The Lipstick Killers

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.
    She amassed her own small arsenal of illegal weapons after Dunblane, and often drove to some deserted spot for a bit of shooting practice. Too fucking good, she thought with a bitter grin. It would’ve been better if I’d missed that sod last night.
    She finished her coffee, drove home, snarfed up a line and poured a glass of wine.
    ‘Welcome to the rest of my life,’ she said, as she toasted herself in the mirror over her dead fireplace.

13
     
     
     
    Margaret woke with a start to see Frankie in the doorway of her room. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
    ‘Two,’ replied Frankie.
    ‘In the afternoon?’
    ‘That’s right. You’ve been asleep for hours.’
    Margaret shuddered as she remembered the uneasy sleep she had fallen into thinking about the fateful events of three months ago.
    ‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ said Frankie.
    ‘Nothing, I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.’
    ‘I’m glad I woke you then. Roxie called. Her plane gets in at four.’
    ‘I’d better get moving.’ Margaret climbed out from under the duvet and headed for the bathroom. ‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ she said. ‘How’s Sharon?’
    ‘Not good.’
    ‘I won’t be long,’ said Margaret.
    After showering and dressing quickly, Mags recovered her stash of coke and took a hit that opened her eyes wide. She wiped her nose and went down to find the rest of the family in the lounge. The TV was turned to CBBC with the sound off, and altogether it was a cheerless sight,