The Lipstick Killers

said Margaret. ‘We’ll sort her out. I promise.’
    It was quiet in the house. During the day Frankie had called up friends and family to tell them the news, and the phone had been busy with outgoing and incoming calls. But Margaret had insisted on switching all the phones off now that the kids had gone to bed, except the one in Monty’s study attached to an answering machine. She’d also turned off all the mobiles in the house. ‘You need some peace tonight,’ she said to Sharon. ‘Tomorrow will be a busy day.’
    She didn’t realise how right she was.
    ‘Want some?’ she asked Sharon, tapping the wine bottle as her sister sat down at the kitchen table.
    Sharon shook her head.
    ‘Don’t mind if I finish the bottle?’ asked Margaret. ‘It’s been a long day.’
    ‘Help yourself,’ came the reply. ‘Have as much as you like.’
    Sharon got up and started to make coffee. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she said, in a daze.
    ‘I know it will be hard love but you’ve got to persevere ,’ said Margaret, gently. ‘You’ve got Peter and Susan to think about.’
    ‘It’s not going to be easy. Monty was my rock. He was the only man I’d ever known.’
    ‘You’ve got us.’
    ‘For how long? You’ll have to go back to London and sort yourself out. And Roxie will fly away back to Spain. She’s got a life out there.’
    ‘There’s always Frankie.’
    ‘Always Frankie. That’s it isn’t it. The only one of us without a life of her own.’
    ‘She loves us all. You know that. That’s what she does – look after people’
    ‘I know. Sorry. It’s just been another hard day. I’m going to drink this and go upstairs,’ said Sharon. ‘The kids are in with me tonight. You staying down here?’
    ‘I’ll take my glass and watch some crap TV if you don’t mind,’ said Margaret.
    ‘Whatever you want,’ said Sharon as she left the room.
    * * *
     
    Next morning dawned bright and breezy, with clouds scudding across a bright blue sky. Under normal circumstances , it was the kind of morning that made you glad to be alive, but the good mood didn’t filter through to the house in Guildford. Margaret was the first one up, and after a swift shower and a short line chopped out on the dressing table, she went down to prepare the house for another difficult day.
    On the way she looked in on Sharon and the children. Peter and Susan were in bed asleep, but Sharon was standing by the window gazing out. When she heard the door, she turned, her face was drawn and white. ‘Hello Mags,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’
    ‘Me neither. Just a bit anyway. I’m going to make breakfast. Want some?’
    ‘Just coffee.’
    ‘What about the kids?’
    ‘Orange juice and cereal if they can eat.’
    ‘They have to. They’re more resilient than us. You saw them with the food last night. You too. You have to keep your strength up at a time like this.’
    ‘I’ll survive.’
    ‘Are you going to wake them?’
    ‘I thought I’d let them sleep for a bit. I could hear Peter crying in his sleep last night.’
    ‘Poor little mites. I’ll go and get the kettle on,’ said Margaret, gently closing the door behind her.
    She laid the kitchen table and when the coffee was steaming Sharon, now dressed, joined her. ‘That smells good,’ she said, pouring a cup. ‘I’ve left the kids.’
    Margaret nodded, and just then they heard the front door open and Frankie, now looking better, and Roxie joined them. Frankie looked better than she had the day before, the dark rings under her eyes having faded slightly.
    ‘Coffee,’ said Roxie. ‘Bloody great.’ She kissed Sharon and Margaret and poured two more cups.
    ‘I’d better switch the phone back on and check for messages,’ said Sharon, and as she got up to go to the study the front doorbell rang.
    ‘I’ll get it,’ said Margaret. ‘You check the phone.’
    She went to the front door where she found a man in his mid-thirties standing on the porch. ‘ Detective-Inspector Mahoney,’ he said, showing his warrant card. ‘Guildford CID. Mrs Smith?’
    ‘No, I’m her sister,’ said Margaret. ‘Margaret Doyle. Detective-Sergeant.’
    ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Detective-Sergeant Doyle. I know about you.’ The way he said it, and the insolent way he grinned, made Margaret think he didn’t much like what he’d heard. But she didn’t care. Straightening her back, she looked him in the eye and said. ‘I’m sure you do. What can we do for