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.‘Do you know the company I’m talking about?’ Martin asked.As she pulled on her cigarette, the bones beneath her cheeks became even more pronounced.For a second, it was easy to picture her skull beneath that flawless skin.Iona waited for the woman to reply, but she remained silent.There was a flintiness about her that spoke to Iona of a life not always shrouded in luxury.‘Miss Dubianko,’ Martin said, ‘the owner of the IT company, unfortunately, is dead.’Now she blinked.‘You’re not talking about Eamon Heslin, are you?’ Smoke trickled from her mouth and nostrils as she spoke.Martin nodded.‘Oh my God.’ She leaned forward and ground her cigarette out.‘In the fire?’‘Sorry, I cannot give you any more detail than that,’ Martin replied.‘That’s terrible.’ Her eyes moved slowly to the side.‘He was only here the other day …’‘He was?’ Iona asked.‘Yes,’ she replied in a small voice.‘When I set up the business, he did the networking for me in the main office.Whenever there’s a glitch, he fixes it.Usually remotely.But a cable needed to be replaced, so he popped over in person.I can’t believe he’s dead.’Iona jotted the information down.‘There was some kind of monthly contract?’‘Not really.I sometimes bought items from him, when he had them for sale.Printers, a couple of computers.’Iona studied the set-up on the lady’s desk.The monitor sat on a desktop PC from which a mass of wires and cables hung.‘Did he recently sell you a laptop?’‘A laptop? No – I just use this computer.And I can pick up email on my Blackberry.That works fine for me.’Martin looked about.‘What do you do here, Miss Dubianko?’‘I sell hair.’‘Sorry?’‘For extensions.I supply most of the best salons round Manchester.’‘Synthetic hair?’‘No, human.’Iona thought of the thin boxes piled up in the main room.‘Really?’ Martin asked, sounding intrigued.‘There’s a big … obviously, there is a big demand.’‘There certainly is.Thank you Cheryl Cole, Lady Gaga and the rest.’For the first time, the woman’s eyes sparked with feeling.When she’d said the names, the faintest trace of an accent had shown through.Martin smiled.‘Sorry to be nosey – this has nothing to do with why we’re here – but where do you get your hair?’‘That would depend on the colour.’ She reached into a drawer and placed three of the boxes Iona had seen in the main office on the desk.They looked like the type a florist might use for packaging a single red rose.‘This is black – most of my black hair is sourced from India or the Philippines.Of course, you can buy it dyed, but I think it lacks a truly natural appearance when it is dyed.’ She opened the lid and there inside, like a severed horse’s tail, was a lustrous length of ebony hair.‘Brown is trickier, there are so many shades.I get some from Venezuela, Colombia, Nicaragua.Countries where the Spanish blood has mingled with the local.Blonde – that’s much, much easier.Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia – those are my main countries for blonde.’ She removed another cigarette from her packet, lit it and gestured at Iona with the glowing tip.‘Your hair, that is wonderful.It would command a good price if you grew it long.’Suddenly self-conscious, Iona couldn’t help reaching behind one ear and making a little raking movement with her fingertips.‘I think you’d have a long wait! It must take years for the women to—’‘Yes.But so many people in these countries are poor.The money can be a great blessing.’Martin was peering into the box.‘Do you pay a lot, then?’‘Not nearly as much as I sell it for.’ She laughed for the first time.It was a hard, ugly sound.Iona’s smile faltered as she registered the woman’s mercenary smile.The purpose of the visit came back to her; along with the certainty it was futile.‘So Eamon Heslin didn’t offer to sell you a laptop when he was last in?’The woman tapped ash from her cigarette.‘No.He had some new monitors he’d picked up somewhere, with bigger screens.But the ones I have are fine.’‘When was this?’‘Five, six days ago? Shall I check?’‘If you don’t mind.We’re trying to piece together all of Mr Heslin’s movements in the run-up to his death.’She opened a red diary with her cigarette hand, wisps of smoke snaking about as she tracked across the columns.‘Yes.On Tuesday the twenty-first.A morning visit: eleven o’clock.’She rotated the large book round.Iona sat forward and could see the entry written there.Eamon, eleven o’clock, just as she’d said [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.‘Do you know the company I’m talking about?’ Martin asked.As she pulled on her cigarette, the bones beneath her cheeks became even more pronounced.For a second, it was easy to picture her skull beneath that flawless skin.Iona waited for the woman to reply, but she remained silent.There was a flintiness about her that spoke to Iona of a life not always shrouded in luxury.‘Miss Dubianko,’ Martin said, ‘the owner of the IT company, unfortunately, is dead.’Now she blinked.‘You’re not talking about Eamon Heslin, are you?’ Smoke trickled from her mouth and nostrils as she spoke.Martin nodded.‘Oh my God.’ She leaned forward and ground her cigarette out.‘In the fire?’‘Sorry, I cannot give you any more detail than that,’ Martin replied.‘That’s terrible.’ Her eyes moved slowly to the side.‘He was only here the other day …’‘He was?’ Iona asked.‘Yes,’ she replied in a small voice.‘When I set up the business, he did the networking for me in the main office.Whenever there’s a glitch, he fixes it.Usually remotely.But a cable needed to be replaced, so he popped over in person.I can’t believe he’s dead.’Iona jotted the information down.‘There was some kind of monthly contract?’‘Not really.I sometimes bought items from him, when he had them for sale.Printers, a couple of computers.’Iona studied the set-up on the lady’s desk.The monitor sat on a desktop PC from which a mass of wires and cables hung.‘Did he recently sell you a laptop?’‘A laptop? No – I just use this computer.And I can pick up email on my Blackberry.That works fine for me.’Martin looked about.‘What do you do here, Miss Dubianko?’‘I sell hair.’‘Sorry?’‘For extensions.I supply most of the best salons round Manchester.’‘Synthetic hair?’‘No, human.’Iona thought of the thin boxes piled up in the main room.‘Really?’ Martin asked, sounding intrigued.‘There’s a big … obviously, there is a big demand.’‘There certainly is.Thank you Cheryl Cole, Lady Gaga and the rest.’For the first time, the woman’s eyes sparked with feeling.When she’d said the names, the faintest trace of an accent had shown through.Martin smiled.‘Sorry to be nosey – this has nothing to do with why we’re here – but where do you get your hair?’‘That would depend on the colour.’ She reached into a drawer and placed three of the boxes Iona had seen in the main office on the desk.They looked like the type a florist might use for packaging a single red rose.‘This is black – most of my black hair is sourced from India or the Philippines.Of course, you can buy it dyed, but I think it lacks a truly natural appearance when it is dyed.’ She opened the lid and there inside, like a severed horse’s tail, was a lustrous length of ebony hair.‘Brown is trickier, there are so many shades.I get some from Venezuela, Colombia, Nicaragua.Countries where the Spanish blood has mingled with the local.Blonde – that’s much, much easier.Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia – those are my main countries for blonde.’ She removed another cigarette from her packet, lit it and gestured at Iona with the glowing tip.‘Your hair, that is wonderful.It would command a good price if you grew it long.’Suddenly self-conscious, Iona couldn’t help reaching behind one ear and making a little raking movement with her fingertips.‘I think you’d have a long wait! It must take years for the women to—’‘Yes.But so many people in these countries are poor.The money can be a great blessing.’Martin was peering into the box.‘Do you pay a lot, then?’‘Not nearly as much as I sell it for.’ She laughed for the first time.It was a hard, ugly sound.Iona’s smile faltered as she registered the woman’s mercenary smile.The purpose of the visit came back to her; along with the certainty it was futile.‘So Eamon Heslin didn’t offer to sell you a laptop when he was last in?’The woman tapped ash from her cigarette.‘No.He had some new monitors he’d picked up somewhere, with bigger screens.But the ones I have are fine.’‘When was this?’‘Five, six days ago? Shall I check?’‘If you don’t mind.We’re trying to piece together all of Mr Heslin’s movements in the run-up to his death.’She opened a red diary with her cigarette hand, wisps of smoke snaking about as she tracked across the columns.‘Yes.On Tuesday the twenty-first.A morning visit: eleven o’clock.’She rotated the large book round.Iona sat forward and could see the entry written there.Eamon, eleven o’clock, just as she’d said [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]