Death And The Art Of Pyramid Selling

by Rossi

Chapter Three: Roughing It.

***

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and heavy with the sour tang of beer. To Constantine, tucked in an unobtrusive corner and inhaling deeply, looking across the room was like peering through a glass of stout, thick and hazy and tinged with brown. For a while he simply drank it in.

The pub itself was a pretty ordinary affair, grown from the same solid rural stock as a thousand others from Scarborough to Bath. The clientele, too, could have been extras trucked in for a BBC drama, one possibly involving a vet with an unhealthy obsession with sticking his arm up cows. A few old farmers, faces red and raw with weather and incipient alcoholism; a pair of younger men, farm hands to judge from the reek of cow shit and machine oil on their clothes, playing pool on the faded table; a motley gang of teens, barely old enough to drink and marking the time aimlessly until their escape to the bright lights of the city. Constantine's gaze slid over them without interest, until it came to rest on a shapely, jeans-clad rear-end seemingly pointed straight at him. He watched it appreciatively as it wriggled and swayed, until its owner completed her shot on the pool table, straightening with a laugh and a toss of the smooth dark-brown hair that hung straight to her shoulder blades. She was slim, athletic in a religious-attendance-at-an-expensive-gym-class kind of way. Although she was dressed like the other young locals in jeans and rough woollen jumper, Constantine's perusal had already picked up the designer label on that sweetly-rounded bum; city girl taking the country air, then. She must have felt his eyes crawling over her, because she turned from her teasing of the farmhands and met his gaze, brown eyes coolly assessing.

He obviously passed whatever test she set him, because in her next turn at the table, she easily sank her remaining balls, and, declining her opponents' macho-driven demands for a rematch, crossed the murky common-room to his table. There was something about the way she carried herself, moving with the grace of a hunting cat, that triggered his curiosity. It triggered something else lower down too, and he smiled as she slid into the seat opposite him, turning on the devil-may-care charm.

"Like what you see?" she asked, her smile slow and rich like fresh cream.

"You play a mean game of pool, if that's what you mean," he replied. "Slumming it, are we?"

"You really need a better self-image if you see yourself that way," she countered with another of those somehow-predatory smiles. Christ, she was looking at him like she was a cat and he was small, yellow and feathered.

"Perhaps all I need is some inflating." Constantine drained his glass, raised an eyebrow at her. "Get you something?"

She took his cue. "Scotch. Straight."

"Lady after me own tastes." He was conscious of her eyes on him as he walked to the bar, and he couldn't help putting a little extra swagger into his walk. It wasn't often that his scruffy appeal worked quite so quickly - it usually required at least a couple more drinks - but he of all people wasn't one to argue with the toss of the coin. And Fate owed him one after the events of the day. Least he could get out of this was a free pillow and some healthy exercise to go with all the fucking fresh air.

Fate paid off. They had a few drinks, exchanged more innuendo-laden repartee, had what passed as a meal in the "Drover's Arms", and then she'd practically dragged him upstairs. One of those independent, strong-minded types - Michaela, no surname given - had his jacket off and her tongue half-way down his throat before they'd even shut the door. He soon caught up, her sensible woolly jumper peeled off in a crackle of static electricity that shot blue sparks from her hair, her blouse following in short measure. Her mouth tasted of the mid-price Scotch he'd bought her, and he drank her in, even as she devoured him.

Her jeans proved trickier than her other clothing, and she giggled into his neck as he clumsily picked her up and shuffled the short distance to the bed. Dumping her on the protesting mattress, he proceeded to peel off the offending article, pulling off her shoes in the process, leaving her naked except for a pair of practical wool socks and highly impractical lacy underwear. In the dim light coming through the window and from the glowing red numbers of a cheap bedside clock radio, her skin rippled over taut muscle, a body as well-maintained as any Auto Club member's pride and joy. He paused for a moment to enjoy the view, then set to exploring its landscape in a detail that set her to writhing beneath him. Her hands on him were hot and hungry, stripping off his own clothing with reckless haste. His shirt was jerked over his head and his pants hastily unbuttoned and shoved down and then ignored, leaving him to wriggle them off, toeing his shoes off as he went. She was good with her hands, and her tongue, every touch setting his nerves on fire. She wanted it harder, faster, demanded it, and he thrust into her like the piece of rough she wanted, while she gasped and moaned and cried out another man's name.

He half expected to be evicted the minute the condom was off - she didn't strike him as the afterglow sort - but perhaps the drumming rain on the roof made her charitable, for she simply rolled over and sank into sleep with no more than a satisfied smile for him. It didn't bother him overmuch; he snuggled into that smooth warm back and let sleep take him as well.

***

A shifting of weight, movement, and the chill of air on his skin from a cast-aside blanket brought him back. He feigned slumber, however, until he heard her close the door softly behind her, the pad of bare feet down the small hallway to the bathroom. Michaela was an early riser, it seemed, and since she hadn't stayed for Round Two, he figured he'd gotten his marching orders. Well, he was feeling contrary this morning, and wouldn't play her little game and be conveniently gone by the time she returned from her purifying shower. Constantine sat up, leaned over the side of the bed to grope in his trouser pocket for his cigarettes and found only a crushed empty packet. Bugger. Well, his companion of the evening was a smoker - instead of the cliched strawberries or chocolate, her mouth had tasted of whisky and menthols, and it had turned him on all the more - and his questing hand ran over the bedside table. He upset a teetering pile of files in the process, and papers cascaded over the clothes-strewn floor beside the bed. Grumbling under his breath, he leaned over again to scoop them up, ignoring the sudden greying of his vision as the blood rushed to his head, but then a familiar face peered up at him from under what seemed to be a coroner's report. He snagged the photo amongst a handful of other documents and sat back, a single word slipping from him unnoticed:

"Fuck."

Chrissie Kingston smiled up at him, arms around two smiling daughters. Alice's dark eyes sparkled, free of eldritch shadows.

The nicotine craving hit him again, and he scrabbled around in the bedside cabinet's drawer automatically, eyes busy scanning the other papers. More names, more deaths, scribbled notes. his fingers closed over something slim and slightly hard that might be a cigarette case and he pulled it out. When he flipped it open however, it was to find the warrant card of one DI Michaela Robbins, of the London Metropolitan Police.

'Dammit it all to hell.' Constantine grimaced. Then the door creaked open, and he looked up from the accident investigation report into the death of one Deborah Carvan, aged twenty-two, into the less-than-amused dark eyes of DI Robbins.

"If I'd known you were a reader, I would have ordered 'The Times' for you," she said coolly.

The trick of turning a situation to your advantage is to never admit you were at a disadvantage in the first place. Constantine merely grinned at her: "I know the murder mystery is a popular genre, but this stuff's a bit much for a bit o' light reading, ain't it? Get tired of Ruth Rendell?"

"Those are official police documents and you're committing an offence. Now get your clothes on and get out before I charge you." The threat might have held more weight if she hadn't been in a pink terry-cloth dressing-gown with her hair wrapped in a ridiculous towel turban. Constantine's grin became a leer.

"Into the role-playing, are we? Well, luv, I'm ready for another tumble." He dropped the documents he'd been reading over the side to land on his shirt and indicated the bulge his erection was making in the bed-coverings. "Are you going to tell me I'm nicked and call me Sunshine?" She glowered and opened her mouth to do just that, and he added: "Be entertainin' for the local bobbies, you hauling me into the station in me skivvies. And no end of witnesses too, in the pub last night. It's right handy for you."

Her shoulders sagged just a fraction, and he knew he had her. Those brown eyes, which had practically melted at him last night, could have passed for lasers, however. "What do you want?"

"What every bloke wants at this time of day, luv." Constantine grinned to see her eyes darken further, the way her hands moved to the neck of her fuzzy gown and clenched the material protectively. "Breakfast, of course."

The expression of surprise was comical. "What?"

"You know, eggs, bacon, toast, maybe a sausage or two. Regular Yorkshire fry-up. Or is that beyond the Met's expense account?"

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you? That's it?"

"For now." The grin slipped off his face for a moment, and his expression turned calculating. She shivered slightly, and they both knew it wasn't from the early morning chill of the small room. "I'll let you know."

"The hell you will." She bent - careful to keep the dressing gown pulled closed - and picked his jacket up from the floor. "I've had enough of your games. Get your clothes on and get the fuck out of here."

"What, no brekkie?" She glared at him and threw his jacket into his face. He shrugged. "Budget cuts. I understand." He threw back the blankets, exposing himself in full morning glory and scooped his trousers up off the floor. "Guess I'll catch up with you later, luv. Thanks for a wonderful evening," he said, standing to pull his trousers up and buttoning them. He bent and grabbed his shirt, using it to conceal the handful of papers that came with it, and slung his jacket over the top. She watched him stonily, arms crossed over her breasts, not flinching as he passed her and leaned over to peck her on the cheek. "Ta, Detective Inspector." Whistling jauntily, he left, collecting his shoes as he went.

He had breakfast in a small café in the town's main street, reading through the scattered papers he'd acquired from DI Robbins. He doubted she'd show her face for a while, especially after the scene he'd made leaving in a general state of disarray, jacket slung over his unbuttoned shirt, hair mussed, lipstick kisses visible under his collar. Something to occupy the worthy citizens for quite a while, no doubt. And to make things difficult for the DI.

Buttering another piece of toast to sop up the egg yolk smearing his plate, he frowned as he squinted at her scrawling notes. Whatever she was involved in, it wasn't official - picking up strange men and bonking them senseless whilst on duty didn't appear in the Police Regulations, he was willing to bet. And yet most of this stuff _was_ official; traffic accident reports, autopsy results, even a statement from the husband of a woman from Kent who tossed herself from an upper floor window during an afternoon bridge game. Private project? She should join forces with Phil, start a conspiracy theorists' group, investigate the highly improbable. He snickered to himself, picturing Robbins in a red wig with a trench coat. And Phil beside her, muttering about how the truth was Out There.

'Check recent suicides for cosmetic involvement', read one of the jottings, and he knitted his brows again. Cosmetic involvement? He flipped through the papers until he came across a personal effects list from the Carvan case. 'One pink plastic suitcase, containing assorted 'Cottage Magic' brand cosmetics' was highlighted in yellow, with an additional note: 'Check company's credit listing.'

"Bugger me, Phil was right," he muttered to himself, earning a strange look from the matronly woman waiting tables. She set a steaming mug of tea in front of him and left, taking his empty plate with her. The name of the company might have been coincidence, but he had learned not to ignore coincidence. It was too painful if he did, and a hell of a lot more hassle. Alice's pale, pointed face rose in his mind's eye for a moment and he cursed. Bad enough that there seemed to be someone using magic to kill off Avon Ladies, but there had to be a sprog involved. Worse, a sprog with a connection to Phil Kingston. It was enough to make a man swear off having kids. Again.

There was nothing for it. Constantine drained his tea and pulled out his wallet, dropping a fiver on the table. If there was thing he hated more than anything else in the world, it was being proved wrong. It made him look like such a berk.

***

Three more. That was all she needed to achieve her goal, three more people signed up. Nora frowned as she smoothed down her blazer, adjusted the pins on her lapel: emerald, ruby, silver. Only three more saps willing to sell the product, and she'd have the coveted diamond pin. Bad enough that she'd missed out last regional meeting, while that arrogant bitch Deborah Carvan had gotten hers, marching up to the platform to receive her prize with that smirk on her lips. Still, the cow had indeed gotten hers, in the end. Oh yes, she had.

The doorbell rang, and she glanced at her watch. Five minutes early, a good sign, leastways in terms of interest. Didn't show much ability to follow instructions, 'though. Or read them. The invitations had very clearly stated six o' clock. With an impatient noise, Nora gave her reflection one more inspection, and gave herself an approving nod. She was very model of a successful woman. One who _would_ get what she wanted, in the end.

Only three more.

***

"You did this on purpose, didn't you, Phil?"

"Can't say I know what you're talking about, John." Phil continued up the hill, breathing only slightly harder, wellingtons squelching in the thick mud. "Besides, I think they suit you."

"Phil, they're _pink_."

"Be grateful the kids' frog wellies were too small, or I'd have had you in them. Lucky Marjorie's feet are the same size as yours." If there was a hint of smugness in Phil's voice, he might have been forgiven for it. It had taken Constantine a lot of talking to even get him to open the door, and the man was enjoying the turn-around. "Come on, it's not much further to go. Just over this hill."

"So you said three bloody hills back," Constantine grumbled, jerking his coat free of an over-friendly gorse bush. "What kind of successful cosmetics company builds its main factory out in the middle of a bloody bog?"

"One that has something to hide, obviously. You've got less deductive sense than one of my probationers."

"Good thing I'm not a plod then, is it?" Struggling through the mud to the top of the small rise, John stopped beside Phil, bending over and gasping for breath. The ex-policeman looked at him with amusement.

"Christ, man, look at the state of you. An' I've got twenty years on you."

"If man were meant to slog his way through bog and briar, God wouldn't have invented concrete and public transport," Constantine retorted when he was able. He coughed, took another couple of breaths, coughed again, and then straightened. From their vantage point, the moors stretched out beneath them, dull winter shades dappled by fleeting glimpses of sun. Water glinted more here than there and despite himself Constantine felt a moment's gratitude for the thick rubber encasing his feet, even if it _was_ pink.

"There." He followed Phil's pointing arm, and choked back a snort of laughter. Of course. It had to be.

Off to a left was a rather run-down manor house, surrounded by a barbed wire security fence, but suitably Gothic all the same. Ignore the fencing and the cameras on the roof and the place could have been written by Austen. He could almost fancy he'd caught a glimpse of a wild-eyed face peering from the attic windows. Apparently he'd made one Bronte joke too many.

"So what put you onto this place?" he asked, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and trying - without a lot of success - to light one in the brisk wind.

"Hints. Rumours. Old wives' tales. Folk round these parts say there's something strange going on, and I'm inclined to believe them. I told Chrissie not to get involved, that if she needed money Marjorie and I could help, but she was a proud one. Wanted to do it herself, said the kids were her responsibility and if we wanted to help we could baby-sit when she was working." Approval laced Phil's words. "Then, about a week before she was killed, she came to me, told me she was going to quit."

"She had found out something?"

"Not really. Just couldn't keep up the pace. Once you got to a certain level, the higher-ups, they got demanding. Wanted her to travel more, network, pull in more punters. These pyramid schemes. they're like cults, in a way. Got their own credos, their own loyalties. Their own prices. An' Chrissie didn't like where it was heading, so she was going to tell them she was out. Next time I saw her, it was to identify the body. What was left of it." There was a pause as Phil pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "That tipped me onto this 'Cottage Magic' crowd. I did some digging and found Chrissie wasn't the first distributor to meet with a messy end."

Constantine thought back to the files he'd acquired from DI Robbins, the pathology reports, the statements. "So you think that if people don't wanna play Avon lady any more, the company offs them?"

"Something like that." Phil shrugged. "How, I dunno. That's your area, explaining the unexplainable. But I _know_ Chrissie didn't kill herself any more than other of them. So there had to be a way to _make_ them step into the front of trains and throw themselves out of windows. Magic, right?"

"Possibly," Constantine replied slowly, piecing things together. "These others. do you know if they were wanting out too?"

"No, an' that's the problem. My source back at the Met has dried up -got himself caught, I reckon, and I've got no way of finding out. But my guess is they were."

"Maybe." Constantine took another look at the house below. "We done up here?"

"Just about." Phil turned, and started down the hill again. "One more stop. There's someone you ought to meet."

[next part]

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