The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  He’d laid down a challenge, this Darriteau person. Sam hurried into the other room and booted up the Internet. Typed in “Walter Darriteau” not really expecting much. One hundred and eight pages of entries about the guy. Jeez, he even had his own entry on Interpedia, the online encyclopaedia, and that was particularly interesting because anyone could update that site. The mind pondered on opportunities as Sam surfed the sites and devoured the data.

  Details of his cases, his press conferences, his history, his disciplinary matters, God, don’t you just love the Internet, a nosey parker’s whole new way of life!

  I want you to know I am coming to get you.

  Bloody nerve, there should be a law against public threats like that.

  Surely it was an infringement of Sam’s human rights.

  I shall find you wherever you are.

  Not if I find you first.

  You know that I will catch you in the end, nothing is more certain than that.

  Well come on big boy, let’s see you try!

  That day is coming soon.

  Says who? A bad actor like you, Walter, Wally, what a Wally you are, and Sam sniggered. Wally Darri, what a prick!

  Remember this, you and I will be meeting soon.

  Yeah, just for once, you might be right.

  Chapter Eleven

  Maggie O’Brien came from a big family. They were all dead. Ten assorted brothers and sisters, twelve uncles and aunts, two sons, all dead. Michael, her first son, had struggled through childhood. He never quite gave the impression he would make it, and he didn’t. Leukaemia. What a bugger. At least Liam had reached forty. Dead now though, killed in a car crash while drink driving in the outback, knocked over and killed a king kangaroo, and himself. Not such a surprise really, for all the O’Briens could worry the liquor bottles when roused.

  All dead, every last one of them.

  True, there were fifty nieces and nephews and heaven knows how many grand nieces and nephews, but none of them were in the slightest bit interested in Maggie O’Brien, not since she’d grown old, become forgetful; began repeating things every five minutes. At the beginning that had been funny, but it soon became a fatal irritant.

  The modern kids just weren’t interested. They didn’t see the point of the old lonely lady that none of them really knew. It wasn’t as if she was any of their mothers or fathers. They didn’t owe her a damned thing.

  Maggie had one close friend, Floria Beech, who had been in and out of hospital for the previous two years. Heart trouble, poor girl, Maggie always called her girl because she was quite young at seventy-nine. She was in dock again, the Countess of Chester Hospital, on the north side of the city.

  Maggie visited her whenever she could, but she had fallen into a bad habit. She kept missing the bus. If anyone was watching they would have noticed that. Maggie came puffing and panting round the corner to see the maroon and cream bus pulling away. She put it down to her sciatica that was playing up, and the Meniere’s disease that was keeping her awake at nights, when in truth it was more down to plain forgetfulness. The bus left the end of her bungalowed road at ten past seven, not quarter past, and that five minutes made all the difference.

  She did it again.

  Stupid woman! She cursed herself aloud. What am I like?

  The single decker pulled away. There were two young children on the back seat with their mother. The kids put their fingers in their mouths, widened their gobs, stared at Maggie through the dirty glass, pulled a face and nodded their heads.

  Cheeky beggars! What was the world coming to? Even their mother glanced over her shoulder, back through the window, stared at the old woman now standing forlornly at the bus stop, a tiny bunch of daffodils wrapped in a damp copy of last week’s Chester Chronicle, in her rheumatoid hands. The woman on the bus stuck her nose in the air and turned to the front.

  I blame the parents, said Maggie aloud, but there was no one there to hear.

  A shiny dark car pulled up at the bus stop. The nearside window buzzed down. A voice said, ‘Have you missed your bus? Do you want the hospital? I am going to the hospital.’

  It was hard to hear. The stereogram, or whatever they call it these days, was on loud, thumping pop music; bang, bang, bang, rat music, was it? Was that what it’s called?

  Maggie bent slightly and peered inside.

  ‘Were you talking to me?’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘Sure. I am going to the Countess if you wanna lift.’

  Lovely car, lovely clean person, and you can always trust a doctor in a white coat.

  ‘Well if you’re sure, I’ll pay for the petrol.’

  The doctor laughed and reached across and opened the door and said, ‘Jump in.’

  Maggie O’Brien’s jumping days were long behind her.

  She grasped the headrest and made to enter. She had forgotten which foot to begin with. She thrust in her left, but that didn’t seem quite right, but she was already half in, and in the next second she practically fell into the red sports seat. It had been nine years since she had last sat in a car. It took a moment to get her breath.

  ‘Can you close the door?’ said the doctor.

  ‘What!’

  ‘The door, we can’t go far with the door wide open.’

  Maggie stared at the open door. It seemed so far off. She wasn’t sure with her dickey shoulder if she could reach it, but the nice doctor must have gathered that much, because in the next second the doc jumped out, ran round, and carefully closed the door, ensuring that Maggie’s coat was tucked inside before doing so, and in the next moment the doctor was back in the car, starting the engine.

  ‘What’s you name?’

  ‘Maggie O’Brien. What’s yours?’

  ‘Doctor Finlay.’

  ‘Really?’

  The doc smiled ever so nicely. ‘Honest.’

  ‘I used to love that programme.’

  The car moved off, quicker than Maggie would have ideally liked. The dreadful music seemed to be getting louder, and it was. The doc was surreptitiously pumping up the sound with fingertip controls on the steering wheel.

  Maggie had a dreadful headache. It had been there since she first staggered out of bed at half past nine. The music was unbearable now, like something from a nightmare.

  ‘I’ve got a terrible headache,’ she uttered. ‘Could you possibly turn the music down?’

  The doctor glanced across at her. Maggie had turned inwards, displaying that soft, old, pleading face. She didn’t look well.

  ‘Sorry, yeah, sure, course,’ and the doc reached forward and turned the music off. ‘Tell you what I’ll do; I’ll just pull into the petrol station. I need petrol and I’ll give you something for that head.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need.’

  ‘I have to stop anyway. Need the juice,’ and in the next second the doc had driven onto the forecourt and turned off the engine. Reached across and opened the glove compartment, took out a brown bottle on which a printed label read Headaches and Flu in big black letters. Opened it, which was just as well because it had that awkward anti child top that Maggie always struggled with. Took out two tablets and slipped them into Maggie’s trembling hand.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Oh, just ordinary headache pills, I use them all the time, get them from the hospital, they’re really good, here take them with this,’ and the doc reached under the seat and pulled out a small half full bottle of water.

  That was another thing that Maggie didn’t understand about the modern world. Why do young people always walk around carrying bottles of water? Are they expecting a drought? We never did.

  ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, eh?’ said Maggie grinning, throwing one of the pills into her mouth.

  The doctor smiled, ever so charming like, and said, ‘That’s it Maggie, it’s who you know that counts,’ and then jumped out of the car and began loading up the petrol.

  Then they were back on the road, Maggie delighted t
hat the doc hadn’t put the music back on, and maybe the pills were beginning to work. She yawned.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ she mumbled, bringing a hand to her mouth.

  The doc yawned too.

  ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ the doc said, grinning across at her, still yawning.

  Maggie’s face was on her shoulder, facing inwards, facing the nice doctor. She could get used to this, being driven to see Floria by her own personal physician. Sometimes it was good to miss the bus.

  The doc drove into the car park at the Countess, took ages to find a space, and by then Maggie was fast asleep, deep breathing, a contented look set on her face, as if she had enjoyed a fabulous luncheon.

  The doc ripped off the stethoscope and threw it in the back.

  Started the car, and pointed it toward Delamere forest.

  Floria would remain alone and miserable that night, wondering where her friend had gone.

  Temazepam, two 10mg tablets, that’s all it took. The doc correctly guessed that Maggie would have been on a cocktail of drugs. The Temazepam was simply the final straw. She wouldn’t wake for hours. The doc turned the music back on, loud, it wouldn’t make any difference.

  ––––––––

  Sam had been to Delamere many times before, often used to come with Desi, walking, they both liked the most desolate places best, for in desolate places people can get up to all kinds of mischief. Desi certainly did. Sam made a habit of returning often, if only to revisit memories.

  Took that same track down toward the little lake known as Victoria’s Pool. Some crazy story existed that the old queen had stopped there once, a place where Sam and Desi used to picnic. There was an old wooden and concrete seat there, overlooking the brackish water, and Sam parked the car, facing the bench, maybe ten yards away. With any luck there would be no one about at night, maybe the odd courting couple, but it was raining now and dark, and there was no one there at all.

  Sam jumped out and opened the hatchback. Took out the length of corrugated piping, it was part of an old vacuum cleaner that had become surplus to requirements when they had gone bagless two years before. It had been Desi’s idea to keep it, though God knows why. It fit over the exhaust perfectly; Sam had checked that a week earlier, fed it through the back window. Jumped in the car, blocked up the space where the tube entered with an old Chester City Football Club scarf, took one last look at Maggie, she was sleeping heavily, a contented look set on her face, as if this was the best sleep she had ever had, turned on the engine, closed the door, quietly, though it still sounded like thunder, and walked away.

  The rain had stopped, though large drips were still sploshing from the pine trees. An owl hooted for its mate. The car motor was ticking over. Sam squelched around the small lake, just as they used to do, hand-in-hand, three circuits should do it. No, maybe one more for luck, plenty of petrol, the engine wasn’t going to stop.

  Back to the car. Opened the back. Filthy smoke flew into the night. Took out the yellow rubber gloves. Slipped them on. Opened the door, fumes rushed out, flushing up Sam’s nose. Bloody terrible! Coughed loudly. Wafted the hands. Turned off the engine. Grabbed Maggie’s body, she’d long since departed this world; that was very evident. Her black handbag fell to the muddy ground, carried her to the park seat, she weighed next to nothing, sat her down, set her up straight, hurried back for the handbag, wiped it clean, leaving her money intact, no need to pay for the lift, Maggie dear, no robbery here, hooked the bag over her wrist, crossed and folded her arms, straightened her hat, closed her eyes, upturned her lips, jeez she looked happy, probably happier than she had been in years.

  Quick look around. Nothing dropped. No one about. Sam would never come this way again. The car stank like hell. Removed the gloves. Took off the white coat, chucked it on the back seat, switched on the headlights, full beam. Maggie O’Brien was bathed in light. She looked as if she was on the stage; hogging the spotlight, the woman in black, as if she were about to open her eyes and deliver a monologue. I have a story to tell, you won’t believe it, but it really happened. The beginning of a play, a murder mystery perhaps, and Maggie O’Brien was the star, and the only person who knew how it would end, except she didn’t.

  Sam winked at Maggie.

  Started the engine, buzzed down the windows.

  Left designer trainer to C, select gear, right trainer to A. Acceleration! Not too quick, pulled the car round, made it without any reversing, the rain had returned, heavier than before, and that was no bad thing, it would wash away the evil spirits.

  Maggie O’Brien was going to get wet.

  Sorry Maggie, dear.

  100 Ways to Kill People.

  Carbon monoxide poisoning.

  You hear of it all the time.

  Most popular way to commit suicide, so they say.

  Surprised it wasn’t used more often.

  ––––––––

  During the quick trip back to Chester Sam reflected on the innovative use of props. The stethoscope bought in the Oxfam shop in Frodsham high street for a fiver, the use of one of Desi’s white coats that Sam had recently considered binning.

  They had worked like a dream, and no one would ever know.

  There were lessons there to be learned, the value of good props. Sam closed the windows; the flushing cold night air had cleaned the interior.

  That should give them something to think about, those dopey coppers, those loopy press people.

  Over to you, Walter.

  Wall.

  Wally.

  Prick!

  Sam laughed aloud.

  This was fun, and it was getting better.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stevie discovered the body. The old lady was still sitting on the bench as if she had been waiting for the hospital bus and had fallen asleep. There was dew on her hat and shoulders and the end of her nose, and her dark coat was soaked through. The handbag was untouched, still containing the pension she had collected the day before.

  A large spider’s web stretched from her earring to the corner of the bench. The spider had scarpered when Steve had arrived on the scene, sniffing around Maggie’s feet.

  Stevie was a red setter.

  It was ten minutes to eight on a moist morning and Maggie would always be asleep at that time. She was asleep still, enjoying the beginning of the big one.

  Two minutes later Stevie’s owner showed up, panting like the dog, Mr Milkins, sixty-nine, retired solicitor. He fired up the mobile phone his granddaughter Sara had bought him for his birthday, and tried to remember how to use the darn thing. Figured it out, maybe, and zapped 999.

  ––––––––

  The incident room was packed; everyone was in early to sift through the results of the televised broadcast. The phones had been red hot for four hours following the initial showing; and again later when the feature was repeated on the bedtime roundup. Every loony and attention seeker in the region had called, or so it seemed to Karen.

  It was me I did it, stabbed the guy; kicked him in the river.

  No, you didn’t. Go away! Stop wasting police time.

  The phones were still busy the following morning, though the initial rush of idiots had abated.

  One or two vaguely interesting things had come in, but nothing concrete; and nothing seemingly from the perpetrator.

  Walter half expected that. He sniffed and sat back in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his head. One or two thoughts had come to him during the six fitful hours of sleep he had grabbed. It was hard to think in the incident room with all the kafuffle going on. He might take some time out and go and sit in one of the private offices. One of the young WPC’s came in and set a mug of coffee on his desk. He hadn’t asked for it, but was happy to seize it.

  ‘Thanks, er...’ realising that he had no idea of the kid’s name.

  ‘Thompson, sir,’ said the girl smiling. ‘Jenny Thompson.’

  ‘Thanks Jenny Thompson,’ and he smiled, and she pulled a pleasant f
ace and hurried away to begin data entry on the latest computer program that supposedly aided finding the killer. It probably did, but it was not something that interested Walter too much.

  He glanced across at Cresta. Still in purple, though different shades today. She’d combed her straight, dyed hair differently, and there was a purple clip in it to keep it just so. She was writing furiously, longhand, and she was a very neat writer, standard forward sloping style, each individual letter practically identical, like you see in American universities, which may not have been so daft, for she had studied at Stanford for three years. The Americans were the best at profiling, miles ahead of anyone else, leastways Cresta believed that, and she might have been right.

  Some of the younger guys had suggested she was spending her time writing a crime novel at Chester Police expense, building in the realistic atmosphere she was witnessing, which might not have been such a ludicrous idea, judging by the pile of completed papers she had turned over.

  ‘How are you doing?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Fine, Walter,’ and she stopped writing and looked up, ‘I have nearly finished my initial report. I have a few ideas.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, ‘though I can’t think straight in here.’ He called to Karen. She looked away from the latest data on the screen. ‘I want a small meeting, just you, me, and Cresta. Organise a room will you, drinks and some toast would be nice.’

  ‘Maybe we should include Mrs West,’ suggested Karen, looking back over her shoulder toward the private office that bore the boss’s name, a door that remained firmly closed.

  ‘You think?’

  Karen nodded.

  Walter sighed and said none too enthusiastically, ‘OK, you tell her, will you.’

  Karen made to walk that way but came to a halt as soon as WPC Jenny Thompson stood up, still holding the phone, and shouted, ‘We have another one, another suspicious death!’

  The room fell silent, Jenny suddenly conscious of all eyes upon her.

  ‘Where?’ said Walter and Karen and Cresta almost in unison.