The Lipstick Killers Read online

  ‘It does for me. It’s just a rental. Hard to get on the property ladder in London on a copper’s wage.’

  ‘A bit spartan though.’

  ‘What do you mean? No fluffy cushion covers or stuffed animals on the bed?’

  ‘Something like that. In fact there’s nothing much at all really.’

  ‘Send me a straw donkey in a sombrero when you get home then. It’ll cheer the place up.’

  ‘Don’t get antsy. I only said,’ said Roxie, giving her sister a hard look.

  ‘Too much sometimes.’

  ‘Calm down sis, I didn’t know you were that sensitive.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Roxie, changing the subject.

  ‘I’ll get some clean things, and we take my guns and I’ll go for a sniff round.’

  ‘This Antarctic Holdings place?’

  ‘Well, that’s where we start.’

  ‘You gonna go on your own?’

  ‘In the first place. It’s not for you this Dolly.’

  ‘Will you be armed?’ said Roxie, looking apprehensive.

  ‘No. Not immediately. It’s not a good idea until I’ve seen what kind of security they have. I’ll leave the guns with you.’

  ‘So, where are they now?’

  ‘Come see.’

  Margaret led the way to the gun safe on the wall, opened the door and stepped back.

  ‘Empty,’ said Roxie, disappointment in her voice.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Margaret and manipulated a small lever that opened the false bottom, revealing her two illegal weapons and ammunition. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, with a smile.

  Roxie hefted the Colt .45. ‘Chase told me his granddaddy had one of these,’ she said, wistfully. ‘Antique.’

  ‘They might be old, but clean, and untraceable.’

  ‘I wasn’t complaining,’ said her sister, working the action with an oily click. It moved smoothly. ‘Sweet. You look after them.’

  ‘Never know when you’ll need a gun,’ said Margaret. ‘You sure that one’s not too big for you?’

  The gun looked massive in Roxie’s little hand, the dull grey metal bringing her hot pink nails into sharp relief. She shook her head. ‘I like them big,’ she said. ‘The bigger the better. Guns and blokes.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ said Margaret, but she laughed anyway, as she took the .38 revolver from its hiding place. ‘I’ll get a bag for this lot.’

  Roxie began to take out the boxes of ammunition revealing a leather wallet at the bottom of the box. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘My other identity,’ said Margaret. ‘A snide warrant card. That’s how I intend to get inside Antarctic Holdings and find our Mr Haywood.’

  ‘Blimey, you’re showing our hand aren’t you?’

  ‘If I don’t, the real police will catch up to us pretty damn quickly.’

  ‘So what are you going to say?’

  Margaret shrugged. ‘I’ll think of something. Come on, let me find some clothes, get these stashed away and let’s go.’

  ‘Got any more coke?’ asked Roxie, a glint in her eye.

  ‘You’re a glutton aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, have you?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Lay one out then. A livener for the day ahead and all that.’

  Margaret went into the kitchen, took down a container marked ‘mixed herbs,’ opened it, and dug out a wrap. ‘Not very original,’ she said. ‘But it does.’

  She laid out two long lines on the kitchen top and the women snarfed up one each.

  ‘So good,’ said Roxie. ‘Can we get some more?’

  ‘Fancy a trip to my drug dealer, do you?’ said Margaret.

  ‘I love the low life.’

  ‘OK. On the way back. It’s a bit early for him, he doesn’t get to bed until 5am most nights.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Roxie. ‘Might as well finish this up then.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Margaret found a baseball cap in her wardrobe, plus a scarf to wind round her chin and a pair of sunglasses to hide her eyes. ‘Look like me?’ She asked her sister.

  ‘No chance,’ said Roxie.

  ‘Perfect then. Let’s go.’

  40

  Once in the car, the guns and luggage stashed in the boot,Margaret headed across the river in the direction of Kensington.

  ‘Do you think he’ll fall for it? asked Roxie. The drugs had made her more alert but her heartbeat had slowed after the initial buzz. ‘This Haywood bloke. You reckon just marching in and giving him the third degree will work?’

  ‘Why not? I do a good impersonation of a copper you know. At least I should do.’

  They found a parking meter near the office block and Margaret left Roxie in the driver’s seat of the car. ‘Don’t know how long I’ll be,’ she said. ‘You stay here. Keep the meter fed. Don’t want the car towed away. It would be embarrassing trying to explain what’s in the boot.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ said her sister. ‘I promise I won’t move.’

  Margaret climbed out of the driver’s seat, pushed coins into the meter, and walked the short distance to the block. According to the register in the foyer, Antarctic Holdings was on the top three floors, nineteen to twenty-one. Margaret was impressed at the slick entrance to the imposing glass and steel building. She took the lift to the nineteenth, the floors above being blocked. Better security than Monty’s, she thought.

  When the lift doors opened she was in another foyer, faced by a reception desk manned by a pretty young black woman. She walked across and the woman smiled. ‘Good morning,’ she said through red-glossed lips. ‘How can I be of help?’

  ‘I’d like to see a Mr Haywood,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ The smile had slipped slightly.

  Margaret took out the fake warrant card and flashed it in front of the woman’s face.

  ‘Detective Constable Joan Hartley, Kensington station,’ she said. ‘Police business.’

  The receptionist’s smile had gone completely. ‘I’ll ring his secretary,’ she said, picked up the phone and punched in three digits. She waited for a moment before speaking, ‘Gina, there’s a police woman here to see Mr Haywood.’

  There was a pause. ‘I see,’ said the woman and replaced the receiver. ‘I’m afraid Mr Haywood is out of the office today.’

  Margaret didn’t believe a word of it, but there was little she could do. ‘Is there anyone else available?’ she pressed. ‘This is important. Very.’

  ‘I could try Mr Sincere,’ said the woman, obviously flustered.

  ‘Sincere?’ said Margaret.

  ‘Saint Cyr,’ the woman explained. ‘Pronounced Sincere.’Margaret could tell by her tone she wasn’t keen. ‘Head of security.’

  ‘He’ll do,’ said Margaret.

  Once again the woman used the phone but this time she got a positive result. ‘He’ll be down in two minutes,’ she said, her tone icy. ‘Would you care to take a seat?’

  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.

  ‘N
ever 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.