The Lipstick Killers

it,’ said Roxie. ‘But will your car be OK? You know with what’s in the boot – and I don’t like the look of those kids on bikes over there.’
    ‘Good point,’ said Margaret. ‘There’s a Tescos round the corner. I’ll stick it in the car park. They’ve got CCTV, so the Porsche should be okay. Should be all right there for a bit. We won’t be long.’
    She did just that, taking a ticket from the barrier and stashing the car as close to the entrance as was possible. The car didn’t stand out so much beside the other top end Chelsea tractors parked there. ‘Gentrification,’ she said to Roxie. ‘Can’t get away from it. Buy a great big house round Brixton for peanuts, but expect to be burgled once a month. The locals love it. Nice plasma screens and DVD recorders by the dozen. Straight onto eBay. Best fence in the world.’
    ‘Cynical,’ said Roxie.
    ‘Comes with the job,’ replied her sister.
    They walked back to the estate, where children of all shapes, sizes and colours regarded them with hostile looks as they cut through, past garbage bins piled high with rubbish, over dog-shit encrusted pavements to the block where Boy lived. ‘Nice,’ said Roxie. ‘And I thought Spain was bad. Shouldn’t that lot be at school?’
    ‘Just practising for a life of crime,’ said Margaret.
    They climbed graffiti-sprayed stairs to the top floor and along to the end flat where Margaret hammered on the door. It was opened by a young black girl in a low cut dress. ‘Boy,’ said Margaret.
    The women stepped back and gestured with her head for them to enter.
    They stepped into the hall which was hung with old velvet curtains, and squeezed past a brand-new black and silver mountain bike leaning against one wall. In the doorway in front of them appeared a young white man with long blonde dreadlocks that reached almost to his waist. He wore a T-shirt with the motto ‘Don’t Mess With The Boy’ on the front, low slung blue jeans, more holes than material, and bare feet. He looked whacked out and bleary eyed. ‘Bit early ain’t it?’ he said.
    ‘The streets are aired,’ said Margaret. ‘And we’ve got places to be.’
    ‘So who’s this lovely lady?’ asked Boy, looking at Roxie.
    ‘Never you mind,’ said Margaret. ‘You got something for me?’
    ‘Sure,’ said Boy, producing a plastic baggie full of white powder from one pocket and giving it to Margaret. ‘Only the best.’
    ‘How much?’ asked Margaret.
    ‘I’ll put it on your tab,’ said Boy. ‘I trust you.’
    ‘I hope my tab’s not written down anywhere,’ said Margaret.
    He tapped his forehead. ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘It’s all up here.’
    ‘Nice bike,’ said Roxie.
    ‘Three grands’ worth,’ Boy said proudly.
    ‘I wonder if there’s a post code on it,’ said Margaret. ‘And I wonder if it’s this one.’
    ‘From what I hear these days that’s none of your business ,’ said Boy with a smirk. ‘Not doing much policing at the moment. At least that’s what I hear.’
    Margaret grabbed him by the throat and pushed him up against the wall. ‘You hear too much,’ she said. ‘I can still get this place busted.’
    ‘Leave him,’ cried the black girl.
    ‘And you,’ said Margaret. ‘Do you need to be nicked for soliciting.’
    ‘It’s no crime to talk to men,’ said the black girl.
    Just then a young white girl, who appeared to be no more than thirteen or fourteen, appeared at the doorway, carrying a can of Fosters.
    ‘What’s she doing here?’ demanded Margaret.
    ‘Picking up some stuff for her dad,’ said Boy.
    ‘How old are you?’ Margaret asked the girl.
    ‘Who’s asking?’
    ‘Police.’ She gave Boy the evil eye, and he said nothing, just shuffled his feet on the filthy carpet.
    ‘Old enough,’ said the girl.
    ‘Boy,’ said Margaret. ‘You want a visit?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then get her out of here.’
    ‘Marsha, you’d better split,’ said Boy. ‘We’ll catch up later.’
    ‘But…’ said the girl.
    ‘No buts,’ said Margaret. ‘Hop it, and don’t come back.’
    The girl scowled, but did as she was told, and left.
    Margaret pocketed the baggie, and said to Boy, ‘if you’re messing with her, I’ll find out.’
    ‘No messing,’ protested Boy. ‘Just a punter. Dad’s a bit under the weather.’
    ‘OK,’ said Margaret. ‘But be careful.’
    ‘You too,’ said Boy. Then, to the girl in the low-cut dress, ‘come on, let’s go back to bed.’
    Roxie and Margaret went