The Lipstick Killers Read Online Free PDF Page A

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