The Lipstick Killers (3 page)

5

Outside in the back garden, Frankie lit up a cigarette and took a long drag, pulling a face at the taste, and Mags’ words. Of course she remembered. How could she ever forget those last months of her mother’s life, and what followed? The cancer that had gripped the woman she loved most in the world. The weeks on the wards where she learned to hate the stink of them, so the memories came flooding back last night as she and Sharon entered Guildford hospital. The bad food left uneaten as Queenie’s chemo shrank her appetite to nothing. Helping her mother to the toilet where the blood covered stools made her want to vomit. Her father, just sitting holding his wife’s hand stone-faced, unable to articulate his feelings. The other three girls, not believing what was happening, and in Roxie’s case, hardly knowing. Frankie grew up overnight as she was forced to take on the responsibilities of the household. Cooking, cleaning, washing, ironing, looking after the girls and her father with little or no help, although Mags tried her
hardest, and even little Roxie, helped out – or tried to. Frankie still remembered how her attempt to make breakfast one Sunday almost burned the house down when the toast caught fire.

No, Frankie would never forget how a home had changed into a prison where she strived to do her school work as well as look after everyone. Social workers hovered, determined to split up the family but her dad had succeeded in keeping them together with help from the Doyles’ extended family – coming close to violence several times – until the social left them alone, and Frankie became queen of the house. But not the real queen. She could never be replaced.

‘Course I remember,’ she said to herself. ‘Hard not to.’

6

Dawn had well and truly broken and the sisters were back sitting at the kitchen table when they heard a sound outside the door and a sleepy headed Peter stuck his head round the door. ‘Why is mummy asleep in the lounge?’ he asked, then, ‘Aunty Mags, is that you?’ he said, his smile beaming wide with delight.

Margaret got to her feet and went to the boy. ‘Hello Peter,’ she said.

‘Hello. I didn’t know you were coming.’ he said
excitedly
. ‘Where’s dad? He’s not in bed.’

Margaret hugged the boy, and looked round at her sister for guidance. ‘Frankie,’ she said, not knowing what to say to the boy.

Frankie got up from her seat. ‘Peter,’ she said softly. ‘Come here, lovey.’

He went to his other aunt, looking even more
bewildered
.

Frankie led him to a chair at the kitchen table and sat him down. ‘Dad’s gone away for a bit,’ she said, wishing
Sharon was there. ‘We’ve all had a late night and mum’s very tired.’

‘Gone where?’ the boy asked. ‘Where did you go last night? We were scared.’

‘We’ll explain later. Now be a good big boy, and don’t ask questions. Do you want some breakfast?’

Peter nodded, but he was smart and sensed that
something
was wrong. ‘Shall I go and wake Susan?’ he asked his aunts.

‘Leave her for now,’ said Frankie.

‘What about school?’ he insisted. ‘It’s my turn to feed the guinea pig today.’

‘You’re having a day off. A holiday,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll go and wake your mum.’

She left the room, glad to be away from her nephew and his questions. Ever since he’d been able to
understand
what she did for a living, he’d hero-worshipped her. He loved watching crime series on TV, although Sharon put her foot down on letting him look at the ones containing sex and violence. But even so he managed to watch as many as he was allowed, and was sure that Aunty Mags was a mixture of Wonder Woman, Cagney and Lacey and Miss Marple, all rolled into one. Mags wished she could have lived up to his ideas about her, but she knew this was just the beginning. She reached the lounge where Sharon was still asleep and Margaret hated to wake her to the worst day of her life, but the children would need her. She shook her sister and Sharon jumped, suddenly wide awake. ‘Mags,’ she said, the memory of what happened last night suddenly hitting her like a ton of bricks. ‘It’s you. So it wasn’t a dream.’

‘I’m so sorry sweetie,’ said Margaret. ‘But it’s morning and Peter’s up asking questions. And no, it wasn’t a dream. I wish it was, for your sake.’

Sharon shoved Frankie’s coat off and got up. ‘I must look a fright,’ she said.

‘You were always the best looking one of all of us,’ replied Margaret. ‘You look fine.’

Sharon glanced in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Look how red and puffy my eyes are. I look like a bloody witch. I’ll scare the kids.’

‘I doubt it. What will you tell them?’

‘The truth, Frankie said I should tell the truth.’

‘I didn’t know what to say, I told Peter Monty was away.’

‘Thanks sis. I understand. You had to tell him
something
.’

‘And I told him that there was no school today.’

‘No, that’s the right thing to do. I won’t send them to school today. Listen, where is he?’

‘In the kitchen with Frankie. She’s making his
breakfast
.’

‘And Susan?’

‘Still asleep.’

‘Okay,’ said Sharon, looking suddenly more resilient. ‘Let me go wash my face and I’ll talk to them.’

‘I’ll be with you. Don’t worry,’ said Margaret.

‘You’ve done it haven’t you? In your job I mean.’

‘Breaking bad news is the worst part. But it’s got to be done sis, and we’ll all be here with you.’

Sharon went upstairs to her bathroom where she quickly splashed cold water on her face in a vain attempt to get the redness out of her eyes. She looked in the
mirror as her younger sister had done hours before. ‘The best looking one,’ she said aloud. ‘Oh Monty, why?’

She smoothed down the sweater she was wearing over the blue jeans that she had dragged on when the police had arrived last night. They’d tracked the address from the number plate of Monty’s car. ‘Well, here goes,’ she said under her breath, steeling herself to deliver the news to her children. ‘How am I going to cope with this?’ And with that, she started to cry.

7

‘Stop it,’ she said quietly, trying to get herself in check. ‘I’ve got to be strong.’ She dried her eyes on a piece of toilet roll and left the bathroom. She went to Susan’s room and looked at her youngest child, still asleep, with the covers almost off the bed where she’d kicked them off in the night. She could hardly bring herself to wake Susan, but she knew she had to. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, and brushing the hair off her face.

Susan’s eyes opened and she smiled. ‘Mummy,’ she said. ‘I had a bad dream.’

‘I know, sweetie. So did I.’

‘Is it better now?’ said Susan, hopefully.

Sharon shook her head. ‘Come on love, get up and clean your teeth. Mummy has something to tell you.’

‘What? Are we getting a puppy?’

‘Oh God,’ said Sharon, the lump in her throat
threatening
to choke her. ‘Now come on, Peter’s downstairs, and Aunty Frankie and Aunty Mags. they’ve come to see you.’

‘Aunty Mags!’ said the child delightedly. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages.’

‘Well she’s here now. Put on your dressing gown and we’ll go and see her.’

Susan almost leapt out of bed, tugged on her dressing gown and ran to the second bathroom where she scrubbed her teeth, showed them gleaming to her mother and ran downstairs. ‘Aunty Mags,’ she shouted on the way. ‘Where are you?’

Sharon followed slowly, knowing that what she had to say would destroy the child’s delight. She shook her head as she went. Please God, she said to herself. Help me.

When she got to the kitchen, Peter was eating corn flakes at the table and Susan was sitting on Margaret’s lap, a beaming smile on her face.

Here goes, thought Sharon.

‘Peter; Susan,’ she said, ‘I’ve got some very bad news.’

The two children looked at her, each with a confused expression on their faces.

‘There was an accident last night. Daddy was hurt.’

‘No,’ said Peter, but Susan just looked even more confused.

‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘Now come here darlings, both of you.’

She crouched down to her children and gathered them in her arms. ‘Daddy’s not coming back my darlings. He’s gone to live with the angels now.’

Peter started to cry, and Susan joined in, although she really wasn’t quite sure why. At her young age death was something that she didn’t understand. It had been the same with Roxie when Queenie died. It had all been too much to take in.

Sharon hugged them to her breast and started to cry too, whilst her two sisters just looked on, faces torn with pity, knowing there was nothing they could do to stop the pain.

8

Frankie was the first to disturb her loved ones huddled, weeping on the floor. She jumped up from her chair and rushed over to them. ‘Sharon,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take them upstairs? Take them to your room.’

Sharon looked up at her, tears pouring from her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’ll be good. Upstairs. Somewhere quiet.’

‘Quiet is good,’ replied Frankie. ‘We’ll be here. I’ll have to phone work. Take some time off.’

Sharon looked at Margaret. ‘And you?’ she asked.

‘As long as you need me love,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m here for you – and you know I don’t have anywhere to be at the moment.’

‘Thank you, both of you. Come on kids, let’s watch TV in Mummy’s room.’

The trio left the kitchen, with Margaret and Frankie following them into the hallway, but as Sharon and the children started up the first flight of stairs there was a ring at the doorbell. Through the frosted glass Margaret
saw the familiar silhouettes of two uniform caps. One male, one female. ‘It looks like the police,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

‘Will you,’ said Sharon. ‘I can’t face it. If you need me…’

‘I’ll call you,’ said Margaret, and as the three went upstairs she walked to the front door and opened it. Outside was a uniformed police sergeant holding a ziplock bag, and a young WPC. ‘Mrs Smith?’ he asked.

‘Sister. Detective-Sergeant Margaret Doyle of the Met.’ She didn’t show her ID, because it was still in the flat in Battersea.

‘Oh. Good to meet you. Sorry. You know what I mean. I’m Sergeant Turner from Guildford police station. This is WPC Dodds.’

‘Hello Sergeant Turner. Hello WPC Dodds. Come in.’

‘Can we speak to Mrs Smith?’ Turner asked as he came inside the house.

‘She’s upstairs. She’s just told her children what happened and they’re in bits, as you can imagine, so I said I’d talk to you.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yeah, it’s been a tough one. Come into the living room.’

The sergeant and the WPC followed Margaret into the room. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Tea? My sister’s making some.’

‘I thought you said she was upstairs?’

‘No Frankie. Our eldest. There’s a lot of us.’

‘That’s good at this sort of time,’ said the policeman, obviously uncomfortable in this house of grief. The
young woman said nothing, just took out a police-issue notebook.

‘It helps to have family around you. Did you want tea, either of you?’

‘No, I’ll pass,’ said the sergeant. The WPC, who looked young, out of her depth, just shook her head. ‘I’m glad I’m speaking to you to be honest,’ he went on. ‘I’ve never got used to all this, and I’ve been in the job for twelve years.’

‘Me neither,’ agreed Mags, thinking of all the times she had been in his shoes.

The pair sat on the sofa, and the sergeant said, ‘we pulled the car away from the crash site at first light, and it’s being examined at our garage. It’s a miracle it didn’t catch fire. We found Mr Smith’s jacket in the back.’ He indicated the bag he’d been carrying. ‘It must have fallen off the back seat in the accident. There was a wallet in the inside pocket with cash and cards, and his phone, and what looks like house and office keys. We’ll need you to sign for them.’

‘Of course.’

‘The car keys were still in the ignition of course. It looks like a write-off I’m afraid.’

‘That hardly matters now. Sharon has a car of her own but she wouldn’t get in that car anyway now.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘After that it’s just procedure – as you’ll be aware,’ he said. ‘Post mortem We’ll be checking for alcohol and drugs in his system as a matter of course. How old are the children?’

‘Seven and five.’

‘God, that’s a tragedy,’ he said, thoughtfully.

‘You can say that again.’

‘Well thank you for your time,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ll be on our way. Sign here please.’ He passed Margaret an official form listing what had been found, and a pen. She dashed off a signature, then he fished a card from his breast pocket. ‘If you need me for anything, just call. Normally we’d stick around but you’re a copper too. We’ll leave you alone for now. But we may have to come back. You know how it is.’

‘I do.’

‘Sergeant Doyle, thank you.’

‘I won’t say it was a pleasure.’

‘I’m sure.’ And with that he got up, put his cap back on and allowed Margaret to see him and the WPC out. She had not spoken in the ten minutes she’d been in the house, but Margaret still felt sorry for her. It won’t ever get any better, she thought.