The Lipstick Killers (5 page)

12

The next morning Detective-Sergeant Margaret Doyle was summoned to New Scotland Yard. She was
introduced
to her new DI, a recent transfer from south of the river named Trevor Rice. ‘Doyle,’ he said. ‘Name rings a bell.’

‘You might have met some of my family,’ she replied, coolly.

‘Might have nicked one or two, don’t you mean,’ he replied with a snide grin.

Margaret’s heart sank. Just my luck, she thought. He’d obviously heard all about her family’s reputation and wanted to tar her with the same brush. She’d worked so hard to get where she was, to rise above her family’s reputation and now it was all about to come crumbling down.

Rice asked her no questions about what had happened. There had already been a full debriefing back at Limehouse nick. Not a happy occasion for anyone and especially Mags, who had tried not to think about the
fact that her beloved boss was now lying in the morgue and her career was down the pan. Margaret was sure he had already received the report as he simply suspended her with full pay.

‘Nothing personal,’ he said, a horrible smile on his face. ‘The spooks insisted.’

Liar, thought Margaret, but surrendered her warrant card; her gun had been taken at the scene for ballistics.

She left the Yard, drove over the river, found a parking space in Pimlico and went for a coffee. It was a beautiful morning and she sat outside a little cafe and smoked a cigarette.

So this is it, she thought. Bloody suspended for doing my job.

It had never been easy for Margaret joining the police. She’d left home early, just after leaving school at sixteen. Mostly to get away from her constant battles with Frankie, who had taken to ruling the family with a rod of iron, as Mickey took to the bottle. They’d managed to hang on to the house in Streatham, but barely. Money had become tight as the Doyle firm had splintered after Queenie’s death. She really had been the top dog, but times had changed. The old fiefdom didn’t work on the streets of south London, as younger, more desperate characters took over the criminal businesses she’d managed like some latter day Boudicca.

Margaret had scraped a living working in shops and restaurants for small wages, and living in rented rooms or shared flats. Then, aged twenty-one she’d applied to the Met, was accepted, and sent to Hendon Police College – but it didn’t take long for the story to circulate that one of the new female recruits was a member of the
Doyle family. Queenie Doyle was still a legend, even after almost a decade since her death.

Margaret was pretty well ignored by her peers – except for some of the more cocky young constables who tried to get into her pants. She rebuffed every one, and gained the reputation as either frigid or a lesbian. She lived with that and the snide cracks about leopards changing their spots, and graduated second in her class.

The powers that be sent WPC Margaret Doyle straight to Denmark Hill nick in south London. Margaret always viewed it as someone’s idea of a joke.

She walked the streets she’d lived as a girl in her brand new uniform, and took a lot more jokes, especially as twice she was involved in arresting members of her own family. That certainly hadn’t gone down well and it took a long time to heal those wounds. Even now, they were estranged from the wider family. But as Mags always remembered, they were nowhere to be seen when Queenie’s girls were left without a mother. So fuck ‘em, she’d do her job and nick them if they needed to be nicked. She persevered, kept her nose clean, lived in a section house, then fell in love with another copper.

He was a Detective-Sergeant, ten years older than her, and married. The old, old story. Mickey was dead and she needed a daddy. She knew from the off it was a mistake, and still walked right into it. It didn’t last – word got around, the sergeant’s marriage broke down, and she applied for a transfer to north London. ‘Bitch’ was added to her CV.

She applied for CID, and got the job. Luckily they didn’t listen to the rumours and just looked at how good she was at being a copper. She was transferred again to
east London where her cold, aloof, exterior, coupled with her good looks, didn’t endear her to anyone. The rumour was that she screwed her way into the job. ‘Slag’ was added to her CV.

The only way that Margaret knew how to survive was to grow a hard shell on her character, and soon she didn’t know how else to act. She seldom crossed the river to visit her family and the occasional line
developed
into a full grown cocaine habit. She took a firearms course, passed with a perfect score, and soon grew to love the feeling of carrying a pistol on her hip. Any fucker takes the piss from now on, she thought,
especially
after a line or two of the old marching powder, I’ll kill the cunt.

She amassed her own small arsenal of illegal weapons after Dunblane, and often drove to some deserted spot for a bit of shooting practice. Too fucking good, she thought with a bitter grin. It would’ve been better if I’d missed that sod last night.

She finished her coffee, drove home, snarfed up a line and poured a glass of wine.

‘Welcome to the rest of my life,’ she said, as she toasted herself in the mirror over her dead fireplace.

13

Margaret woke with a start to see Frankie in the doorway of her room. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

‘Two,’ replied Frankie.

‘In the afternoon?’

‘That’s right. You’ve been asleep for hours.’

Margaret shuddered as she remembered the uneasy sleep she had fallen into thinking about the fateful events of three months ago.

‘What’s up? Are you okay?’ said Frankie.

‘Nothing, I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all.’

‘I’m glad I woke you then. Roxie called. Her plane gets in at four.’

‘I’d better get moving.’ Margaret climbed out from under the duvet and headed for the bathroom. ‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ she said. ‘How’s Sharon?’

‘Not good.’

‘I won’t be long,’ said Margaret.

After showering and dressing quickly, Mags
recovered
her stash of coke and took a hit that opened her eyes wide. She wiped her nose and went down to find the rest of the family in the lounge. The TV was turned to CBBC with the sound off, and altogether it was a cheerless sight, with Sharon, Peter and Susan huddled together on the sofa. Outside, it had started to rain.

‘I’d better be off soon,’ said Margaret. ‘Friday
afternoons
on the motorway are crazily busy, and it’s pouring with rain.’

Sharon nodded, and Frankie called out, coming in from the kitchen, ‘anything to eat or drink before you go?’

Margaret shook her head. The fact was, she couldn’t wait to get away from the house full of sadness. She berated herself inwardly for the thought. ‘It’ll be good to see Roxie again,’ she said as she got her coat.

‘How long
has
it been?’ asked Sharon, still slumped on her sofa.

‘Ages. Birthday and Christmas cards, but that’s it for almost two years.’

‘We were going to go out to Spain to see her this summer, the whole family…’ Sharon started to cry.

‘Be strong love,’ said Frankie. ‘For them,’ she said, gesturing towards the kids cuddled up to Sharon, ‘if not for all of us.’

‘Sorry,’ said Sharon, fighting back the tears.

‘I’ll be going then,’ said Margaret, and found her keys in her pocket.

‘Drive carefully,’ said Sharon. The words hung heavy in the room.

‘I will.’

Frankie followed Margaret outside, and they stood in
the shelter of the porch. ‘It’s been bloody awful,’ she said. ‘Tears and more tears.’

‘Get used to it,’ said Margaret. ‘There’s plenty more where they came from.’ The words slipped out before she had a chance to stop them and she cursed herself inwardly.

‘At least Roxie might cheer the place up. You know her. It’ll be so good for us all to be together again,’ Frankie said, forlornly.

Margaret nodded, kissed her sister on the cheek and picked her way through the rain to her car.

14

The drive from Guildford to Gatwick Airport was grim. Margaret couldn’t get last night’s thoughts out of her head, and the rain, which got progressively worse, didn’t help. As usual, the Friday afternoon traffic was monstrously heavy, huge trucks throwing up spray that threatened to drown her windscreen wipers. There was an accident at one point which narrowed the road and brought her speed down to single figures, so that a drive that should have taken an hour took more than two. It was past four o’clock when she finally dumped the Porsche in the short term car park at the airport. Once upon a time, her warrant would have allowed her to park anywhere, but times had changed, she thought ruefully, as she made the long walk to the arrivals lounge for European passengers.

She spotted Roxie right away. Her hair was even more blonde now, cut into a stylish bob her face tanned, and she had a flash looking mobile stuck to her ear. ‘Oi,’ said Margaret, smiling at her baby sister. ‘Long time no see.’

‘She’s here,’ said Roxie into the mouthpiece. ‘See you later, bye,’ and she cut off the phone and stuck it in the pocket of her immaculately tailored jacket. ‘Mags,’ she said, brightly, a huge grin on her face. ‘Oh Mags. It’s so good to see you. No. No. Not like this. You know what I mean.’

‘You too Dolly,’ said Margaret, using everyone’s special name for the baby of the family. ‘I haven’t seen a smile for a long time.’

‘I’d better knock it on the head then,’ said Roxie. ‘What’s it like at Sharon’s?’

‘About as bad as it can get.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘No one does. So no one speaks much.’

‘How are the kids?’ Roxie asked, frowning.

‘Shellshocked. They remind me of how we were when mum passed.’

‘Yeah I remember, even though I was only little at the time. How’s Frankie doing? She was always close to Sharon and Monty.’

‘Being mum as always. Holding everyone together.’

‘Typical. That’s what she does best. And what about you? Still going for cop of the year?’

‘You know me Dolly. Skating on thin ice as usual.’

‘How’s work for Her Majesty?’

‘Not good. I’m on the shit list. That’s why I could get away easily. I’ve been suspended.’

‘What, you – super cop? I don’t believe it. What happened?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it over a glass of Pinot Grigio some time. Anyway, you look well.’

‘And doing well,’ Roxie lied. ‘The salon’s going a
bomb. All those old ex-pats wives wanting to look seventeen again. I’m doing Botox, chemical peels, fillers, the lot.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Well come on then, let’s go and face the music,’ said Margaret.

Roxie wheeled along her suitcase bag, slung her handbag over her shoulder and they made their way back to the car park. ‘How long can you stay?’ asked Margaret on the way.

‘As long as necessary,’ replied Roxie. Christ, forever, she thought. Can’t go back there in a hurry. In fact never. A dead body on the floor of my shop would be hard to explain. ‘Josie, my manageress, is a diamond. She’ll look after things for the duration. I haven’t had a holiday in years.’ She’d let Josie go two months previously, when she could no longer afford to pay wages. More lies, but Roxie was an expert. And being a copper – even a copper on suspension – Margaret probably wouldn’t
understand
.

‘This won’t be much of a holiday I warn you,’ her sister reminded her.

‘You know me Mags, I could always find some fun and games. And talking of fun and games, how’s your love life?’

Margaret pulled a face. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said.

‘But I will. Over that glass of wine maybe.’