The Lipstick Killers

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    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.