Peppe would have said she was vivacious, with a permanent smile, a bust that looked artificial, and a skirt that barely covered her underwear, and yet she looked as if she had just left school.
On another chair, having his hair cut, the vain and obnoxious Paul Waverton. The whizz kid they called him in the press for his ability to read the financial markets and to make the right call. His Bentley was parked outside, close enough to be admired by Waverton and the people on the street, illegally enough to get a ticket for parking where it shouldn’t be. Not that it worried Waverton as he flaunted his money, even giving a fifty-pound tip to whoever worked on his hair. And work was the word, for Waverton, in spite of all his financial acumen, was an unattractive man with hair like steel wool, almost like a Brillo pad, and as hard to keep in shape.
Peppe focussed back on Abano. ‘Not so busy today,’ the little man said. Peppe would have happily refused his custom, but Abano was not a man to fall out with, the sort of man who had friends in low places who wouldn’t have any issues about giving someone a savage beating.
‘It will be later,’ Peppe said as he combed Abano’s hair back over the top of his scalp, the expensive treatments for premature balding not working, and certainly not willing to tell the gangster.
Abano liked to talk big and to show off, not that Peppe wanted to hear the stories, only to take the man’s money and to shuffle him out of the salon. Time at Peppe’s salon was by appointment only, and in another forty minutes an important customer was due, a friend of royalty. He was more the salon’s type of customer, as were Hendry and Waverton.
It didn’t happen often, but sometimes people without appointments came in, and as it was a Tuesday, typically the slowest day of the week, there was a spare chair and a spare hairdresser. But the person who came in was not a well-heeled man, nor a celebrity, not even a gangster. It was a celebrity seeker, a woman in her thirties, carrying more weight than she should, and definitely drunk.
‘Mr Hendry, Guy,’ she gushed as she made her way over to the man. Gillian Dickenson stood up to impede the woman’s progress, but she was pushed to one side. One of the other hairdressers attempted to grab the woman’s arm, but she wrenched herself free.
‘I need your autograph and a photo,’ she said to Hendry.
‘Not now, later,’ Hendry said in a friendly manner, in an attempt to maintain his on-screen persona.
‘Now, it’s got to be now. My friends will never believe that I met Guy Hendry.’
‘Please, now is not convenient. Send an email to my publicity company, and I’ll make sure you receive a promotional package and an invite to a recording of one of my programmes.'
‘You’re like all the rest of them,’ the woman sneered. ‘All smiles and teeth on the television, but total bastards in real life.’
‘Please, will you leave,’ Peppe said.
‘Who are you to tell me to do anything?’
‘I’m the owner, and this is private property.’
‘I’ll go once Guy Hendry gives me an autograph and a photo.’
‘Very well,’ Hendry said, raising himself from where he had been sitting, running his fingers through his hair.
‘Hey, you can take the photo,’ the celebrity-obsessed woman said to Hendry’s girlfriend.
Nobody looked at the door to the salon, only at the commotion to the rear of the room. Peppe was nervously pacing around the room, Abano was on his phone calling for a couple of his men to wait outside the salon and to deal with the woman if she didn’t leave.
Hendry, seriously annoyed and not in a good mood, smiled through gritted teeth, not even complaining when the woman put her arms around him and thrust her breasts forward.
‘The real stuff, you don’t know what you’re missing,’ she said.
‘That’s enough. Out of my establishment,’ Peppe said.
A man who had come in unannounced stood just inside the door of the salon. He looked around him and at the people assembled. From inside the long coat that he wore, he withdrew a semi-automatic rifle. He released the safety and sprayed the salon, making sure that no one avoided the bullets. He then walked around to each of those lying or slouching or still groaning. He withdrew a pistol from his pocket and shot each person at close range in the head.
In all, a total of twenty-eight seconds from first shot to when he left the salon. Outside, he casually walked away down Kensington High Street. Once clear of the area, he deposited the rifle and the pistol in a rubbish bin.
Back at the salon, the screaming of the people on the street could still be heard, as could the sirens of the police cars and the ambulances. The man knew that they were too late and all they would find would be dead bodies. A most satisfying day, he thought.
Chapter 2
Kensington High Street, with the rush hour traffic building and multiple homicides, was not something that the local police were prepared for, although practice for terrorist attacks had helped. With no option, the busy thoroughfare had been closed, causing anger with those already stuck in traffic, and frustration with the other motorists as they were diverted around the area.
Outside the hairdressing salon, Detective Chief
