The Lipstick Killers

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.

52
     
     
     
    The next day passed slowly as she pottered around her flat and waited for the evening to arrive. She phoned Roxie and Frankie, they had nothing to report but she was relieved that there had been no more threatening calls. Around five she put on her blonde wig and completed her disguise with the same dark glasses she had worn the previous evening. She left the Porsche at the flat and took a cab to Kensington, and went straight to the bar to see if Saint Cyr was the regular she imagined him to be. She sat at the same table and ordered coffee and a sandwich just like the night before. She had the same waitress too, who remembered her. ‘Hello again,’ she said. ‘Have you moved in round here?’
    ‘No,’ replied Margaret, smiling. ‘Just visiting. Sightseeing, you know. Catching up on old friends.’
    ‘Not from London?’
    ‘Originally. Moved on.’
    ‘You staying long?’ asked the young blonde waitress, a chatty Australian.
    ‘No. Just a few days.’
    ‘Well, enjoy.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    At seven Peter Saint Cyr came in, alone, made a beeline for the same seat at the bar that he’d sat at last night and was greeted by the barman who poured him a drink without asking.
    Excellent, thought Margaret. A creature of habit. Easy to track.
    Saint Cyr seemed to know most of the customers, but never engaged in conversation with them too long. He smiled at the women, and flirted with the waitress who cleared Margaret’s dishes when she had finished her meal. ‘I’ll have a glass of dry white,’ she said to her, keeping St Cyr in the corner of her eye.
    ‘Sure,’ nodded the waitress as she rushed to the bar to get her drink.
    When she returned with the drink Mags said to her, ‘he seems to be enjoying himself’, nodding in Saint Cyr’s direction.
    ‘Who, Peter? Yes, he’s a regular. In every night when he’s in town.’
    ‘Seems like a nice bloke.’
    ‘If you like that sort of thing. He’s a bit handy, if you know what I mean. But he brings in a lot of trade at lunchtime. Business lunches, so we have to be nice,’ said the waitress, indiscreetly.
    ‘Oh, one of those,’ said Margaret knowingly, filing away the info for future reference.
    ‘Yeah,’ replied the waitress. ‘Enjoy your drink.’
    This should be easy, Margaret said to herself as the waitress left.

53
     
     
     
    Margaret sipped her drink and watched as Saint Cyr played the most popular man in the bar. He drank two drinks, then left, wishing everyone a good night. Margaret didn’t follow, just finished her wine, left the waitress a decent tip and went home in a taxi.
    Like the previous evening she poured herself another glass, switched on the TV, but didn’t follow