by David Carter
‘The password is?’
Walter glanced at Karen.
‘Deliverance,’ she said.
‘Good. A little dramatic maybe, but there we are. Sam was always that way inclined.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Karen under her breath.
‘Sign here, please.’
Ms Braybrook pushed a document across the table, and a pen. Walter picked up the pen, scanned the paper and signed it.
‘Good,’ she said, retrieving the authorisation docket. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out an orange card file, perhaps two inches thick, and slid it across the table. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it interesting reading.’
‘I am sure we shall,’ said Walter, as Karen stood and scooped up the file.
‘Have you made copies of the contents?’ he asked.
‘Of course not! I am a solicitor.’
Walter sniffed and nodded and stood up.
Ms Braybrook frowned and stood and nodded too.
Three minutes later and they were back in the car.
‘Look at that!’ he said, pointing at the window.
A green parking ticket in a plastic raincoat, jammed under the wiper. Karen laughed and jumped out and retrieved it.
‘So what’s in the file?’
‘Proof of deaths at Eden Leys, if Sam’s diary is to be believed.’
‘Criminal deaths?’
‘Are there any other kind?’
‘Course there is; natural causes, accidents, in war for example.’
‘Those Alzheimers’ patients were not at war.’
‘Only with their own minds.’
‘Precisely.’
‘You’re going to follow this up, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘As far as I possibly can.’
‘Could be tricky.’
‘Life can be tricky, Karen, as we both discovered this past week.’
‘You can say that again,’ she said, and her hand involuntarily returned to massaging her still sore neck.
‘Start the car, let’s get home.’
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As she drove he said, ‘That night when Sam was at my place; what made you think I was in trouble?’
‘I figured he was determined to do seven, he thought I was the seventh, but when he discovered he hadn’t finished me off, that he hadn’t completed what he’d set out to do, I was convinced he was coming back, to try again, that’s why I asked Gibbons to come over to keep me company, but when the killer didn’t come, something told me he’d switched his attention to you, and when you didn’t answer either of your phones, alarm bells went off. I had to come and see for myself. I had to check.’
‘Good job you did.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘though if I hadn’t bothered I might have been promoted by now.’
He glanced at her grinning face.
‘Do you really want my job that badly?’
‘Course I do.’
‘Do you think you’re ready for it?’
‘Yes, I do. Don’t you think so?’
Walter thought about that for a second. If he’d been asked the same question a week before he would definitely have said a resounding no, but now he owed his very existence to her detection and reasoning skills, he knew she was ready. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘Well that’s a huge improvement,’ she grinned. ‘Last time we discussed this subject you said I was nowhere near ready.’
Walter turned to his left and smiled at the green fields of the Wirral hurtling by, far too quickly. Glanced at the dash. 95mph. Jeez!
‘Not so quick!’
‘Sorry Guv. Sorry.’
He didn’t say anything else for a while until she said, ‘So is that it then? The Sam serial murder case is over?’
Walter sniffed.
‘Pretty much, it’s now down to the coroner, though I should think it’s fairly straight forward. Six cold blooded murders, he confessed them all to me, and the murderer dead too, attempting to escape the full force of the law.’
She giggled at that. The full force of the law. Her, as weak as a kitten who could barely speak, barely drink, barely breathe, and him lashed to the chair, looking helpless, and an image of Walter strapped to his seat swept back into Karen’s mind. God, how ill he looked at the time, and then on to the final moment when the man in black fell on the phial. She never did discover what was in that damned thing. She didn’t want to know either. She didn’t want anything more to do with it.
Then she added, ‘And two attempteds, don’t forget that.’
‘Ah yes, that too, two attempteds. No one will ever be charged with those.’
‘No one will ever be charged with any of them.’
‘True.’
‘Saves us all the hassle of going to court, giving evidence.’
‘That’s true too, though I quite like that part, of seeing them in the dock before their peers, of witnessing justice being meted out.’
Karen could take or leave that experience; so long as they weren’t free to re-offend, that was the only thing that interested her.
Walter yawned and said, ‘I’d liked to have seen Sam in the dock much earlier.’
‘Goes without saying.’
‘No, the real question is, how much did the knowledge that Desiree was involved in the deaths of innocent civilians, assuming that to be true, after her confession to Sam, how much did that tip him over the edge?’
‘I think there was murder in him, it just needed a catalyst.’
‘You could be right, we’ll never know.’
‘There is one other outstanding question,’ said Karen.
‘And that is?’
‘How did Desiree die? Accident, suicide, or murder?’
‘The coroner said suicide.’
‘Coroners can be wrong.’
‘We can all be wrong, Karen.’
‘True.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
When they arrived back at the station Walter went straight to see Mrs West and told her of the file. She retained it, told him there were things she needed to bone up on. Walter was disappointed but went back to reading the diaries. He had nearly finished.
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When I was younger I toyed with the idea of becoming a minister. To tell the truth it was not my idea, but that of the vicar, Blair McGowan. I would never have considered such a thing without his input. I studied hard and took the first informal examinations that I comfortably passed. The Rev was mighty happy at that, and I guess at the time I thought it might have impressed Machara.
All the while there was something bugging me. I found it hard to convince myself there was a Christian God. I mean, if there were, would there really be so much suffering and evil in the world?
Or was the doubt that was always in my mind the devil’s work?
Perhaps it was, but the thing that finally made me bin the whole preaching ethos, was the overwhelming feeling that all too often, the devil’s work was a damned sight more exciting, more alluring, more tempting, than anything our so called God had to offer. The big D puts temptation in all of our ways, if you trust the Christian doctrine, and that much is easy to believe. My problem is I was always more inclined to bite the apple, than walk away. I figured out pretty early that a potential vicar shouldn’t think that way.
Now, as I am coming toward the end of these diaries you might think I should say sorry for what I have done. I can’t do that. I’m not sorry. I enjoyed my work. Desiree’s murder was worth at least what I accomplished in revenge, probably more so, despite the terrible things she had done. To my mind it was repayment to the world for her loss, and for my loss too.
If I had my time all over again I would do precisely the same thing. Looking back on it now as I write these words, the only surprise is that it took me so long to get started. If there is something eating you, whoever you are, wherever you are, something you desperately want to
accomplish, then do it now, before it is too late.
I doubt I shall write very much more. One way or another, things are coming to a head. Whosoever readeth these words, you can be assured they are the truth, as I see it, and nothing but the truth.
I am not sad, I am not even disappointed, I am satisfied.
I can’t wish you well. I don’t wish any of you well. Just the opposite if truth be known. I wish you all great unhappiness, and especially that black copper. I hope he rots in hell, and sooner rather than later. I hold him responsible. And remember this, Walter Darriteau, you and I will be meeting soon, nothing is more certain, so think about that!
Do you recognise those words?
They were among the first words you ever spoke to me - you pompous bastard!
The difference is, beyond the curtain, I really shall be waiting for you, with a grin on my face, and a knife in my hand.
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Armitage Samuel Holloway, nee Shelbourne, Iona House, Chester.
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Walter sighed and closed his eyes. He set the book down and stretched his arms and legs. He still didn’t feel quite himself. Perhaps it was to be expected; perhaps he was getting old, though he would never admit that, not even to himself. Threats from beyond the grave from a psychopath, was that a first? Probably not.
He strolled outside and sat opposite Karen.
Cresta looked hopefully across the desks.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Finished. You can have them.’
‘Great!’ she said. ‘Not before time,’ and she bolted to the private office before he could change his mind.
‘Well?’ said Karen. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘He threatened me with hell from beyond the grave. Said he’d be waiting for me.’
‘Does that bother you?’
‘Course not! I’m not going to hell.’
Karen grinned her cheeky grin and said, ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’
Walter sniffed a laugh. He noticed that she was looking a little better, and as he was thinking of that, two guys came into the office and strolled across the room as if they owned the place, as if they knew their way around blindfolded.
They were both just north of thirty and just north of six feet, fit looking blokes, like rowers. The leading one a grammar school boy judging by his accent, white skin, short mousy hair, tiny nose that looked as if it belonged on a rabbit. The other was fractionally taller, tanned, overlong straight and floppy blond hair that he proceeded to adjust with his palm, loud voice, speaking poncy English as if he couldn’t care less who heard what he had to say. Dai Williams over at Prestatyn had a name for men like him, Rodneys, he called them, and Walter could empathise with that.
They strolled through the office and went into Mrs West’s room without so much as knocking.
‘Who are they?’ asked Karen.
‘Dunno,’ said Walter, though he had a good idea. ‘Anything else happening?’
‘A newsagent in Boughton got attacked, some dispute over a lottery ticket.’
‘Serious?’
‘He’ll live.’
‘Anything else?’
‘A bloke at Blacon was attacked by his wife.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘She hit him over the head with his computer gaming machine; he had to go to hospital.’
‘Poor love.’
‘You’re not really interested are you?’
‘Nope, I’m not, but I’ll tell you what does interest me.’
‘Go on.’
‘I want you to look into the deaths at Eden Leys. They’re really bugging me, I can’t think of anything else. If any laws have been broken in that hellhole of a place I want to be the man at the front of the queue waving the big stick.’
‘OK, if that’s what you want.’
‘It is what I want.’
‘Where do we start?’
‘Coroner’s reports would be a good place.’
‘I’ll look at it now.’
Walter bobbed his head and tried to imagine what had gone down in Eden Leys. He’d been checking up on their bland website, edenleys.com. Didn’t tell him much. No surprise there. Bland exterior, bland content, bland words, but inside? Who knows what?
Mrs West’s office door opened. The two guys came out looking pleased with themselves, closed the door behind them, and marched straight across the room without looking round. Headed straight for the exit and within seconds they were through and away and out of the building.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Karen, ‘but didn’t the blond twerp have our file under his arm.’
‘Looked that way.’
‘And you’re not going to do anything about it?’
‘What do you suggest I do? Limp after him and snatch?’
Karen pursed her lips and sniffed.
The phone before them burbled into action.
She snatched it up, said ‘Sure,’ and handed it to Walter.
‘Step inside Walter please,’ the voice commanded.
He didn’t answer, just set the phone down; shared a look with Karen and limped toward the door. Once inside she pointed to a chair and began speaking before he’d settled.
‘The Desiree Holloway case is closed.’
‘Just like that.’
‘Just like that, Walter.’
‘Who were those guys?’
‘Don’t be dim, Walter, you know the answer to that as well as I do.’
He exhaled a huge breath as if he had been holding it in all week.
‘People down there,’ and he tried to point south, adjusting his arm, vaguely toward Eden Leys, twenty-five miles away. ‘People down there are killing innocent people, and they are getting away with it, and we don’t seem to give a toss.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘I could have proved it!’
‘You can’t prove it now, and that is all that matters. I have been assured that nothing like that is happening today.’
‘Oh, bully beef!’
‘Don’t be rude, Walter.’
‘I am not happy about it, ma’am.’
‘There are lots of things I am not happy about, but we just have to get on with it. We are a small cog in a big machine. It’s best to keep on turning, as if we are well oiled, best not to jam and screech and bugger up the works.’ She glanced at his lips-pursed face. ‘Don’t look so offended, Walter, it’s nothing personal. We’ve put a stop to our killer, that’s the main thing, that’s what will be remembered, let’s be thankful for that.’ She paused a mo and forced a smile and then said, ‘Now, what’s next? I do believe there is a problem over at a Boughton newsagent. I think you should pay them a visit and show the flag.’
Walter’s mind was still firmly elsewhere.
‘That is all, Walter. Good morning.’
He heaved himself from the chair and muttered something she didn’t hear and went outside.
‘Well?’ said Karen.
‘The Desiree Holloway case is closed.’
‘Can’t say as I am surprised.’
Walter sat heavily in his chair.
‘Closed but not forgotten, Greenwood. So long as I live I will keep an eye on that place. Somewhere down the track an opportunity will arise to reopen it, and when it does, I shall be there, grinning at those responsible like the grim reaper, waggling the big stick.’
Karen smiled. She could imagine that. He was like a huge black terrier, and a hungry one at that. He was incorrigible.
‘Do you still want me to dig out the coroner’s reports?’
‘No, not officially,’ and he winked at her.
‘Got you, Guv, leastways I think I do.’
There was a pause for thought and then he said, ‘What are you doing later?’
‘Why?’
‘Thought we could go and have a few jars, celebrate the closure if you like, maybe a nice meal afterwards, my treat, on me, sa
y Pierre’s, I love it there.’
‘Oh sorry, Guv, I can’t, not tonight, I’ve promised to cook a meal for Darren.’
‘Who’s Darren?’
‘Gibbo, Guv, Darren Gibbons, you know.’
‘Oh yeah, course, DC Darren Gibbons, he of the youth and body building muscles and a solid punch.’
‘It’s a little treat for him for coming over to my place the other night.’
Lucky Gibbo, he thought, but didn’t say.
‘I see. Ah well, never mind, another time, maybe.’
‘Yeah, sure, anytime, just say.’
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Walter left the office at just on seven. He ambled away and limped up the high street, bought an evening newspaper from Reg the Rag and went into his favourite watering hole. It was a popular place and already half full. He knew some of the people there, enough to exchange nods, and many of the drinkers recognised him from his recent TV appearances, but he was in no mood to chat. He took up his usual station at the end of the bar and ordered a pint of stout.
There was something bugging him. Sam told him he’d bribed one of his officers to release secret files. Who’d do that? Gibbons? He thought of him now, enjoying a meal over at Karen’s place. No, he didn’t think it was him. And someone had tipped off the press as well. Who’d do that? Jenny? Surely not. Gibbons maybe and he thought of him right then, enjoying a lovely meal over at Karen’s place. Bugger it! Forget about it.
There was a stinking mole in the team somewhere, and he would make it his business to snag him, or her, and something else that Sam had said came back to him. Walter’s bathroom and kitchen were dirty. Maybe they were, men didn’t notice such things, leastways not normal men. He’d stick a card in the post office window tomorrow morning for a cleaner. No visitor would enjoy a dirty bathroom and kitchen. No female visitor.
He sank half the pint in one swoop and began thinking of the dead.
Colin Rivers, the Lay Preacher with a penchant for going out late, planning church events, run down and smashed on the ring road. The Right Reverend James Kingston, upwardly mobile through the cathedral ranks, talked of as a future bishop, pushed under a train in an almost replica death to Desiree’s. William Camber, the lonely old fisherman, drowned in the New Cut. Maggie O’Brien, a gentle old lady who never hurt a fly, drugged and gassed to death in Delamere Forest. Jago Cripps, the confused young guy, dabbling in drugs, trying to make sense of life, had his wrists sliced open with a craft knife. Sally Beauchamp, another young kid, caught up in high class prostitution, drugged and suffocated with brown parcel tape wound repeatedly around her head and neck until she looked like a brown mummy, her body dumped in a North Wales’ quarry, and beyond that to the seven deaths at Eden Leys.