The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  He was wrapped in cotton wool. Even the slightest sniffle or spot would be treated as a medical emergency in the Shelbourne household. Whenever they could, they kept him away from other children, no kindergarten or Sunday school for Armitage, and they dreaded his fifth birthday when the law demanded that he must attend the local primary school, and mix with other children, including that tough and dirty lot off the council estate. Kay dreaded the thought.

  Don had worries of his own.

  Before that, Armitage would play at home, spending the sunny summer days running and hiding in the big back garden, as his mother called, ‘I’m coming to get you!’ as the oldest game of all, hide and seek, got under way.

  Whenever Kay found him she would grab his wrist and gently swing him in the air as Armitage screeched with delight.

  ‘Again, mummy, again!’

  ‘Come along, Army,’ she said, as she always preferred to call him. ‘It’s time for your tea.’

  Armitage wanted for nothing, except perhaps the company of creatures of his own age. He was treated like a prince, while his mother dressed him and bathed him as if he were a baby.

  Kay need not have fretted about the oncoming business of school, because she would never live to see it. In truth, she had never fully recovered from the ordeal of bearing children, of producing the son and heir that Donald had craved.

  She had always been on the frail side; it was one of the things that Donald had found so attractive about her, her slightness and femininity, that overwhelming sense of vulnerability that attracted many a man into her sphere. Donald wanted to protect her, to look after and provide for her, to marry her, and eventually he did.

  Kay had always lacked confidence, and the fact that a handsome man like Donald was so keen impressed her, though whether she ever really loved him, only Kay would know the answer to that. He asked her to marry him, and so politely too, and she did, for that very noble reason, because he had bothered to asked.

  Donald had won the race because he had been the first to show an interest, the most persistent, he simply would not go away, wouldn’t disappear even when she had several flings with his rivals, he would always be there, hanging about outside her house, waiting to pick up the pieces, and most of all, he won the race because Donald possessed an impressive car.

  She couldn’t have told you what it was exactly, but it was so comforting, big and shiny, you couldn’t miss it, the kind of thing that people in the street would stop and turn and stare at. Humber, Bentley, Jaguar, Rolls Royce, it was one of those big jobs for sure, old British iconic makes, that guzzled petrol and boasted fragrant calf leather seats, very spacious and comfortable on the back seat too.

  Donald overspent himself, and lavished the biggest local wedding of the year when he married Kay in the village church just beyond the city boundaries, a wedding that took place before hundreds of guests, some of whom the happy couple barely knew. By the time Kay returned from their Cretan honeymoon she was already expecting the first of those agonising miscarriages.

  He made his living through his own business, The Shelbourne Motor Company. For some time he had craved changing the name to Shelbourne and Son, Motor Dealers, or better still, Sons, but he would have to wait for that. He had another target too, to land a main dealership with one of the prestigious manufacturers; one of the self-selling brands that would make him his fortune.

  He was unlucky in that too.

  Perhaps it was because of his lack of finance, or maybe, as he always suspected, his lack of connections, but for whatever reason, whenever he was interviewed and vetted by the big boys, they would always turn him down.

  Thank you for your application but we regret on this occasion we cannot offer you a dealership, but please try again in another year or two. In the meantime we wish you well and shall bear you in mind.

  They never did, or at least if they did, they never bothered to advise Donald Shelbourne of their interest, or their reasons for his rejection.

  He was forced into marketing marques that few people had ever heard of, and even fewer people wanted to buy. He stumbled from one useless foreign supplier to the next, damaging his reputation, if only he realised it, because of his inability to make any of the franchises work. The main manufacturers hated that, to see a dealer flitting from one to another. They revelled in long-term loyalty, and Mr Shelbourne, with his sales site at the bottom of the high street in the small town just outside the city, had demonstrated time and again that he could not be relied on.

  The Shelbourne Motor Company stumbled onward, making a living by selling other peoples’ second hand cars, not so different it had to be said, from the one man bands that proliferated everywhere, and stuck their wares up for sale on the greens in front of the council estate, gaudy handwritten price notices tossed in the front window.

  When the economy was good, Shelbourne would do well enough to treat his family to exciting holidays in Barcelona, Tuscany or Sicily. In the bad years when few people were buying, they would pile into the big car, take to the road, and spend the week in an inevitably rainy Newquay, not that Armitage cared about any of that. He could find pleasure and mischief wherever he went.

  Four months after Kay’s death, Donald moved Donna into the house. She was a flighty woman, painted and over fragrant, who had been employed by the Shelbourne Motor Company to keep the books. That was another of Donald’s weaknesses. Accounting and bookkeeping skills were not high on his list of priorities, a fact that more than one German manufacturer had noted when inspecting the finances. How could they possibly work hand in glove with a person, a company, that could not produce accurate records?

  It was unthinkable!

  There was more to Donna than met the eye.

  She soon realised that Donald relied on her completely. True, the accounts were annually audited, but only by old Fotheringay from the village. His eyes were not what they once were, and things had moved on since he had done his training forty years before. Donna knew what he checked and what he didn’t. She knew his weak spots and exactly where to set up the dummy company, Laddon Motor Supplies, she called it. She imagined she was being ridiculously clever because Laddon was an anagram of Donald. She set up several fictitious identities, bought an accommodation address service in London, had some striking green and yellow letterheaded invoices produced well away from the district, and Laddon Motor Supplies was in business, and soon sending bills to the Shelbourne Motor Company, a regular monthly invoice of inventory, not too large to invite investigation, not too hefty to cause Shelbourne any financial difficulty.

  Donna paid the invoices on the nail.

  Donald signed the cheques. He never looked at them twice.

  Donna treated Shelbourne as a cash cow, her own personal savings bank. She had never possessed any real money of her own, and she would milk it carefully, not wanting to weaken it so that it ailed and died. She was very good at it too. No one suspected a thing, and each month she would draw the looted money from Laddon’s bank account in cash, jump on the train, head to London, usually travelling first class in her best frock, where she would pay it in over the counter of the Geneva & Zurich Bank. The funds would be zipped to Switzerland, and away from prying eyes. No one in Britain would ever know it was there.

  Donna’s little nest egg grew considerably.

  Armitage detested Donna the instant he set eyes upon her. Who was this loud painted lady who sat in his mother’s seat at the dinner table, and worse still, slept in her bed? Who was this brazen cow who would hug and kiss his father in public, in the garden, in the car, in the house, every blinking where, right in front of Armitage, passionate and longing kisses that had no business being displayed before an infant?

  Donald encouraged her to play hide and seek with the boy, seeing as he knew his son so enjoyed that pastime with his mother. Donna wasn’t keen but once let herself be persuaded. Armitage led her to the far corner of the garden, beyond the viburnum bushes where he knew a wasp’s nest festered. It was a parti
cularly hot day, Donna, stumbling in new high heels in the unkempt grass, lost her footing, threw her hand up for support, set it through the nest that was still in the early stages of construction.

  The wasps went crazy.

  Stung Donna twenty times.

  Her face wouldn’t look the same for weeks.

  She shrieked and screamed and ran for the house, searching for a shoulder to cry on, and more gin. Armitage hid in the long grass, grinning, and thinking of his mother. He could still hear Donna wailing in the house. ‘Donald, Donald, do something for Christ’s sake!’

  Armitage laughed to himself and tried to catch a big red butterfly. It had been one of the better days, so far as he was concerned.

  When he was five his father began taking him to the garage on Saturday mornings. He thought the boy would be interested in the cars and the engines. Armitage detested the idea. He hated the smell of petrol, diesel and oil. He disliked the engines, and the sharp edges underneath the vehicles, and the frightening noises as the mechanics went about their work. He had no interest in science or engineering in any form. He would take his teddy bear along for company and would ignore the cars and the customers and find some quiet corner, and content himself by playing with his only pal.

  The second Saturday that Donald took him was busier than usual. Donald soon lost track of his son, he was far too busy for parental supervision, Armitage had wandered outside, up the high street, and in the first shop he came to.

  Greenaway’s Florists.

  A magical place full of multi coloured blooms and a scent that reminded him of his mother.

  ‘That’s a fine bear,’ said Mrs Greenaway, who owned and ran the shop. She’d noticed the little boy standing in the doorway. He’d been there for some time.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  The boy said nothing.

  ‘Would you like to help me arrange the flowers?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Come here then.’

  The boy ambled across the little shop.

  ‘Set your teddy down there, and we’ll begin.’

  Armitage liked Mrs Greenaway from the first moment and soon came to adore her. She smelt of soap and cleanliness and warmth and scent, perhaps it was working with the blooms all day, he imagined, she smelt like his much missed mother. She was always smiling and producing chocolate fingers from her pinny, and once they grew to know each other, she would put her arms around his tiny shoulders, or pat his freckled forearms, encouraging him in what to do, advising which flowers went best with which, which blooms to select, as Porridge the bear sat contentedly before them, observing, amongst the vases of multi coloured tulips, happy enough that his friend Armitage was in good company, and in such high spirits. The bear hadn’t seen that in ages.

  Armitage had been in the shop for well over an hour before his panicking father burst in.

  ‘There you are, you naughty boy! I’ve been looking all over for you!’

  Mrs Greenaway knew her business neighbour well enough, she had come to know Kay as a friend. Kay had been a regular customer, always buying flowers for the house and the showrooms, and in latter times she had shared confidences. Mrs Greenaway knew Donna too, and of her reputation, though she was too polite to say anything about that.

  ‘Don’t shout at him,’ she said. ‘He’s been helping me with the flowers. He’s very good at it, and he’s most welcome,’ and as if to prove the point she slipped a heavy silver coin into the boy’s hand. It was the first time anyone outside of the family had ever given him money, and he would remember it forever.

  ‘Would you like to come back next week?’ She asked the boy.

  Armitage nodded. He still hadn’t spoken a word.

  Mrs Greenaway stared at Donald, as if challenging him to refuse.

  He thought about it for a second and then nodded and said, ‘All right, if it’s what the boy wants.’

  Armitage smiled sweetly.

  Mrs Greenaway did too and said, ‘Good, that’s settled, now I must get along, I have a wedding at three.’

  Army picked up Porridge and waved the lovely lady goodbye, as his father took his hand and dragged him back toward the smelly and noisy garage.

  Armitage knew well enough where he preferred to be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Samantha was getting dressed. She’d slipped into the pink skirt and jacket. She glanced in the mirror. Cocked her head from side to side. Her neat blonde bob-cut hair looked fab. Red lips, a hint of mascara, not too much makeup for it was a lunchtime meet. She slipped on the designer white sling backs she’d bought with Desi in Manchester, and of course the ivory pigskin gloves that fit her, like, a glove. Desi had bought them, a special present for a special person.

  They made a point of going to Manchester once a month for a big spend up. Always came back with far more merchandise than they should have, but that was half the fun, the naughtiness of it. Sam missed the trips to Cottonopolis, with Des. She’d tried it once by herself but it wasn’t the same, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.

  Samantha had a date.

  A blind date; and blind dates were always the most exciting. She’d found him on the Internet. You can buy anything you want on the Internet these days, even a hot date. It had usurped the Young Conservatives as the easiest place to locate a new squeeze. She had done it by the book.

  They suggested, the website owners, that to begin with you met at lunchtime in a very busy place. Safety in numbers. You can never be too careful. There are millions of weird people out there. Sam wasn’t taking any chances.

  They agreed to take lunch in the Hunting Rooms of the Royal Hotel in the Grosvenor precinct. They would meet outside the main entrance at one o’clock. She glanced at her watch. 12.15. Soon be time to go.

  Jago Cripps cleaned his glasses. He had a date, with something of a mystery girl. She said he would not be disappointed. He’d soon see. He had no idea what she looked like. She said she was too shy to upload her picture. She would recognise him, because he would be carrying a bunch of daffodils. Jago had never bought flowers for a woman before, and the weird thing was, he had no way of recognising her, she’d insisted it be that way, and that made him nervous, but then again, he was always nervous.

  Jago was an accounts’ manager at one of the American credit card companies that had opened for trade on the expanding business parks south of the city. Chester was becoming a thriving financial centre, though that was the last thing on his mind as he backed out the car. He earned good money, though his masters took their full pennyworth in return. He also spent good money, up the ladder, down the snake. He simply hoped that Lena’s lack of a picture wasn’t because she was so dog god-awful.

  Sam had chosen him because he looked wild. Long wavy dark hair, black framed glasses, straight prominent nose, white skin, two red spots. He said he was twenty-nine but he looked younger. He’d written a biog that came over as if it had been written by a fifteen-year-old school kid on one of the wackier social networking sites.

  Hobbies and interests: Getting pissed, taking drugs, acting wild, fucking, and hanging out with cool dudes.

  In Sam’s eyes the hobbies and the photos didn’t quite match, and that was another reason why she had selected him.

  She saw him standing there, looking nervous, smoking a cigarette, bunch of damp daffs in his hand, and she walked away. She would make him wait. Come back in ten minutes, no, fifteen, see if he was still there.

  He was still there, in his vile blue trousers, and even viler green jacket, shirt and tie, probably his effort at looking smart, or had he come straight from work? She didn’t care. She ambled along the busy corridor, passed him; he barely offered her a second glance. Why not? Men usually did. Did he think she was too good to be true? Or did he think she wasn’t coming?

  She turned round and wandered back. He was still there. He was facing away and feeling the inside of the back of his shirt collar, as if he had been sweating and it had begun to chafe.r />
  ‘Jago?’ she said, in her best sexy voice.

  The guy swivelled round. Almost fell over. His face lit up at the perfect blonde before him. He liked her hair; and the pink suit, he liked her face and figure; he liked the red lipstick and bright green eyes, and the classy ivory gloves. Christ, he adored everything about her. She was perfect.

  It must be my lucky day, he imagined.

  ‘Lena?’ he said.

  Sam nodded.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said sweetly, as if she quite enjoyed being admonished. ‘The bus broke down.’

  ‘No worries. You are here now.’ He glanced down at the soppy daffies, ‘These are for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, and promptly gave them to an ancient woman who was shuffling by. She took one disdainful look at them and dumped them in the nearest bin.

  Jago actually looked disappointed, then said, ‘Shall we go in?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Oh yeah, so long as you do.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said, as he strode toward the door and held it open.

  Once seated at the corner table in the Hunting Rooms restaurant they sat and studied the vast menu.

  ‘It’s very expensive,’ muttered Jago.

  ‘Not too much for you?’

  ‘No, No! Not at all.’

  He just wanted to make sure that she had noticed, that she appreciated how much of his hard earned cash he was about to lavish on her, not to put too fine a point on it, was she worth it? She’d better be.

  Sam chose her meal, not the most expensive items on offer, but not far off, and then she said, ‘I always like champagne at lunchtimes, don’t you?’

  Jago hid the grimace well and said, ‘Yeah, course, anything you say.’

  They talked about this and that, and something and nothing, and then quite surprisingly, the plates were empty, the glasses were empty, the bottles were empty and the meal was over.