The Lipstick Killers

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