by David Carter
Didn’t seem to affect the passengers much.
Belatedly, the station closed.
Services were suspended.
Police summoned, and cleaners too.
Passengers were still arriving.
It was nothing to do with them.
What the hell’s going on?
Railways of today, eh? Waste of space! I remember when... blah blah blah.
Tempers flared.
They simply had to get where they were going. Had to!
But they wouldn’t. And they didn’t.
Not for several hours afterwards.
It was an hour later before anyone noticed the fancy maroon suitcase, still sitting unattended on the platform, close to the edge, where Desiree had carefully placed it. Could it be a bomb, someone said. It contained her expensive dinner outfit, culled from the Manchester bazaars, never worn before, never worn again, not by Desiree Holloway, not by anyone.
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The Scientists’ Society Annual Dinner and Presentation went ahead as planned, oblivious to the bloody events up at Crewe. The committee were furious with the young woman for not turning up, but most particularly, for failing to return the much loved Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy. No one had ever done that before. One crusty old sod said, ‘That’s what you get for giving it to a woman in the first place. We might have known!’
‘Shut up, Lionel!’
The winner of the silver cup was a gawky tall girl wearing dreadful black specs. She was assured it would be hers, just as soon as it could be located. It had gone missing in transit. Nothing to worry about. Sorry, about that. You’ll have it in a few days. In the meantime the committee went into emergency session.
Later, the Gold Shield was presented to the scientist of the year, Michael Fixington of Allied Chemical Industries, for his innovative work in non-drip paints. Michael was truly amazed, as was everyone else.
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Three days later when the Society discovered the truth, the committee met again in emergency session.
‘I’d like to apologise,’ muttered Lionel.
‘I should think so,’ sniffed three of the others.
‘Well? What are we going to do about it?’
Many ideas were mooted.
A posthumous award. A special award. A citation. A press release. What exactly?
Then Lionel said, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t make such a big fuss about it. There is a rumour she committed suicide, after all.’
‘Did she? I didn’t know that.’
Doubts and rumours filled the room.
Much nodding and muttering.
The committee pondered for an hour, and did nothing.
Desiree Mitford Holloway would soon be forgotten. There would always be a bigger, brighter star next year. There always was.
Nothing ever changed, not really.
There wouldn’t be a Sir Fred Berrington Memorial Trophy though, leastways, not the original. They didn’t even get back the few mutilated pieces of scrap metal that were found. A month later the gawky girl in the glasses was delighted to receive a gleaming replica.
It didn’t bother her. Why should it?
Chapter Forty-Five
Walter glanced back at the coffee table. At the bottles. Three full bottles, different coloured caps. They looked like spent indigestion relief bottles. They weren’t spent any longer. They were full of scarlet liquid. Looked like blood to him, and he had seen plenty of blood in the previous thirty years. There was another smaller container too, a phial, he’d guess that’s what you’d called it, clear glass, clear liquid inside, tiny white label, tiny white print. He squinted, but couldn’t read a thing.
He knew his best chance was to engage the man in black in conversation, to play for time. Walter’s hostage dealing training had kicked in. He’d been on a refresher course only six months before, Mrs West’s idea, and for once she might have been right. Cresta Raddish would have loved it, been in her element, trying to read the mind of the hostage taker, concentrating on the central issue of having the hostage released in one piece. It was the only thing that mattered, except in this case, Walter was the hostage.
‘So,’ said Walter, ‘how did you get into cross-dressing?’
The man was busy putting out another item on the table like a stallholder setting up at an antiques fair.
Walter didn’t like the look of that one either.
It was a large syringe.
The man in black let slip a sarcastic little laugh. A girlish laugh.
‘Well?’ persisted Walter. ‘Did you get your rocks off on it? Was it Desiree Holloway? Was it her idea? Was she into all that kinky stuff?’
‘You don’t know anything!’
‘You’re right, I don’t, but I’d like to. If you are going to kill me, what’s the harm in telling me, you might as well, you’re not ashamed of it, are you?’
‘Course not!’
‘So how did you get into it? And what do I call you, by the way? You must have a name.’
‘Sam, you can call me Sam.’
‘So, how did it happen, Sam, your idea or hers?’
‘I know what you are after!’
‘I’m not after anything. I’m hardly in a position to be after anything, am I?’ said Walter, glancing down at his hand ties.
‘Yes, well, just so long as you understand that. If I were in your position I’d be saying a few prayers to your God, if I were you, if you believe in that kind of thing. You haven’t got much time left.’
‘Do you believe in God, Sam?’
He thought about that for a second. ‘Yes, maybe, sometimes.’
‘And you’re ready to meet him, knowing what you have done?’
‘God will be merciful. And anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion God is a woman.’
‘That’s a novel take.’
‘Let’s face it, Walter; none of us has any idea what God is like. God could be a gigantic chicken for all we know, and imagine how angry that great Cock in sky will be when we meet it. Had chicken for dinner, did you? That’s not going to go down well, is it? Sorry God, I’ve been eating your children for these past fifty years.’
That little laugh again. Some people might find that attractive. Predatory men for example, this guy would be in big demand in a high security prison. How would he cope with that? Maybe he’d like it. Maybe it was time to change the subject.
‘Tell me about Desiree?’
‘Just you remember, Darriteau, this time tomorrow, you’ll be long gone! Kaput!’
‘There’s not a lot I can do about that.’
‘You are dead right there, pal!’
‘Tell me about Desiree?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything. I’ve got time,’ and forgetting his dire situation for a second, Walter couldn’t keep a sly grin from spreading over his drooping chops.
‘That’s one thing you don’t have!’
Walter glanced at the clock.
‘It’s only quarter past eleven. I’m not due on till eight. No one will miss me till nine. That’s ten hours away. We’ve got plenty of time. Tell me about Desiree? After all, it’s what this thing’s all about, isn’t it?’
Sam backed away. Sat in the chair in the corner. Crossed his legs. Thought a moment.
‘She was strikingly beautiful, not classically beautiful, but once you’d seen her, you’d never forget her.’
A moony look came over his fair face, the kind of look Jenny Thompson occasionally portrayed when she was reading those love novels in the lunch break she adored so much.
‘She meant a lot to you?’
‘She was everything to me! She said we were soul mates, I was her other half, and she sure as hell was mine.’
‘And you started wearing her clothes. Was that before she died, or afterwards?’
‘Before, don’t be ridiculous, long before!’
‘Why did you do that?’
He closed h
is eyes, as if remembering, as if he were thinking things through, as if he didn’t want to answer, as if maybe, he was ashamed of the answer, thinking he might come across as some kind of weirdo.
‘You can tell me, Sam, I’m going to my maker, remember. No one will ever know.’
‘Just so long as you understand that! When we have finished talking, that stuff,’ and he pointed to the bottles, ‘is going into you!’
Walter glanced back at the table, at the bottles.
Didn’t like what he saw.
‘What’s with the different coloured tops?’
Sam smiled. ‘RGB, red, green, blue.’
‘I can see that. What’s the difference?’
Sam grinned again, not so prettily this time.
‘Red... is rat. Green... is great ape; chimpanzee to be exact. Blue is basset hound, pretty doggy to you and me. And the thing is, Walter, I am going to give you the choice of which you’d prefer. Interesting, eh?’
It was interesting all right, but not that interesting, and anyway Walter didn’t appreciate the thread of conversation, preferred to talk about Desiree Holloway, didn’t want to talk about the blood in the bottles at all, but before he could say anything else, Sam was already talking again.
‘Come on Wally; rat, doggy, or chimp?’
‘I can’t possibly decide on that.’
‘You don’t make a decision, you get them all! And you get them now!’
It was a threat that Walter took seriously. Talking about it seemed to rile the guy, and that was always frowned on in hostage school. Rule number one: Never make the hostage taker mad, never antagonise them. Another rule broken. Wasn’t the first; sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.
‘What’s in the glass phial?’
‘Ah, now that’s an interesting question, it’s what we call witches’ brew. Blow you away it would, blow the whole street away, come to that, I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do with it, but take it from me, Wally baby, you don’t want to get too close to it.’
‘Suits me, Sam.’
‘Red, green, or blue? Last chance!’
‘Green.’
Sam relaxed in the chair.
‘Great ape! Good choice. Any reason?’
‘Our nearest living relative; seemed logical.’
Sam nodded and said, ‘I’d have chosen green too, if I were in your shoes,’ then he went into thinking mode again, and Walter didn’t want that. You could never tell what the guy was thinking about, or what he would do next.
Walter said, ‘Tell me about Desiree?’
Sam smiled at her memory. He couldn’t help himself.
‘Tell me about how you got into cross-dressing.’
‘Why should I?’
‘I’m trying to paint in the background, to understand everything about the case, about you. It’ll let me die happy, my last dying wish, if you like.’
‘Desiree didn’t die happy!’
‘Why not? Tell me about it, Sam; it will do you good to get it off your chest. Why didn’t Desiree die happy?’
‘It’s very complicated.’
‘I am sure it is. We’ve got time, Sam. Tell me everything about Desiree, she sounds a fascinating person. I’d really like to know.’
‘She was a genius.’
‘Really? A genius. Wow!’
Sam nodded.
‘Far too good for this world.’
‘Tell me all about Desiree, Sam, it’s killing me not knowing.’
Pretty boy giggled. ‘It’s killing you knowing, that’s your problem.’
‘I can live with that.’
‘You can die with it too.’
‘We all have to die sometime.’
‘Yeah, but not today, eh?’
He lifted his right hand and made a gun shape and pointed it at Walter’s head and said, ‘Bang, bang, you’re toast.’
‘Tell me about Desiree, Sam... please.’
It was the please that did it. Sam always knew he was a soft touch.
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Everything.’
‘One condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘You don’t tell anyone,’ and he did that pretty boy laugh again.
‘Agreed,’ said Walter.
‘All right, Walter, Wally, Inspector Darriteau, why did you never make Superintendent by the way? Don’t answer that, I can guess, not clever enough, eh, sticks out a mile, now where were we?’
‘You were going to tell me about Desiree.’
‘Yeah, you got it, all right; just this once, and afterwards you get the green.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is what I want.’
‘You’re the man.’
‘Don’t you forget it!’
Chapter Forty-Six
DC Gibbons arrived at Thomas Telford house at five past ten. Went to the door and pressed fifty. Karen’s metallic voice appeared to one side of the door. ‘Hello?’ she croaked.
‘Hi there.’
‘Come on up,’ and the door sprang open.
Up in the flat Karen whispered, ‘Do you fancy a beer?’ opening the fridge and demonstrating the well packed shiny green cans.
‘Nah, rather have a coffee.’
She rather liked that. She’d always considered Gibbons to be some kind of boorish lager lout. She set the coffee machine burbling and told him to go through to the lounge area.
‘How do you like it?’ she said, straining what remained of her voice.
‘Milk, dash of shug-shug.’
She brought the mug in and set it on the coffee table, and sat on the two-seater sofa. He was sitting in the chair by the window. The curtains or blinds or whatever she had, were still wide open, and he could see the headlights of cars dashing along the inner ring road, and occasionally heard the sound of a honking impatient driver or the beep-borp of an ambulance. The sodium light glistened on the damp road and bounced off the contrasting flat and still waters of the canal. It was a peaceful picture. It was a nice place to live. Gibbons couldn’t wait to have a gaff like it.
‘So,’ she said, still struggling to get out her words. ‘How goes it?’
‘Yeah, good, Walter thinks we might make an arrest tomorrow.’
‘Yeah? Really?’
‘Yeah, that address you gave him, came up with a weird couple, Sam and Samantha Holloway. Walter thinks they are one and the same person, away today, back tomorrow apparently; we’re going in early doors to the flat next door. When they, or he or she, or it, comes home, we’ll be waiting.’
‘Christ I hope so. That’s a relief, I can tell you. Have we been inside their place yet?’
‘Nope, search warrant all ready, being turned over tomorrow.’
‘It was Walter who put me on to it,’ she said.
‘Yeah, how?’
‘He figured out it was someone with a major grudge. Holloway was the one that stuck out. Obvious really when you think about it.’
‘It’s always obvious afterwards.’
‘Yeah, suppose so, I vaguely remember this guy, coming to the station three or four times, demanding that we investigate a suicide further, his girlfriend apparently. I never saw him myself, just remember the desk sergeant going on and on about this bloody nuisance who kept coming back. He was boring the life out of him.’
She coughed and tried to clear her throat. Perhaps she shouldn’t be talking at all, thought Gibbons, and then he said, ‘So he thought, this guy, that the suicide was murder?’
‘Must have done.’
‘And could it have been?’
‘Nah, several witnesses said she jumped in front of the train, middle of the morning. No doubt.’
‘Bloody way to go.’
‘Terrible way. The station was unusually crammed at the time.’
‘All pressed up against one another?’
‘Yep, probably.’
‘So someone behind could have given her the slightest of nudges, just enough
to send her over the edge, and I suppose it was possible no one saw it.’
‘Maybe. We’ll never know now.’
‘So his girlfriend is killed, accident, murder or suicide, we don’t know which, and he broods about it for quite a while, and then decides to go on a murdering spree. Does that sound right to you?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Looks like something must have sent him or her over the edge. Maybe we’ll find out tomorrow.’
‘I bloody hope so; this case has gone on long enough.’
‘You can say that again,’ she said, reaching forward for her ice-cold cranberry juice she was sipping to ease her throat.
‘What do we know about the dead girlfriend?’ asked Gibbons.
‘Not much. Bit of a high flyer. Worked in some chemical company down on the Cheshire-Shropshire border, from what I recall.’
‘And what did the guy do?’
‘Don’t know, no idea, don’t think we ever knew. Did you find out anything yesterday?’
‘Jenny was telling me the old lady living next door said he was a writer; and a very successful one too. Apparently he’d just won a million dollar contract in the States.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Gibbons pulled a face. ‘Seems a bit far fetched to me, perhaps he’s a Walter Mitty type guy.’
‘Yeah, that rings true. Hopefully we’ll find out tomorrow.’
Gibbons sipped the coffee.
‘There’s something that’s worrying me,’ she said. ‘Something doesn’t fit. It’s why I asked you over.’
‘Yeah, like what?’
‘He tried to murder me, right?’
Gibbons drained his drink and said, ‘Yep, he did.’
‘Well, he now knows he didn’t succeed, doesn’t he?’
‘He does if he watches the telly.’
‘Bound to, these people always get off on the publicity.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘That he might come back, try again. Come here, maybe.’
‘No, he can’t. Does he know where you live?’
‘Hope not, but we all know with the bloody Internet you can always find out where anyone lives if you try hard enough.’