The Lipstick Killers

the wrong side of the road narrowly missing a taxi, slammed her foot onto the accelerator and they were away.
    ‘Nice driving,’ said Roxie breathlessly. ‘But I thought we were gonners there for a minute.’
    ‘Trust me,’ said Margaret as the car flew in the direction of the river. ‘I’m a copper.’
    ‘Or was,’ said Haywood, before Roxie dug her gun into his ribs hard enough to break bone.

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    The drive to Guildford was uneventful, although Margaret was flashed by every speed camera on the way. ‘There goes my licence if we get caught,’ was all she said.
    They took the back roads to the cottage where Margaret let the Lexus drift up to the turnaround. They could see Frankie and Mahoney’s cars, parked close to the front gate. ‘Right,’ she said, reversing the car back out of sight up the drive, and forcing it back into the undergrowth. ‘Frankie, you stay here. Haywood, Peter, you’re with us.’
    ‘Haywood, have you got a phone number for those people inside?’ asked Margaret.
    ‘Why would I? I don’t deal with the help personally.’
    ‘Peter?’
    ‘They’re Trent’s men.’
    ‘Jesus. It’ll have to be Mahoney’s phone then.’ She took out her telephone and dialled Mahoney’s number. Inside the cottage, they heard a ringing tone. After a minute the phone was answered. ‘What?’ said a gruff voice.
    ‘Got your boss for you,’ said Margaret, and handed the instrument to Haywood. ‘Tell him who you are,’ she said.
    ‘You inside,’ he said. ‘My name is Roger Haywood. You know who I am?’
    He seemed to get a positive answer.
    ‘Tell him to show himself,’ ordered Margaret.
    Haywood did so.
    The front door to the cottage opened and a man emerged. He was dressed in a track suit with a hooded top pulled up, a scarf covering the bottom of his face.
    ‘Tell him to come to the gate,’ said Margaret.
    Haywood did so.
    ‘Now tell him we’re coming in.’
    Once again Haywood obeyed.
    Margaret and Roxie pushed the two men in front of them, forming a human shield and they all walked slowly up the gravel-topped drive towards the cottage.
    Just as they drew level with the parked cars, Haywood suddenly pushed Saint Cyr out of the way, and dived between the vehicles shouting ‘Shoot them. Shoot them,’ at the hooded man who lifted his gun. But Margaret fired first and he took a bullet in the arm before running back into the cottage and slamming the door shut.
    ‘Bastard,’ said Roxie. ‘I’ve had enough now,’ and ran to where Haywood had vanished. He was lying on his back on the ground between the motors breathing heavily.
    ‘The old jam tart?’ said Roxie.
    He could hardly speak, but fearing another trick, Roxie held the gun close to his head.
    ‘I’m dying,’ he gasped. ‘Help me.’
    ‘Like you helped all the people you’ve had murdered,’ said Roxie. ‘Fuck you.’
    She slammed her hand on his chest – hard.
    ‘Did that hurt?’ she asked.
    He nodded.
    ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Serves you right,’ and hit him again.
    His eyes bulged, and he opened his mouth, but said nothing. He gasped once more, then he was still.
    ‘Serves you right you old bastard,’ said Roxie.
    She crawled back to where Margaret and Saint Cyr were sheltered behind Mahoney’s car. ‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘Heart attack.’
    ‘Looks like it’s down to us now,’ said Margaret.
    ‘We could call the police.’
    ‘Sure. So far we’re guilty of kidnap, murder, criminal damage, not to mention car theft, leaving the scene of an accident and more speeding than you can shake a stick at. And probably half a dozen more crimes I can’t even think of.’
    ‘I get your point.’
    ‘No. We’ll sort this ourselves, and then vanish. Start again.’
    ‘If we make it.’
    ‘There’s always that of course.’
    ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Roxie.

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    ‘Right Peter, what about you?’ said Margaret.
    ‘I could just go. Vanish myself,’ he replied. ‘Things can never be the same again with Haywood dead.’
    ‘Understatement of the year,’ said Margaret. ‘No. I don’t think so. Give me your hand.’
    He did as he was told, and she cuffed it to the door handle of Mahoney’s car. ‘You stay here like a good boy,’ she said. ‘And we’ll sort you out later. And keep your head down.’
    He just pulled a face in disgust.
    ‘Right,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s all quiet in there, but there’s one injured man, and according to Frankie two more. All