The Lipstick Killers (16 page)

49

Eventually Sharon, the children, Frankie and Roxie came into the room. ‘I’ve packed for a week,’ said Sharon. ‘I just pray that’s enough.’

‘We’re going on our holidays,’ said Susan to Mags, brightly. ‘To the country. I hope there’s ponies.’

‘There might be,’ said Margaret, feeling a slight pang of sadness at the sight of her innocent niece so happy. ‘This is Mahoney. He’s your driver.’

Mahoney looked quizzical, but said nothing.

‘He’s a nice man,’ said Margaret. ‘He might even buy you lollipops.’

‘I don’t want a lollipop,’ said Peter. ‘I want my dad.’

Sharon hugged him. ‘I’m sorry love,’ she said, ‘I wish he was here too. You have to be a big strong boy for him now.’

‘Well, I want a lollipop,’ said Susan.

‘Come on then,’ said Mahoney. ‘My car’s outside. Maybe we can stop on the way. Get those lollipops, or something.’

‘Hooray,’ said Susan and clapped her hands. ‘And Auntie Mags, be sure to look after Thomas.’

‘I will,’ said Margaret, hugging Sharon tightly and kissing the kids goodbye. On the way Mahoney said to her, ‘Look, I’ll keep in close contact, but to be on the safe side I’m not going to tell you the address where we’re going.’

‘Nor would I under the circumstances,’ said Margaret.

‘But of course you can keep in touch on her mobile.’

Margaret nodded.

‘And we’re going to keep a presence outside, but not a permanent one now the children are gone. So be careful.’

‘We will,’ said Margaret. ‘Don’t worry about us.’

Roxie, Frankie and Margaret waved off the family then went back inside and closed the door.

‘I bet he’ll keep in close contact,’ said Roxie. ‘As close as he can to you Mags.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

‘I don’t know what to do with myself, now they’re gone,’ said Frankie.

‘How about a drink,’ said Margaret.

‘Tea or coffee?’

‘I was thinking of something stronger.’

‘Good idea,’ said Frankie. ‘I’ll go and get some ice out of the fridge, and we can get off our heads. I think we deserve it.’

‘Me too,’ said Margaret.

‘What now?’ said Roxie, when Frankie had gone into the kitchen.

‘Now they’ve started to threaten the kids we go on the offensive. They don’t know who they’re dealing with here.’

‘Fine,’ said Roxie. ‘Offensive it is.’

Mags continued. ‘We need someone on the inside on the outside.’

‘Bleeding hell, Mags, this isn’t Dempsey and Makepeace. I’m a beautician, tell it to me in terms I’ll understand.’

‘That Saint Cyr bloke looked like a ladies man,’ said Margaret. ‘And you’re a lady.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ said Roxie, quizzically.

‘You’ve heard of a honey trap, right? Happens all the time in cases. You’d be surprised how many pimps and dealers are caught this way.’

‘So you’ve done it?’

‘No. Not really my thing. Don’t look the part.’

‘And I do?’

‘In a word, yes.’

‘Terrific. How old is he?’

‘Forties, I think.’

‘Well, I always did attract older men.’

‘It’s your scintillating personality sis. Or your big tits.’

‘Thanks Mags! My lils have always worked for me, that’s true,’ Roxie said good naturedly.

‘I reckon you’d be perfect at it, always were a little drama queen. So are you up for it?’

‘But I dunno sis, how do we even get close to him?’

‘I’m going to go up to London for a few days. I’ll have a scout around and suss him out,’ said Margaret, mentally working out her plan.

‘But he’s seen you. Won’t he recognise you?’

‘Me? The mistress of disguise? Don’t forget I spent a long time undercover as a cop. I think I can blend in with the background, and he’ll never even know I’m there.’

‘Should I come with you?’ said Roxie.

‘No. I’m keeping you under wraps for now. You stay down here, keep Frankie company – she looks a bit lost. If I need you I’ll call. You’ve got Sharon’s car if you need transport?’

‘OK, but I don’t like it.’

‘It’s not a case of liking it or not love. If we do this, we do it right. Go all the way and bugger the consequences. This is deadly serious.’

‘I know all about serious.’

‘Course you do. So what’s it to be. In or out?’ Mags looked directly at her sister.

‘In of course.’

‘I knew you would.’

‘But I still don’t like it.’

Roxie felt the cold grip of fear on her heart once again. She just hoped that this time, her intuition was wrong.

50

Margaret told Frankie she had to return to London, but kept her real plans secret, telling her sister that she had business to attend to at the flat in Battersea. Frankie seemed listless and unhappy, but cheered up a little when Margaret told her Roxie would be staying in Guildford. ‘I’m glad that Dolly is staying here. The house is quiet without Sharon and the kids,’ said Frankie.

‘I’m going to go now,’ Mags said. ‘Beat the rush hour.’

Mags left most of the clothes that she’d brought with her and took only the necessities – a wrap of cocaine and the Colt revolver. She got into her car and sped up to Battersea where she quickly went into her bedroom and donned a blonde wig, a cheap trench coat and her Gucci dark glasses, a different pair from the ones she had worn when she had met Saint Cyr earlier. Then she drove to Kensington, parked close to the Antarctic Holdings building and waited. It was well past seven by then, and she hoped she hadn’t missed Saint Cyr, but if she had
she’d have to come back the next night. She figured the head of security wouldn’t be a clock watcher and she was right. She pulled the car across the street, not too close to the front doors but where she could keep an eye on the entrance to the building’s car park. In the glove compartment of the Porsche she had a small, powerful pair of binoculars which she used to scan the cars leaving the building, cursing the fact that she was doing a solo surveillance. She sat there for half an hour, and then saw Saint Cyr leave the building on foot and head off in the direction of Kensington High Street. By then it had started to rain and he was dressed in a Burberry macintosh and carried a brightly coloured golf umbrella. Margaret got out of the car and followed him at a discreet pace – the brightly coloured umbrella made him easy to spot. She kept her distance until he came to a smart looking bar and restaurant about halfway down the street and entered. It was easy to spot him in the brightly-lit room and she watched through the plate glass window as he went up to the counter, sat on a stool, and was immediately served by the barman. It looked like he was a regular, as the two engaged in conversation. Margaret pulled up the collar of her coat, walked into the bar and sat at a small table on the far side of the room.

A young waitress approached and she ordered coffee and an overpriced sandwich from the menu, keeping half an eye on Saint Cyr, who was now talking
animatedly
to another customer as if they were old friends. Margaret kept her eyes fixed on him as she ate her
sandwich
and she saw Saint Cyr being greeted by other patrons, but never joining any of them, instead
remaining alone at the bar. He had two drinks and left. Margaret dropped enough money on the table to cover her bill and a tip, and followed him out of the bar, as Saint Cyr returned to his office building, but this time went down into the car park. Margaret ran back to her car, which had been ticketed, but luckily not clamped, and waited. A few minutes later a dark blue Lexus pulled up the ramp from the parking area; Saint Cyr in the driver’s seat. He turned left and Margaret followed him through the heavy traffic. It was only a short drive to Fulham, where Saint Cyr parked on a residents’ bay, and walked towards a grand looking town house where he let himself in. The house was in darkness until lights came on in the hall and the downstairs front window – which told Margaret that he lived alone.

Perfect, she thought.

51

Margaret figured she’d seen all she was going to see that night and, as it was coming on for ten o’clock, she headed back to Battersea. On the way, her mobile rang. Like most other people on the road, she ignored the law and answered it, hands on. It was Mahoney. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘You don’t even want to know,’ she said.

‘Yes I don’t doubt that… I’m just calling to tell you your family are settled at the cottage. It’s not too bad as safe houses go, but not as comfortable as home. There’s a WPC keeping an eye.’

‘That’s good,’ said Mags, relieved.

‘But when I got back to the station there’d been a funny phone call.’

‘Funny, how?’

‘It was from Kensington nick. They got a call from head of security at Antarctic Holdings this morning. Seems like
someone
was impersonating a copper and asking questions. Young female DC, name of Hartley.
Course, there’s no such person
in
the Met. From the description though it sounds like someone I know,’ he said pointedly. ‘Anyway, the bloke turns all cagey when he finds out this DC Hartley doesn’t exist. They asked to view the tapes, but he says the CCTV on their floors was off-line, and plays hard to get when our boy asks what sort of questions she was asking. But I’d put money on the fact it was about a certain Monty Smith. What do you reckon?’

‘No comment.’

‘As I thought. Anyway, the DS who picked up Haywood’s call was intrigued. Wandered round and got a look at the cameras on the ground floor, and there she was. Baseball cap, shades, leather jacket with the collar up, scarf round the face. Right sus I’d say. The security at the front door gave her a tug, but she flashed her warrant and they let her pass. He went back to the station and had a trawl through the computer. Seen the red flag of course, then that we’d been checking and gave my super a bell to put him in the picture.’

‘Good for him,’ said Margaret, coolly.

‘Any ideas about who this fake copper could be?’

‘There’s some wicked people out there.’

‘You can say that again. If, and I only say if, it was you – you could’ve put yourself in harm’s way. Look what happened later at your sister’s place.’

‘Just as well it wasn’t me then,’ she said shortly.

‘So you say. When are you coming back down to Guildford?’

‘Can’t say. A couple of days at least. Got some things to take care of down here first.’

‘OK. Well take it easy.’

‘Always.’

‘Goodnight then. See you soon I hope.’

‘You really sound like you mean it Mahoney,’ said Mags, teasingly.

‘I do.’

‘Goodnight Mahoney, sleep tight.’ She closed her phone with a snap.

She got back to Battersea, parked up, went indoors, poured a glass of wine, trying to watch TV, but found she couldn’t concentrate, so she finished her drink and went to bed.

The alcohol failed to make her sleep, and she tossed and turned as she went through the events of the day. Why Monty? He was just a provincial accountant. Why would Haywood, with all the trappings of an
international
company, employ such a man? It didn’t make sense. But he had, and Monty had paid the price of dipping his toes into shark-infested water. He had been an innocent abroad. Or had he? It was a dilemma that she was no closer to solving as a distant clock struck three.