The Lipstick Killers

said, decidedly.
    ‘Give me your address.’
    Mahoney wrote it on a piece of paper from his note book. ‘It’s just outside the…’
    ‘I’ll find it,’ said Margaret, cutting him off mid-flow. ‘Seven do you?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And thanks for waiting for me.’ ‘No problem.’
    ‘And for Christ’s sake have a shave,’ said Margaret, grinning slightly.
    ‘Whatever you say,’ Mahoney replied, returning her half smile.
    Without another word Margaret opened the passenger door, got out of the car and went back into the cottage.

62
     
     
     
    Margaret and her sisters spent another bleak day consoling each other and Sharon’s children. The mood in the cottage was grim. Peter and Susan didn’t understand what was happening. How could they? One day they were a happy family doing the sort of things that happy families did. The next they were orphans. The three women were as bereft as the children, but tried not to show it with little success, although they were careful not to cry in front of them. Around four Margaret left and went back to Sharon’s empty house. She could hardly bear to be there surrounded by family pictures from happier times but she needed some time alone, plus time to get ready to see Mahoney. She felt guilty about leaving the family, but there was little that she could do for them at the moment. She told Roxie she’d collect her the next morning. ‘Have fun,’ she said as Margaret left, her face puffy from crying but her eyes twinkling slightly as she spoke.
    ‘I don’t know if I should go,’ said Mags, suddenly unsure.
    ‘Course you should. Remember what I said – life’s too short. I’ll hold the fort here.’
    Margaret considered what she was wearing when she got to her room. Jumper and trousers. Not exactly an outfit to drive men wild, she thought. But she had nothing better and could hardly touch anything of Sharon’s under the circumstances. Then she saw the bag of clothes that Roxie had brought with her. What the hell, she thought, let’s see what little sister has stashed away.
    She opened the bag and found a selection of clothes. She passed on the thongs. So last year Roxie, she thought, but found some lacy shorts-style knickers with a matching bra, a tight pencil skirt and a silk blouse. She tried them on and they fitted perfectly. Still the same size, sis, she thought. Not bad for five years older than you.
    She left her legs bare and slipped into her high heeled ankle boots, laid on some slap and felt ready for anything. Mahoney, you don’t know what you’re in for, she thought as she brushed her hair. She left the house about six-thirty and sped off in her Porsche for Mahoney’s house.

63
     
     
     
    Margaret found Mahoney’s address with little trouble. It was a modern block on the outskirts of Guildford near the cathedral and university. She parked in a visitor’s bay, checked her make-up in the rear view mirror and went to the front entrance. She rang the bell for his flat and waited, feeling nervous at the thought of going on a date after so long – if you could call it a date, when really she just wanted some good sex. After a few seconds of indecision, when she actually thought she might turn and flee, she heard his voice on the speaker. ‘Push the door, and come up,’ he said, as a buzzer sounded.
    Here goes nothing she thought, as she did what he said, entering the foyer and calling the lift. Mahoney’s flat was on the top floor, and he was standing at his open door when the lift opened. She was pleased to note that he had shaved and combed his hair, and he was dressed in blue jeans and a pale blue polo shirt, his aftershave smelling clean and fresh.
    ‘You’re punctual,’ he said, smiling. ‘Come on in.’
    She followed him down a short hall into a sizable living room, one wall of which was glass, with a view of the massive tower of the cathedral. The room was sparely furnished with a sofa, leather swivel armchair, a coffee table, a big screen plasma TV and top of the range stereo system, and a couple of bookshelves crammed with paperbacks.
    ‘Bachelor pad,’ she said. ‘This is very nice. Must be good money in being a copper these days,’ she said, her tone teasing.
    ‘Just renting. Wherever I lay my hat, as they say.’
    ‘Good plan in our game.’
    ‘Drink? I have beer, wine, red or white. Scotch, gin, you name it.’
    ‘Wine would be good. White.’
    ‘Sit a minute. It’s in the fridge.’
    Mahoney went back into the