The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  Silence returned. The man bent down, returned the jemmy to the bag, picked the bag up, hooked it over his arm; pulled the window open. It came toward him like a small glass front door, four feet above the ground.

  He stuck his head inside. It was a kitchen, dimly lit, but he could see what he needed. Someone had eaten a curry. The remnants were still there, a ready meal job, detritus scattered around the worktop, the coloured cardboard sleeve, the blackened, clear vinyl top, the plastic base, some rice still remaining, looking rejected, the smell, not korma, something stronger, tikka, jalfrezi perhaps, he didn’t care.

  Put his hands on the sill, flexed his trainers and toes on the path outside, jumped and pulled himself up and through the window, landed inside on the vinyl floor. Stood perfectly still. Glanced around. Blue pilot light on the boiler. Green power light on the freezer. Red warning light on the burglar alarm sensor, not activated, couldn’t have been. Thank God for that. No one came running. The freezer cut in with a loud hum, startled him for a second.

  There was music in the air. Radio, television, maybe, coming from down the hall, maybe from the sitting room set off toward the left. He crept to the kitchen door, it wasn’t closed, just pulled to, eased it open. A gloomy long narrow hallway much as he expected, coats hanging up on wall-mounted hooks, a small table, old-fashioned telephone on top, the room off to the left as he’d imagined, another door, another ajar, the music louder now, but not too loud, jazz of some kind, puke music, he would say, and slightly more light so he could see better, total silence other than the music, no sound of anyone talking, no noise of anyone moving about, no newspaper being turned over, no gobbling irons scraping on china, nothing from upstairs, no bath or shower running, and yet as he eased inches forward there was another sound, heavy breathing, more than that, snoring. The house owner was asleep.

  How opportune was that?

  Crept to the sitting room door. Peered through the gap at the hinges end between the door and the frame. Saw a coffee table covered in empty beer cans, three, no four of them; bent over in the middle as if someone had been flexing them in the hand, aids to relaxation, wreck the cans, while thinking of the day’s events.

  Irish stout. Fattening stuff. Sleepy stuff.

  The snoring grew louder.

  Eased the door open to a dimly lit sitting room. Stood in the doorway.

  The weighty guy was sitting in a big old-fashioned armchair, wooden arms, his head back, eyes closed, sturdy furniture. The man in black glanced around the room. Flowery wallpaper, patterned carpet, needed a clean, old oak standard lamp trying hard to light the room, ridiculous flowery lampshade, writing desk, old books on the top, slab down, wide open, bills and cheques scattered about, matching armchair pushed into the far right corner, slight musty smell, and curry and beer and sweat. It all looked and smelt like something his great aunt might have had, or from a fifties Ealing comedy film. Same thing really.

  Old-fashioned brown telly, Grundig, sturdily made, last for years, never blew up, someone on the screen was blowing on a horn, at least it was in colour, a dusky woman was cooing along, sleepy music, and it was working well on the guy in the chair. Glanced back at him. Still fast asleep, completely out of it, as if he’d had a hard week, or maybe two. His frizzy grey hair was standing on end as if he’d had an electric shock.

  The man in black smiled and slipped four heavy-duty plastic cable ties from his bag. Set the bag carefully on the hall floor. Crept into the room.

  The guy didn’t stir.

  Continued snoring.

  The man in black slipped a tie through the wooden arm of the chair, around the black guy’s right wrist, fastened it; eased it tight, but not too tight.

  The guy didn’t stir.

  Moved around the back of the chair.

  Same job, left wrist, same result.

  The eyes remained shut.

  Nothing would shift the tie, other than a sharp implement.

  Crouched down. Slipped the third tie around the right ankle. It couldn’t have been better positioned, adjacent to the wooden foot. Eased it tight. Job done.

  Back round the other side.

  This one was tricky. The left foot was splayed away from the furniture, lazily resting on the heel, the aromatic worn carpet slipper half off. Fed the last tie around the wooden furniture leg, around the black guy’s ankle, slipped one end through the loop, and yanked it tight, bringing the whole leg back with a jolt, securing it fast to the chair leg.

  The black guy woke up.

  ‘What the fuck!’

  Began shaking frantically, trying to free his limbs, realised he was stuck fast, stopped shaking, focused his tired eyes, stared at the man in black. He was busy revisiting each plastic tie, gently easing them tighter. The black guy thought of biting him but by the time he’d thought of that, the man in black had finished and had moved away. No one and nothing could break free from that chair.

  The man in black stood in front of the TV, his back to the screen, bent down to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, fired it over his shoulder, and the music stopped.

  The black guy stared up at the intruder.

  ‘Five feet six, slim build, small feet, nice lips, clear skin, pretty face, short neatly trimmed light brown hair, maybe a touch of blond, maybe a touch of highlighting, bright blue eyes, and most importantly, a pert bum, a pretty boy, or a pretty girl?

  Walter grinned.

  The man in black grinned back.

  ‘You recognise me?’ he said.

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Good, that’s good Walter, it shows if nothing else that you are not totally incompetent, pretty much, but not completely.’

  The man went to the hallway, picked up the sports bag; came back inside; swept the empty cans from the coffee table with a metallic clang, set the bag in their place.

  ‘You know why I am here?’

  ‘I guess you have come to try to kill me.’

  ‘Wrong! Incorrect! I haven’t come to try to kill you. I have come to complete my task. I will kill you, in a few minutes from now. It’s your own fault. You should have left the bitch to die. That was a big mistake. It’s say your prayers time for you, Wally.’

  Walter didn’t answer. He didn’t have anything to say. He was fighting his mind clear of the alcohol. Thinking of how he could get out of there. Glanced at his mobile phone on top of the TV. Couldn’t remember if he’d charged it. Couldn’t think how he could get hold of it. Couldn’t think how he could use it. The landline in the hall might as well have been in Mongolia. The man in black began taking items from his bag, setting them up on the table before him.

  Walter glanced at them.

  He didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t like what he saw at all.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  A year after Desiree won the Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy she was invited back to London, up for the big prize, the Golden Shield. The Shield was different because it was the top prize any British scientist could win, but it was different in another way too. The winner didn’t know who had won it. There were five nominations in all, and the name of the lucky recipient was known only to the eight souls who sat on the Scientists’ Society Committee.

  Desiree was on the shortlist, nothing more, though secretly in her heart she was confident of picking up the top prize, though she was far too modest to suggest such a thing, even to her mentor, Professor Jill Craigieson. Jill had been poorly with a bout of serious back trouble. It happened often, and she was resting up at home. She rang Desiree the night before she set off for London and wished her well.

  When she’d called, Desiree was in the process of giving the Berrington silver cup its final clean and polish. It was as she knew it would be, brighter, more gleaming, spotless; cleaner than when she’d first picked it up and clasped it to her breast a year before. She imagined the sparkle would bring her luck, bring her the success her outstanding work unquestionably deserved. Truth was, she didn’t want to give it back, though she would happily e
xchange it for the Gold Shield

  This time the Chester to London train changed at Crewe.

  When she arrived there she found the station busy, for the previous London train had been cancelled due to the wrong kind of leaves on the line, or the wrong kind of snow in the air, or the wrong kind of electricity in the wires, or the wrong kind of idiot in management, which was probably closer to the truth. Desiree wasn’t alone in thinking that, as she checked again that her two bags were still at her side, the same smart maroon suitcase from the previous year, and the worn crinkly purpose built black case that housed the Sir Fred Berrington Cup.

  Whatever the reason for the non arrival of the previous London service, passengers were backing up, the platform was crowded and becoming more so, standing room only, people nudging in from the rear, passengers flooding out of the waiting rooms, not wanting to be left behind, people dashing down the steps from the bridge only to be confronted by thick crowds, travellers desperately trying to wheedle their way closer to finding a carriage door, when the train eventually arrived.

  Please stand clear. The next train arriving at Platform Three will NOT be stopping at this station. Please stand well clear.

  Desiree exchanged a nervous look with her neighbours and sniffed a rebuke. How could anyone stand clear when the pressure from behind was easing more people toward the track, toward the rails?

  It was laughable.

  A tall bespectacled man in a tweed suit standing at the front, three along from Desi, turned around and gawped across the packed heads, back toward the station buildings and shouted: ‘Please stop pushing at the back! We cannot move any further forward! Please stop pushing!’

  The pressure eased for a matter of moments. Some people used the lull to edge into better positions, slip a tad forward, closer to the track, reintroducing pressure, only more so than before.

  Desi felt her feet being pushed forward and dug in her heels.

  She glanced down at her bags. They were now slightly behind her as if some invisible tide was washing her out. She manoeuvred the maroon case forward a touch while picking up and cuddling the black one.

  The non-stopping train was rumbling toward the station approach. Past the signal box, past the end of the platform, entering the main body of the station, a rhythmic, thundering beat as the heavily laden express began to whip through.

  Out of nowhere the voice returned.

  She hadn’t expected it.

  She hadn’t wanted it.

  She shook her head and tried to obliterate it.

  Jump bitch! Jump!

  Go on!

  Jump bitch! Jump!

  The voice of destiny, and this time it was the unmistakeable voice of the hateful Toby Malone.

  No! I won’t. Go away! Leave me alone!

  Do as you’re told!

  Jump bitch! Jump!

  Let’s face it darling... you know you want to!

  Come and join me!

  Jump! Do it! Do it now!

  No! No! I don’t! I won’t!

  Still more people had arrived at the rear, more pressure, more eagerness to get closer to the front, regardless of the massive weight of moving steel and wood and fabric and luggage and food and prams and bikes and humanity, all crammed together on the express train that was hurling itself through the station.

  In the melee Desi stumbled.

  She grasped the Sir Fred Berrington closer to her heart as if it might protect her, and fell.

  The crowd gasped. The sound drowned out by the express.

  Hands went to mouths. Eyes widened. Shocked mouths opened.

  People looked away, not that there was much to see.

  Desi was beneath the still moving last six carriages, as they hurtled over her remains. The crinkly black box had burst open on first impact, throwing the old and coveted trophy toward the centre of the track, where it had bounced once and stumbled under the far steel wheels, flattened beyond recognition, the passengers above feeling the tiniest of jolts, not enough to be of concern. How were they to know that Sir Fred Berrington had been mutilated beyond use, beneath their restless feet?

  Desiree Mitford Holloway hadn’t fared any better.

  Death was instantaneous.

  Decapitation.

  Mutilation.

  An horrific death.

  In five seconds flat Desiree Holloway had ceased to exist.

  ‘Oh my God!’ shrieked a teenage girl, clutching her face. ‘Did you see that?’

  She glanced around at her shocked neighbours.

  ‘I told you!’ yelled the tall man, turning round and staring at the rear of the crowd as if they were all personally responsible. ‘I told you so! A poor lady’s gone under the bloody train!’

  Thankfully, no one had witnessed her final moment, not after Desiree had disappeared beneath the locomotive. It seemed an age before the long train cleared the station, cleared the view, and as the rear of the train dashed away, shaking people stared down at the bloody remains, strewn along the track toward London.

  Unrecognisable.

  Was that a head?

  Is that really hair?

  Isn’t that her black jacket?

  Poor woman!

  Look, there! A hand, see, just beyond the brown sleeper. It’s a hand, I tell you!

  Everyone peered, but not everyone could see it.

  ‘She jumped you know!’ someone said.

  ‘She did not!’

  ‘She bloody well did!’

  ‘She stumbled under the weight of the crowd,’ said a third.

  ‘She jumped, I tell ya!’

  The train now approaching Platform Three is the eleven nineteen calling at London Euston only. Platform Three for the London Euston Train.

  ‘Oh my God; hasn’t somebody sent for someone?’ cried a woman.

  The tall man turned round and yelled, ‘Stop this! Fetch someone! Now! A woman has gone under the train!’

  Still more people were funnelling down the steps, pushing onto the platform, urged on by the strident tannoy announcement. Latecomers and day-trippers and poor timekeepers and runners with pushchairs; and students with music in their ears, and coloured rucksacks slung over their shoulders; and a big man with a cello, and gaggles of confused foreigners, and school children on a day trip, and lots of them.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ asked one, jokily.

  ‘Gawd, it’s busy down here today,’ said another suited man, as he pushed his wheeled bag before him, muttering, ‘Make way, make way! I must get on this train. Matter of life and death.’

  Several bystanders looked at him with disdain.

  Eyewitnesses at the front, feeling yet more pressure from the rear, thought better of it, turned about and fought their way away from the trackside. They would go straight home, and not by train, leave it for another day, maybe, when things were quieter, and safer, and they had re-gathered their nerve, and rediscovered their courage.

  The London train was spluttering into the station as if it had a cold, unknowingly cloaking the horror, hiding the evidence. The passengers on the train thought the people on the platform looked a miserable bunch, even more so than usual.

  A moment later a hundred tried to get off. Had to push their way off and fight their way through the nervous throng. God, what was wrong with everyone today? The instant the doors pulled open, three hundred fought to get on, pushing and shoving and elbowing and cursing and grimacing.

  Someone said, ‘There’s nothing we can do for her now, and I need to get to London.’

  Another said, ‘She jumped anyway, it was her own choice.’

  ‘You cold bastards!’ yelled the tall man, refusing to board the train, turning around, fighting his way back through yet more latecomers.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s the station manager?’

  People looked at him as if he were a troublemaker, a shilling short of a quid, there’s always someone who wants to make a fuss.

  ‘Bit of a loony,’ someo
ne suggested, as they hurried on by, and no one was going to argue with that. There were loads of loonies about these days.

  ‘He looked a loony,’ said someone else. ‘Very tall people are often loonies!’ and several people glanced around to see if they were standing next to anyone particularly tall.

  Not everyone managed to board, though most of them did, crammed together like football crowds from years ago, trying to read their newspapers and magazines and devices over someone else’s shoulder, trying to eat a cheese sandwich or a piece of spicy sausage out of a green packet, or a muesli bar without appearing to do so, trying to reach the packed lavatories, trying not to sniff someone else’s armpit as they stretched, trying to read vital texts, trying to make or receive a phone call, trying to get online, trying to access their Bookface page to broadcast their vital news to the waiting and voyeuristic electronic world, of what they had seen and where they had been, and you should have seen it too, and how exciting it all was, and how incredibly bloody. My God! Better than the TV! Far better!

  One standing passenger was heard to intone into his palmpootler: ‘I’m having a bad day, I’m on the train... but someone else has had a far worse one... they’re underneath it!’ Followed by a cold laugh, and hostile stares.

  After the London train had slipped away, one or two remaining on the platform noted that the supposed severed hand had vanished. A few more were taking pictures with their mobile phones, hands in the air like weird worshippers to the modern God Techno, to be sent on up ahead to wherever they were going, like a harbinger of doom.

  Gross! Look at that. Yuck! I’ll just take a few more, perhaps from over there, a better angle. You never know when you’ll get another chance!

  The sight of the remains of the person formerly known as Desiree Holloway would affect the minds of the unfortunate souls summoned to clear up the mess for many years to come.