The Lipstick Killers (2 page)

2

Frankie winced as the phone banged down at the other end. Bitch, she thought. But our bitch, and she was used to it. As the eldest of the four sisters, she’d taken over as mother when Queenie had succumbed to the breast cancer she’d hidden for so long. Roxie, the youngest of her daughters, was just six years old. Frankie had married, but the experience was short lived, and after the divorce she’d moved to Guildford to be close to Sharon, her husband Monty and their two young
children
– Peter and Susan, the same two kids who were now in the care of a neighbour. Jesus, would the Doyles ever be happy? she thought as she dropped her cigarette end and crushed it under her foot before straightening her shoulders and heading towards the main doors of the hospital, the sound of the siren from an incoming emergency blatting off the walls. The sound reminded her of one of her many fallings out with her sister. Two years after Queenie’s death, Mags, then just thirteen years old, had done a runner one Saturday afternoon.
She was in big trouble at school, but that was nothing new. Mags was precociously attractive, and one day she’d got dolled up in short skirt, black tights, high heels and a low-cut top and headed for the West End. Though she looked five years older than her age in the get-up, she was still an innocent, in a place that fed on
innocence
. Mickey was useless, but that was becoming a regular thing, and Frankie had to take charge. She headed for Soho and scoured the streets, searching the seedy backstreet dives for her young sister, but when she still hadn’t found her after a day of looking, Frankie went to the nearest police station and explained her predicament. For once, the name Doyle didn’t ring any bells. But south London was a long way away, and her obvious distress got her a ride in a police car with a constable driving, and a WPC in the back seat with Frankie next to her, through the narrow, busy streets between Oxford Street and Shaftesbury Avenue. Then she spotted Mags outside a record shop that specialised in urban music. She was smoking, and chatting to two boys, one black, one white, both in their late teens and dressed in baggy jeans, hoods pulled down over their eyes and swamped in oversized basketball shirts. ‘Thirteen, you say?’ said the driver of the car. ‘Looks a lot older,’ he said, looking at her long legs in her short skirt. He hit a switch on the dashboard and the lights and siren came on, the sound deafening between the buildings. Frankie jumped out of the car and screamed at Mags – the two boys took one look at the situation and melted away down a narrow alley. Frankie snatched the
cigarette
from between Mags’ fingers and threw it into the gutter, then dragged her sister into the police car where
she sat stone-faced in the back seat between her and the female officer. Once back at the station, Frankie pushed Mags into a cab, and they headed home in silence. Bitch, thought Frankie, as she had so many times before.

Dragging her mind back to the present day, and the tragic situation that was unfolding, Frankie entered the hospital building again. Sharon was sitting alone in an orange plastic chair in the main reception and Frankie’s heart went out to her. Her sister, four years her junior, was leaning forward, white faced, elbows on knees with a crumpled tissue held tightly in her hand. Frankie sank into the hard plastic seat next to her, as the business of the hospital – frantic even at that late hour – went on around them. Frankie put one hand on Sharon’s clenched fist. ‘We should get back to the house love,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot to do, and Mags is coming down from London.’

Sharon shook her head. ‘Why?’ she asked in a voice made husky from grief. ‘Why Monty?’

‘Don’t ask me duck,’ said Frankie, using Queenie’s pet name for all the girls. ‘I don’t know.’

‘He looked so peaceful, just like he was asleep,’ said Sharon, the words disappearing into a sob.

‘I know.’

‘What am I going to tell Peter and Susan?’

‘The truth. That’s all you can do. I know it’s going to be hard for you. I’ll help.’ Frankie thought of the
children
she had doted on since they were tiny babies.

‘But they’re so young, and now no dad.’ Peter was nine, Susan seven.

‘It was like that for us when mum went,’ Frankie said. ‘Worse, what with Roxie being so young, and poor dad left alone with the four of us.’

‘He had you.’

‘I was thirteen, remember.’

‘Thirteen going on thirty-three. You looked after all of us, dad included.’

And lost my teenage years, thought Frankie, and my chance of a university education – although she held no bitterness towards her family. At least, not much. After her mother’s death she’d adapted to caring for her sisters and her father, who had lapsed into a sadness that he’d never recovered from. Frankie had quickly become head of the household. She’d persevered at school, taken some exams, but moving away was out of the question. Her A-levels were good enough, but instead of a carefree time with her peers, she’d applied to a local bank and ended up behind a counter, a name tag pinned to her chest.

Their father had gone into a decline, and died of heart failure – or more likely a broken heart – when Frankie was nineteen and Roxie was twelve. The firm had
splintered
without Queenie’s leadership, and Frankie became a wage slave just to keep the house going. Her youngest sister had lived with her for a few years, before Frankie’s marriage. Roxie trained as a beautician in central London and worked in a few salons servicing pampered yummy mummies, before getting a job on a luxury cruise ship until finally, she bought a small beauty salon in Spain. Frankie had never forgiven herself for taking the easy way out and marrying the first bloke who’d asked her. It had been an unhappy marriage from day one, and her husband, John Foster had made it clear that he came first, not the family. After a period when Frankie had been out of touch with her sisters, she dumped her
job and her husband, and ended up back in the bosom of her family.

‘And I’ll look after you now. You’ve got me and Mags here,’ said Frankie, trying to reassure her.

‘Mags will be a fat lot of good, knowing her.’

‘You might be surprised when push comes to shove.’

‘After what’s happened?’

‘Let’s not talk about that now. Let’s get you home and get some rest.’

‘
Rest
,’ Sharon almost shouted. ‘How can I rest with Monty here?’

‘You have to. There’s arrangements to be made,’ said Frankie. ‘I’m sorry but there are. I’ll help, and so will Mags I know.’

‘They’re going to cut him up,’ sobbed Sharon.

‘Try not to think about it,’ said Frankie.

‘I can’t help it,’ said Sharon. ‘I know it’s the law. It’s just not fair,’ wailed Sharon.

‘Come on sis. There’s nothing more we 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 highly illegal weapons. A Colt .45 semi automatic pistol and a Colt Commander .38 revolver, plus ammunition for both. No, she thought, shaking her head. I don’t need to be armed where I’m going.

She went outside and found her Porsche Boxter, her one extravagance, parked where she’d left it, got inside and headed south, back to Guildford.

4

A false dawn was touching the top of the hills above Guildford when Sharon and Frankie finally returned from the hospital. Frankie turned the car into the short drive that led up to Sharon’s detached house. All the downstairs lights were on. She parked up and they walked together to the front door which was slightly ajar. Inside the house, Marion, Sharon’s next door
neighbour
– was on the phone in the hallway, talking quietly. ‘They’re here,’ she said into the mouthpiece, and offered the phone to Sharon. ‘It’s your sister Margaret,’ she said. ‘She’s on her way.’

Sharon shook her head and instead walked into the lounge where she fell heavily into an armchair. Frankie took the receiver. ‘Mags, we’re home now. How long will you be?’

She listened. ‘See you then,’ and put down the phone gently. She smiled at Marion and said. Thanks love, don’t know what we’d have done without you.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’ Marion asked.

‘No, you’ve done enough. Go get some sleep.’

‘If I can. This is horrible. How is Sharon holding up?’

‘I’m not sure it’s hit her properly yet.’

‘Poor love. I’ll just go and say goodbye to her.’

Marion went into the lounge and said, biting her lip. ‘Sharon, the kids are asleep. I just looked in. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Thanks,’ said Sharon, staring out into space, the fatigue and grief showing deeply on her face. She had aged ten years in the last few hours.

‘Listen, do you need them taken to school or anything? I can drop them off.’

Sharon looked at Frankie who was standing in the doorway, her expression blank. It was left to Frankie to answer Marion. ‘I don’t know if they’ll go tomorrow.’

‘Well, just let me know. You’ve got all my numbers.’

Sharon nodded and Frankie herded her towards the front door. ‘Thanks again, we’ll be in touch.’

‘Anything,’ replied Marion. ‘I mean it. We’re just next door, and Monty is – was – such a good man.’

Frankie nodded as she closed the front door behind her. She leant up against it, and despite herself, started to cry for the first time that night.

She shook her head at her own weakness, dried her eyes with a hanky from her coat pocket, and went back into the lounge where Sharon had fallen asleep in a chair. Frankie took off her coat and tucked it round her sister. That’s the right thing to do, she thought, sleep while you can. Frankie then went upstairs to check on her nephew and niece who were sleeping peacefully in their beds. Not much peace for you for a while thought Frankie, as she gently closed the doors to their rooms.

She went back into the kitchen, where she put on the kettle for a pot of tea. On the way downstairs she passed the family photographs lined up on the walls. The family all pictured together in happy times, holidays at the villa in Spain, Christmas here and at Sharon’s previous, smaller house. She could hardly bear to look at them. There were even a couple with her in attendance, although she could not remember on what occasion. So much for me, she thought.

She sat at the kitchen table sipping the hot brew as the sky outside lightened, until she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. She went to the front door as Margaret parked next to her car and got out. ‘Hello Mags,’ said Frankie as the sisters embraced.

‘Hello yourself,’ said Margaret. ‘This is not good.’ She spoke in a low voice so as not to disturb the quiet of the empty street.

‘You can say that again,’ came Frankie’s reply, equally hushed.

‘Where’s Sharon?’

‘In the lounge, asleep in a chair. She’s exhausted.’

‘Christ. Poor bloody Monty.’

‘
You
never thought much of him.’

‘I don’t think much of anybody,’ said Margaret. ‘Except you lot of course.’

‘That’s why we never see you?’ said Frankie, her tone accusatory.

‘Don’t start Frankie. Not today. You know that’s not true. Anyway, even if it is, I’m here now aren’t I?’

‘I’m sorry darling. This is all beginning to get to me.’

‘And we haven’t even begun yet,’ said Mags in a gloomy voice.

‘How do you mean?’

‘If he was pissed. You know how it goes. Postmortem. The whole nine yards.’

‘Oh God don’t say that!’ said Frankie, thinking of Monty’s cold body laid out on a mortuary slab.

‘Come on,’ said Roxie, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I want to get inside and drop my bags off. And I’m dying for a cuppa.’

‘Well you’re in luck, I just made some. And I’ve got some breakfast on the go too.’

‘Trust you. No I’m not hungry,’ said Mags, thinking of the coke in her bag.

They went inside, peeped in at Sharon who was still asleep and snoring gently, then went into the kitchen where Frankie poured them both a cup of tea. ‘A teapot,’ said Margaret. ‘Don’t see many of those these days. It’s usually a tea bag in a mug for me.’

‘Domestic,’ said Frankie, sarcastically.

‘Yeah,’ replied Margaret. ‘Just like home.’

‘This is a home.’

‘Not any more. Not for a while,’ said Margaret sadly. ‘You remember.’

Sharon nodded, both of them thinking back to the dreadful day they buried their mum.

The lead hearse had carried Queenie Doyle’s coffin with one display of white roses reading QUEENIE, one reading MUM lying on each side of it. Mickey and the four girls were in the car behind. He wore a long, black coat over a black suit, with a white shirt tightly buttoned at the neck, and a black tie. His four daughters were decked out in black berets, new black coats, black tights, and shiny black shoes, all chosen by Queenie’s sister.
Behind them was a long queue of expensive cars, such a convoy that it jammed the traffic in the Norwood Road whilst the girls and Mickey sat weeping. Little Roxy hadn’t even understood what was happening but had cried hot tears at the sight of her sisters and daddy so upset. The vicar didn’t know the family, but did his best during the short service. Friends and relatives said a few words, hymns were sung, prayers were said, and the congregation left as Judy Garland sang
Over the Rainbow
from the speaker system. The earth was frozen solid that winter, and a mechanical digger had ripped the grave from the dirt. The crowd, featuring almost every south London villain not currently banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure, stood shivering as the vicar intoned his last words, and the family tossed more white roses onto the lid of the coffin as the vicar threw in a handful of soil. As the mourners walked back to the cars, they heard the sound of the digger firing up its engine, ready to fill in the grave. Mickey was inconsolable, and Frankie held his head on her shoulder as his tears soaked her new coat. The other girls huddled together for comfort as the car drove them back home for the wake, where the drinking would carry on until the small wee hours. There was a spread laid out like a royal banquet, laid on by some ‘business associates’. Everyone wanted to show their respects to the Queen.

It had been a cheerless Christmas for the family as Queenie succumbed to the cancer that had spread throughout her body. There had been talk of a double mastectomy, but the doctors had discovered that the disease had moved to her liver, kidneys and spleen. They said that if she’d gone to her doctor when she first
discovered the lumps, they could have saved her, but it was too late. She discharged herself from hospital and went home. Private nurses cared for her night and day, but there was no hope. The house stank of the flowers delivered by friends and family. None of the girls would ever disassociate the smell from those terrible days. Then, on Christmas Eve, she passed away. Presents were left unopened. The turkey rotted in the fridge. The end of an era.

Now, listening to Sharon’s soft weeping, Mags remembered those dark days. ‘Here we go again,’ said Mags. ‘After dad, I thought it would be a long time until another funeral.’

‘Never long enough,’ said Frankie.

‘It’s going to be hard for them. For all of us.’

Frankie nodded. ‘It’s after the funeral that it’s really rough.’

And that wasn’t the half of it, thought Frankie, remembering the bad times with Mickey and the girls. The bad times she protected them from, no matter how badly Mags and Roxie treated her. No matter how many times she felt Mickey’s open handed slaps and
sometimes
his fist, she reminded herself that it was only her standing between him and her sisters. ‘You remind me so much of her,’ he would sob. ‘I don’t mean to hurt you. Sometimes I wish it had been you that died.’

Those words had been worse than the punches, and Frankie kept them locked away in a part of her mind she didn’t often visit.

‘We’ll get them through it,’ was all she said. ‘I’m going for a smoke.’ She wanted to be alone for a while.