The Lipstick Killers

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