The Lipstick Killers

something was badly wrong. Joyce was a glutton for security, being a middle-aged woman living alone. Gingerly, she pushed open the door and called out Joyce’s name. No answer. The kitchen was scrupulously tidy and Thomas’s water and food bowl were empty on the floor with traces of dried food in one. Joyce would never have left the cat like that. Thomas slithered between Margaret’s legs and started to miaow. ‘Shh,’ she said, then grabbed his water bowl, filled it, and placed it in front of him. He immediately shut up and started lapping at the liquid.
    Margaret went into the hall. The living room was tidy but empty also. The phone sat on a side table, the receiver off the hook, the machine giving off a high pitched whine that made her wince.. Holding her jacket sleeve over her fingers, she replaced the instrument and the place was suddenly deadly silent.
    She climbed the stairs and went into the back bedroom. Empty. The bathroom, the same. The front bedroom was Joyce’s, and she gingerly pushed open the door. The curtains were drawn and the room was in darkness. Margaret fumbled for the light switch and as the bulb lit she saw Joyce lying on her bed. She blinked at the scene that lay before her, not quite believing her own eyes. Joyce was on her back, fully clothed. Her eyes were open and looking up at the ceiling and the pillow where her head was resting was a rusty brown colour. It appeared that she had a second mouth beneath her chin where someone had cut her throat from ear to ear. The only sound in the room was the buzzing of the flies circling the corpse on the bed.

31
     
     
     
    Margaret didn’t venture any further into the room. She knew a dead body when she saw one, and didn’t want to disturb anything. She stood for a moment outside the room, dry eyed, although she felt a terrible sorrow for this harmless woman who had her life ended so brutally. Her police instincts kicked in and she cocked her head, listening carefully but all she could hear was the sound of traffic outside. The house was deathly silent and it was obvious that Joyce’s killer was long gone. She went back downstairs to the kitchen where Thomas was still prowling hungrily about, picked up the protesting animal and took him into the tiny back garden. She hunted in her handbag for Mahoney’s card, opened her phone and called his number.
    ‘Mahoney,’ he answered.
    ‘It’s Margaret Doyle,’ she said. ‘I’m at Joyce’s house. Monty Smith’s secretary.’
    ‘I thought you were going to call me with her address…’
    ‘I was,’ she cut him off. ‘I just wanted to see her for a minute. Tell her about what happened at Monty’s office. Look, you’d better get over here, sharpish. Bring some uniforms and your SOCO team.’ She reeled off the address.
    ‘Why?’ he asked.
    ‘She’s dead. Been murdered.’
    ‘ What ?’ came the exclamation at the other end of the phone.
    ‘You heard. Are you coming?’
    ‘Of course. Stay where you are.’
    ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ And she snapped her phone shut.
    Thomas was still rubbing himself on her legs and distracting her thoughts, so she went back into the kitchen, opened the fridge door with a tea towel and saw a half full tin of cat food. She took it out, grabbed a saucer from the dresser, went back out, shutting the door behind her, and took both to the back of the garden where she emptied the tin onto the saucer and Thomas dived in. ‘That’ll keep you quiet,’ she said aloud and went out to the street to wait for Mahoney and his crew. She found her cigarettes and lighter in the bottom of the bag and lit up, the nicotine helping to quell the growing panic that was rising in her. Who the fuck would have done this to Joyce?
    She heard sirens long before Mahoney’s car, and two squad cars sped into the street. With a sigh she dropped the cigarette butt onto the pavement and ground it out with the sole of her boot. ‘Here we go,’ she said to herself. ‘What the hell did we all do to deserve this?’

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    Mahoney’s car skidded to a halt in front of Margaret’s Porsche, his ever-present DC at the wheel, and he was out of the passenger door almost before it stopped. ‘What the fuck have you got into now?’ he demanded.
    ‘Language, sergeant,’ said Margaret, coolly. ‘Your public are watching,’ she gestured to a couple of passers-by who were rubber-necking the scene.
    ‘Come here,’ said Mahoney, grabbing her arm and tugging her through