The Lipstick Killers

by Lee Martin

‘Don’t,’ said Margaret. ‘We know who you are, and we are police.’

  The two men left, and Margaret watched them run out of the estate chased by the catcalls of the gang of kids. ‘You’d better make plans for a holiday,’ she said to Boy. ‘A long one. I think we’ve pissed them off.’

  ‘It was time for a move anyway,’ he replied. ‘What do you reckon Glo?’ he said to the black girl.

  ‘Hackney,’ she said. ‘I’ve got people there.’

  ‘Sounds OK,’ said Boy. ‘It was getting old around here anyway.’ Then to Margaret. ‘I owe you one.’

  ‘It’s her you should thank,’ she said, nodding at Roxie. ‘She brought the gun.’

  ‘Course,’ said Boy. ‘Thanks love. I owe you more than one. You da ‘bidness,’ he said in his fake whiteboy patois.

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Roxie. ‘Brightened up a dull day.’

  ‘So can I get you something?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘They never got the stash. You got here just in time.’

  ‘Well come on then,’ said Margaret. ‘Get a move on, before those boys find some clothes.’

  Boy went into another room and came out with a big bag of powder. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘On the house, and your tab’s clear.’

  ‘Cheers, glad to hear it,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Right,’ said Boy. ‘Come on Glo. We’d better make a move sharpish.’

  ‘Won’t take a minute,’ she said. Then to the sisters. ‘You saved us. I’ll never forget you. Those bastards meant what they said. They were gonna… They were gonna rape me. You should have heard what they were saying before you got here. Thank you,’ she said, her voice full of gratitude.

  ‘Just keep safe,’ said Roxie.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ said Margaret to Boy. ‘You’ve got my mobile.’

  ‘Soon as we’re sorted I’ll give you a bell,’ said Boy. ‘I’d give you a kiss, but…’ he pointed to his lip that was still bleeding, and shook them both by the hand. ‘I mean it. You saved our skins. We won’t forget.’

  ‘See you then,’ said Margaret, and she and Roxie left the flat. They didn’t see either of the men on the way back to the car.

  Once inside, she said. ‘You done good there Rox. Would you have used it?’

  ‘You better believe it,’ said Roxie.

  ‘Christ. Look at us, the lipstick killers. We’re our mother’s daughters, no doubt.’

  69

  After a few samples of Boy’s thank-you gift, the two sisters left in Margaret’s car for Kensington at six pm. Roxie had two phones. Her own, and the prepaid that Margaret had bought earlier, now fully-charged, and connected to Margaret’s mobile line. Roxie was dressed to impress. Short skirt, killer heels and a jacket that emphasised her ample chest. The live phone went in the top pocket of the jacket, and the .38 revolver in her bag – just in case. They sat opposite the bar, and right on time Peter Saint Cyr arrived, dressed in a Burberry macintosh and a trilby hat. ‘That’s the fella,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Too smooth for my taste,’ said Roxie.

  ‘Don’t worry. I reckon you’re just up his street. Now go, girl, and remember you can do this.’

  She left the car, crossed the street, went into the bar and sat at a stool in front of the counter, two seats down from where Saint Cyr was sitting. He noticed her immediately, as did every other man in the place. She looked at her watch with a frown and ordered a white wine spritzer from the barman. He produced it with a flourish and a smile which she didn’t return, just looked at her watch again and tapped her foot impatiently on the floor.

  Saint Cyr looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and took a sip of his beer. Margaret had been right. Roxie was just his type, especially looking the way she did that evening.

  Fifteen minutes passed and Roxie had hardly touched her drink, just kept checking the time before she took her own mobile out of her handbag and pretended to make a call. To Saint Cyr it simply looked like no one answered, and she pulled a face before switching the instrument off. That was when he made his move, standing and walking down towards her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  She turned and gave him a dirty look. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Roxie snapped at him.

  ‘Sorry. But I couldn’t help noticing. You look like something’s wrong.’

  ‘If it’s any of your business, which it isn’t, I’m supposed to be meeting someone and they haven’t turned up.’

  ‘Then he’s got very bad taste. He should be ashamed,’ said St Cyr, smoothly.

  ‘It’s not a he, it’s as she, as a matter of fact, and she’s always doing this. Her phone’s switched off and not even a bloody text.’

  ‘Sorry again. But don’t waste the evening. Can I get you another drink?’

  ‘I haven’t finished this one yet, and I should be going.’

  ‘Don’t go. This is a decent place, and it livens up later. Have you been before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not. I’m a bit of a regular after work – and I’d have noticed you no doubt. Why don’t you stay a while? Just a friendly drink. Anyway, your friend might have been delayed. She could still turn up.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Roxie, pretending to give it some thought.

  ‘May I join you then.’

  ‘If you want.’

  Saint Cyr fetched his drink and took the stool next to Roxie. ‘My names Peter, by the way.’

  For the first time Roxie smiled. ‘Peter. I’m Tessa. My friends call me Tess.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you Tess,’ he said, and they shook hands. While Peter busied himself ordering the drinks, Roxie took the chance to check that the phone in her top pocket was still running – that Mags could hear every word of their conversation.

  70

  After that, the evening went just as Margaret had forecast. After a shaky start, Tess and Peter began an animated conversation, and she seemed to warm to him more and more. It seemed that Peter was a big man in finance and security and Tess owned several beauty salons. ‘You’re too young, surely?’ said Peter.

  ‘Thank you, but I decided early on that I was going to be my own boss.’

  ‘Very wise.’ ‘No boyfriend?’ Saint Cyr had noticed that there were no rings on her left hand.

  “Fraid not. No man can keep up with me. That’s why it was a girl’s night out tonight – or supposed to be. Makes a change from sitting in front of the box though. How about you?’

  ‘No. No boyfriend,’ said Saint Cyr with a laugh.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘They work me too hard at the office. That’s why I end up here most nights, keeping the barman company.’

  ‘Well cheers,’ said Roxie, touching her glass to his. ‘Looks like it didn’t work out too bad for either of us,’ she flirted.

  An hour or two passed companionably as they sipped their drinks and chatted about inconsequentials – the weather, the US elections and the best restaurants in the West End, and Roxie said all the right things to make Saint Cyr sure he was onto a result.

  ‘Listen,’ said Roxie, checking her watch and seeing that it was close to ten pm, ‘I really have to go.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘Where do you 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,’ said St Cyr, his eyes wild.

  ‘Peter,’ said Margaret. ‘This is not going to work unless you tell us the truth. We’re Monty’s sisters-in-law. I’m a copper. We know that you’re an errand boy for John Haywood. Monty’s dead, so is his secretary, and my sister killed herself a few days ago. All because someone at your office threatened her and her children. Now don’t fuck us about. Tell us the whole sorry story or you’ll be bloody sorry.’

  Saint Cyr looked at Roxie. ‘Bitch,’ he said, looking at her with hate.

  Margaret swung the asp again and landed a blow on his upper arm. He squealed in pain. ‘And less of that sort of talk. Roxie, keep him covered.’ She put the gun and the asp down. ‘Put your hands in front of you,’ she ordered Saint Cyr.

  He did as he was told, and Margaret cuffed his wrists. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Looks like we’re in for a long night.’

  She sat, and picked up the pistol again. ‘Come on now, Peter,’ she said. ‘Spill the beans.’

  ‘You’re police?’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Where do you think I got the asp and the cuffs?’ she asked. ‘Army surplus?’

  ‘And what’s she?’ He nodded in the direction of Roxie. ‘Tess, or Roxie, or whatever her bloody name is.’

  ‘What I said,’ said Roxie. ‘Beauty consultant. Well, ex-beauty consultant to be exact.’

  ‘Who carries a gun?’

  ‘Some of the ladies can get vicious,’ said Roxie. ‘But this isn’t getting us anywhere.’

  ‘So how long do you intend to keep me here?’

  ‘As long as necessary,’ Roxie said, shortly.

  ‘I’ll be missed.’

  ‘Not tonight. You live alone, remember?’ said Margaret.

  ‘So what makes you think I know more about this Smith person than I told you on our last meeting?’

  ‘You made a mistake,’ said Roxie, shortly. ‘You used your mobile to call the man who called my sister, and threatened her.’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me, it was…’ he stopped.

  ‘Gotcha,’ said Margaret.

  73

  ‘Listen,’ said Saint Cyr, his voice beginning to whine as he finally realised the seriousness of his situation. ‘I didn’t want any part of it.’

  ‘Threatening innocent women? Women with young children?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And what about killing Monty and his secretary?’

  ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not killing him. It was meant as a frightener. The brakes were supposed to fail immediately. Not somewhere down the road at speed.’

  ‘And Joyce Smart? Sliced like a Christmas turkey – are you saying that wasn’t supposed to happen? I found her you know.’

  ‘Not me again.’

  ‘Then who?’Margaret picked up her gun and screwed the barrel into Saint Cyr’s cheek. ‘I’ll kill you,’ she said, her voice as cold as ice. ‘I swear. Tell me the truth or I’ll do it.’

  ‘It was Trent. A young buck in the organisation, looking for points from Haywood. I’m head of security – killing women isn’t in my job description.’

  ‘But why Monty at all? What did he do?’

  ‘He stole money. Lots of money.’ Saint Cyr almost seemed relieved to start talking.

  ‘What kind of money?’

  ‘Dirty money of course.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘VAT fraud. Gold and diamonds from South Africa. Import, export, but cut out the revenue. Simple. But how do you know about any of that?’

  ‘I’m a bloody copper,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s my job to know things like that.’

  ‘But not the copper you pretended to be.’

  ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘So why Monty?’ pressed Roxie.

  ‘I met him at a school reunion. He was younger than me of course. We got talking, and when I told him who I worked for he asked if there wa
s any work for him. Old school, you know what that means. I introduced him to Haywood, and it turned out he was an accounting genius. Christ knows what he was doing in Guildford doing the accounts for the local shopkeepers. We gave him more and more responsibility for the VAT. But then he got greedy and started ripping us off. We didn’t mind a little. Comes with the territory. But he obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with, because he just didn’t stop.’

  ‘So you killed him.’

  ‘I told you, it wasn’t supposed to happen. Then Trent’s thugs got over eager and killed his secretary.’

  ‘And threatened my sister.’

  ‘Another stupid mistake. We should have just forgotten about the money, Christ. We thought it was all over when Smith’s wife went off the deep end. We were prepared to cut our losses.’

  This time Margaret hit him with the barrel of the Colt. ‘Our sister, remember? Our dead sister.’

  Saint Cyr was almost in tears by then. The urbane, cocky man of the world was gone, leaving a scared child in his place. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘You, Haywood, and whoever else was involved.’

  ‘Are you going to call the police? I mean, you’ll be in trouble yourselves after what you’ve done to me. Kidnap, assault, false imprisonment.’

  ‘You’ve been watching The Bill again Peter’, said Margaret. ‘Trouble is, I’m already up to my neck in trouble.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Roxie. ‘Besides, I haven’t had so much fun in years. You can’t imagine how boring it is doing another Paris Hilton cut and colour.’

  ‘Christ,’ Saint Cyr said again, but under his breath this time.

  ‘So we’re all going to have a quiet night in,’ said Margaret. ‘And tomorrow we’re going into work with you and we’re all going to sort this out – one way or another.’

  74

  Margaret and Roxie kept Saint Cyr cuffed on the couch all night, just allowing him one toilet break and he complained bitterly at Roxie staying with him in the bathroom. ‘You wanted to show it to me last night badly enough,’ she said. ‘Just do what you have to do, and shut up.’