The Lipstick Killers E-Book

Martin Lee

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 269

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Queenie Doyle ruled over south London gangland and her four daughters - Frankie, Mags, Sharon and Roxie - with an iron fist. When Queenie´s death brings the Doyle empire crashing down, the sisters grow apart, - each taking a different path in life. Eldest sister Frankie has a lot of love to give but her dreams have been stifled by being forced into becoming mother to the girls at just 18. Crazy Mags committed the ultimate rebellion against her upbringing - by joining the police force. Baby Roxie is living it up on the Costa Del Sol... but she leaves a string of dead men behind her. Sharon marries Monty, an accountant and settles down to raise a family and to live a perfect life in suburbia - but her world is shattered when Monty dies in mysterious circumstances. But is it an accident or murder? As the Doyle sisters pull together to find out what really happened to Monty they enter a world of drugs, dirty money and clean guns, risking their own safety to deal out their own brand of justice. Because, when someone harms the Doyles, they soon realise that these sisters fight as one. After all, blood is thicker than water...

Leseprobe

THE LIPSTICK KILLERS

Queenie Doyle ruled over south London gangland and her four daughters – Frankie, Mags, Sharon and Roxie – with an iron fist.

When Queenie’s death brings the Doyle empire crashing down, the sisters grow apart – each taking a different path in life. Eldest sister Frankie has a lot of love to give but her dreams have been stifled by being forced into becoming mother to the girls at just eighteen. Crazy Mags committed the ultimate rebellion against her upbringing – by joining the police force. Baby Roxie is living it up on the Costa Del Sol, but she leaves a string of dead men behind her. Sharon marries Monty, an accountant and settles down to raise a family and live a perfect life in suburbia – but her world is shattered when Monty dies in mysterious circumstances.

Is it an accident or murder? The Doyle sisters pull together to find out what really happened. Entering a world of drugs, dirty money and clean guns, risking their own safety to deal out their own brand of justice. When someone harms the Doyles, they soon realise that these sisters fight as one. After all, blood is thicker than water...

‘The Lipstick Killers – a lively and funny novel where the sisters take the law into their own hands’ – OK Magazine

Praise for Gangsters Wives:

‘A must read! Wonderful characters...F*** off plot’ – Martina Cole

‘these women certainly wear the trousers when things get violent’ – Mirror

‘the plot races away like a getaway car after a bank robbery’ – crimesquad.com

‘If you like Martina Cole’s work, then Gangsters Wives with be right up your darkened alley-way’ – www.shotsmag.co.uk

Other titles by the author

Gangsters Wives

For Kesh

Contents

PROLOGUE

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PROLOGUE

August Bank Holiday Monday 1989. Party time at the Doyles and everyone was showing their best faces. Roxanne – Roxie for short – Doyle’s sixth birthday. Named after her father Mickey’s favourite Police song, she was. The spoilt baby in the family of four daughters. Frances known as Frankie, the eldest at thirteen. The clever one. University material, everyone said. Then Margaret – who would only answer to Mags. Eleven-years-old. Crazy like a fox. Smart too, but already showing a resentful streak when it came to authority.  Next,  Sharon. Nine. Sweet, but docile enough to be easily led into bad ways. And finally of course Roxie. The baby – the apple of everyone’s eye, especially their mother.

‘Five bleedin’ women,’ their dad used to say. ‘Five in one house, and just me to get stick day and night. I can’t get away with anything.’ The sisters fought each other like cats and dogs, or more like cats and bitches, but beware any outsider sticking his or her oar in. Then they become one. A four-headed Hydra looking for a ruck. The bigger the better. Like when one of the bigger boys at school cut the end of Sharon’s plait one day, then was ambushed on the way home by the girls – four-year-old Roxie being let loose on his head with a pair of scissors whilst Frankie and Mags held him down. He looked like he had alopecia when she finished, and she always swore that it was that day she decided her later choice of career as a hairdresser.

Their dad complained, but he didn’t mean it. They knew as well as him that he was secretly proud of his feisty brood. And the mock-Tudor mansion in Streatham, south London was big enough for him to get lost in if needed. From the playroom in the attic, down five floors to the basement where there was a juke box, wet bar,  pool table, and the biggest colour TV currently available linked into a state-of-the-art video recorder and music centre, plus a vast collection of films, records and tapes. Or in the five car garage at the side of the house which held Mickey’s collection of vintage cars and top of the range Harleys.

That boiling hot Monday though, all the action was outside in the back garden that stretched four hundred yards to a bank of trees that hid the South Circular road from view. A wooden floored marquee had been erected for the finest food and drink money could buy. Moet flowing like water. Nouvelle cuisine for the adults, and burgers and fries for the kids. A DJ had set up twin decks to play the hits of the day by Kylie, Jason, Madonna, The Bangles for the kids, but with plenty of golden oldies for the grown-ups when the dancing and boozing really got going after sunset. Sure it was loud, yeah. But fuck it, it wasn’t everyday, and besides the neighbours had been invited. If they chose not to come, well let them close their windows and doors and watch bloody Eastenders. They wouldn’t complain. At least not to the face of the lady of the house, Queenie Doyle. Real name Alice, which she detested. She christened herself Queenie at an early age, and the way she ran the south London scene like a monarch, it fitted perfectly. She scared the shit out of them, as did her daughters. The neighbours called them the Wild Bunch, despite seeing them in their private school uniforms every day. They lowered the tone of the area, said the school playground gossip. Must be incomers from Catford or Lewisham or some such. Too much money and not enough manners they said – as long as Queenie or one of her clan couldn’t overhear them.

Queenie didn’t care what those snobby bitches at the school gates said. She had family all over south London. No fucker messed with the Doyles. The house was theirs, bought and paid for. No mortgage. And cash was rolling in from all directions. Too much sometimes. So let’s have some fun, spend some dough. It’s party time, and that was all that mattered – for now.

By three pm the place was buzzing. The private road the Doyles lived in was rammed with cars. Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Aston Martins, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Porsches, all shiny and new. A million quid’s worth of motors by anyone’s reckoning. The lounge was so full of toys for Roxie that Hamleys’ shelves must have been empty. Wrapping paper and cards littered the floor as she ripped open the parcels delivered by friends and family. Outside the disco was booming and the sisters were practising their dance routines with the few friends from school they’d invited. Not many. The Doyle girls didn’t pal up easily. They didn’t need to – they had each other.

The front door was open wide to allow easy entry for the guests. They came in all shapes, sizes, colours and sexual inclinations. Say one thing for the Doyles, they played no favourites. Queenie was the boss, and Queenie knew that it took all sorts. And they all had their uses. Whores, pimps, drug dealers, gangsters of every stripe, bookies, even some coppers who were on the payroll. It was a family day and all were welcome to eat, drink and have a laugh at the Doyles’ expense. No trouble. That was the only rule, and a half-dozen or so heavy looking individuals were scattered around the place front and back, to make sure that everyone stuck to that particular rule – sweating in their dark suits to disguise whatever weapon of choice sat beneath. 

Despite the heat Queenie felt cold and wore a mink wrap around her shoulders. She put down her champagne glass and excused herself and went upstairs to her and Mickey’s bedroom, and went into the en-suite. She dropped the stole onto the floor and stripped off her dress and bra. The lumps were still there under the skin of her ample breasts. She was the only one who knew. She hadn’t let Mickey touch her for months, maybe a year. More lumps than she remembered, and they were tender to her touch, sending pain down to her crotch. She knew she should go to the doctor, but she had no time for them. The pain made her vomit into the toilet and she cried as she knelt on the floor. ‘Oh, girls,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m so sorry.’

1

A ringing phone in the middle of the night always brings life-changing news. News of a death, or a birth. And so it was when Margaret Doyle was woken from a restless sleep at three in the morning. She didn’t yet know it, but she woke to a day that would change her life and that of her family forever. She fumbled for the receiver in the dark, and the empty wine glass on her bedside table bounced onto the carpet. ‘Shit,’ she mumbled, then spoke into the phone. ‘What?’

‘Mags, it’s me,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

‘I know who it is,’ said Margaret, her voice full of sleep. ‘What do you want at this time of night?’

‘It’s Monty,’ said the familiar female voice. ‘He’s dead.’

Margaret tried to pull herself awake through the fog of alcohol and the sleeping pill she’d taken at midnight. ‘Do what?’

‘Monty. Our brother-in-law. Sharon’s husband – he’s dead.’

Margaret sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, winced at the light, then said, ‘Wait a minute Frankie. Just wait.’ There was a bottle of Evian water next to the lamp, and she put the receiver under her chin and grabbed it, unscrewed the top and took a long drink. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Now what are you talking about?’

‘Listen,’ said Frances Foster, nee Doyle. ‘Monty’s dead. Have you got that?’

‘This is no joke?’

‘For fuck’s sake Mags. I’m not in the habit of making jokes at this time of night,’ snapped her sister.

Or any other time, thought Margaret, but said nothing. She checked the bedside clock. 3.14 a.m. ‘He was coming home from some do or other in Southampton,’ Frankie went on, ‘it was pissing down with rain and the car came off the road near Petersfield. It hit a tree. He was killed outright they reckon.’

‘Who reckons?’ said Mags, immediately switching to business mode. In her job, she was used to matters of life and death.

‘The doctors here, and the cops.’

‘Where’s here?’ asked Margaret.

‘Guildford Hospital. I’m outside in the rain having a fag. I can’t stand it in there.’

‘Was he pissed?’

‘Trust you to ask that. Always the copper.’

‘Well, was he?’

‘I don’t know. He could’ve been. Out late like that. I can’t think about that now,’ said Frankie, her voice choked with emotion.

‘OK. Don’t get upset. Where’s Sharon now?’

‘Still inside. She’s in bits. The kids are at home, being looked after by a neighbour. I’ll have to go back soon, but I thought I should let you know.’

‘When did it happen?’ asked Margaret, now fully awake and searching her bedside table for her cigarettes and lighter.

‘About midnight. A bloke in a truck he’d just overtaken saw it all. He called the police and ambulance.’

‘And you just phoned me now? You took your time.’

‘Christ Mags. What’s the matter with you? They had to get in touch with Sharon, then she called me. We had to sort out the kids and get here, identify the body, all that old bollocks. This is the first chance I’ve had.’

‘Sorry. What about Roxie?’

‘I haven’t told anyone else. I’ll get in touch with her tomorrow.’

Margaret lit a Silk Cut and breathed out smoke. ‘You’re not going to wake her up then.’

‘She’s in bloody Spain, you’re in London. She’s probably out on the razz, knowing her and what can she do tonight anyway? Next thing you’ll be asking why Sharon didn’t call you first.’

‘OK, OK.’

‘It’s always about you isn’t it? You bitch when I call you, and you’d have bitched more if I hadn’t. Same old Mags.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you. I am really shocked at what’s happened to Monty. It’s just that I haven’t been sleeping.’

‘You never did. Not even as a baby, mum said.’

Mags didn’t want to think about the memories her sister’s words dredged up. ‘Do you want me to come down?’

‘If you want.’ Frankie’s voice was flat.

‘Don’t be so enthusiastic will you? She is my sister too.’

‘And when did you last see her? Or the kids?’ said Frankie, pointedly.

‘I dunno. Christmas I suppose. Let’s not start all that.’ Mags felt the familiar animosity rising towards her sister and worked at keeping it in check. ‘I’ll get dressed, and come down. I’ll go to… where you going to be?’

‘At Sharon’s. Do you remember the address?’

‘Cut it out, will you? Now’s not the time. I’ll be down in a few hours.’

‘You all right to drive?’ said Frances, her tone softening.

‘I’ll manage.’

‘Well, take it easy, sis. We don’t want another accident tonight, do we?’

‘I’ll be okay. I’ll see you soon,’ and with that Margaret put down the phone, her heart full of sympathy for Sharon and her two fatherless children.

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 Boxster, 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 Mags, 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.’