The Lipstick Killers Read online

  ‘Should I come with you?’ said Roxie.

  ‘No. I’m keeping you under wraps for now. You stay down here, keep Frankie company – she looks a bit lost. If I need you I’ll call. You’ve got Sharon’s car if you need transport?’

  ‘OK, but I don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s not a case of liking it or not love. If we do this, we do it right. Go all the way and bugger the consequences. This is deadly serious.’

  ‘I know all about serious.’

  ‘Course you do. So what’s it to be. In or out?’ Mags looked directly at her sister.

  ‘In of course.’

  ‘I knew you would.’

  ‘But I still don’t like it.’

  Roxie felt the cold grip of fear on her heart once again. She just hoped that this time, her intuition was wrong.

  50

  Margaret told Frankie she had to return to London, but kept her real plans secret, telling her sister that she had business to attend to at the flat in Battersea. Frankie seemed listless and unhappy, but cheered up a little when Margaret told her Roxie would be staying in Guildford. ‘I’m glad that Dolly is staying here. The house is quiet without Sharon and the kids,’ said Frankie.

  ‘I’m going to go now,’ Mags said. ‘Beat the rush hour.’

  Mags left most of the clothes that she’d brought with her and took only the necessities – a wrap of cocaine and the Colt revolver. She got into her car and sped up to Battersea where she quickly went into her bedroom and donned a blonde wig, a cheap trench coat and her Gucci dark glasses, a different pair from the ones she had worn when she had met Saint Cyr earlier. Then she drove to Kensington, parked close to the Antarctic Holdings building and waited. It was well past seven by then, and she hoped she hadn’t missed Saint Cyr, but if she had she’d have to come back the next night. She figured the head of security wouldn’t be a clock watcher and she was right. She pulled the car across the street, not too close to the front doors but where she could keep an eye on the entrance to the building’s car park. In the glove compartment of the Porsche she had a small, powerful pair of binoculars which she used to scan the cars leaving the building, cursing the fact that she was doing a solo surveillance. She sat there for half an hour, and then saw Saint Cyr leave the building on foot and head off in the direction of Kensington High Street. By then it had started to rain and he was dressed in a Burberry macintosh and carried a brightly coloured golf umbrella. Margaret got out of the car and followed him at a discreet pace – the brightly coloured umbrella made him easy to spot. She kept her distance until he came to a smart looking bar and restaurant about halfway down the street and entered. It was easy to spot him in the brightly-lit room and she watched through the plate glass window as he went up to the counter, sat on a stool, and was immediately served by the barman. It looked like he was a regular, as the two engaged in conversation. Margaret pulled up the collar of her coat, walked into the bar and sat at a small table on the far side of the room.

  A young waitress approached and she ordered coffee and an overpriced sandwich from the menu, keeping half an eye on Saint Cyr, who was now talking animatedly to another customer as if they were old friends. Margaret kept her eyes fixed on him as she ate her sandwich and she saw Saint Cyr being greeted by other patrons, but never joining any of them, instead remaining alone at the bar. He had two drinks and left. Margaret dropped enough money on the table to cover her bill and a tip, and followed him out of the bar, as Saint Cyr returned to his office building, but this time went down into the car park. Margaret ran back to her car, which had been ticketed, but luckily not clamped, and waited. A few minutes later a dark blue Lexus pulled up the ramp from the parking area; Saint Cyr in the driver’s seat. He turned left and Margaret followed him through the heavy traffic. It was only a short drive to Fulham, where Saint Cyr parked on a residents’ bay, and walked towards a grand looking town house where he let himself in. The house was in darkness until lights came on in the hall and the downstairs front window – which told Margaret that he lived alone.

  Perfect, she thought.

  51

  Margaret figured she’d seen all she was going to see that night and, as it was coming on for ten o’clock, she headed back to Battersea. On the way, her mobile rang. Like most other people on the road, she ignored the law and answered it, hands on. It was Mahoney. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘You don’t even want to know,’ she said.

  ‘Yes I don’t doubt that… I’m just calling to tell you your family are settled at the cottage. It’s not too bad as safe houses go, but not as comfortable as home. There’s a WPC keeping an eye.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Mags, relieved.

  ‘But when I got back to the station there’d been a funny phone call.’

  ‘Funny, how?’

  ‘It was from Kensington nick. They got a call from head of security at Antarctic Holdings this morning. Seems like someone was impersonating a copper and asking questions. Young female DC, name of Hartley. Course, there’s no such person in the Met. From the description though it sounds like someone I know,’ he said pointedly. ‘Anyway, the bloke turns all cagey when he finds out this DC Hartley doesn’t exist. They asked to view the tapes, but he says the CCTV on their floors was off-line, and plays hard to get when our boy asks what sort of questions she was asking. But I’d put money on the fact it was about a certain Monty Smith. What do you reckon?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘As I thought. Anyway, the DS who picked up Haywood’s call was intrigued. Wandered round and got a look at the cameras on the ground floor, and there she was. Baseball cap, shades, leather 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 an
d 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 the plot of the CSI Miami that was showing. Around midnight she went to bed, only to be woken by the phone as the digital display on her bedside clock showed three am. Feeling a deadly sense of deja vu, Margaret hooked the receiver off its stand. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘It’s me, Roxie. You’ve got to come back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s Sharon. She’s taken an overdose.’

  ‘Oh God, no,’ cried Margaret.

  ‘And Peter found her, when she didn’t come in and say goodnight. Frankie’s with them now at this safe house place.’

  ‘Christ, I can’t believe she would do that. Not Sharon. She loved those kids. Did she leave a note?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stupid cow.’

  ‘No sis, think about it. She’s been through it lately. Monty, Joyce, then those threats. She just couldn’t cope. You know Sharon was always the soft one.’

  ‘But Peter and Susan? Why put them through this? After everything that’s happened to them recently?’

  ‘You know Monty was her life, Mags. She must’ve been desperate,’ Roxie persisted.

  ‘I know how she feels. Was anyone there with them?’

  ‘The copper acting as liaison or whatever you call it. She got an ambulance.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. At least the kids weren’t on their own. What’s the prognosis? Are you at the hospital?’

  ‘She’s still unconscious, but alive.’

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can. See you later,’ she replied and put down the phone. She got out of bed, and got dressed. Christ, she thought again, unable to take it all in. These bastards have got something to answer for. And they will, if I have to go to prison for the rest of my life.

  54

  Margaret sped through the empty streets of south London down to the motorway and on to the hospital in Guildford. She was getting tired of the drive and felt nauseous with the panic gripping her empty stomach.

  She found Roxie pacing up and down outside the entrance of the hospital. ‘What’s the story, Dolly?’ Mags demanded.

  ‘Glad you’re here. Its not looking good, but there’s no change sis. Come on, let’s go up and see her.’

  They went upstairs to the side ward where Sharon was in the only bed; tubes and wires poking out of her mouth and body. The machines next to the bed were bleeping quietly and Margaret took her hand. ‘Why Sharon?’ she said. ‘Why do this to all of us?’

  ‘She did it to herself,’ said Roxie.

  ‘No. To us and the kids. Where are they by the way?’

  ‘Still at the cottage with Frankie. She thought that one of us should be there when they woke up.’

  ‘That’s the best plan. Do they know?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Sister or no sister of ours, this was a bastard thing to do.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard, Mags.’

  ‘We’ve got to be hard. The kids need her more than ever and this is so selfish. Where’s her doctor?’

  ‘That one there,’ said Roxie, pointing towards a youngish, prematurely balding man in green scrubs heading their way. ‘Doctor Ramsey.’

  Margaret buttonholed him in the corridor. ‘Doctor Ramsey,’ she said. ‘It’s about Sharon Smith. I’m her sister Margaret. Is she going to be all right?’

  ‘It’s a waiting game at the moment,’ said the doctor. ‘She took a massive overdose. We pumped her stomach of course and we’re just monitoring her for now. It was lucky the ambulance got there so quickly. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific.’ He went to Sharon’s bedside and checked the monitors. ‘She’s breathing and her lungs are clear. She’s sleeping quietly. That’s all I can tell you. We’re close by, and doing everything we can.’

  ‘Can we stay?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘If you wish, but it could be a long night.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ said Roxie, eyes fixed on her sister in the bed.

  55

  It was almost dawn by then and the next few hours did indeed pass slowly for Roxie and Mags sitting by Sharon’s bed. Although they both prayed for some sign of recovery, Sharon hardly stirred as the nurses and her doctor came and went. Margaret used the time to explain to Roxie about her observation of Peter Saint Cyr and her plan for him and his associates.

  ‘Saint Cyr is the key to this. We grab him and find out everything he knows,’ said Margaret. ‘And then, if it’s true they were behind Monty’s and Joyce’s death, we’ll go straight in and sort out this Haywood character.’

  ‘And if it isn’t what we think?’

  ‘Believe me, we’re right,’ said Margaret. ‘Copper’s instinct.’

  ‘OK. I trust you sis. Then what?’

  ‘Then we will do what needs to be done. These people have fucked with us once too often. I want a full confession.’

  ‘This is dangerous you know. We could both end up arrested, or worse.’

  ‘Sure. Listen Dolly, if you want out just say so. No hard feelings.’

  ‘And if I did?’

  ‘Then I’ll carry on in my own sweet way and come up with another plan. Roxie, I’ve had enough of being pushed around. That’s what happened to me in the force. I turned into the bad guy through no fault of my own – then all this started. To be honest with you Roxie, I was half convinced to turn in my papers anyway. It’s all changed being a copper. Health and safety and hours of paperwork, and what thanks do you get? Fuck all. Why should I waste any more of my life on the force when it doesn’t give a fuck about me? I care about my family and they’re my priority now. I don’t care what happens to me, I just wanna get the fuckers that harmed my family. So what’s it to be?’

  Roxie looked at the prone body of her sister in the bed next to them, so pale and quiet, and looked at her sister with a
determined glint in her eyes. ‘Mags, I think it’s time I told you a thing or two about myself.’

  56

  ‘Like what?’ asked Margaret, perplexed.

  ‘I haven’t been telling you the truth since I got back. Well, you know some of it, but I’ve done some bad things.’

  ‘What have you been up to Dolly? I know you had a little dabble with drugs but you didn’t do anything too bad, did you?’

  ‘That’s not the half of it. Remember I told you about the bloke in America? Chase?’

  ‘Sure. Your cowboy lover.’

  ‘That’s him. Well, he died,’ said Roxie, her voice cracking.

  ‘I’m sorry love. How did it happen?’

  ‘Shot dead whilst taking part in an armed robbery.’

  ‘Bloody hell. When?’

  ‘When I was with him.’

  ‘With him? You mean like his girlfriend?’

  ‘No – well, yes. But literally with him. I was driving.’

  ‘In an armed robbery?’ exclaimed Mags. ‘But I thought you went back to the ship.’

  ‘I was crazy about him. I jumped ship in New Orleans and stayed with him for two months. He told me he wasn’t the rich kid I’d taken him for and actually made his money knocking over banks. I told him about Mum, and about our background and he said that we made a good couple. We ran out of dough after a while and needed to get some more, quickly. His old partner was in jail. He saw the way I drive, and how I liked shooting, and we did a couple of jobs. The second one went wrong. He was shot by the cops and bled to death in the back of the car. I dumped the body, and got away. He told me to. I think he really loved me too.’ By this time tears were running down Roxie’s face, unchecked.

  ‘And I thought I was in trouble,’ said Margaret, hugging Roxie tight.