The Lipstick Killers

can do here ‘til the morning.’
    ‘That policeman said…’
    ‘He said he’d come round and see you. I’ll be there, and Mags will know what to do.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Sharon, slowly. As she got up she stumbled, and her sister righted her. Still holding Sharon, Frankie led them slowly out of the building, towards the car park.
    It seemed to Frankie that she had spent most of her life supporting one or more members of her family since Queenie’s death. Driving back to Sharon’s house, her sister sobbing in the passenger seat, Frankie felt the years drop away one by one as the street lights phased across the bonnet of the car. First it was Mickey. The good father the girls had always known, quick with a joke, generous with money and slow to anger, changed that dreadful first winter. First it was the booze. He started drinking when he got up at noon, and stayed pissed until he fell into bed in the early hours after playing Queenie’s favourite records on the stereo in the basement. Even then, sometimes he didn’t make it as far as his bed, and Frankie would find him curled up on the stairs when she got up at six in order to get the other girls ready for school. She’d wake him and help him to his room, but often he’d turn on her, and sometimes even became violent, a secret she managed to keep from her sisters for years. Other times she’d discover him in a pool of vomit, which she quietly cleaned up, then simply covered him with a blanket and went back to her other chores.
    Then there were the girls themselves. Sharon was easy. No trouble. Although Frankie knew she missed her mother dreadfully. But Mags and Roxie were a handful. The Soho incident being just one of Mags’ misdemeanours . Then Roxie began to grow up, and she followed Mags’ example. Mags would stay out all night clubbing, and Roxie did exactly the same as she matured into a teenager. Which left Frankie as the stay at home skivvie. Mickey’s behaviour had got worse and he used to vanish for days on end. Often Frankie would find strange women in the house and in fact it was a blessing when her father passed away. One less to manage, she secretly thought, although she was ashamed at her disloyalty.

3
     
     
     
    After she’d put down the phone Margaret Doyle leant back on the headboard of her bed in her Battersea flat. Christ, she thought. What a turn up for the books. Monty; dead. She couldn’t deny that he’d been a pain in the arse sometimes, pompous and pedantic, but then, that was a by-product of his job and she knew that he’d loved Sharon and their children. Bought them a big house, and they were never short. But then he was an accountant, and she’d never come across a poor one yet. She took another swig of water and saw that her hand was shaking. Just what I need, she thought, a drive to Guildford at this time of night. She shook her head, berating herself. Frankie was right, she thought. Still the same old selfish Mags. She swung herself out of bed, and headed for the shower, dressed just in yesterday’s knickers. On the way she opened her bedside drawer and extracted a wrap of white powder. Something for the road, she thought, as she cut out a fat line with a credit card and snorted it up one nostril. Thank God there’d been no search of the flat when she’d been suspended from her job as a Detective-Sergeant with the Met. They wouldn’t have liked what they would’ve found.
    Once showered, the coke already making her feel more alert, she wiped the bathroom mirror clear of steam and took a long look at herself. She still had the Celtic colouring of thick black hair that made her blue eyes stand out. Still the heart-shaped face with just a few laughter lines. Not bad for nearly thirty she thought, and winked at her reflection. After all I’ve been through too. She left the bathroom and dressed in clean underwear, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and wondered whether to pack some clothes. Would it be a long visit? Better safe than sorry, so she jammed underwear, a skirt and another sweater into a small bag, hid the remains of the cocaine in a side pocket and pulled on a pair of ankle boots. Grabbing her car keys, she headed for the door, wide eyed. On the way out she looked at the gun cabinet bolted to a support wall. Her service weapon had never been returned to her after she’d been suspended, but inside the cabinet – under a false bottom that a good friend had built into the box – were her personal, and