The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  Armitage hadn’t said a word in reply, not even a mumbled thank you. He had been struck dumb, and he’d blushed too, turning away and staring up at the coloured cut glass windows, hoping that no one would notice his discomfort, wishing the rouge from his face.

  There was crazy talk of a record company executive being spotted in the car park, though how anyone could recognise such a person, if he or she truly existed, was never explained.

  ‘You’re going to be a star,’ someone said, not that Armitage heard that.

  In the Saint Jude’s choir Armitage Shelbourne was already a star.

  He had been from the first day he’d arrived.

  On the Saturday night before the concert he’d gargled his throat clean, went to bed in that same long dormitory; pulled himself down the same narrow bed, though there was no longer the room to cover his head, and said a soft silent prayer for his mother, something he occasionally did, though not something he had done recently, caressed the rabbit’s foot in his hand, and thought of Machara, and the concert, and of singing his heart out, when he finally fell asleep.

  He enjoyed a good night’s rest too, and woke early... with a sore throat.

  He coughed hard to clear the phlegm.

  There wasn’t any.

  He sat up and stared across at Dennis. He was sitting on the side of his bed scratching his mousy head.

  ‘Hey, Dennis, I’ve got a bit of a sore throat,’ he whispered.

  Dennis beamed and jumped up and walked over to Army’s bed.

  ‘You haven’t got a sore throat, you prick! Your voice has broken. And about time too! We were beginning to think you were a right queer one, we were beginning to think it would never happen!’

  But that couldn’t be right, thought Army, not on his big day. Surely to God, not now. Dennis had to be talking rubbish, as he often did. Army took a deep breath and prepared to launch into Mozart’s The Violet and Alleluia. The croak that followed sounded like rusty barbed wire being dragged across the dusty greenhouses at the back.

  ‘You’re knackered, mate!’ grinned Dennis. ‘You’d better get used to it. You’re a man now! It’s taken bloody long enough for your sprouts to hit the deck!’

  At the first opportunity Army rushed down to the church. He found the technicians hustling about completing their final preparations. Sound checks, directors waffling, women with clipboards, an irritated verger gone scarlet because one of the wire wielders had knocked over and ruined one of Mrs Broadbent’s prize winning flower displays.

  Mrs Broadbent would be furious.

  Army hurried through the church to the reverend’s private rooms at the back. He found Blair standing before a full length mirror practising his speech because it was his big day too, live on local radio, the chance to put his thoughts across to millions, well thousands, maybe. All his words would be broadcast across the region, and he had plenty to say. It had to be word perfect. She was there too, Machara, sitting quietly at the back, reading her red leather bound New Testament, like all good little girls do, not that Army had time to worry about her, not there, not then.

  ‘Sorry vicar, my voice has gone,’ croaked Army.

  Machara glanced up.

  Blair McGowan managed to stifle three seconds of great disappointment, then smiled and said, ‘Your voice has broken, boy, that’s all, it’s God’s work, it happens to everyone, it’s only natural, perhaps there is a reason behind it. Jimmy Wilson will just have to take your place, he can manage, don’t worry about it, Armitage, you’re becoming a man, that’s all.’

  ‘But I was so looking forward to it,’ he croaked.

  Machara grinned at the strange rough sounds that escaped his mouth, and returned to the book of Luke. He sounded so ridiculous, as if someone was strangling him, yet oddly endearing.

  Blair McGowan peered into Armitage’s concerned face and set his hand on Army’s shoulder, much as Christian de Wyk had done, yet entirely differently, and said, ‘Don’t ye worry about a thing, you’ll soon mature into a great tenor or bass or baritone. It’s all there for you.’

  Armitage doubted that.

  ‘But, but...’ he said.

  ‘But nothing,’ said the vicar, as he resumed rehearsing his lines, and that was that. Armitage stared at the floor and sauntered away.

  The concert went ahead as planned, Armitage scowling away at the back, never once daring to inflict his ear wrenching contribution on a packed and excited house.

  The nervous first reserve, Jimmy Wilson, struggled throughout, missing top notes, forgetting a word here and here, for he had never once imagined that he would be called upon to perform solo, live on the radio, because everyone knew that Armitage Shelbourne was so damned wonderful, Jimmy was convinced he would never be asked to sing. He hadn’t even practised that much. Afterwards the crowds melted away, a feeling of disappointment and anti climax in the air.

  The vicar and his daughter and Armitage and Dennis Swallow and Jimmy Wilson and practically everyone else, could not help but hear the comments as the congregation melted away.

  Nowhere near as good as usual.

  The lads in our local church could have done better than that.

  The occasion got the better of them.

  If only I’d have known I’d have stayed away.

  What a waste of time that was.

  What was all the fuss about?

  How disappointing.

  Well worse. Indeed. Well worse!

  ––––––––

  The radio scout, who had been so enthusiastic beforehand, insisting it must go ahead, received something of a reprimand.

  If we want to broadcast a live church service we have two cathedrals to choose from!

  Armitage returned to Saint Edmonds with a heavy heart.

  That night, still awake into the tiny hours, he silently cried.

  It was only the second time he had done so.

  Through the following six months he impatiently waited for his voice to settle, for he was desperate to begin singing again. But what was he destined to become? A baritone, bass, tenor, what exactly? What? His voice stubbornly refused to settle.

  He became none of the three.

  He continued to blare out a ragged mess of uncoordinated clatter, and never found a true voice again.

  He never sang again.

  He was on the brink of his life and had no idea what he would do next.

  There was talk of him leaving, going into a halfway house betwixt the orphanage and the great beyond. Dennis’s leaving date was already pencilled in the diary. He had been found a job making soup for a huge multinational American corporation. Monday tomato. Tuesday vegetable. Wednesday oxtail. Thursday chicken. Friday mushroom. Saturday morning, service and clean and away. Dennis was looking forward to leaving and starting. He couldn’t wait.

  Armitage wasn’t.

  Whatever the wide world held in store for him, of one thing he was certain, he would never become a soup maker.

  There had to be more to life than that. Didn’t there?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Two days after Desiree Holloway returned from Australia she made her way by rail to Ludlow, and then by taxi the five miles into the border country to Billington Hall. It was a large and attractive redbrick house, formerly the residence of a minor aristocrat who had returned from the First World War, minus his four sons, and his mind.

  The gentleman never recovered, and in exchange for his ongoing lifetime medical care, the government requisitioned the property. There was no one else to do so, and as it had fallen into a state of disrepair. The locals were happy to see it being brought back to its former glory, though some pondered on where the lavish amounts of money being expended was coming from.

  It had remained in government hands ever since. Signalling station during World War Two, interrogation centre immediately afterwards for suspected war criminals, intelligence briefing centre during the cold war, monitoring station during the Irish troubles, and now it had become a crammer
college specialising in politically sensitive fields.

  It was a rambling place that had been three times extended since the government first took possession of the keys, comfortably able to provide living accommodation for the relatively small number of students. Desiree would live on the premises and would remain so for the entire week she was there.

  She had adored Japan.

  The countryside, the warmth and vibrancy of the people, the food, and the crazy technology that was everywhere, that seemed to be light years ahead of anywhere else. She was impressed too with Professor Takanato at Tokyo University. He had been quite open about the work he was doing, allowing her to sit in on his experiments and classes. He even took her to dinner and gave her his telephone numbers, in case she should ever need his advice or input. He gave her a few pointers too that she knew would assist in her own work, and she was both impressed and grateful for that.

  Australia was quite different, though no less illuminating. Professor Jim McClaine was somewhat standoffish, as if concerned that she might borrow his work and pass it off as her own. The country was going through one of its periodic droughts and the sun shone ferociously, temperatures soared, patience was obvious by its absence, and though they parted on amicable terms, she hadn’t enjoyed her first trip down under.

  Back in Britain, she returned to the classroom, staring at the same old revolving, reusable blackboards that bore traces of hastily scrubbed former lessons. There were only four people in the class, two men and two women, all under thirty, and during the week, three tutors appeared, all under forty. The tutors did most of the talking. The pupils listened and noted and wrote. The days were long, they started at eight and finished at seven, and by the time they had dined and updated their notes, it was time for bed.

  Much of the one-sided discussions revolved around dealing personally, mentally, and ethically with the work ahead. In effect, a mental toughening up exercise to equip the newcomers for the rigours to come.

  On the second to last day they were advised of some significant changes. The Scientific Research Organization was being wound up, quasi privatised as it turned out. The government was going through one of its budget crazy routines in an effort to cut national debt. The SRO was being partly sold off, but because of the sensitive nature of the work it carried out, there would be no public share offering. Five entities would take equal shares in the new PLC. Disguised companies that belonged to the governments of Japan, Australia, the United States, Germany, and Britain, who would take a marginally larger stake-holding, seeing as the operational facilities were located on British soil.

  That suited the other four well enough, because they could point to the fact that the controversial work was not being carried out on their territory, if anyone ever discovered it, and questioned it. The foreign firms enjoyed the capability of coming and going as they pleased, introducing their own people with their own input, while the dividend of the results that came out at the backend would be shared equally.

  The Scientific Research Organisation changed its name overnight to Trencherman Research PLC, Desiree’s new employers.

  On her final day at Billington she was summoned to a private office on the third and top floor, a room that looked out over the rear lawns and away to the Welsh hills in the distance. The room was spartanly furnished, a plain table set before the window with a basic chair on either side. On the table was a recording device, and there was no one else in the room.

  Desiree glanced through the window. Two local guys were mowing the huge lawns. To the left, set on the grass, behind a tall wire fence, was a bank of five impressive radio aerials, and two supersats, large white satellite dishes pointing nervously at the sky. Beyond them on the far side of another wire fence, fifty sheep grazed contentedly.

  The door opened and Mrs Bloemfontein came in.

  She smiled her distant smile and asked Desiree to sit.

  ‘How are you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m well, and you?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  Pleasantries over, and down to business.

  ‘I am recording this meeting; it saves all the bother of taking notes. It will go on your file. Every word uttered. Do you have any objections?’

  Desiree shook her head.

  ‘Please answer aloud.’

  ‘I have no objections,’ said Desiree, wondering that if she had, would it have been terminal?

  ‘This is your last opportunity to withdraw from the programme. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you wish to do that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. You will by now know that we have new masters.’

  ‘So I heard. Trencherman Research.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct, they are our new paymasters, even mine; we must get used to it. I am assured that nothing much will change.’

  ‘It’s all new to me.’

  ‘Yes, quite. Now, no doubt you will be wanting to know where you are going next.’

  ‘I can’t say that I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Nowhere too romantic I’m afraid. You’ll be going to the Eden Leys plant.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Not too far from here as it happens, south of Whitchurch, north of Shrewsbury.’

  Desiree would be lying if she hadn’t imagined some exciting posting to California or Kobe or Bavaria, but in the end once in a laboratory it didn’t really matter where one worked. All labs were the same inside, and it wasn’t as if she’d spent any time staring through the windows, admiring the scenery, and Shropshire was cool, she could get back to her parents easily enough from there, though she would have to get a move on and pass the driving test that was heading her way.

  ‘Here are your accreditation documents, your security, and your tags. They must be worn at all times when you are on site.’

  Mrs Bloemfontein pulled an envelope from her bag, removed the items she had mentioned, and slipped them across the table.

  ‘Desiree Holloway is now taking possession of her documents,’ she said, presumably for the benefit of the machine, as Desi picked up her security tags and admired the startled encrypted picture of herself, head and shoulders in close-up, a colour photograph that she had no idea when or where it was taken, or by whom.

  ‘Nice picture,’ she said.

  ‘Not so bad, you should see mine.’

  The women shared a nervous laugh

  ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘And where do I sleep.’

  ‘There is accommodation set aside for you on the base. It is a huge site; you will want for nothing there, supermarket, cinema, bowling facilities, swimming pool. I doubt you will feel the need to leave very often.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You will report to a Professor Mary Craigieson, got that?’

  ‘Mary Craigieson,’ Desiree repeated.

  This time Mrs Bloemfontein nodded and then she said, ‘Any questions?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I have.’

  ‘Good. If you think of any later you still have my number. That concludes the meeting. Good luck. I am sure you will do well.’

  Mrs Bloemfontein stood and switched off the device, offered her hand across the table. Desi took it and shook it, the same cold distant handshake, and then an awkward moment as Desi stood her ground, only to be nodded toward the door. Desi had been dismissed. Time for someone else. She bobbed her head and left.

  In the morning a black BMW seven series took the same four students back to Ludlow railway station in silence where they boarded separate trains and headed home. Desiree would never see Billington Hall again.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The PM report on Sally Beauchamp was in. Walter mulled it over in his mind. Death by asphyxiation, a considerable amount of flunitrazepam evident in the body, rohypnol by any other name, the date rape drug. Where does one acquire flunitrazepam? In days gone by there may have been a lead there, tracking the supply chain, b
ut now? No chance. Where does one get flunitrazepam? Internet of course, where else? Log on, type prescription drug supply into the browser and away you go. The Internet was a wonderful invention, but it had a lot to answer for too, and policing it was impossible.

  The suppliers were equally likely to be in Latvia, Ukraine, Nigeria, Jamaica or Belize. A hopeless task, and what about quality control? Who knows what substandard drug might be delivered, if anything ever came, when one went online and paid through the nose for prescription drugs bought without a prescription?

  Death by asphyxiation.

  What kind of person could do that? Walter tried to put himself into the killer’s shoes, tried to imagine what was going through his, or her sick mind, as they wound a whole roll of sticky brown tape around someone’s face, and why a whole roll from tab to tab? What was the point in that, when a couple of feet would have done the job just as well? No fingerprints on the roll either, not a surprise, Walter hadn’t expected any.

  He wondered if the killer enjoyed it, the long drawn out act of murdering a fellow human being. It wasn’t like a single gunshot or stab wound, over in a second. No, this must have gone on for minutes. Hadn’t it worried them? Were they happy in their work? Smiling, grinning, chuckling, what exactly? Were they talking too, as they went about their murderous work, winding round and round and round, perhaps talking dirty as if frantically making love. What exactly was in the killer’s mind? Would he ever know?

  He was sitting in John’s office, Mrs West’s, and Cresta was rabbiting on about something and nothing. He glanced across at her. What was this? A primrose blouse, unbelievable, that was different, all the purple garb must have been in the wash. It still left purple skirt, eye shadow, nails, hair, and lips too, lips that were furiously moving as they spouted forth her latest theory, not that he heard a word of it. They were a nightmare in themselves, those purple salivating lips.

  Nice pair of breasts though, he had never noticed that before, not too large but not too small, encased in primrose, yes. He pondered on whether Cresta was someone’s squeeze. She had never mentioned anyone. Didn’t wear any rings, and if she had worn some, they would have contained purple stones, that was a gimme. A nightmarish thought flashed through his head. Him waking on a Sunday morning, finding Cresta there in his bed beside him, totally purple from toenails to hair, some kind of weird purple alien, talking, talking, talking, spewing out verbiage through those restless lips, expounding her new thinking of what exactly the killer was thinking, and why she had done it.