The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  ‘I might see you in there,’ he stammered.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. What’s your name?’

  ‘William. William Camber.’

  ‘William, that’s a nice name.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yeah. Like that young Prince William.’

  ‘Yeah. What’s yours?’

  ‘Lorraine Bickerstaffe.’

  Bickerstaffe? The name was familiar. He used to be taught by a Bickerstaffe. Maurice Bickerstaffe, that was it, and he was a right bastard. Maybe she was related. Maybe she was his daughter. Heaven forbid.

  ‘I might see you later,’ he said.

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ she said, grinning, to show it was a joke.

  William wasn’t so sure about that, but went outside and hurried Topsy home for his tea. After that, went to the bathroom, combed his hair, cleaned his teeth, splashed some cologne on his face and inside his shirt, checked he had sufficient funds onboard, and headed back toward the Crown.

  He congratulated himself on how easy it had been. Asking her out, bet that surprised her, being accepted, and he put it down to his charm and attractiveness, and wondered why he had fretted about it beforehand. He should have had more belief in himself, just as his now dead mother always reminded him. They couldn’t resist him, could they; the women, and an attractive woman too. She fancied him, didn’t she, course she did. It had been so easy, but deep down he always knew it would be.

  She wasn’t there.

  The bitch!

  She wasn’t there.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Leading him on like that.

  Standing him up.

  Next time he went into that Expresso store he would give her a piece of his mind. He bought a drink, whisky, though he didn’t much like whisky, and went and bunged some change in the fruit machine. Lost it in five minutes flat. Bugger!

  Strolled back toward the padded bench seat. Sat down, sipped the drink. Glanced round. Four old blokes, two sitting together, two alone, minding their own business, looking miserable, a little like him. If he weren’t careful he’d morph into one of those old geezers before he knew it.

  Christ, how shit life was when you’re alone, when you’re lonely.

  Five minutes later she came in and the whole place came alight. It was as if someone had opened the double doors and allowed in the sunshine. The landlady smiled at the newcomer and asked, ‘What can I get you, darling?’

  The four old guys gave the newcomer the once over.

  She had a lovely backside; you could make out her knickers beneath her tight blue skirt. The two guys sitting together elbowed one another and stared. The other two sipped their drink and glanced at her, and thought about what might have been, or perhaps about something from long ago.

  She bought a white wine, turned about; saw the four old guys and William, sitting there, admiring her. She liked that, being admired; and duly smiled at each one of them in turn, and they all smiled back as she strolled across the bar like a catwalk model and said, ‘Ah, there you are,’ and sat down beside William, close beside.

  He smelt her perfume.

  He felt the warmth of her body next to his.

  He felt like a million quid.

  The old guys took a sniffy look at William to see what was so special about him, then sat back and glanced down at their well read red-topped newspapers, and waited for the next one to come in.

  William and Lorraine dated for eight months. It might have been the best eight months of his entire life, and it would have been too, but for the way she finished it.

  She wrote him a letter.

  Said she’d met someone else and she didn’t want to see William again. Sorry, but there it is.

  That was only partly true. She was seeing someone else, that was honest enough, but she omitted to mention that she had been dating Joe O’Burn all the while she was seeing William.

  She’d been trialling the pair of them, couldn’t make up her mind between them. The truth was she liked them both. Joe for his manliness and wildness, quickness of temper, though he wasn’t so bright. He was a redhead and what do expect from a redheaded man?

  William for his conversation and gentleness and unthreatening company, won hands down on the more cerebral things of life. She was always far more relaxed in Will’s company, for he was just so easy to be with, but he was no wildcat that was for sure. Her lovers seemed to dovetail perfectly. Between them they provided her with everything she needed, but why couldn’t one of them possess the attributes of both?

  She’d grown tired of lying, covering her tracks, always having to remember what she’d said to the other, and what she hadn’t. In an off guarded moment she’d actually called Joe “Bill”, and she’d only got away with it because he chose that exact moment to turn up some heavy metal rock band on the television. He’d have gone mad if he’d heard what she’d said.

  It hadn’t been an easy choice when she chose Joe. Truth was, the sex was better, not that it wasn’t nice with Bill, it was, but with Joe, well, that was something else, and good sex meant a lot to Lorraine Bickerstaffe. Sorry Bill, but there you are, out you go; thanks for the good time; you’ll soon find someone new. But he didn’t.

  He had been a late developer so far as women were concerned, and an early finisher.

  It took him ages to get over Lorraine, and that mean-spirited letter she’d sent. Truth was he would never get over it. He didn’t want to get over it. If he was suspicious of women before, now he was positively hostile. He would never ask a woman for a date again, and neither would a woman ask him for one either, unless you counted Marjorie Bates. She was an eccentric lady at the otherwise all male angling club, who made it her business to bed as many of her fish hunting colleagues as she could manage, before time ran out.

  Bill wasn’t interested in Marjorie Bates, and told her so in no uncertain terms. The second sharp word he uttered was off.

  He went prematurely grey before he was fifty, looking like everyone’s favourite granddad. He stopped drinking, no bad thing, but the pubs had offered him something else, companionship. He missed that dreadfully. He denied himself that pleasure, retreated to his flat and relied on his fishing; usually accompanied by whatever whippet he happened to be homing at the time. He stopped eating properly, and what little weight he possessed slowly deserted him. He wasn’t looking after himself. His grubby shirt collars would flap around his neck like a scarf. He didn’t clean the flat. What was the point? After a while the dust never got any deeper. He didn’t care about his appearance and lost his job because of it, and worse still, he stepped up the smoking, emptying two packs a day, sometimes more, and it wasn’t long before he had a permanent cough.

  William Camber was stuck in a tailspin he wasn’t even aware of, and there was little chance he would ever pull out of it. He had no friends or relations to tell him otherwise. He had become a bum.

  Despite the passing of the years Lorraine Bickerstaffe was never far from his mind, though he had no idea what happened to her. He never saw her again. How is it that the ones who hurt you the most are the ones who never leave the head?

  It’s crazy.

  As it turned out Lorraine soon came to regret her decision. She married Joe and presented him with a bawling ginger boy, though even before the birth she had become all too acquainted with Joe’s freckled fists. William had never hit her; he’d never even dreamed of doing such a thing.

  There would soon be another screaming baby on the way, and already Joe had begun to admire other women in the boozer. Perhaps he was doing more than admiring, though she wasn’t sure about that.

  Lorraine felt trapped, by the kids, by him, by her choice, by everything in her life, but she was stuck with it. She’d made her own bed, and look where it had brought her. She regretted it now, of course she did. She didn’t even like the boys that much. They were too much like their father, aggressive and hot tempered.

  In her few quiet moments she often thought of William. />
  She’d like another chance now, to be able to go back and retrace her steps, but she knew that was impossible. Life wasn’t like that. It wasn’t cricket. You don’t get a second innings. You don’t realise the consequences of decisions made in earlier life.

  Sorry William, I made a mistake.

  William was now sixty. His only pleasure was fishing, and the whippet.

  His favourite beat was quite remote and hard to get to. He liked it for that very reason, because not many people went there.

  He disliked human beings intensely, and more than that, he thought he always had.

  Nowadays he only fishes on the New Cut.

  Tomorrow, at first light, he would be there.

  Chapter Eight

  Bird watching is a fine hobby to have, and the New Cut was the perfect place to pursue it. It was a birding crossroads where the town met the country, and the country met the estuary. Seabirds on the exposed mudflats at low tide, wildfowl lower down on the marshes, swans, barnacle and Canada geese on the canal, starlings roosting on the nearby pylons, songbirds nesting in the scrubby vegetation, and all would attract the birds of prey, the marsh harriers, kestrels and buzzards.

  The driver had a longstanding interest in birding, nothing too serious, no special equipment, other than a pocket book of birds, and a tiny pair of binoculars. It was relaxing, it was diverting, enjoyable.

  The canal was at its best in the late spring sunshine, wide and deep after the heavy rain that had fallen in the night, boosted by the incoming spring tide, and before the afternoon was through, some of the banks would be tested to destruction.

  It was a wonderful place to walk; quiet and peaceful, even if the paths were muddy, and more than that, the perfect place to think, and plan. The new season grass glistened in the sunshine as the driver ambled along. There was a lot to think about, plans to formulate, ideas to test, but before that, there was some serious thinking to be done about the casino.

  Last night had been hell.

  It was expected to be quiet, but for some reason the place was packed out. A stag night gang of loudmouthed twenty, thirty somethings, who had been on the drink all night. A bunch of Chinese who couldn’t speak English, but gambling is an international language, no words ever necessary. A ladies’ night out, maybe nine or ten women doing their best sex in the city impression, and a team of professional gamblers intent on mischief... and winning.

  Word flew round the staff that high rollers were attacking the pontoon tables. Big bets were being placed, earnest whispered conversations amongst the punters, even a calculator appeared, though that wouldn’t be welcomed. Long before midnight everyone in the place knew the house was losing. Something was going down, and it was more than the staff’s Christmas bonus’s.

  Extra sentries were placed; watchers sent out, croupiers in civvies, pretending to gamble, pretending to be on the other side. To the driver, they stood out a mile, and if the driver could see it, then surely the serious gamblers could see it too? Whispers grew that innovatory cheating methods were involved, but where, and how, and by whom, and worst of all, how much was it all going to cost?

  The driver was simply glad that French roulette was the preferred station. Pontoon was a game to be avoided, and the bosses wouldn’t be impressed by any croupier who lost a packet. Losers disappeared. Those playing roulette couldn’t help but glance enviously across at the card schools packed around the tables, couldn’t fail to hear the raucous shouts of Yes! And Get in there! And feel the lucky winning mentality in the air, as the heavy chips flowed across the table, toward the punters. The tide was running out, for the house.

  The driver would not like to admit it, but maybe, just maybe, the eyes had been diverted that way for one split second, just long enough to fail to notice who had placed the big bet on 16.

  The winning big bet on 16.

  Twenty-five ten-pound chips paying thirty-five to one.

  £8,750!

  God almighty!

  A decent win in anyone’s language, a great pay day for a mere ten second’s work.

  The problem came when two competing punters immediately claimed the bet. The croupier hadn’t noticed, couldn’t rule, no one had noticed, such was the excitement flowing over from the card tables.

  One of the claimants was Chinese who spoke no English, the other, a quiet, gay man, who had been a member of the Argosy Club for more than twenty years. He wasn’t quiet any longer, and neither was he weak. What began as a heated argument rapidly degenerated into a pushing and shoving match, and threatened to boil over into an all out brawl.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!’ called the croupier, desperately trying to bring them to order. It was never going to happen, because neither of them was prepared to back down, as the Chinese spat out filthy rhetoric that no one but his friends could understand. The management came running to mediate, and that annoyed them too, for they had their hands full watching the cards.

  The croupier wasn’t alone in wondering if this roulette charade was something of a diversionary tactic, but if it was, it was hard to see how. If it was, it was sure as hell clever, and had paid a big dividend.

  The floor manager stared at the driver and asked: ‘Whose bet was it?’

  A shake of the head and the downcast look spoke volumes.

  The driver didn’t know; failed a basic instruction: always be aware of whose bets are whose; and especially big bets like this one. The house took the men to one side, invited them into the private rooms for champagne and crepes, while pretty girls with reddened, pouting lips hung about in the background. Were they on offer too? A touch of compensation? Might they help to settle the dispute?

  Not much of an incentive for poor old Derek.

  After a further hour of furious argument the two claimants eventually agreed to split the winnings, though both claimed total dissatisfaction at the outcome. It would inevitably leave one of them smiling and elated, and the other feeling robbed, and swearing never to attend the Argosy again.

  It had been a dreadful night for everyone, the croupier, the owners and management, and for once the house was delighted to cut their losses and close the doors at 2am. The croupier couldn’t get out of there quick enough, but on the way to the door, that same floor manager Teddy Helms called out, ‘Sam, can you spare a minute, I need a word.’

  Sam pulled a face and stepped into the private office.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  Sam sat down.

  ‘You weren’t on your game tonight.’

  Was that a question? Sam pulled a face, but didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s not like you. Is there something on your mind? You seemed distant from the start.’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Mister Helms.’

  ‘You couldn’t have picked a worse night to have a mare.’

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Helms, it won’t happen again.’

  ‘It bloody well better not! You get my meaning?’

  Sam nodded.

  Helms nodded toward the door and as Sam stepped out Helms shouted, ‘Last warning, Sam. Last chance!’

  No reply, just a nod, and a quickening of the feet to get out of there.

  That Mr Helms should watch his step or he might find himself in the crosshairs. A shaking of the head, a quickening of the step, a squelching of the trainers in the mud, a deep breath, forget about him, forget all about the Argosy and the black arts of gambling, forget about everything, other than the important things in the life.

  It was a beautiful day, cold but bright with a brisk wind that reminded all of God’s creatures that everything was well with the world.

  It was a solitary place, the New Cut, far away from the main road. It needed a good walk to get there in the first place, and you’d only come if you knew of its existence, and that was why so few people ever found their way down to the waterside.

  But there was someone there, slightly to the right, beyond some low struggling willows, a man, an old grey haired man, slight and skinny, fishing, conc
entrating, standing on the edge of the cold, deep water.

  It wasn’t as the driver had planned.

  It certainly wasn’t perfect.

  But it was interesting.

  A picture of Desi filled the mind for a brief moment, interrupting the train of thought.

  An unexpected opportunity such as this shouldn’t be spurned.

  Stood perfectly still. Glanced around. No one in sight. Not a sound, other than the freshening wind, bird song and territorial wild fowl, and the gentle hum of traffic on some distant busy road. An aeroplane came over the brow of the green hills, an executive jet, losing height, coming in to land at Hawarden airport. The skinny fisherman glanced up at the plane and then back at the water, flexed the rod, peered at the surface, hoping for evidence of prey. He set the rod on the rest and stood with hands on hips, breathing hard, dying for a cigarette, he would have another in a second, peered up at the watery sun. It hurt his eyes.

  Sam went on tiptoe. Closed on the prey. Crept forward. One last look around. The old man hadn’t heard a thing. Perhaps he was going deaf. No one on the far bank. No boats on the Cut. Not another soul in sight. They had the world to themselves.

  Hand up. Palm forward. Small of the back. Hefty shove.

  The old man went in head first.

  SPLOSH!

  He didn’t utter a word.

  The water was freezing.

  William Camber panicked. He began thrashing around. His heart rate exploded. He was desperate to cough. His arms and shoulders and chest were suddenly freezing. He was desperate to breathe. He had never been a swimmer, swimming was for the fishes, he always used to say. The tidal current swept him further out. He slipped beneath the surface. He smacked the water with open hands, frantically searching for the air, but which way was up?

  A sudden updraught brought him back to the surface. His head popped up like a cork. He gasped for breath, coughed and spat. He was facing the bank where his fishing rod still stood. No whippet. Why hadn’t he brought the dog with him? He couldn’t remember. Safety was a long way off, and standing beside his fishing gear was a slight, grinning figure. Baseball cap pulled down over its round face, skinny jeans, nondescript woollen jacket.