The Lipstick Killers Page 3

  Margaret got to her feet and went to the boy. ‘Hello Peter,’ she said.

  ‘Hello. I didn’t know you were coming.’ he said excitedly. ‘Where’s dad? He’s not in bed.’

  Margaret hugged the boy, and looked round at her sister for guidance. ‘Frankie,’ she said, not knowing what to say to the boy.

  Frankie got up from her seat. ‘Peter,’ she said softly. ‘Come here, lovey.’

  He went to his other aunt, looking even more bewildered.

  Frankie led him to a chair at the kitchen table and sat him down. ‘Dad’s gone away for a bit,’ she said, wishing Sharon was there. ‘We’ve all had a late night and mum’s very tired.’

  ‘Gone where?’ the boy asked. ‘Where did you go last night? We were scared.’

  ‘We’ll explain later. Now be a good big boy, and don’t ask questions. Do you want some breakfast?’

  Peter nodded, but he was smart and sensed that something was wrong. ‘Shall I go and wake Susan?’ he asked his aunts.

  ‘Leave her for now,’ said Frankie.

  ‘What about school?’ he insisted. ‘It’s my turn to feed the guinea pig today.’

  ‘You’re having a day off. A holiday,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll go and wake your mum.’

  She left the room, glad to be away from her nephew and his questions. Ever since he’d been able to understand what she did for a living, he’d hero-worshipped her. He loved watching crime series on TV, although Sharon put her foot down on letting him look at the ones containing sex and violence. But even so he managed to watch as many as he was allowed, and was sure that Aunty Mags was a mixture of Wonder Woman, Cagney and Lacey and Miss Marple, all rolled into one. Mags wished she could have lived up to his ideas about her, but she knew this was just the beginning. She reached the lounge where Sharon was still asleep and Margaret hated to wake her to the worst day of her life, but the children would need her. She shook her sister and Sharon jumped, suddenly wide awake. ‘Mags,’ she said, the memory of what happened last night suddenly hitting her like a ton of bricks. ‘It’s you. So it wasn’t a dream.’

  ‘I’m so sorry sweetie,’ said Margaret. ‘But it’s morning and Peter’s up asking questions. And no, it wasn’t a dream. I wish it was, for your sake.’

  Sharon shoved Frankie’s coat off and got up. ‘I must look a fright,’ she said.

  ‘You were always the best looking one of all of us,’ replied Margaret. ‘You look fine.’

  Sharon glanced in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Look how red and puffy my eyes are. I look like a bloody witch. I’ll scare the kids.’

  ‘I doubt it. What will you tell them?’

  ‘The truth, Frankie said I should tell the truth.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say, I told Peter Monty was away.’

  ‘Thanks sis. I understand. You had to tell him something.’

  ‘And I told him that there was no school today.’

  ‘No, that’s the right thing to do. I won’t send them to school today. Listen, where is he?’

  ‘In the kitchen with Frankie. She’s making his breakfast.’

  ‘And Susan?’

  ‘Still asleep.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sharon, looking suddenly more resilient. ‘Let me go wash my face and I’ll talk to them.’

  ‘I’ll be with you. Don’t worry,’ said Margaret.

  ‘You’ve done it haven’t you? In your job I mean.’

  ‘Breaking bad news is the worst part. But it’s got to be done sis, and we’ll all be here with you.’

  Sharon went upstairs to her bathroom where she quickly splashed cold water on her face in a vain attempt to get the redness out of her eyes. She looked in the mirror as her younger sister had done hours before. ‘The best looking one,’ she said aloud. ‘Oh Monty, why?’

  She smoothed down the sweater she was wearing over the blue jeans that she had dragged on when the police had arrived last night. They’d tracked the address from the number plate of Monty’s car. ‘Well, here goes,’ she said under her breath, steeling herself to deliver the news to her children. ‘How am I going to cope with this?’ And with that, she started to cry.

  7

  ‘Stop it,’ she said quietly, trying to get herself in check. ‘I’ve got to be strong.’ She dried her eyes on a piece of toilet roll and left the bathroom. She went to Susan’s room and looked at her youngest child, still asleep, with the covers almost off the bed where she’d kicked them off in the night. She could hardly bring herself to wake Susan, but she knew she had to. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, and brushing the hair off her face.

  Susan’s eyes opened and she smiled. ‘Mummy,’ she said. ‘I had a bad dream.’

  ‘I know, sweetie. So did I.’

  ‘Is it better now?’ said Susan, hopefully.

  Sharon shook her head. ‘Come on love, get up and clean your teeth. Mummy has something to tell you.’

  ‘What? Are we getting a puppy?’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Sharon, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. ‘Now come on, Peter’s downstairs, and Aunty Frankie and Aunty Mags. they’ve come to see you.’

  ‘Aunty Mags!’ said the child delightedly. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘Well she’s here now. Put on your dressing gown and we’ll go and see her.’

  Susan almost leapt out of bed, tugged on her dressing gown and ran to the second bathroom where she scrubbed her teeth, showed them gleaming to her mother and ran downstairs. ‘Aunty Mags,’ she shouted on the way. ‘Where are you?’

  Sharon followed slowly, knowing that what she had to say would destroy the child’s delight. She shook her head as she went. Please God, she said to herself. Help me.

  When she got to the kitchen, Peter was eating corn flakes at the table and Susan was sitting on Margaret’s lap, a beaming smile on her face.

  Here goes, thought Sharon.

  ‘Peter; Susan,’ she said, ‘I’ve got some very bad news.’

  The two children looked at her, each with a confused expression on their faces.

  ‘There was an accident last night. Daddy was hurt.’

  ‘No,’ said Peter, but Susan just looked even more confused.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘Now come here darlings, both of you.’

  She crouched down to her children and gathered them in her arms. ‘Daddy’s not coming back my darlings. He’s gone to live with the angels now.’

  Peter started to cry, and Susan joined in, although she really wasn’t quite sure why. At her young age death was something that she didn’t understand. It had been the same with Roxie when Queenie died. It had all been too much to take in.

  Sharon hugged them to her breast and started to cry too, whilst her two sisters just looked on, faces torn with pity, knowing there was nothing they could do to stop the pain.

  8

  Frankie was the first to disturb her loved ones huddled, weeping on the floor. She jumped up from her chair and rushed over to them. ‘Sharon,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take them upstairs? Take them to your room.’

  Sharon looked up at her, tears pouring from her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’ll be good. Upstairs. Somewhere quiet.’

  ‘Quiet is good,’ replied Frankie. ‘We’ll be here. I’ll have to phone work. Take some time off.’

  Sharon looked at Margaret. ‘And you?’ she asked.

  ‘As long as you need me love,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m here for you – and you know I don’t have anywhere to be at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you, both of you. Come on kids, let’s watch TV in Mummy’s room.’

  The trio left the kitchen, with Margaret and Frankie following them into the hallway, but as Sharon and the children started up the first flight of stairs there was a ring at the doorbell. Through the frosted glass Margaret saw the familiar silhouettes of two uniform caps. One male, one female. ‘It looks like the police,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

  ‘Will you,’ said Sharon.
‘I can’t face it. If you need me…’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ said Margaret, and as the three went upstairs she walked to the front door and opened it. Outside was a uniformed police sergeant holding a ziplock bag, and a young WPC. ‘Mrs Smith?’ he asked.

  ‘Sister. Detective-Sergeant Margaret Doyle of the Met.’ She didn’t show her ID, because it was still in the flat in Battersea.

  ‘Oh. Good to meet you. Sorry. You know what I mean. I’m Sergeant Turner from Guildford police station. This is WPC Dodds.’

  ‘Hello Sergeant Turner. Hello WPC Dodds. Come in.’

  ‘Can we speak to Mrs Smith?’ Turner asked as he came inside the house.

  ‘She’s upstairs. She’s just told her children what happened and they’re in bits, as you can imagine, so I said I’d talk to you.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a tough one. Come into the living room.’

  The sergeant and the WPC followed Margaret into the room. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Tea? My sister’s making some.’

  ‘I thought you said she was upstairs?’

  ‘No Frankie. Our eldest. There’s a lot of us.’

  ‘That’s good at this sort of time,’ said the policeman, obviously uncomfortable in this house of grief. The young woman said nothing, just took out a police-issue notebook.

  ‘It helps to have family around you. Did you want tea, either of you?’

  ‘No, I’ll pass,’ said the sergeant. The WPC, who looked young, out of her depth, just shook her head. ‘I’m glad I’m speaking to you to be honest,’ he went on. ‘I’ve never got used to all this, and I’ve been in the job for twelve years.’

  ‘Me neither,’ agreed Mags, thinking of all the times she had been in his shoes.

  The pair sat on the sofa, and the sergeant said, ‘we pulled the car away from the crash site at first light, and it’s being examined at our garage. It’s a miracle it didn’t catch fire. We found Mr Smith’s jacket in the back.’ He indicated the bag he’d been carrying. ‘It must have fallen off the back seat in the accident. There was a wallet in the inside pocket with cash and cards, and his phone, and what looks like house and office keys. We’ll need you to sign for them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The car keys were still in the ignition of course. It looks like a write-off I’m afraid.’

  ‘That hardly matters now. Sharon has a car of her own but she wouldn’t get in that car anyway now.’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘After that it’s just procedure – as you’ll be aware,’ he said. ‘Post mortem We’ll be checking for alcohol and drugs in his system as a matter of course. How old are the children?’

  ‘Seven and five.’

  ‘God, that’s a tragedy,’ he said, thoughtfully.

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Well thank you for your time,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ll be on our way. Sign here please.’ He passed Margaret an official form listing what had been found, and a pen. She dashed off a signature, then he fished a card from his breast pocket. ‘If you need me for anything, just call. Normally we’d stick around but you’re a copper too. We’ll leave you alone for now. But we may have to come back. You know how it is.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Sergeant Doyle, thank you.’

  ‘I won’t say it was a pleasure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ And with that he got up, put his cap back on and allowed Margaret to see him and the WPC out. She had not spoken in the ten minutes she’d been in the house, but Margaret still felt sorry for her. It won’t ever get any better, she thought.

  9

  In a tiny flat with broken air conditioning on the Costa del Sol, Roxie Doyle sat in the side of her bed dressed in just a pair of knickers, worrying about her lack of customers and money. Suddenly she heard noises from her beauty salon below the flat. ‘Christ, what now?’ she said aloud as she pulled on a dress and went downstairs.

  The salon was situated in a tacky shopping mall, deserted at that early hour, and the front door stood wide open. The shop was empty, aside from the unwelcome sight of her ex-boyfriend Tony Darrow, elegant, but wasted – his grubby cream suit and pink shirt contrasting deeply with the open shiny blade of the flick knife he was holding.

  ‘Tony,’ she said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Come for my money love,’ he said, in the cockney accent she’d once found so attractive, but now got on her nerves. ‘You’ve been ducking my calls.’

  When they were together Tony had loaned Roxie a lot of cash, supposedly for the business, but in fact most had gone on the high life for them both.

  ‘I don’t have your money,’ said Roxie. ‘You spent most of it yourself if you remember.’

  ‘Not my fault you couldn’t resist me. But it was a loan, and now I’ve come to collect.’

  ‘Like I said Tony. I don’t have it. Look around. The place is falling apart at the seams. I’m on my own here – most of the time, if you get my drift. Business has fallen off. There’s more fashionable places to go. The whole mall is going down the pan. Ex-pats having their houses knocked down, getting old and dying. I’ve even had to sell my jeep just to pay the rent.’

  ‘Save me the sob story,’ said Tony. ‘Business is just as bad for me. That’s why I need my money back.’

  ‘And if I don’t give it to you?’

  He held up the knife. ‘Then I’m going to fuck you in every hole and then slice that pretty face of yours until your best friend won’t recognise you.’

  ‘Run out of best friends Tony. And as for the fucking bit, I hope you’re better at it than you used to be. ‘Specially in the condition you’re in. Couldn’t get it up most of the time.’

  ‘What did you say, you cunt?’ said Tony, almost dancing in his two-tone shoes with anger and excitement.

  ‘You been at the marching powder again, Tony?’ said Roxie.

  ‘I mean it you bitch. Get me my fucking money or I’ll cut you up good.’ he said.

  ‘Actually I believe you. Listen,’ she said, going behind the counter where the shop’s till hummed. ‘There’s some cash in here. It’s all I’ve got.’ She pressed a key and the till opened. At the back was a thin bundle of high denomination Euro notes Roxie had been saving for a rainy day. It looked like that day had come. She pulled out the cash and underneath was a nickel plated, pearl handled, single shot .22 Derringer nestling in the plastic tray, fully loaded. A lady’s gun – actually a gift from Tony when they were still together. The stuff they were into, Roxie needed it for protection. Luckily Tony obviously didn’t remember that she still had it. A purse pistol, but still deadly in the right hands and that morning Roxie’s were the right hands.

  Seeing the few notes, Tony yelled in anger and frustration. ‘Peanuts.’

  Roxie picked up the pistol, cocked the hammer and shot him in the right eye, the sound of the shot from the tiny gun no louder than a cough. His knife hit the floor before him, but not by much.

  Roxie went round his dead body without touching it, and closed the front door.

  She stood for a moment looking down at him, a red hole where one eye had been, the other blown out on its stalk by the concussion from the bullet, when the phone on the counter rang. It was Frankie with the bad news about Monty.

  It must be Fate, she thought, as she put the phone down. I definitely need to leave the country – and quickly. She put the phone down, went upstairs, dressed, packed, took the money she’d saved, stepped over Tony’s body, went out to the mall, locked up the shop behind her and went looking for a cab. On the way, she carefully wiped her fingerprints off the gun and dropped it down an open drain.

  10

  Margaret went back into the kitchen where Frankie was again sitting at the table, looking half dead, yet another cup of sweet tea in front of her. ‘Do those coppers want a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘No, they’ve gone.’

  ‘What’s that you’ve got?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘They brought th
ese,’ said Mags, laying Monty’s wallet, top of the range BlackBerry and keys on the table, and hanging the jacket on the back of a chair. ‘Monty’s stuff. They found them when they recovered the car.’

  ‘Christ, how could he be so stupid,’ said Frankie. ‘How could he?’

  ‘Accidents happen.’ God knows she’d seen enough in her job.

  ‘But he did drink and drive. I know that. All those late night meetings. I begged him not to, for Peter and Susan’s sake. I always dreaded something happening to him, and now…’ Frankie’s voice tailed away.

  ‘He wasn’t…?’ said Margaret.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Playing away.’

  ‘Course he wasn’t!’ Frankie exclaimed, angrily. ‘Typical copper. Always suspicious.’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve. It happens. They’d been married eight years.’

  ‘No way. He loved Sharon and those kids, look at everything he provided for them.’

  ‘I know. That was unfair. It was just a thought.’

  ‘Well keep it to yourself in future, you’ll upset Sharon.’

  Margaret nodded, then said. ‘I’m sorry about this morning on the phone. Jumping down your throat. I’ve not been sleeping well lately,’ she said, looking faintly vulnerable.

  ‘I’m not surprised. Losing your job.’

  ‘I haven’t lost it Frankie. At least not yet. I’m suspended.’

  ‘What happened Mags? I know we don’t see each other much but you’re my little sister and I’m always here for you.’

  ‘I was suspended for shooting the wrong bloke. But he was a waste of space anyway. Wrong time, wrong place. At least he’s not dead – though it would be no loss if he was.’ Mags looked grim for a moment, then continued. ‘But forget that for now. What do we do next?’