The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I visited the cop shop seven times. Seven times, Walter. Seven fucking times! Pleading with your people to reopen their enquiries, pleading with them to start an investigation into everything that was going down at Eden Leys. And what did they do? Fuck all! That’s what. Fuck all!’

  ‘I guess your enquiries never made it past the station sergeant. I’d have a word about that.’

  ‘Too late now!’

  ‘They are overworked and underpaid and are snowed under with crazy people coming in and demanding all sorts. It’s not excusable, but it is understandable, that occasionally they may send the wrong people away.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe. Like you.’

  ‘So you concede I might have a case?’

  ‘I’d like to look into it further.’

  ‘Too late, mate. Far too late!’

  ‘Tell me about the Chester Mollesters thing, and the bad spelling.’

  ‘Not much to tell, a futile attempt to mislead, I regretted it afterwards.’

  The landline telephone in the hall began ringing.

  They both jumped.

  A phone ringing in the small hours is always far louder than during the day. Walter glanced at the clock. Sam at his wrist. Five to one.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ said Sam. ‘Who’d be ringing at this time of night?’

  ‘No idea, probably a wrong number.’

  The phone rang for ages, maybe thirty, forty, double rings.

  Sam didn’t answer, just cursed it. It still kept ringing.

  ‘Whoever it is, they’re a persistent bastard!’

  The ringing finally stopped.

  Sam sighed. He looked nervous.

  Walter did too. He wanted to ask another probing question, preferably one that might produce a thirty-minute answer. For a moment his mind went blank. He really needed a pee.

  The mobile atop the television set began leaking sound. Karen had programmed it to chime that awful seven-note ringtone, the one that sounded like water splashing off the roof. God knows how she did it, he didn’t really care, didn’t really like it either, each note lower than the last, splash, splash, splash, splash, splash, splash, splash, stop. Then the same seven splashes again, and stop. Seven. And again. Seven, and again.

  Sam jumped from the chair. Went to the phone. Picked it up. Saw who was calling. Grinned.

  ‘It’s time, Walter, it’s time.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘The lucky bitch.’

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘Yeah! The very same. You’re only in this position because of her; you know that, don’t you? If you hadn’t saved her I’d have vanished. Mission accomplished. I’d have cleared off to Barcelona. Happy memories there, you understand. I would have enjoyed a second honeymoon, all alone, yet not alone at all, sometimes dressed as a lonely lady, a striking woman in mourning, a woman with admirers. Wealthy old businessmen would have paid court to me, felt sorry for me, sent me flowers, dinner invitations, who knows, I might even have let them buy me jewellery... I might even have let them live. You would never have seen or heard from me again, except you couldn’t stop interfering, in your size eleven clodhoppers. Big mistake, Walter. Fatal mistake.’

  Walter fired off another question, ‘Why did you leave it so long afterwards, before you began killing people?’ He was desperate to keep Sam talking, encouraged in knowing that Karen was awake, and thinking.

  ‘I’d been considering it for ages, planning it, wondering how I might go about it. I guess I hoped you might see sense and reopen your enquiries. But you didn’t, and there was no sign you would, and then that guy came along on the highway. It was a spur of the moment thing, there he was, nodding at me, and there was my foot hovering above the accelerator; and something in my head was shouting: Don’t stop! Do it! Do it now! And I did, and I don’t regret it, not for a moment.’

  ‘He was an innocent family man.’

  ‘Tough shit!’

  ‘A decent person, don’t you have any regrets?’

  ‘Desi was a decent person! Devoted to searching for cures to save mankind, and look what happened to her!’

  Sam stood up and went to the sports bag, took out a large pair of gleaming scissors, held them in the air, practiced a few snips. ‘I still hoped you might reopen Desi’s case, that justice would prevail, that you might finally see sense, get it right for once, but no...’ and his voice trailed away.

  He was suddenly busy, scissors in hand, cutting into Walter’s right shirt cuff, clean through, up to the wrist, careful not to snip the plastic tie, and then all the way up to the shoulder, cut off the raggy bits, Walter’s flabby arm exposed all the way up, his wrist still firmly fixed to the arm of the chair.

  ‘I’ll reopen the case, you’ll get your justice; we’ll open the whole damned can of worms.’

  ‘Too little, too late, Wally! Time’s up. Here we go.’

  ‘And the different coloured eyes?’ he said, desperate to say anything to prolong the conversation.

  ‘You know the answer to that. Contacts of course, you can have any colour you like. There’s a place up in Manchester that sells nothing but weirdly coloured lenses, fab it is, we built up quite a collection, red, yellow, black, gold, purple, you can have any colour eyes you want.’

  Walter sniffed and said, ‘I know someone who’d adore purple eyes.’

  ‘Do you? Who?’

  ‘You don’t know her.’

  ‘Who, Walter? Who?’

  ‘Cresta.’

  ‘Who’s Cresta?’

  ‘The profiler on the case.’

  ‘Ah yes, that Cresta Parsnip, or whatever she’s called, I read about her in the Sunday supplements. American, isn’t she?’

  ‘Raddish, her name’s Raddish. She’s not American, just studied there. Crazy about the colour purple.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I did consider doing her, taking her down, but your sweet chick was a much more enticing target. Are you plugging that girl, Walter?’

  ‘No, course not. I’m old enough to be her father.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop a lot of men, Walter, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Walter shook his head and said, ‘Which killing gave you the most satisfaction?’

  ‘Oh that’s easy.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Right Reverend of course, the railway killing, that was so sweet, so poetic. I thought of Desi every second as he was crunched under the wheels. It seemed somehow truly appropriate that there he was, a man of God, meeting his maker in an identical fashion. God could go and chew on that, part payment for my Desi’s loss. Had to be that one, didn’t it?’

  ‘I still don’t understand why Desiree was killed.’

  ‘She was killed Walter because she was stealing information, you moron! That’s how they saw it; they couldn’t prove it; so they eradicated the problem. Simple as that. One day there’s a big difficulty, the next day there isn’t. You are beginning to annoy me! Great ape, you say?’

  Walter glanced up at the guy. He was standing there like a bartender waiting for the drinker to choose his poison.

  ‘I said: Great ape did you say?’

  His eyes were wilder this time, didn’t look like he’d brook an argument.

  Walter nodded.

  ‘Good man,’ and he carefully unscrewed the green cap. Fixed a large needle on the syringe. Slipped it into the bottle. Carefully drew it back, fully loaded, scarlet blood, foreign blood, killing blood.

  ‘Byes-e-bye, Walter baby, it’s been nice knowing you.’

  In went the needle.

  Walter grimaced. Said nothing.

  Down went the plunger. In went the blood.

  Walter cursed. Stared at the syringe.

  Stared at the blood as it left the vehicle, entering his body.

  Nothing happened.

  He wondered how long it would t
ake.

  Sam grinned.

  Mission accomplished, at long last.

  Seven times over.

  Seven times one is seven.

  Seven deaths.

  Desi avenged, at last.

  The fat black cop was on his way to hell.

  Desiree could sleep easy in her grave.

  100 Ways to Kill People.

  Inject an Inspector with the blood from a great ape, in this case, a murdered chimpanzee.

  Poetic. Truly poetic.

  ‘Time to be going, methinks,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to be here when the cavalry arrives, if indeed they ever do. Bye bye, Walter, have a nice death.’

  ‘You’re sick in the head. You should see someone.’

  ‘And you my friend; are dying. Make the most of the tiny time you have left, and just to be on the safe side, to make sure there is no mistake this time, I think a dash of rat is called for, don’t you?’

  The killer grinned and picked up the red-topped bottle.

  Walter shook his head. He still needed a pee.

  Chapter Fifty

  Karen and Gibbons jumped from the car. Ran toward the house, Karen stumbling, still weak. Gibbons paused to help her up. ‘Go on!’ she said. There was dim light on in the front room. Someone was in. Perhaps the old fool had fallen asleep in the chair. She joined Gibbons at the open front gate. ‘How do we get in?’ he whispered.

  ‘There’s a key,’ she said, ‘under a big stone, we came back late one night for a chat, he’d left his keys in the office, and he said there was a key under the stone, but it had been snowing and we couldn’t even find the bloody stone.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘By the peony, Walter said.’

  ‘What does a peony look like?’

  ‘No idea, try that big stone there.’

  Gibbons turned over the stone, nothing but wriggly worms and pregnant earwigs caught out in the streetlight. Turned over another. Same as before. Turned over another. Faint light glinted from a rusty key, half buried in the mud. He grabbed it, wiped it on his sleeve, and raced to the front door. Slipped it quietly into the lock. Gently turned. The lock opened, the door freed, eased it open, Karen at his shoulder.

  There were muffled voices coming from the front room. They ran to the doorway, looked in.

  Walter was tied to the chair.

  There was a slight guy standing over him, dressed in black, stupid grin on his face, a huge syringe in his hand loaded with scarlet liquid. More bottles on the table, one empty, one full, one half empty, plus another smaller, clearer container.

  ‘Are you all right, Walter?’ screamed Karen.

  ‘Oh no sister, he isn’t,’ said the man in black. ‘He’s on his way to meet his maker, a gigantic chicken we believe. Do you have any thoughts on the subject?’

  Gibbons ran at the guy.

  Sam turned toward him, syringe first, jabbing it in the air between them, snarling, ‘Come on hero boy, want some?’

  Karen staggered to the hall, thinking about the Glock she’d left at work, went to the kitchen, rummaged in drawers, came back with two old carving knives, one sharp, one not, slipped one to Gibbons. Sam looked nervous. Karen moved around to the guy’s left, Gibbons to his right.

  ‘You’re finished,’ said Walter. ‘Finished! Give yourself up before you get hurt.’

  Walter didn’t look well. He needed a pee. Badly.

  ‘Shut up old man! It’s you who’s finished.’

  Gibbons thrust the knife forward, tried to knock the needle from the guy’s hand. What was in that thing?

  Karen lurched at the guy from the left, nearly fell over. Sam had expected it. She was loyal to the last, and seeking revenge. He knew that. He jabbed the needle toward her face, aiming for the eye, Karen swayed left, missed by a whisker, but the needle grazed her right earlobe, not time enough for him to press the plunger. In the scramble he’d taken the knife from her, yanked it clear from her weak grasp. He was strong. Much stronger than he looked. Surprisingly strong, but she already knew that.

  Sam hurled the syringe at Gibbons while jabbing the knife at Karen. The loaded needle turned over in flight and bounced harmlessly from Darren’s shoulder. Sam turned on the balls of his feet and flashed the carving knife at Gibbons.

  Gibbons slashed back. Both missed. Karen glanced at Walter.

  His mouth was open and he was breathing heavy. He didn’t look well at all.

  Sam and Gibbons were jabbing at one another like feuding pirates.

  Karen saw her moment, rushed in from the side, used the last of her strength, issued a left handed forearm smash, cack handed, Walter noted, that always took people by surprise, every time, knocked Sam off balance. Gibbons waded in, dropped the knife, he’d never liked knives, flexed his muscles and punched the guy in the chest, a thundering blow to the torso, a professional strike, honed in the gym he so adored.

  Walter managed a grin. Sam went down, falling backwards, over the coffee table, squealing and panicking and scattering the bottles of blood, and the scissors and the empty coffee mug, shattering the glass phial, shards of razor sharp glass slipping into his body, injecting clear chemical into the small of his back.

  They stared down at the man in black, suddenly immobile.

  At his startled and panicked eyes.

  At his trembling and unmoving body.

  At his quivering and silent lips.

  At his final moments.

  At his death.

  ‘Don’t touch anything!’ yelled Walter. ‘It’s some kind of chemical weapon; you’ll need to ring HAZCHEM. And call an ambulance. Quick! He’s injected me with foreign blood. And cut me loose! And get me a bucket! I need a pee!’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The following morning the police arrived at Iona House, slightly earlier than planned, Karen, Gibbons and Jenny Thompson, but no Walter. He was fixed in the Countess hospital, having his blood changed, tests run, a lucky escape, no rat, but the chimpanzee had been removed, just in time, along with all the rest, though it had been a close call. ‘Where’s the fat black chap?’ asked Mrs Hymas cheerily.

  Gibbons and Karen shared a look.

  ‘The fat black chap is unavoidably detained. He sent his apologies,’ said Karen.

  ‘Oh really? That’s a shame. I’ve made him some fairies specially.’

  ‘Perhaps we could take him some back.’

  ‘Oh yes, would you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Karen. ‘You don’t have a key do you, for flat number two?’

  ‘No. Why? What time will Sam and Samantha be back?’

  ‘Sam and Samantha won’t be coming back.’

  ‘No! Why? They haven’t had an accident, have they?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘How terrible.’

  ‘We have a search warrant,’ said Karen, flashing the document before Mrs Hymas’s face.

  There was a momentary pause and then something seemed to click in her old watery eyes.

  ‘They have been very naughty, haven’t they?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘They used to spin me some yarns. They used to think I was doodle alley, senile, and I am not.’

  ‘Did they?’ said Gibbons. ‘Tut tut tut.’

  ‘What kind of yarns?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Oh crazy things, they said that if I was ever naughty they’d wrap me up in Christmas paper and throw me in the river at midnight, silly things like that. Only a joke I know, but sometimes it kept me awake at night.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to worry about anything like that any more,’ said Karen. ‘We’re going into the flat now; we’ll come back and see you later.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, you’re all right. You stay here.’

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘Great idea, you do that.’

  The officers smiled and nodded and left Mrs Hymas to her fairies, crossed the hall and stared at
the stripped timber door. Karen followed procedure and knocked loudly. No sound, no reply, no surprise. Gibbons took out a small jemmy from his deep trouser pocket, placed it on the rim of the door, applied pressure, his biceps bulging beneath his shirt as he began levering; Karen and Jenny both noticed that. Three seconds and the timber split with a loud crack. One more jerk, and the door flew open, a couple of old wood screws tumbling to the hall floor, as if in protest at being disturbed.

  The officers slipped on rubber gloves and went inside, with Walter’s parting words still ringing in Karen’s ears.

  ‘Find me that diary; and any details of any documents deposited with a solicitor.’

  They’d entered a large sitting room with views out over the front lawn and the driveway. Karen wasn’t alone in wondering what had gone on in that room. It was pretty ordinary, a little old-fashioned, leather settee, modern TV, nothing of any great interest, clean and tidy, well cared for, but no obvious diary. They went through to the kitchen. A large solid fuel stove, gone out now, ideal for disposing of bloody clothing, Karen imagined, or evidence of any kind, even body parts. Who knows what had gone through that furnace?

  Into the bedroom, nice double bed, everything clean and neat and tidy. Opened the floor to ceiling wardrobe, fine clothes, and lots of them, expensive too, men and women’s, dozens of shoes on the floor, all neatly stored side by side, again, men and women’s, similar sizes, very expensive, Karen noted that, top ticket designer gear, better than she could comfortably afford, and sitting on the shelving to the right-hand side, were four white heads, polystyrene models, topped with trendy styled wigs, four different colours, black, blonde, red, brown, very smart.

  Gibbons thought he recognised the black one.

  ‘Look at these,’ said Jenny.

  She’d opened a bedside table. Five contact lens containers, five different coloured lenses.

  ‘Explains a lot,’ said Karen.

  ‘And these!’ said Gibbons, brandishing a pair of touchy feely breasts in front of his chest. ‘They’re fab, just like the real thing!’

  ‘Put them down!’ said Karen, grinning.

  ‘What’s he like?’ said Jenny.

  But still no diary. Karen thought it might have been in the bedside table, last chore of the day, maybe, before a peaceful night’s rest, update the terror records; update the murder diaries. She returned to the inner hallway, opened the door to the second bedroom.