,’ said Roxie. ‘Is it still too early to go and see a man about a dog, if you know what I mean?’

43

Margaret dug out her mobile, and speed dialled a number. After a moment, she said, ‘is Boy there?’

A pause.

‘Then you’d better wake him up then.’

Another pause.

‘Just tell him it’s an old friend from Denmark Hill.’

A longer pause, and Margaret said, ‘lazy bastards.’ Then, ‘Boy. Sorry to disturb your well earned rest, but I need something.’

A pause.

‘Now, say half an hour, depends on the traffic. See you then.’

She clicked off the phone and smiled at Roxie. ‘No probs,’ she said. ‘When I say jump, that boy says “What roof?”’

They drove off, and Margaret headed south towards Loughborough Junction, one of the seediest parts of south London. She stopped outside an old LCC estate built just after World War Two, and not improved by the
passage of time. ‘You coming?’ she said to Roxie. ‘Meet the lovely Boy and his harem.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Roxie. ‘But will your car be OK? You know with what’s in the boot – and I don’t like the look of those kids on bikes over there.’

‘Good point,’ said Margaret. ‘There’s a Tescos round the corner. I’ll stick it in the car park. They’ve got CCTV, so the Porsche should be okay. Should be all right there for a bit. We won’t be long.’

She did just that, taking a ticket from the barrier and stashing the car as close to the entrance as was possible. The car didn’t stand out so much beside the other top end Chelsea tractors parked there. ‘Gentrification,’ she said to Roxie. ‘Can’t get away from it. Buy a great big house round Brixton for peanuts, but expect to be burgled once a month. The locals love it. Nice plasma screens and DVD recorders by the dozen. Straight onto eBay. Best fence in the world.’

‘Cynical,’ said Roxie.

‘Comes with the job,’ replied her sister.

They walked back to the estate, where children of all shapes, sizes and colours regarded them with hostile looks as they cut through, past garbage bins piled high with rubbish, over dog-shit encrusted pavements to the block where Boy lived. ‘Nice,’ said Roxie. ‘And I thought Spain was bad. Shouldn’t that lot be at school?’

‘Just practising for a life of crime,’ said Margaret.

They climbed graffiti-sprayed stairs to the top floor and along to the end flat where Margaret hammered on the door. It was opened by a young black girl in a low cut dress. ‘Boy,’ said Margaret.

The women stepped back and gestured with her head for them to enter.

They stepped into the hall which was hung with old velvet curtains, and squeezed past a brand-new black and silver mountain bike leaning against one wall. In the doorway in front of them appeared a young white man with long blonde dreadlocks that reached almost to his waist. He wore a T-shirt with the motto ‘Don’t Mess With The Boy’ on the front, low slung blue jeans, more holes than material, and bare feet. He looked whacked out and bleary eyed. ‘Bit early ain’t it?’ he said.

‘The streets are aired,’ said Margaret. ‘And we’ve got places to be.’

‘So who’s this lovely lady?’ asked Boy, looking at Roxie.

‘Never you mind,’ said Margaret. ‘You got something for me?’

‘Sure,’ said Boy, producing a plastic baggie full of white powder from one pocket and giving it to Margaret. ‘Only the best.’

‘How much?’ asked Margaret.

‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ said Boy. ‘I trust you.’

‘I hope my tab’s not written down anywhere,’ said Margaret.

He tapped his forehead. ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘It’s all up here.’

‘Nice bike,’ said Roxie.

‘Three grands’ worth,’ Boy said proudly.

‘I wonder if there’s a post code on it,’ said Margaret. ‘And I wonder if it’s this one.’

‘From what I hear these days that’s none of your
business
,’ said Boy with a smirk. ‘Not doing much policing
at the moment. At least that’s what I hear.’

Margaret grabbed him by the throat and pushed him up against the wall. ‘You hear too much,’ she said. ‘I can still get this place busted.’

‘Leave him,’ cried the black girl.

‘And you,’ said Margaret. ‘Do you need to be nicked for soliciting.’

‘It’s no crime to talk to men,’ said the black girl.

Just then a young white girl, who appeared to be no more than thirteen or fourteen, appeared at the doorway, carrying a can of Fosters.

‘What’s she doing here?’ demanded Margaret.

‘Picking up some stuff for her dad,’ said Boy.

‘How old are you?’ Margaret asked the girl.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Police.’ She gave Boy the evil eye, and he said nothing, just shuffled his feet on the filthy carpet.

‘Old enough,’ said the girl.

‘Boy,’ said Margaret. ‘You want a visit?’

‘No.’

‘Then get her out of here.’

‘Marsha, you’d better split,’ said Boy. ‘We’ll catch up later.’

‘But…’ said the girl.

‘No buts,’ said Margaret. ‘Hop it, and don’t come back.’

The girl scowled, but did as she was told, and left.

Margaret pocketed the baggie, and said to Boy, ‘if you’re messing with her, I’ll find out.’

‘No messing,’ protested Boy. ‘Just a punter. Dad’s a bit under the weather.’

‘OK,’ said Margaret. ‘But be careful.’

‘You too,’ said Boy. Then, to the girl in the low-cut dress, ‘come on, let’s go back to bed.’

Roxie and Margaret went out the way they’d come in and headed back to the car park. ‘Nice friends you’ve got,’ said Roxie.

‘Arseholes,’ said Margaret. ‘No friends of mine. But useful.’

‘You were quite scary in there,’ said Roxie.

‘That was the idea.’