The Lipstick Killers Page 4

  Frankie looked at the kitchen clock. ‘Half eight,’ she said. ‘We have to call Roxie. What time is it in Spain? Is it an hour forwards or backwards or the same.’

  ‘Christ, I can’t remember. Let’s just call her,’ Mags said. ‘Get rid of that jacket first, in case Sharon comes down. She doesn’t need to see it right now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll be in the spare room,’ said Frankie. ‘The bed’s made up.’

  ‘I’ll take it upstairs with my bag. We’ll tell Sharon later about Monty’s things.’

  ‘Take the other stuff too. I’ve got his watch and ring. They gave them to me at the hospital. Poor Sharon couldn’t look.’

  ‘You can’t blame her,’ said Margaret, as she gathered up Monty’s stuff, then went to her car and got her bag, then went upstairs to her room. When she had put his jacket in the wardrobe, unpacked her few things and stashed the cocaine in her shoe, she put Monty’s wallet and phone in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, keeping the keys so that she could get in and out of the house, and went back downstairs. On the way she peered into the master bedroom where Sharon, Peter and Susan were lying fast asleep again, on top of the bed, the curtains drawn against the sun.

  She rejoined Frankie who looked even more shattered. ‘They’re all asleep,’ she said. ‘And so should you be. You look knackered.’

  ‘Things to do first. Let’s call Roxie, I’ve got her number. By the way I just called Joyce.’ Joyce was Monty’s secretary. A single woman fast approaching retirement age, she had become part of the fabric of the family. ‘She couldn’t speak she was so upset. Is this how it’s going to be?’ said Frankie, her eyes misty.

  Margaret nodded. ‘You know it will, at least for a bit. What about Monty’s mother?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t had the heart. You know she’s ill?’

  Margaret nodded again. ‘Do you think she’ll be well enough to come down?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s all alone up there in Norwich. It’ll be a terrible shock. Monty was her only child. I don’t know what she’ll do.’ She looked confused at the phone in her hand. ‘What was I doing?’

  ‘Calling Roxie,’ said Margaret. ‘Or do you want me to?’

  Frankie shook her head and, using the phone on the kitchen wall, she dialled the number she took from the diary she kept in her handbag. She listened for a few seconds, then said. ‘Roxie, it’s Frankie. I know it’s early. Listen, listen. This isn’t a social call. I’ve got very bad news.’

  A pause.

  ‘It’s Monty,’ she went on. ‘He’s dead.’

  Another pause.

  ‘A car crash. Can you come over?’

  A third.

  ‘You can. Great. It’ll be good to see you. Margaret’s here. She’s staying. You can stay at mine. How soon can you make it?’

  A further pause.

  ‘Thanks Dolly. Let us know what time and we’ll get you picked up. It’ll be good to see you. See you later.’ Replacing the receiver, she turned to Mags. ‘She’ll get the first flight she can. She’s got a good manageress at the salon who she can leave in charge. She’ll go to Gatwick, and phone when she knows what time she’s arriving. You’ll pick her up won’t you?’

  Margaret nodded.

  ‘She sounded strange,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Nothing new there. She always sounds strange, our Roxie. Anyway, you just broke bad news.’

  ‘No. Not like always. Even with what I told her. Something’s wrong.’

  ‘We’ll find out when she gets here. Some bloke or other as usual.’

  ‘Suppose so. I’ll stay here. You get some sleep if you can. You don’t know how late she’ll be.’

  ‘What about you Frankie? You look dead on your feet,’ said Margaret.

  ‘I’ll manage. I’ll sleep later.’

  ‘Come on Frankie, you’re always looking after everyone else. You need to take care of yourself too.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Frankie.

  ‘OK, but I don’t know if I can sleep.’

  ‘Try. Now go.’

  And Margaret did as she was told.

  When she had gone, Frankie put her head on her arms where she sat and finally fell asleep through sheer exhaustion.

  11

  Margaret left the kitchen and headed upstairs to the quiet of her room where she lay on the bed, fully clothed apart from her boots, and pulled the duvet over her. She was used to sleeping with her clothes on in her job, and she tried to doze. Speaking about her suspension had brought back the memory, and she tossed and turned, unable to sleep as she went over the details of that fateful day three months ago.

  It had been a big operation. One of the biggest she’d ever been involved in. An operation involving the Met, the revenue, and even some shadowy characters from MI5, although they kept their distance. The bad guys were a mixture of Russian Mafia and homegrown East London hard men. A volatile mix indeed, as the Russians thought the Brits were soft, and the East Londoners resented the Russians muscling in on their territory. Nor their methods, which, even by contemporary standards, were rough and ready. Torture, rape, murder. Anything went. But the rewards were sky high. This gang had fingers in so many pies – drugs, illegal immigrants, prostitution, stolen cars, even booze and cigarettes – bringing them down would be a coup of the highest order, and one that was fraught with danger. The final briefing after months of undercover work of the most dangerous kind was at Limehouse police station near Canary Wharf. Margaret was dressed in monkey boots, jeans, a sweater, flak jacket and baseball cap with police insignia on it. Her Browning .9mm pistol with its fifteen-shot magazine nestled in its leather holster on her hip. Sitting next to her was her Detective Inspector at the time. Tony Utter, known to all as Nutter of the yard – although he’d never been stationed there. It was a nickname the older, heavier man enjoyed, as in reality, it was far removed from his calm, capable personality.

  ‘Are you ready for this?’ he said to Margaret in his soft, growly voice.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ she replied, though she could feel the butterflies in her stomach as she said it. But he was the man. The man who’d taken time to mentor Margaret from rookie to DS. ‘I met your mother once,’ he’d told her on their first meeting. ‘I was just a lad in a tall hat. She was the queen. It was something and nothing. A parking ticket. She could have told me to piss off, but she was a real lady. Paid up there and then. I’ll never forget. Even called me sir, although I know she was just humouring me.’

  ‘No worries. You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Just follow my lead.’

  ‘OK boss.’

  The take down was at a warehouse in the Docklands, where a delivery was expected around midnight. But it was no ordinary cargo – the back of the articulated lorry was stuffed with illegal immigrants and uncut cocaine and it had sailed through customs at Harwick that evening off a ferry from France. Only thing was, one of the customs men had fitted a GPS transmitter and now a little red light on the receiver showed the truck heading along the North Circular road towards the rendezvous.

  Margaret and Utter sat in the lead car, accompanied by two plain vans full of armed police who were to be first into the building, and the convoy set off.

  The warehouse was on a trading estate which, at that time of night, was quiet and deserted. This meant that the cops had to split up their vehicles outside so as not to be obvious.

  As the vehicles separated on the main road outside the estate, Utter’s radio came to life. A pair of plain clothes officers, one male, one female, were strolling up the road arm-in-arm like lovers, and the woman’s voice said. ‘Two-Two to Utter. Think we’ve got a spotter on the service road. One IC one male in a green Transit, reg Tango Four One Four Golf Tango Foxtrot.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Utter, then spoke to one of the men in the back, a DC named Flynn. ‘Where’s the truck?’

  ‘About four minutes away, stopped. Lights I expect.’

  ‘Right Two-Two,’ he said into the radio.
‘Target expected in four. Wait, then take out the van when the truck arrives.’

  ‘Roger,’ came the reply from the plain clothes female.

  ‘That’ll do us,’ said Utter. ‘We’ll pile in after the spotter’s ours.’

  ‘I hope it’s not just someone waiting for his bird,’ said Margaret. ‘He’ll get a hell of a surprise if it is,’ said Utter, then informed the other cops of the plan.

  A few minutes later, Flynn said, ‘here she comes’ as a massive lorry lit up like a Christmas tree ground along the street and turned into the estate. The Ford Transit waiting on the service road flashed its lights once and Utter grunted with satisfaction. ‘Gotcha,’ he said.

  As the truck’s taillights diminished in their view the two plain clothes, appeared still holding hands, crossed the road in front of the van, separated, the woman shouted something unintelligible and slapped the man’s face. They split up, one heading towards the driver’s side, the other the passenger’s. Then they turned, drew their weapons and ripped open the van doors. The interior light came on, illuminating the face of a very surprised spotter who lifted his hands above his head. ‘Done Guv,’ the woman’s voice said over the radio. ‘He thought he was at the pictures watching us ruck. He had a radio, but he didn’t have time to use it.’

  ‘We saw,’ replied Utter into his transmitter, ‘good job.’ Then, ‘all units, go, go, go.’

  * * *

  The convoy swiftly regrouped and sped past the captured Transit, down the service road and arrived at the warehouse just as the huge, razor wired gates were closing. The lead van hit the gates with its strengthened front end crashing back open and they caught up with the artic as it drove through the open roller doors of the warehouse itself. The lead vans broadsided and skidded to a halt, their back doors burst open and a dozen members of SO19, each armed with an automatic rifle, rushed past the lorry’s trailer into the warehouse screaming. ‘Armed police, stay where you are.’

  The gang members inside the building ignored the order and made for the back of the building, pulled weapons from about their persons and started to shoot. The SO19 crew took cover and returned fire. ‘Christ,’ said Utter. ‘A fucking war,’ and he leapt from the unmarked car, followed by Margaret, the three DCs in the back, and the team of five in the car behind them.

  The fire fight was gathering strength when the ten slid up behind the wagon, guns drawn, and ready for action. Margaret quickly forgot her nerves, and her training kicked in as Utter rolled under the back wheels and shimmied up to the rear of the tractor, engine still running, Margaret close behind, exhaust fumes hot and pungent in her lungs. Utter stopped in front of her, bullets coming from all directions. The last thing she heard him say was, ‘cluster fuck,’ before a stray bullet blew a hole in his head, all the lights in the warehouse went out, leaving the lights from the truck as the only source of illumination.

  Suddenly, the place was plunged into darkness as they were cut, apart from the muzzle flashes from the shootout and the lights from the police vehicles in the car park reflecting through the windows.

  Margaret felt warm brain matter and blood on her face and clothes and gagged, just managing not to vomit. ‘Utter,’ she hissed. ‘Are you there?’ She knew it was pointless speaking to him as he was obviously dead, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt for his pulse, but there was nothing. ‘Get a medic,’ she screamed to the men behind her, not worrying about giving her position away. ‘Utter’s hit.’ Once again she knew it was futile, but she didn’t care.

  ‘Christ,’ said Flynn, as he scrambled back, pulling his radio from his pocket and calling for medical assistance.

  ‘Bastards,’ said Margaret, and she pushed forward under the tractor.

  That was when she saw him. The silhouetted figure of a man coming towards her with what looked like a weapon in his right hand. ‘Stop,’ she called. ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’

  The warehouse was full of smoke from the truck’s exhaust and the gunfire, and her ears were ringing from the sound of the shots. The man said something and raised what he was holding – and Margaret fired. He went down and lay still.

  * * *

  An hour later, the gunfight was over and twelve prisoners waited to be transported to various police stations. Three dead bodies, including Utter, were lined up neatly in black body bags on the concrete floor of the warehouse whilst half a dozen casualties from gunshot wounds were on the way to hospital – including the man Margaret had shot. The remains of Utter’s squad gathered together, smoking and pacing the car park, when one of theMI5 group joined them. ‘You shot a bloke with a mobile phone,’ he said to Margaret.

  ‘Looks like it,’ she replied, trying to hide the panic that had risen inside her. She couldn’t believe what had happened. Utter, her boss dead, and she had made the most amateur of mistakes.

  ‘He was our inside man,’ he said.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Flynn.

  ‘He should’ve identified himself,’ said Margaret. ‘Maybe he tried. Anyway, he was unarmed.’

  ‘Looked like a weapon to me.’

  ‘You were wrong. This isn’t over yet.’

  ‘Obviously. See the bag next to him. My guv’nor. See this shit all over me.’ She was spotted with blood and the contents of Utter’s skull.

  ‘Sorry. But that’s no excuse. I’ll have to put in a report.’

  ‘Do what the hell you like,’ said Margaret and went to Utter’s car and sat in the back, trying to remove his remains from herself. Once out of sight of the other officers she started to cry. But she wondered who exactly she was crying for.

  12

  The next morning Detective-Sergeant Margaret Doyle was summoned to New Scotland Yard. She was introduced to her new DI, a recent transfer from south of the river named Trevor Rice. ‘Doyle,’ he said. ‘Name rings a bell.’

  ‘You might have met some of my family,’ she replied, coolly.

  ‘Might have nicked one or two, don’t you mean,’ he replied with a snide grin.

  Margaret’s heart sank. Just my luck, she thought. He’d obviously heard all about her family’s reputation and wanted to tar her with the same brush. She’d worked so hard to get where she was, to rise above her family’s reputation and now it was all about to come crumbling down.

  Rice asked her no questions about what had happened. There had already been a full debriefing back at Limehouse nick. Not a happy occasion for anyone and especially Mags, who had tried not to think about the fact that her beloved boss was now lying in the morgue and her career was down the pan. Margaret was sure he had already received the report as he simply suspended her with full pay.

  ‘Nothing personal,’ he said, a horrible smile on his face. ‘The spooks insisted.’

  Liar, thought Margaret, but surrendered her warrant card; her gun had been taken at the scene for ballistics.

  She left the Yard, drove over the river, found a parking space in Pimlico and went for a coffee. It was a beautiful morning and she sat outside a little cafe and smoked a cigarette.

  So this is it, she thought. Bloody suspended for doing my job.

  It had never been easy for Margaret joining the police. She’d left home early, just after leaving school at sixteen. Mostly to get away from her constant battles with Frankie, who had taken to ruling the family with a rod of iron, as Mickey took to the bottle. They’d managed to hang on to the house in Streatham, but barely. Money had become tight as the Doyle firm had splintered after Queenie’s death. She really had been the top dog, but times had changed. The old fiefdom didn’t work on the streets of south London, as younger, more desperate characters took over the criminal businesses she’d managed like some latter day Boudicca.

  Margaret had scraped a living working in shops and restaurants for small wages, and living in rented rooms or shared flats. Then, aged twenty-one she’d applied to the Met, was accepted, and sent to Hendon Police College – but it didn’t take long for the story to circulate that one of the new female recruits was a
member of the Doyle family. Queenie Doyle was still a legend, even after almost a decade since her death.

  Margaret was pretty well ignored by her peers – except for some of the more cocky young constables who tried to get into her pants. She rebuffed every one, and gained the reputation as either frigid or a lesbian. She lived with that and the snide cracks about leopards changing their spots, and graduated second in her class.

  The powers that be sent WPC Margaret Doyle straight to Denmark Hill nick in south London. Margaret always viewed it as someone’s idea of a joke.

  She walked the streets she’d lived as a girl in her brand new uniform, and took a lot more jokes, especially as twice she was involved in arresting members of her own family. That certainly hadn’t gone down well and it took a long time to heal those wounds. Even now, they were estranged from the wider family. But as Mags always remembered, they were nowhere to be seen when Queenie’s girls were left without a mother. So fuck ‘em, she’d do her job and nick them if they needed to be nicked. She persevered, kept her nose clean, lived in a section house, then fell in love with another copper.

  He was a Detective-Sergeant, ten years older than her, and married. The old, old story. Mickey was dead and she needed a daddy. She knew from the off it was a mistake, and still walked right into it. It didn’t last – word got around, the sergeant’s marriage broke down, and she applied for a transfer to north London. ‘Bitch’ was added to her CV.

  She applied for CID, and got the job. Luckily they didn’t listen to the rumours and just looked at how good she was at being a copper. She was transferred again to east London where her cold, aloof, exterior, coupled with her good looks, didn’t endear her to anyone. The rumour was that she screwed her way into the job. ‘Slag’ was added to her CV.

  The only way that Margaret knew how to survive was to grow a hard shell on her character, and soon she didn’t know how else to act. She seldom crossed the river to visit her family and the occasional line developed into a full grown cocaine habit. She took a firearms course, passed with a perfect score, and soon grew to love the feeling of carrying a pistol on her hip. Any fucker takes the piss from now on, she thought, especially after a line or two of the old marching powder, I’ll kill the cunt.