The Lipstick Killers

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