The Lipstick Killers

invited. Not many. The Doyle girls didn’t pal up easily. They didn’t need to – they had each other.
    The front door was open wide to allow easy entry for the guests. They came in all shapes, sizes, colours and sexual inclinations. Say one thing for the Doyles, they played no favourites. Queenie was the boss, and Queenie knew that it took all sorts. And they all had their uses. Whores, pimps, drug dealers, gangsters of every stripe, bookies, even some coppers who were on the payroll. It was a family day and all were welcome to eat, drink and have a laugh at the Doyles’ expense. No trouble. That was the only rule, and a half-dozen or so heavy looking individuals were scattered around the place front and back, to make sure that everyone stuck to that particular rule – sweating in their dark suits to disguise whatever weapon of choice sat beneath.
    Despite the heat Queenie felt cold and wore a mink wrap around her shoulders. She put down her champagne glass and excused herself and went upstairs to her and Mickey’s bedroom, and went into the en-suite. She dropped the stole onto the floor and stripped off her dress and bra. The lumps were still there under the skin of her ample breasts. She was the only one who knew. She hadn’t let Mickey touch her for months, maybe a year. More lumps than she remembered, and they were tender to her touch, sending pain down to her crotch. She knew she should go to the doctor, but she had no time for them. The pain made her vomit into the toilet and she cried as she knelt on the floor. ‘Oh, girls,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m so sorry.’

1
     
     
     
    A ringing phone in the middle of the night always brings life-changing news. News of a death, or a birth. And so it was when Margaret Doyle was woken from a restless sleep at three in the morning. She didn’t yet know it, but she woke to a day that would change her life and that of her family forever. She fumbled for the receiver in the dark, and the empty wine glass on her bedside table bounced onto the carpet. ‘Shit,’ she mumbled, then spoke into the phone. ‘What?’
    ‘Mags, it’s me,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.
    ‘I know who it is,’ said Margaret, her voice full of sleep. ‘What do you want at this time of night?’
    ‘It’s Monty,’ said the familiar female voice. ‘He’s dead.’
    Margaret tried to pull herself awake through the fog of alcohol and the sleeping pill she’d taken at midnight. ‘Do what?’
    ‘Monty. Our brother-in-law. Sharon’s husband – he’s dead.’
    Margaret sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, winced at the light, then said, ‘wait a minute Frankie. Just wait.’ There was a bottle of Evian water next to the lamp, and she put the receiver under her chin and grabbed it, unscrewed the top and took a long drink. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now what are you talking about?’
    ‘Listen,’ said Frances Foster, nee Doyle. ‘Monty’s dead. Have you got that?’
    ‘This is no joke?’
    ‘For fuck’s sake Mags. I’m not in the habit of making jokes at this time of night,’ snapped her sister.
    Or any other time, thought Margaret, but said nothing. She checked the bedside clock. 3.14 a.m. ‘He was coming home from some do or other in Southampton,’ Frankie went on, ‘it was pissing down with rain and the car came off the road near Petersfield. It hit a tree. He was killed outright they reckon.’
    ‘Who reckons?’ said Mags, immediately switching to business mode. In her job, she was used to matters of life and death.
    ‘The doctors here, and the cops.’
    ‘Where’s here?’ asked Margaret.
    ‘Guildford Hospital. I’m outside in the rain having a fag. I can’t stand it in there.’
    ‘Was he pissed?’
    ‘Trust you to ask that. Always the copper.’
    ‘Well, was he?’
    ‘I don’t know. He could’ve been. Out late like that. I can’t think about that now,’ said Frankie, her voice choked with emotion.
    ‘OK. Don’t get upset. Where’s Sharon now?’
    ‘Still inside. She’s in bits. The kids are at home, being looked after by a neighbour. I’ll have to go back soon, but I thought I should let you know.’
    ‘When did it happen?’ asked Margaret, now fully awake and searching her bedside table for her cigarettes and lighter.
    ‘About midnight. A bloke in a truck he’d just overtaken saw it all. He called the police and ambulance.’
    ‘And you just phoned me now? You took your time.’
    ‘Christ Mags. What’s