The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The moment Walter left the hospital he took out his phone and rang base. Jenny Thompson answered. ‘Is Gibbons there?’

  ‘Gone out, Guv. Had a bit of an alarm.’

  ‘What kind of alarm?’

  ‘A woman in a big house over at Curzon Park reported a maniac in the kitchen threatening her. We all thought it was another, you know, he-she thing attack. We’ve been trying to contact you.’

  ‘Phone’s off. I’ve been with Karen.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Rough. What happened?’

  ‘Nah, false alarm, it was that idiot Davey Seed.’

  Jenny didn’t have to say anymore. Davey Seed was a basket case who should never have been walking the streets. Made a habit of wandering into other people’s houses, usually in the summer when side gates were unlocked and conservatory doors were thrown wide open. He’d stroll in and sit down and gurn at the householder and say, ‘Tea? Tea? Any tea?’

  ‘The lady’s very shaken up,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I’ll bet. The sight of Davey Seed would upset anyone who didn’t know him. Forget about that. I want you to do something for me. Urgent.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’

  ‘There was a case a couple of springs ago.’

  ‘I wasn’t here then.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Walter, just about keeping the irritation from his voice.

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’

  ‘Something about a death on a railway? Something to do with someone called Holloway. It must be on file somewhere. I want an address. Got that?’

  ‘Sure, Guv. Holloway.’

  ‘Find out all you can about it, oh, and can you drive?’

  ‘Yes sure, Guv.’

  ‘Arrange an unmarked car, and change into civvies. You do have plainclothes?’

  ‘Sure, Guv, in my locker.’

  ‘OK, Jenny. Get on that, top priority. I’ll be back as soon as I can grab a cab.’

  ––––––––

  Jenny was sitting at Karen’s desk when Walter hurried in.

  ‘Well?’ he said, before he’d even sat down.

  ‘Desiree Holloway met her end under a Glasgow-Euston express at Crewe Station. Several witnesses stated it was suicide, though there were allegations that she had been pushed.’

  ‘Allegations by whom?’

  ‘Don’t know, Guv. The records are not great. Think there was a big admin shake-up shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he mumbled, remembering the Mrs West big shake-up spring clean, John’s shake and whack, the lads called it, he’d almost forgotten about that. It had to be done of course, but by God she milked the moment. ‘Have you got an address?’

  ‘Not Holloway’s, that seems to be among the lost data, but I do have an address for the next of kin.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Iona House, Wrexham Road.’

  ‘Good girl. We’ll try there. Car organised?’

  ‘Yep, though it’s a bit crap.’

  ‘Don’t care, so long as it’s in civvies and gets us there.’

  ‘Shall I tell Mrs West where we are going?’

  Walter gave her a look that said everything.

  He unlocked his desk drawer and retrieved the Glock 22. Slipped it into his raincoat pocket. Jenny watched him do it and wondered what was going down, and what she had let herself in for.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, striding for the door, Jenny hurrying to keep up.

  For a fat man with a limp he couldn’t half shift when the feeling took him.

  ––––––––

  Walter was a good driver but he preferred being driven. It gave him thinking time whenever they were coming or going. Sometimes when he was driving he still thought about cases. Sometimes it had almost brought double trouble to his door. Hence Jenny was driving, and anyway he liked company, especially young company, especially on a case like this.

  Jenny pointed the car south, past the Roodee, crossed the river, headed toward Wrexham.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ she asked.

  ‘Not sure. Just an idea I had. It’s not far now.’

  He was right. The building was coming up, set on a brow on the right hand side, you couldn’t miss it, a late Victorian or early Edwardian detached house. As they drew closer he stared up at the fascia. Built into the gable were the words Iona House, picked out in blue Mucklow bricks. It must have been a heck of a property in its day. Now it was divided into four spacious flats, as they discovered when they pulled into the driveway, set to the right side of the house.

  There were two cars sleeping in the small rear car park, an old rusting Jaguar and a green Ford saloon that badly needed a wash. No smart Japanese hatchback. Disappointing. They went round to the front, their feet crunching on the gravel drive, and peered up at the four white bell pushes set beneath one another in a neat line. Before he could ring any of them the front door opened and an elderly lady peered out.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said. ‘But I must warn you that I never buy from cold callers, and I don’t have any antiques I wish to sell.’

  Walter smiled as gently as he could manage. Flashed his ID.

  ‘Your name is?’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Hymas, Elizabeth Hymas, Betty to my friends, though there is no Mr Hymas,’ she said, smiling at the pretty girl. ‘You know how it is, went his own way, thank the Lord for that, liked the booze, you see,’ and she pulled a crazy face. ‘Got a bit handy with his fists too when he was worse for wear,’ and she nodded slowly at the girl, as if it were a dire warning. ‘Horrible man!’

  ‘Which flat do you live in?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Number one, though we prefer to call them apartments. I have the whole place to myself at the moment, everyone’s out, so it’s quite nice to see you, gives me someone to talk to. Mr Kenson and Mr Watson, they have the top flats, they go away together every May, never miss, rent a place in Spain for two weeks, they do, they are not homofunnykins, and all that peculiar business, they don’t sleep together, or anything like that, or at least I don’t think they do,’ and she grinned mischievously at Jenny, and added, ‘But who knows?’

  ‘And flat number two?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Nicest people you could wish to meet. Samuel and Samantha Holloway. They keep a look out for me, run me on errands sometimes, bring me back heavy shopping, spuds and stuff, and the odd bottle of how’s your father,’ and she winked at the pair of them. ‘Tell you the truth I don’t know what I’d do without them.’

  ‘They’re husband and wife?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘No, silly... brother and sister.’

  ‘And they are away at the moment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘No, but I do know something very important is about to happen.’

  ‘Oh yes, like what?’

  ‘He’s a writer you know, she does fashion, but it’s him who’s had the big success.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘His new book, of course. Been a huge hit in America, he was telling me the other day. He’s going to the United States in a few days to collect his prize, a million dollars, can you imagine?’

  ‘Is he tall?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘No, not really, not as tall as this fat fellow.’

  Walter and Jenny shared a look. Jenny wanted to giggle. Walter hid a scowl.

  ‘And the sister; is she tall?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Pretty much, not huge, but taller than you,’ she said, glancing back at Jenny.

  ‘Lovely slim figure I’ll bet,’ said Walter.

  ‘Oh yes, mine was like that one day, you know,’ and suddenly she appeared guilty, as she ran her hands across her not overlarge stomach.

  ‘When are they due back?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Tomorrow evening, he was most specific about that, said they would be back tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Hymas,’ said Walter, ‘have you ever seen them together?’
<
br />   ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Have you ever seen Sam and Samantha together?’

  ‘Of course I have, well at least I think I have, I must have done, mustn’t I? They have been in my flat many times.’

  ‘And both at the same time?’ asked Jenny. ‘Say, had a meal together, you and the two of them round the table?’

  ‘Well no, we don’t ever eat together. We are not that close. But I get a separate card and present from them every Christmas, one from him, forward sloping writing, in blue, one from her, backward sloping writing, in black, very generous they are with their presents, more than misery guts Kenson and Watson, I have to say, sounds like an estate agents, don’t you think? Kenson and Watson. Yuck!’

  Walter smiled.

  Jenny did too.

  ‘I want you to do us a big favour,’ said Walter.

  ‘Anything to help the police.’

  ‘Don’t tell Sam and Samantha we called. We want it to be a surprise, it’s to do with the book you see,’ and he touched his nose and winked.

  ‘Ooh, is it? How exciting. I won’t say a word.’

  ‘And one other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would it be OK if we waited in your apartment tomorrow until they came home?’

  ‘Sort of a nice surprise for them both?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Jenny, ‘a smashing surprise.’

  ‘Of course you can. I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll bake some fairy cakes. My fairies have won prizes all over Chester.’

  ‘Don’t you go to too much trouble,’ said Walter.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, tell you the truth, I’ll enjoy the company, it’ll make such a pleasant change.’

  ‘We’ll come just after lunch.’

  ‘Come whenever you like. I won’t be going anywhere. The kettle is always thinking of boiling.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Walter. ‘Thanks so much, Mrs Hymas, you’ve been most helpful.’

  They smiled at her one last time and turned away and retreated to the car park.

  She didn’t go in until they were out of sight.

  Round the back, Walter went to the window of flat 2, placed his hands on the glass to shade his eyes, and peered through.

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘Not really, these lace curtains don’t help. Just a normal kitchen as far as I can make out, maybe a stove.’

  ‘You think it’s him, or her?’

  ‘Maybe. As soon as we get back to the station you can arrange a search warrant. If he doesn’t show tomorrow we’ll turn the place over, see what we can find.’

  ‘OK, Guv.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, thinking of something else, as he turned back toward the car.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would you ever think of kicking in the door, taking a sly look? You know, just in case.’

  Walter turned back to her, and then peered across at the door. Glanced at her again. Course he’d thought of it.

  ‘That, WPC Thompson would be illegal, and in any case, if we did, and made a mess, and there was nothing of interest in there, it might warn the bastard off if he came home later when we weren’t here. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Guv. I see.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There are things I want to research in the records.’

  Jenny started the car and headed back toward the city.

  Walter laughed inwardly.

  He could hardly believe what he had just heard.

  The young WPC advocating breaking and entering on the off chance they might stumble on information. What were they teaching them at Police College these days?

  Showed initiative though, you had to grant her that.

  Walter giggled.

  Jenny glanced at him from the corner of her eye and wondered why he was tittering.

  His mouth was dry. He needed a pint. He needed several pints.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Karen was discharged the following day. She was young and fit and had rapidly recovered and they needed the bed. She wanted to go home but didn’t want to be alone, so she rang Gibbons and asked him if he’d like to come over for a chat. He said he would, though his shift didn’t finish until 8pm. He’d be round at ten after taking a shower and grabbing a bite to eat.

  ‘Thomas Telford House,’ she said. ‘Number fifty, on the ring road, overlooking the locks.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you later.’

  It was only a couple of hundred yards from his police digs; it wouldn’t take two jiffies to get there.

  ––––––––

  Sam settled down in front of the television. Looking forward to seeing the news. See what spin they put on events at Chester racecourse. A tiny smile played across the lips.

  Sam was in for a big surprise.

  There was nothing on the national news.

  That was weird. Why not? There should have been.

  Wanted to see the fat black cop squirm; wanted to see him angry, to see him disconsolate, wanted to see him shaking with rage, wanted to see him feeling the loss.

  The local news came on next. A little common sense had returned. It was the lead story.

  The sexy announcer carried that excited inflection in her voice that was only ever there when a major story broke.

  They were showing library footage of the racecourse, hazy distant pictures of groundsmen preparing the track, mowing and clipping, and other guys with paint pots looking for something to paint white.

  Then that breathy voice cut in.

  A woman police officer was attacked in the toilets at Chester races on Ladies’ Day. Thankfully she is making a rapid recovery. Her injuries are not reported to be serious. The police are looking to interview a slim woman aged around thirty, black hair, wearing a navy blue suit and a member’s badge.

  How could the injuries not be serious?

  Of course the injuries were serious!

  They were lying. They were all lying.

  In cahoots with the authorities. Liars!

  Conspiracy, a pathetic attempt at trying to trick Sam and the public into believing barefaced lies.

  When someone is hung by the neck, when they blackout and are left to die, the injuries are deadly serious. Get real. Be honest!

  But what if she wasn’t dead? What then?

  Seven times over was seven times over.

  Now they were saying it hadn’t happened.

  Six times wasn’t enough.

  Six times wasn’t the deal.

  Six times meant unfinished business.

  ––––––––

  10.30pm that night.

  ––––––––

  Still nothing on the national news. Nothing new on the local either. Same old cannon fodder. Something had to be done.

  ––––––––

  The man carefully dressed, all in black. Sweatshirt, jeans, socks, leather gloves, woolly hat, trainers, all black. Picked up the black sports bag and let himself out. Went downstairs to the underground car park. Opened the car, threw the bag on the back seat, jumped in the front, started the engine, cruised out into the black night. No moon, no stars, thick cloud, a cloaking mist creeping up the river on the late tide, a chilly night for May, the only light piercing the gloom, the cold orange sodium that was everywhere. He didn’t have far to drive, three miles max, through the city centre and on to the northern suburbs.

  In the city the early drinkers and diners were coming out of town, the late night hard boozers and boppers and gamblers were going in. The centre was lit up like Christmas. All around young people filled the pavements, chattering like gulls, shrieking, laughing, pointing, threatening, punching, fighting, fainting, puking.

  The man drove on, didn’t see them at all, didn’t see anything; just drove. The suburbs were quiet. He parked in a tree-lined boulevard, a hundred yards from the target. Slipped the car unobtrusively in amongst a dozen similar middle class vehicles.
>
  Cut the engine. Turned round, grabbed the bag, stepped outside, locked the car; walked away, not too quick; not too slow, heading down toward the house. Two sleepy squirrels in one of the trees above his head watched him go. He didn’t see them. They cuddled up together and closed their eyes.

  At the target property there was a dim light in the front room. Nothing upstairs. All dark. He glanced around. No one about. Crept up the path. Opened the side gate, not too difficult, just the one bolt, no padlock, pushed open, not too noisy, slipped through, eased closed, stood still in the absolute blackness, eyes growing accustomed to the dark, tiptoed down the alleyway, hand out ahead; feeling for bins or bikes. All clear. Nothing there.

  Somewhere nearby a dog barked, not next door, maybe three or four houses away. Not an alarmed bark, not a people come running bark, maybe a play bark, or an I’m hungry bark. At the back of the house, down the garden, beyond the hedge, he could see similar properties through the bushes and pruned trees. Some lights were on over there, all the curtains and blinds were closed, no one was looking out, no kid playing up at well gone bedtime. One house had security lighting illuminating a flat extension, two cats were yowling and fighting there, the black and white one suddenly breaking off and dashing away. A fraction of the light filtered over the hedge into the garden where he stood. The man shrugged and turned back to the house that interested him.

  He stared up at the old home. Jammed on the rear of the building as an afterthought was a small single story extension, pebbledash and brick, perhaps a kitchen. It boasted a wide window, three panes across, no curtains or blinds, nothing. There was no light on inside, just the hint of brightness filtering in from another room, or maybe from the hallway. The window frames were the original wooden structures. They had begun to perish. His gloved hand rubbed one corner and a little came away on his thumb. He set the bag on the floor, stooped down, opened up, the metal zip sounding like gunfire, took out a small jemmy, stood up, inserted it in the vertical edge of the left window, and levered it back. Not too much force. Not too little. Gently, gently.

  The old window frame was no match for a modern tempered steel tool. The metal catch inside securing the window burst with a crack. The window came open in his hand. He stood quite still, half expecting someone to come running. No one did. The same dog barked again. No one paid attention. Somewhere over the back, a door opened, the metallic blurred sound of a TV or radio spilled out, drifting on the still night air, and someone yelled, ‘Come in Felix!’ and the door closed again.