The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  The nerves were really kicking in as they ambled through the old tumbledown buildings that sufficed as reception centre and warming down rooms, desperately trying to appear nonchalant as they went.

  The previous party of adrenaline fuelled lunatics were making their way back from the landing grounds, rolled up parachutes in hand, talking loudly and excitedly, recapping their terrifying experiences, more than one saying I was certain the shute wasn’t going to open!

  Doesn’t everyone think that?

  The tax party were making ready to go out, forced to listen to several barbed comments from the staff dishing out the gear. This party are tax inspectors; make sure they get the dodgy shutes, followed by strange laughs and equally weird looks. Of course it was all in jest, wasn’t it?

  The previous party were coming back in, many of them saying they couldn’t wait to do it again; they most certainly would be doing it again, when everyone knew that once they were clear from the airfield, wild elephants would not drag them back there.

  Then it was Army’s turn.

  They could all see the aeroplane. The Short Brothers’ Skyvan, twin-engine turbo prop, they were informed, propellers stationary and waiting for the next gang of terrified pioneers.

  The instructor turned up; assuring them there was nothing to it.

  Piece of cake, piece of cake! Easy peasy! Come on! Let’s do it!

  Armitage was no longer listening.

  In an instant he was miles away. A million million miles above the earth, for the lights had gone on.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ladies’ Day dawned bright and clear; the perfect early May day. Samantha was up early, took a shower, wanted to be in plenty of time. She hated rushing; nothing good was ever created in a rush. Even God took seven days. She glanced up at the expensive navy blue suit she’d bought on the last expedition to the expensive Manchester bazaars. No party frock for her, nothing flash and garish, but a businesswoman’s suit, for Samantha was on business.

  Breakfast. Crushed fresh orange juice, bran flakes, a slice of toasted low carbo bread, dry and crunchy, no butter, no margarine, she would eat nothing more than an apple before her seven o’clock dinner.

  Brush those perfect teeth, brush brush brush, no one would flash better teeth on the Roodee today, ’cept perhaps the favourite for the big race. Desi had good teeth too, but much larger than Sam’s. Some people might have thought they were too large, ugly even, but Sam didn’t, and Desi was comfortable in her own skin. Didn’t care a jot what anyone else ever said or thought about her, and she was never short of admirers, lovers, that in her time Desi took full advantage of, until that hateful Toby Malone came along and spoiled everything.

  Sam took ages on the makeup. Foundation, a hint of blusher, perfect eyebrows, perfect lashes, understated lipstick, so many women looked tramps by going over the top, not Sam. Brilliant eyes. So blue. Unmissable. Desi said they were the brightest, bluest eyes she had ever seen. Sam had slept well. No need for chemical eye droplets to induce sparkle today, not a hint of a bag. The eyes were alive with excitement as adrenaline rushed through her slender body.

  Dressing. Stockings and suspenders. Very sexy. New bra and pants, not that anyone would ever see them, no one had, no one ever did, not since Desi went away. Perfect figure hugging suit, it was as if it had been tailored especially, fit her like a glove, bound to attract wandering eyes, half the people went to the races to admire the punters, that was half the fun, to smile and chat and become better acquainted, and maybe, just maybe, collect a telephone number, or two.

  Sam could cope with that, being pursued, courted, quite enjoyed it if truth be told, and she’d dispense a telephone number or three if necessary, not that it would be a real one of course, not one that could ever ring.

  Ridiculously expensive black shoes, low heels, all that was necessary, and besides, high heels could be a real drag, plus matching bag, don’t look at the price tag for God’s sake, also culled out of Manchester, what would mother and father have made of that?

  Black hair, bob cut, thick and shiny, healthy appearance, like the best mare favourite for the big race, black beauty, shiny coat, top condition, no wonder she had such a big following.

  All the cash would be laid down today.

  Pose before the long mirror. Pout a little, for there would be no more pouting later on. Turn to the left, perfect, turn to the right, equally so. Does my bum look big in this? Of course not, don’t be absurd; Samantha had the perfect, pert bum. Desi always said that after the eyes it was the first thing she noticed, though she must have had x-ray vision to see that because Sam was facing Desi at the time.

  Adjustment of the bra, adjustment of the breasts? Why in heaven’s name? Young, upturned, unmoving, pert, not too big, not too small, what more could any woman ask?

  Dandruff on the collar? Don’t be ridiculous. What was dandruff?

  Red and gold member’s pass, shaped like a shield, classy braided tie-ons, fitted neatly onto the suit collar. They had retained their membership since they’d first gone to the Roodee. They didn’t even have to apply for tickets, never missed a meeting, came automatically, bank account debited, tickets and tags in the mail, through the post box, on the mat, reliable as Christmas, just such a pity that one of them, Desi’s, would remain unused this year.

  Ah well, just have to make it a year to remember.

  That was the aim.

  Finger on the doorbell.

  That would be the taxi, bang on time.

  Good man.

  Where to?

  The races, of course.

  ––––––––

  The incident room resembled someone’s front room prior to the wedding of the year. No one had turned in late; everyone had gone to great effort. Walter was amazed at how an attractive bunch they really were. Such a change to the scruffy mob who normally lounged through the building.

  Mrs West was flapping about like a nervous bride’s mother, calling out: ‘Everyone got their buttonholes,’ and, ‘is there anyone who still hasn’t selected a hat?’ Meaning the women, Walter imagined, for he had no desire to wear a spring bonnet.

  He was becoming annoyed at the all-pervading party atmosphere. They shouldn’t be thinking about hats and bonnets and bouquets, they should be thinking of finding and arresting a serial killer, a cheeky wretch who’d had the nerve to threaten him personally, Inspector Walter Surprise Darriteau, the family joke was that he came as a complete surprise. Walter clacked his lips and glanced at the ceiling. Karen watched him do it and smiled to herself. She wondered what he was thinking about.

  What an unusual man he was.

  Walter’s patience finally ran out.

  He stood up and clapped his huge hands.

  ‘Quiet, quiet, quiet! Settle down. It’s time to focus, get your minds in gear. Remember why we are here today!’

  The hustle bustle noise and frantic fiddling with dress abated.

  They all turned and stared at the man.

  That’s better, he thought, though said nothing. Took a beat.

  ‘Today is the day,’ he said firmly, pointing at the ceiling, doing his best Churchillian impression, or so he imagined, when in reality he came over more as a revivalist Christian minister. It wouldn’t have been out of place if someone had chirped in with a big, ‘Yeee-esss, A-men!’

  At least he had their attention.

  ‘Today is the day we are going to catch the bastard!’

  This time there was a reaction.

  Gibbons yelled, ‘Yes sir! We bloody are!’

  For once Walter enjoyed the interruption, nodded at the guy appreciatively, then said, ‘Karen! Over to you. Update on description of the killer.’

  That caught her off guard. She hadn’t expected it.

  Thanks, Guv. Thanks a lot.

  ‘Yes, well,’ she began, ‘picking up the latest papers from her desk, re-gathering her thoughts. ‘The killer is, we believe, height around five feet five inches.’

  ‘C
ould be taller in heels,’ threw in Cresta, her of the tight fitting enticing purple frock, voluptuous breasts, or so they appeared, white spray of carnations strategically positioned, interesting backside, Gibbons wasn’t the only one of the younger men who looked at Cresta in a totally different light after seeing that dress.

  Karen nodded and continued. ‘Believed to be blonde, believed to have bright green eyes, slender, attractive, well dressed, but then most people will be today, I mean, look at you lot, you look as if you’ve stepped out of Brown’s shop window.’

  Few nervous giggles.

  Walter gave her a gentle look that reminded her not to stray too far from the point.

  ‘Drives a smart Japanese hatchback, though might not arrive by car today.’

  Seeing as parking was at a premium anywhere near Chester city centre, and especially on race days, it was highly likely the car would be left firmly at home, wherever that was.

  Walter wasn’t the only one to think the description was practically useless. Blonde hair, could easily be changed. Height, same applied, stick on bigger heels and away you go, green eyes, maybe, Japanese hatchback, yeah, if indeed it came, it would be in good company with hundreds of identical others, slender, attractive, well dressed people.

  What on Chester Ladies’ Day?

  Are you kidding?

  Have you any idea how many slender attractive well-dressed men and women would be flaunting themselves on the Roodee today? No one did, because the answer would be thousands. No, the description was worthless.

  What they had to look for was someone who was not at the races to watch the horses, not to bet, not to party, not to get drunk, not to socialise, not to meet friends, not to cop off, probably alone, not involved in press or TV, not catering, not bookmaking, not pickpocketing, no, this person was coming to the race meeting with one aim in mind, to murder him, and though no doubt the killer would be carrying all the necessary props, binos, racecard, Racing Post, Member’s badge, they would merely be that, props, and they shouldn’t be distracted by that, no, this fiend was coming to divvy up death.

  The only question was how were they intending to do it?

  Gunshot? In a public place, before thousands of other people? Seemed unlikely. It was quite feasible to gun someone down at close range, but how would they escape? And escaping was high on the killer’s agenda, Walter was certain of that. He ruled out guns, he just couldn’t see it, but still encouraged his officers to search bags whenever the opportunity arose. The women officers on the entrance gates, making snap inspections of handbags under the guise of a random drugs search, the slim guys having their bino cases opened.

  So if not guns, what then?

  Poison? A la KGB. Poisoned tipped umbrella. Seemed far-fetched, but the killer had consistently showed imagination, perhaps the idea wasn’t so stupid, and you didn’t need to carry an umbrella. A little scratch would do, just so long as you had access to the necessary toxic poison. Walter wouldn’t rule that out. He didn’t rule anything out.

  All it would take would be a little accident with a glass, a little scratch to the cheek or neck or arm, it was easily done. He would have to watch out for that. Not bump into people, and not have people bumping into him, especially young and slender ones, though on a busy race day that was far easier said than done.

  Walter shared his thoughts with the captive audience before him, and plenty of other ideas too.

  Then Karen said, ‘And don’t forget, this person, this he-she thing, is equally likely to be dressed as a man or a woman.’

  That was all they needed.

  Now they were including every slim youngish person in attendance that day. What percentage was that? Christ knows. Pretty high, for sure. Just as well to know though, to remember that the young green eyed guy standing at the bar next to you was equally likely to be your potential nemesis.

  So if guns were unlikely, and poison a possibility, what other crazed methods might the killer employ? What fiendish thinking was coursing through the mind of this maniac?

  Walter did what he always did. He put himself in the killer’s shoes. If he were going to the races today to kill someone, how would he do it?

  An answer flashed into his mind.

  He would wait. He would be patient. He would do it at the end of the day, when everyone’s guard was down, when everyone imagined the killer had bottled it and fled, or not shown up at all, or maybe, all this had been a diversionary tactic as Karen had suggested, maybe the he-she thing was busy murdering elsewhere, some unfortunate soul in the suburbs while the police were otherwise engaged, sidetracked. That couldn’t be helped, but still the end of day theory held water.

  Walter could envisage that well enough, as they were all making their way toward the exits at the end of an unsuccessful day, ambling out, muttering their disappointment, dispersing home, hands in pockets, eyes down, imagining the day had been totally wasted, but maybe not. Perhaps that was the exact moment the he-she thing was waiting for, and if so, how would the he-she thing ultimately strike?

  Run him down as he came out through the gates?

  Possibly. Why not? He, or she, had done that before, though it didn’t follow the established pattern.

  In the past, always something different.

  It would be different this time too, for sure.

  But how, and where, and when, and why?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Display the target, and see if anyone fired.

  ––––––––

  The police operation split into ten distinct groups, left the building at three minute intervals, ambled down to the course, not speaking, not seeing their own kind, not thinking of racing, not hearing the clip clops on the cobblestones as the thoroughbreds began unloading, not admiring the pretty girls or handsome guys, though that was more difficult for some than others, some of them armed, some of them not.

  All nervous, and some afraid.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  A tall dark gentleman bought her a glass of champagne. They were in one of the best bars at the back of the main grandstand. He knew Samantha, or at least remembered her from last year. Gerrard was his name, ran his own engineering business on the Wrexham Road Business Park, so he said, not that Sam was in the least bit interested in that, but she was glad to be in his company. A lone person at the races can look out of place. Whoever goes racing alone? Not many, especially on Ladies’ Day.

  They made a handsome couple too, jet black hair on the pair of them, the man obviously instantly smitten, the classy lady looking demure and cooing, ‘No-ooo, Gerrard, not today,’ or similar such nonsense.

  He asked her for her telephone number.

  She glanced down at his wedding ring.

  He watched the track of her eyes.

  ‘Oh that,’ he said, ‘that’s long finished, been over for years.’

  Liar liar, pants on fire, Samantha wanted to scream, but didn’t, stopped herself just in time. Weren’t all men so damned predictable, all spaffed the same nonsense, as she smiled demurely and flickered her eyelashes, and made some excuse and went to freshen up.

  It wasn’t the first pass she had received that day, nor would it be the last, it was Ladies’ Day after all; it was only to be expected.

  She had already clocked Walter.

  It hadn’t been that difficult.

  Chester was still primarily a white city, and a big black man with a head of misbehaving grey hair was not hard to miss. She had seen him twice already. First, he had been standing in front of the rows of bookmakers before the first race, before it was too packed to move. He was talking to three others, two goonish blokes, and the same slim blonde, his rock, from the broadcasts. They had been talking, mumbling under their breath, occasionally glancing at their racecards and newspapers, binoculars slung around the goons’ necks, pretending to be discussing the favourite’s chances, when all along they were probably saying, ‘Check out that character by the rails, could be him, or her,’ or, ‘
Look at these two coming now, they fit the description.’

  Samantha almost felt sorry for them.

  They simply did not have a clue, literally.

  And what was that bulge in Walter’s trousers. Ah, Wally, do I really excite you that much? Sam inwardly giggled, the thought of finally meeting his dream date, but ah, alas no, it wasn’t Sam he was excited about; he wasn’t excited at all, not in that way. It was a gun, a pistol. Naughty Walter, naughty boy, fancy coming all tooled up, if you pardon the expression. What do you think I am going to do, Sam thought; blow you away in broad daylight before ten thousand people? God, give me strength, grant me a smidgeon of credit.

  Did you honestly think I was as unimaginative as that?

  Samantha had identified twenty-two plods.

  It wasn’t that difficult, and the racing hadn’t even started. It was just so easy. They were not enjoying themselves. They weren’t checking out the talent, not as they should have been. Yes, they were inspecting people, but in a totally different way. They weren’t laughing and joking, and meeting and greeting old friends in that hearty way you see at the races and at Wimbledon, and probably Henley and Cowes too, though Sam had never been there, though she was young and ambitious, and there was plenty of time.

  They all looked far too earnest, as if they had the troubles of the world on their shoulders. As if one of their number might be in for a nasty surprise, again Samantha giggled, aloud this time, enough to attract the attention of a passing Jockey Club steward, dressed in tweeds, hurrying away to his position, but not in so much of a hurry that he couldn’t pause and doff his trilby before the stunning woman and say, ‘So nice to see you again this year,’ whether he had met her before or not, and departing with, ‘I’ll be in the Grosvenor Bar later on for a snifter if you fancy it.’

  Sam smiled courteously and said she may well be there, and the steward grinned and turned and hopped away, an additional spring in his aging step.