The Lipstick Killers

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