The Lipstick Killers

live?’
    ‘Battersea,’ she replied. ‘You?’
    ‘Fulham. Are you driving?’
    ‘I don’t drink and drive. I got a cab. You?’
    ‘Yes. Company car parked at the office. That’s why I stick to just a couple.’
    Roxie smiled.
    ‘Let me give you a lift,’ he said.
    ‘To Battersea?’ said Roxie. ‘That’s right out of your way.’
    ‘Nonsense. It’s just a hop over the river.’
    ‘You really don’t have to leave on my account.’
    He smiled at her charmingly. ‘With you gone the evening would only go downhill.’
    ‘Flatterer. But I like it,’ she teased.
    Saint Cyr smiled again, settled the bill for their drinks and they left together. They walked back to his building and Roxie waited on the pavement whilst he went into the parking garage. A few minutes later the Lexus appeared, and she got in. ‘Nice car,’ she said. ‘You really must be important.’
    ‘Oh, you know,’ he replied with a modest grin.
    Arsehole, she thought, but kept her painted smile in place.
    He steered the car in the direction of the river, and once over Wandsworth Bridge Roxie gave directions to Margaret’s street.
    He parked the Lexus a few doors down from the house where Margaret lived, and turned towards Roxie. ‘This has been a wonderful evening,’ he said. ‘Maybe we could do it again.’
    ‘I don’t see why not. But remember, no man can keep up with me,’ she replied.
    ‘Who knows, you might have just met one,’ he said, and he kissed her on the mouth.
    She responded back, even though she was repulsed by him, and said. ‘You might be right Peter. How about coffee?’
    ‘I thought you had an early start?’
    ‘Forgive me, I don’t usually act like this. Too many drinks perhaps,’ said Roxie, turning coquettish. She had an idea that this attitude would make him putty in her hands.
    ‘Or the company,’ said Peter, a little too cocksure.
    They both got out of the car, and walked the short distance to the flat, arms entwined. Roxie let them in with Margaret’s keys. ‘Upstairs,’ she said as they entered the communal hallway.
    She went first, and could feel his eyes on her backside, which she gave an extra swing as she climbed the stairs. She opened the front door to the flat itself and stepped back. ‘Straight through,’ she said and allowed Saint Cyr to lead the way. ‘I always leave the lights on, hate coming back to a dark place alone,’ she said. ‘But you’re not alone tonight,’ he said, leering over her figure as they walked down the short hall. He walked through the open door of the living room where Margaret was sitting in the armchair facing the door – Colt .45 in one hand, her mobile in the other. ‘Hello Peter,’ she said. ‘Welcome to our world.’

71
     
     
     
    ‘You?’ he said, recognising Margaret from her visit to the office. ‘What the hell?’
    Roxie shoved him roughly from behind and he stumbled into the middle of the room ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, a look of utter disbelief on his face
    ‘Sit down Sincere ,’ said Margaret, and gestured with the gun to the sofa.
    ‘I don’t…’
    ‘Just sit,’ said Roxie who had pulled the smaller gun from her bag.
    Saint Cyr did as he was told, a look of complete disbelief on his face. ‘Is this a joke?’ he asked.
    ‘No joke,’ said Margaret. ‘Deadly serious, as you’ll find out before long.’
    ‘Did you hear it all?’ asked Roxie.
    ‘Every word. You’re a smooth operator Peter, I’ll give you that.’
    ‘God, I actually kissed the old fucker,’ said Roxie. ‘Made me sick.’
    ‘But he fell for it. You were very convincing.’
    From his seat Saint Cyr looked from one woman to the other. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Monty Smith,’ said Margaret. ‘Remember?’
    Saint Cyr’s face changed, and he began to rise.
    ‘Don’t,’ said Margaret. ‘These aren’t toy guns, and we’ll use them.’
    ‘What would the neighbours say?’ he said, challenging her.
    Margaret pulled her police issue asp from the side of the chair, pressed the button that extended it with a snap, and smacked Saint Cyr hard on the knee. ‘More than one way to skin a cat,’ she said.
    He cried out in pain, but sat back.
    ‘That’s better,’ said Margaret, standing, the asp swinging in front of his face. ‘Now – Monty Smith. Or do I have to prove I don’t give a shit for you or the neighbours ?’

72
     
     
     
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’