Murder Club - Mark Pearson [79]
The barman pulled a face. ‘You’ll not find her this side of the bar. She’ll be upstairs. Shall I go and tell her you’re here?’
‘Why don’t you just take us up to see her?’ said Emma with a smile.
‘I don’t think she’d like that, without being told.’
‘Does that bother you unduly?’
The barman pretended to consider for a moment, then smiled himself. ‘Not unduly,’ he replied.
‘Bingo bongo!’ said DI Tony Hamilton, holding his hands wide as he and Emma got off their stools.
The barman led them through a pair of swing doors into a narrow hallway and up some stairs.
The landing above had a window at the far end and leaded lights, but it was dark outside now. Emma Halliday glanced at her watch and realised it wouldn’t be getting any brighter.
The barman knocked on the door and opened it. A younger man rushed out, reddening a little as he mumbled an apology at DI Halliday, as she had to step swiftly aside, and hurried down the staircase.
‘What is it?’ Marjorie Johnson sounded less than happy with the disruption. She had a southern-counties accent.
‘It’s the police,’ said the barman, showing the visitors into the room.
It was a large lounge with mullioned windows. Expensively decorated. A polished wooden floor with hand-woven rugs on it. The mullioned windows looked over the street below. Overhead were ancient beams and there was another large, open fireplace. Logs were burning in the grate. A substantial antique red leather sofa stood next to a couple of matching club chairs. There was an eighteenth-century writing desk under the windows with a reading lamp on it and a tantalus, with the decanters full. A drinks cabinet was to the left of where DIs Hamilton and Halliday were standing.
Marjorie Johnson sat on the sofa. She was a large woman, with long blonde hair, expensively styled, held back in a black Alice band. She wore a low-cut, cream-coloured silk blouse and was clearly not afraid to show her cleavage and a hint of white lace beneath it. She had a black skirt, too short for Emma Halliday’s taste, with a hint of lace on her stocking top. She wore high-heeled black shoes and had a cut-glass tumbler in her hand. She twirled the ice. It made a tinkling sound as she looked at Tony Hamilton appraisingly and then smiled, showing white, perfectly aligned, if slightly predatory-looking teeth.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Inspector?’ She completely ignored Hamilton’s female associate.
‘We’re here to talk about your husband, Mrs Johnson, said Emma.
She shot the DI a surly look. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Detective?’ Turning to DI Hamilton, she put the smile back in place.
‘No thanks, we’re on duty,’ Emma answered for them both.
‘Is that gin and tonic you’re drinking?’ asked Tony Hamilton.
‘It certainly is. Tanqueray No. 10.’
‘Excellent. I’ll have one of those please.’
Marjorie Johnson stood up in one languid movement. She was nearly as tall as DI Halliday in her high-heeled shoes, but not quite.
Tony shrugged at his colleague. ‘You wanted to drive,’ he said with a grin.
‘Sure I can’t tempt you, Constable?’ asked Marjorie Johnson over her shoulder.
‘I’ll just take a plain soda with ice, if you have such a thing. And it’s Detective Inspector Emma Halliday.’
‘DI Tony Hamilton,’ said Tony, as he took the glass she offered him.
‘Women are making great strides in business nowadays,’ said Marjorie, as she squirted some soda from a Thirties-style soda siphon into a tall glass and added some ice.
‘Yes. And we don’t even have to burn our bras any more,’ replied Emma, smiling sweetly.
‘Just as well, in my case,’ said the older woman, expanding her chest so that Tony Hamilton didn’t miss her point.
‘Need the support?’ said Emma, keeping the smile hovering on her lips.
Marjorie Johnson laughed. ‘No, dear, I was thinking more of the fire-hazard risks.’
She walked back to the sofa, swaying her broad hips like Mae West on steroids, and sat down. ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said, gesturing to the two armchairs opposite.
Emma and Tony sat down. Emma