The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

Working on fresh human body parts was interesting too. They would arrive daily by dispatch rider from hospitals within a hundred mile radius of Eden Leys. Usually they were young and healthy parts, presumably from patients who may have died through accident, or other diseases, that had not contaminated the portions that arrived vacuum packed and ready to go. There was little difference between working on a human liver to that of a pig, lamb, or chimp, and freshness was everything.

  Desiree hugely enjoyed her work. She was making rapid progress, enjoyed three pay increases in her first two years there, and had attended further crammer colleges in California and Bavaria. She had made many new friends, had passed her driving test first time, had treated herself to the latest updated version of the Supa Cayton Cerisa, silver with a dashing maroon flash; that she used to drive home, those visits becoming ever fewer and farther between. There was little else to leave the site for as all her requirements were amply catered for, and she rarely did.

  She joined, and enjoyed the frantic social life, though never once took a lover, despite the many overtures that came her way, including during one drunken night in the Red Caves Social Club, from Professor McClaine himself.

  She was no longer interested in the squelchy business, or so she told herself, and afterwards an idea spread around the quarters that she was a lesbian, a rumour that came back to her like a boomerang, and one that she rightfully laughed off in a millisecond.

  Desiree Holloway was utterly content in her work.

  It was what she had been born to do.

  She did have one problem, and one she couldn’t share with another living soul. She was hearing voices.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Samantha left the grandstand and made her way toward the exit. No hurry. No rush. No alarms. No intention of attracting attention. She skipped down the stairs and headed out across the forecourt toward the gates. Behind her, the crowd were still murmuring, wondering how they had lost so much cash. An elderly gent was manning the exits. He saw the classy young woman coming toward him, a gentle smile on her pretty face.

  ‘Not going already?’ he said.

  ‘Lost on the first three races,’ she said, ‘that’s enough for me.’

  ‘Ah well, never mind. There’s always next year, pity about Pandora, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure was.’

  He held the door open for her and she smiled again, stepped through, and headed up the cobblestoned hill toward the city.

  The old guy took one last look outside, at the opportunistic group of five or six rough looking youths gathered there, hoping to bunk in without paying, they could forget that, and he stared at them and frowned and closed the gate and fastened it shut.

  ––––––––

  Walter was busy doing his rounds. The favourite mare had just been turned over, pipped on the line, much to the annoyance of the crowd. Almost everyone had backed Pandora with all they possessed. The smile had returned to the bookie’s faces.

  Walter wasn’t smiling.

  He made his way to the back of the main stand. Gibbons was there hanging about, hands in pockets, looking bored.

  ‘Where’s Karen?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Bog,’ muttered Gibbons, nodding up at the Ladies sign.

  ‘How long has she been in there?’

  ‘Five minutes, maybe ten. She’d got a touch of...’

  ‘Yes, I know. Diarrhoea. Anyone else go in?’

  ‘Nah. Two women came out. A fat gal and a black haired woman.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘Navy blue suit, black bag, black shoes.’

  ‘Slim, slight, and attractive? Right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gibbons standing up straighter, taking his hands from his pockets, pondering on what Walter had said.

  Walter glanced up at the Ladies sign. Ladies’ Day. Ladies.

  It wasn’t him the bastard was after, it was the lady.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled, as he headed for the entrance.

  By the time he was at the door the younger Gibbons was already ahead of him. He pushed through the door as if it didn’t exit, ripped down the homemade sign that brought all their instant nightmares home, dashed into the main room.

  All stalls wide open, bar one.

  Gibbons shouldered it. It didn’t budge.

  Went into the next cubicle.

  Jumped on the closed lid.

  Saw the rope tied to the window strut.

  Pulled himself up.

  Looked down.

  ‘Oh Christ!’

  ‘What is it?’ yelled Walter.

  ‘She’s been hung, Guv.’

  ‘Oh my God! Get her down! Now!’

  Gibbons didn’t need telling. He was furiously working on the rope. Karen’s weight had contributed to the cord being tied deadly tight. Gibbons broke his nails wrestling it undone. He grabbed Karen’s body as it fell toward the floor.

  ‘Open the fucking door!’ yelled Walter.

  One hand around her, one hand slid back the lock.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ shouted Walter, as he saw her. ‘Set her on the floor.’

  Two women came in for a pee.

  ‘Police!’ screamed Gibbons. ‘Get out!’

  They glanced down at the purple-faced unconscious young woman; and the terror etched on the two guys’ faces and hurried away.

  ‘I don’t think she’s breathing, Guv,’ said Gibbons, ‘I think she’s gone.’

  ‘There’s a pulse,’ said Walter, loosening her blouse, ‘faint, but there. Ring for an ambulance. Quick!’

  Walter crouched down over here. Took a deep breath. Circled his lips around hers. Blew steadily in. Came off her, another big breath, down on her mouth, blew.

  ‘There’s an ambulance on the course,’ said Gibbons. ‘They say they’ll be here in two minutes.’

  Same thing again, breathe in; breathe out, into another human being.

  ‘Come on Karen! Come on!’ yelled Gibbons.

  The sound of the ambulance’s beep-borp beep-borp was filtering in through the open window.

  Walter blew steadily in. Came off her.

  Karen spluttered.

  The men shared a look.

  Two paramedics rushed in. Saw her. Knelt down. Asked what had happened.

  ‘Been hung!’ snapped Gibbons.

  The medics took over. She was just about breathing, poorly and irregularly. Her eyes were revolving around in their sockets and there was foam on her blue lips.

  ‘Stay with her,’ bellowed Walter, ‘and don’t forget the bag... and the gun.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘After the bitch!’

  ‘Be careful!’

  ––––––––

  Walter bumbled down the twenty-five steps. Headed toward the exit. The same old guy was there, surprised to see a big puffing black man coming his way.

  Walter flashed his ID.

  ‘Have you seen a slim young woman come this way, blue suit, black hair?’

  ‘Certainly have,’ he smiled. ‘A few minutes ago. You couldn’t miss her. Why, do you know her?’

  ‘You could say that. Which way did she go?’

  ‘Straight up the hill toward the town.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Walter, as the old guy opened and closed the gate behind him.

  Walter puffed his way up the hill, pondering on where the killer might go next. If she’d parked her car somewhere close by she would be away and out of the city by now. But what if she hadn’t come by car? What then? Where would she go? The railway station? That made sense. He jumped on his mobile, rang the train station, spoke to the railway police guy there and asked him to take a look. The bus station too? She didn’t come across as a bus station kind of girl. No matter, he rang home base and ordered a car there immediately.

  Where else? Where have you gone, he-she thing?

  Young, smart, trendy, personable, slender, where do you see people like that in the middle of a sunny May afternoon. Coffee bars, that’s where. Not
the old-fashioned milk bar places he preferred, no, the new American inspired trendy places, where people sat all day long with their mobile devices and laptop computers, half asleep over a cup of coffee or two, each cup costing more than a fiver, and don’t dare ask the price of a calorie busting cake.

  He’d been in one or two of those poncy dives; sometimes with Karen, for she adored the places, and sometimes accidentally by himself, and he wondered how Karen was now, as the ambulance dashed northward through the traffic toward the Countess Hospital.

  He checked the coffee bars. No sign of the he-she thing, and no one fitting the description. Plenty of pretty women but mostly dressed in worn out split jeans. He questioned the staff, slim, black hair, blue suit. Seen anyone? No one fitting the description, sorry Inspector. He checked four or five alcohol watering holes. The trendy places she might patronise. They were all packed out, people crammed around television screens, watching the racing from down the road, spent and alive betting slips still on the bar, weighted down with full pints, and G & T’s and pretty vodkas, discarded racing papers everywhere. Plenty of slim and attractive women in there too, but none that fitted the bill.

  Where the hell are you, he-she thing?

  Where have you gone?

  ––––––––

  Samantha had jumped on the first double-decker bus that came her way, took the four stops south, over the Grosvenor Bridge that afforded a great view of the packed racecourse. The horses were coming round the bend, the fourth race of the day under way; another favourite about to take an early bath.

  By the time Walter had arrived in the first of the bars Samantha was already home, getting changed, planning a shower, reflecting on a satisfactory day’s work, thinking of dinner, duck breast and Jersey Royals, very nice, the end of an adventure, seven was enough, seven times over, getting ready to go to work, there would be no more killing. None. It was all over and she could celebrate at last.

  Walter jumped back on the phone. Rang base. Nothing at the railway station, nothing at the bus depot. Rang the hospital. Gibbons came to the phone.

  ‘No news, Guv, she’s in with the consultant now.’

  Walter clicked off and headed back to base. Perhaps the he-she thing didn’t need to catch a bus or train, maybe they lived right here, in the city, right amongst them, in any one of the thousands of flats and houses crammed within the city walls, but where, he-she thing. Where?

  They had missed her this time by a whisker, but they were getting closer, Walter knew that. They would nab her next time for sure; maybe Karen had seen her, might have some vital information, just so long as she was all right. Gibbons shouldn’t have left her alone. Me neither, he thought. What were we thinking?

  Walter wasn’t to know the he-she thing had retired.

  He hurried into the police station. Everyone was back at base, bar Gibbons and Karen.

  The de-brief got underway.

  Mrs West looked at Walter as if he’d blown his last chance. Said, ‘We nearly lost one of our own today.’

  That brought it home.

  Cresta stared out through the window as if in a trance, trying to make sense of it all, trying to come up with a nugget of thinking that no one else had stumbled on. Jenny Thompson brought him a cup of coffee and set it down with a supportive look.

  ‘Thanks,’ muttered Walter.

  Jenny smiled without showing teeth and retreated.

  Mrs West was talking again.

  She had a harsh voice.

  Walter had never noticed that before, and though she was still speaking, she didn’t really say a word, not one that mattered.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  To be accepted on the secret PLACAD programme was the ultimate aim of all the ambitious scientists employed by Trencherman Research at Eden Leys. Desiree Holloway was no different. She was desperate to be included because it brought huge cachet, but far more than that, it was where she felt she belonged. It was where she knew she could make the greatest contribution.

  PLACAD stood for Parkinson’s, Leukaemia, Alzheimer’s, Cancer And Dementia, and the ultimate aim of Eden Leys, aside from defence projects, was to find cures for the five devils as some of the younger scientists referred to them.

  Trencherman Research had been set a target of producing results showing they could conquer these diseases within ten years. They were already three years into the programme. It wasn’t a matter of if they could produce satisfactory vaccines and cures, but when.

  All the scientists believed that, and Desiree was no different.

  One morning Desi was called to Professor Mary Craigieson’s office where she was told to sit. There were two faceless gentlemen present who were not introduced and said little.

  They asked her questions about her research, they quizzed her on her social life, though Desiree gained the distinct impression they already knew the answers to the questions before they issued them. They asked her for her views on PLACAD, they demanded to know where she could produce her weightiest contribution, and finally, they asked her about her own health, and in particular, her mental health.

  Mental health issues had long been a major concern throughout the industry, stretching back to 1917 when the serious work really got underway. It is not everyone’s cup of tea; spouted one of the grey suited gents, repeating facts that everyone already knew.

  Desiree answered their questions, assuring them she was very happy, which indeed she was. She said she gleaned huge satisfaction through her work, and that bred happiness in itself. She was healthy, which she certainly appeared, shiny hair and glowing rouge skin, and she confirmed that all was fine up top, as they described it.

  No one ever really knows if all is well up top until it is too late, as all four of them knew well enough, when they sat around that desk and mulled over the question, but at least her affirmation that mental health was not, and had not, ever been a problem for Desiree Mitford Holloway, was comforting to her inquisitors, and more than that, it was now recorded on her record forever.

  They asked her if she had any plans for marriage and motherhood. She replied that she had no such thoughts, and furthermore she had no intention of ever bearing children. That reply was both satisfactory and unsatisfactory. Satisfactory because it meant that she could concentrate on her work at Trencherman Research without maternity interruptions, unsatisfactory because wasn’t it normal for any woman to want to produce children? Could that lack of interest point to a slight problem up top in itself?

  Perhaps that should be investigated further.

  Desi was dismissed from the room and told to wait.

  Professor Craigieson assured the gentlemen there were millions of women who did not wish to produce children, and that it would be ridiculous to deny her access to PLACAD on such flimsy grounds. The gents, somewhat reluctantly concurred, and PLACAD Authorised was stamped on her record.

  Desiree was called back in and given the news, subject it was pointed out, to her being required to sign and agree to the new five way Security Secrets Agreement, drawn up by the CIA in far away Langley, Virginia, in cahoots with the British security services.

  Desiree’s face beamed like no other the panel had ever witnessed. The smile that broke across her face had to be seen to be believed, her large white teeth reflecting the neon light back across the desk; her whole demeanour one of total elation. She appeared to the panel like a Red Indian squaw on her wedding day.

  Desiree had no idea about that, and wouldn’t have cared less if she had; she was simply elated to be included at last among the world elite in her field. She was determined, single-handedly if necessary, to produce a cure for one of the five devils, and most particularly Alzheimer’s, which had recently afflicted her father.

  ––––––––

  Experiments on live human patients at Eden Leys was one of the key benefits of being accepted into PLACAD. Previously, Desiree had no idea such work existed, within Eden Leys or anywhere else. She couldn’t have imagined such a thing.


  But she could immediately see the benefits.

  Experimenting on chimpanzees was one thing, experimenting on live human beings was something else entirely. The possibilities were endless.

  Where the patients came from she had no idea, nor did she care that much. All of them were severe sufferers of that dreadful disease, and all died soon after the experiments had been completed.

  Afterwards they were issued with standard death certificates and sent directly to the on site crematorium. She never saw a relative attend the short ceremony in the all faiths chapel that sat alongside, and Desi attended every service whenever she could.

  All too often, she was the only one there.

  ––––––––

  Quite why she began taking her work home she could not explain. She had acquired a smart maisonette up in Chester that sat just above the weir and the old Handbridge bridge on the Handbridge side of the river, where during summer evenings she would sit on her balcony, alone with her thoughts, Singapore Sling in hand, gazing out toward the ancient city across the water, as the River Dee tumbled over the weir, the relaxing sound of constant dashing, crashing water, as it made its inevitable way down toward the New Cut and the wide estuary beyond.

  Samples, blood, data, phials, all found their way to the office she had created in her spare bedroom. Security at Eden had become lax. There had never been a problem detected before, and that contributed to a lowering of standards. Vehicles were not properly checked, sometimes not at all, security staff were poorly trained and badly managed; they had no real idea of what was going on inside, and little understanding of what they should be looking for. It was only a matter of time before it all blew up in someone’s face.

  In the meantime, Desi’s collection of data and samples had rapidly grown. Occasionally she would sit and stare at them. Perhaps it gave her a feeling of power. After all, so much of the data and samples were products of her own pioneering research. Why shouldn’t she bring some of it home? It was hers after all.

  If the neighbours had known of the toxic substances and discarded body parts residing on the other side of the thin brick walls, they would have been aghast. Perhaps she had spirited them away as some form of unconscious protection from the voices that infected her head, though she would not have agreed with that.