The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  ‘Yep,’ he said, getting in.

  She joined him and in the next minute they were easing through the city streets, heading for the inner ring road.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘The Road to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘The Road to Jerusalem,’ he repeated. ‘It’s a pub on the Wrexham road.’

  ‘Don’t know it,’ she said.

  ‘They do lovely meals.’

  Sally smiled, relaxed in his company.

  They crossed the river and headed south, passing Iona House as they went. Sam glimpsed the lights on in three flats, only his remained in darkness. He didn’t say a thing.

  The Road, as the regulars knew it was busy, testament to the new chef they’d attracted from one of Chester’s top hotels. Sam had booked a table in Tristram’s name and they were soon settled and munching their way through the expanded new menu.

  ‘Tell me about this Writer and Broadcaster thing?’ she said, barbecue chicken wing sauce smudging her bright red lipstick.

  He told her all about the articles he wrote on photography for several newspapers that were syndicated across the south of England, all perfectly true, and the broadcasts he made for the BBC at Manchester on the Cheshire life of the socialites, all a complete fabrication.

  She swallowed it whole, fascinated by his tittle-tattle stories of minor celebs that he made up as he went along. A good bottle of wine enabled a relaxed girl to believe almost anything, and the dapper Tristram was so believable. Why should she doubt him?

  The longer the meal progressed the more convinced she became that he was the right man for her. He was single and had no children, or so he said, while she had sufficient breeding time left. She could offer him something that no previous woman had managed, a family, as she alluded to, when painting a picture of a tribe of little Tristrams running about his feet. Hadn’t he ever yearned for such a thing? Of course he had, but not and never with Sally Beauchamp.

  Afterwards he suggested she go back to his place for coffee. Sally was used to going back to men’s places afterwards; it was part of the arrangement, where the business would take place, cash transaction first, sweaty transaction second. She would happily return with Tristram, but no transactions would be taking place that night, for she didn’t want to appear easy. She knew that wasn’t the way to catch a good man, though she would drop a hint that so long as he continued to court her, for that is what she imagined he was doing right there, then anything was possible, and quite soon too.

  Tristram paid the bill and a moment later the Road to Jerusalem was retreating fast in the Cayton’s wing mirrors.

  By the time they arrived back at Iona House the place was fully in darkness. He pulled on to the small drive that ran to the right of the house, around to the back where there was a small car park. The usual two cars were sleeping there; an old rusting Jaguar that when running you could hear a mile off, and the green Ford saloon that badly needed a wash. Mrs Hymas didn’t possess a car, hence the extra spare space. Tristram backed in, toward his rear door, being a ground floor apartment he boasted front and back entrances, and in the next minute they were out of the car, and he was opening the door and lighting up.

  ‘I like your flat,’ she said, taking a peek round.

  Apartment, he preferred, though he didn’t say.

  It was mainly old-fashioned, his stuff, but clean and in good condition and she correctly guessed, expensive. A big modern TV and on the coffee table was a fat green book entitled: How to Cheat and Win at Roulette. It was the latest block-busting tome on the subject, quite revolutionary in its way, and essential reading for all croupiers. Sam had forgotten he’d left it there. Sally saw it and said, ‘You’re interested in gambling, are you?’ It was the first downer of the night, so far as she was concerned. She’d met too many hopeless gamblers in her life and she didn’t rate them, and wouldn’t want one for a husband.

  ‘No, course not,’ he said, picking it up and taking it away. Out of sight out of mind. ‘A friend of mine had this crazy idea of driving down to Monaco,’ said Tristram, thinking on his feet, ‘and trying to beat the casino. I told him it was a rubbish idea and he could do it by himself. We never went. I’ll give him the book back tomorrow.’

  ‘Gambling’s for mugs.’

  ‘I know. I work hard enough for my money; I’m not about to throw it away. Coffee?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Tristram.’

  It seemed to placate her and after glancing at a couple of his wall mounted pictures, black and white photographs, she sat on the leather chesterfield and crossed her legs and waited for him to join her. He wasn’t long, carefully setting the percolated coffee on the table. You can tell a lot about a man from his coffee, she thought, and it was only as she imagined. Tristram Fellows was clearly a man of high standards, and she liked that too.

  He sat down beside her and she linked his arm and pulled herself closer. The evening was going well, she thought, and she pondered as to whether she should invite him to her flat for dinner at the weekend. She was a good cook, or so she told herself, and it would be a big step forward, to have him there, with her.

  ‘Tell me about your mum and dad,’ she said, eager to know everything about him. So Tristram rambled on about his parents and his childhood, some of which was true and some blatantly not. It made her laugh though, the stories he could tell, relaxed too, and in the next instant she was staring into his mesmeric blue eyes.

  He knew it was the moment.

  She expected him to kiss her, and he didn’t want to introduce any moment that might sour things, might set her on edge, might have her grab her bag and demand to be taken home. He didn’t want to kiss her, he didn’t want to kiss anyone, other than Desi, though that was impossible, so he steeled himself, tried not to show it on his face, closed his eyes and thought of absent friends and closed on her. She shut her eyes too, and they kissed; her freshly applied lipstick now on his lips, she noticed that as they came apart, and she liked that too, as if it were a sign of ownership.

  Once apart he said, ‘Look at me forgetting myself, I didn’t think to ask, would you like a nightcap, malt whisky, brandy, coffee liqueur?’

  The thing she most would have liked was another lingering kiss, better still, a thorough necking session stretched out on the chesterfield, but the night was young, and she was in no hurry to head home, despite her wish not to appear cheap, he could kiss her as often as he liked, she wished he would, he was a good kisser, but now he was offering her alcohol, and as he had brought the thought to mind, the idea had considerable merit.

  ‘I’d love a brandy,’ she said.

  Tristram smiled and stood. ‘Anything in it?’

  ‘Nope,’ she grinned, ‘just as it comes.’

  Tristram smiled and bobbed his head and headed for the kitchen. He took out a brandy glass, ensured it was quite clean, opened the bottle, his earlier words coming back to him. Anything in it?

  She’d said, Nope.

  Tough luck, darling.

  In went a good slug of flunitrazepam.

  Large measure of best brandy on the top.

  A thorough swill around, no trace of smell, no trace of anything, just perfect. Back to the sitting room. She heard him coming and turned and glanced up toward the door, smiled at him. Jeez he was cute. He handed her the drink.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’

  ‘No, better not, driving and all that.’

  Ah, that was sweet too, she thought. She linked his arm and sipped the drink. She wouldn’t confess it to a soul, but it had been the best day in her life for ages. It was the first time she had been out with a man in yonks who hadn’t paid for her company, and stuff, and it made such a big difference. She didn’t want the money; she wanted to be wanted for herself. She was incredibly relaxed in his company, relaxed in his flat, relaxed in his arms. He was such a gentleman too, was Tristram Fellows. He didn’t push it, and she liked that too. She couldn’t wait to tell
her only friend Sonia all about it.

  It had been a hectic couple of days. Perhaps dating without payment was more tiring than she thought, it was certainly so much more relaxing, more enjoyable, and she yawned.

  ‘Oh sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where that came from.’

  Tristram yawned too. He had such lovely teeth.

  ‘You wouldn’t mind,’ she said, ‘if I had a little doze.’

  ‘Course not,’ soothed Tristram, ‘be my guest, you sleep for as long as you want.’

  Then she was gone, out of it, and yet oddly her eyes hadn’t closed.

  Sam smiled to himself. Part one successfully accomplished. The stupid bitch had never once suspected a thing. How gullible some women were. Part two was coming soon, and he laughed gently and retreated to the kitchen, opened the cupboard where he kept the hardware items, light bulbs, matches, lavvy rolls, fly killer, and brown tape. He grabbed a new roll of tape, slipped on the yellow rubber gloves and returned to the sitting room.

  She hadn’t moved a muscle. Her breathing was long and slow and her eyes were still wide open. He drew his palms across her face, no blinking, no recognition, nothing. His neat nails found the beginning of the tape and pulled the end free. It shrieked as it rolled out. He stuck it to her cheek, rolled it across her face, across her smudged mouth, around the back of her head, imprisoning her hair, covering her ears, across the face again, slightly higher, upper lips, around again, nose, around again, more firmly across the nose. Sally jerked, fighting for air, round again, covered the eyes that still stared at Tristram, and he wondered if those drugged eyes could see. He thought probably not, not that it mattered. Could Sally Beauchamp see Tristram Fellows, as she believed him to be, as he was murdering her in his front room?

  He’d never know. He didn’t care.

  It wasn’t Sally Beauchamp he was murdering, she just happened to stumble into his path, it could have been anyone, he didn’t have any beef with her, in another life he might have quite liked her, but he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over that.

  He had set out on his course quite deliberately, coldly chosen it, and he would not stop now, round and round and round the tape went, covering her hair covering the neck, the jerking had long since ceased, her face now looked like a brown mummy, the entire head covered like a model in some hat shop window. It was strangely attractive, like a piece of modern art, smooth and clean and shiny. Perhaps he could display it at the library, enter it into some wacky art exhibition, and he laughed again at his own ridiculous thinking, tugging the tape round one last time. The whole roll was exhausted. Job done.

  100 Ways to Kill People.

  Cover their heads in brown tape.

  Easy peasy. Anyone could do it.

  That person who wrote the original article should do a follow up.

  100 Ways to Dispose of the Body.

  In many ways that was the hardest part, but Sam had no worries about that. He’d already planned it. He already knew. He would wait until the small hours when the world was fast asleep, and then he would act. Before that, he took the brandy glass through to the kitchen and carefully washed it. Dried it and put it away.

  Returned to the sitting room.

  Brownhead was sleeping.

  Its handbag was on the floor. Sam hooked it up and opened it.

  In the back compartment he found condoms, a huge roll of them; fifty in all, Christ, the girl had been expecting an exciting night.

  A fat well thumbed black diary. Sam flipped it open.

  It was full of men’s names and telephone numbers.

  Ronnie (Ginger bastard) Phelps and then a number.

  Richard (Bad breath) Bettinson.

  Harry (Big tipper) Wilson.

  Donald (Shortarse) Smith.

  Peter (Spotty) Wignall.

  Jerry (Frightening) Herridge, and so it went on.

  Alan (Donkey) Harris.

  Grahame (Creepy) Willis.

  Dozens and dozens of them.

  It seemed she remembered her clients more through their nicknames than their real names, or the names they had fed her.

  Sam wondered what she might write about him.

  Tristram (Top man) Fellows perhaps, or was he being vain?

  Tristram (Tight tape) Fellows more like, and he laughed aloud at that.

  In the date sections were assignations.

  Saturday. Ginger bastard. Royal, Bristol.

  Monday. Bad Breath. Argosy, Bournemouth.

  Wednesday. Starey Eyes. Regency, Southampton.

  He had been right all along. She was a tart, literally, touring the country, servicing Ginger bastard, Bad breath, Big tipper, Shortarse, Spotty, Frightening, Starey Eyes, and the rest, and to think, I kissed that.

  Sam felt sick, went to the bathroom, washed his face, cleaned his teeth, applied fresh deodorant, felt a hell of a lot better. Returned to the sitting room. Brownhead unmoved. It was time to begin.

  He went into the bedroom and grabbed the wheeled suitcase he had bought in a Chester department store especially for the purpose. Pushed it through to the sitting room. It was huge, or at least he thought so, but when he parked it in front of Brownhead he was having second thoughts.

  He laid it flat and opened it. Grabbed Brownhead and presented it to the case. No way, not a chance.

  There must be a way. Folded up the knees. Brought the head down, squeezed and pushed and squeezed and pushed and re-presented to the case. It might just work. A couple of cuffing blows to the shoulders like spanking steaks before they are grilled. It helped a little. More waggling, and pushing, hitting, and standing on, and prodding and pulling, and then it was in. Still standing proud of the edges, but in.

  Sam forced the top closed.

  A hand fell out.

  ‘Fuck off!’ He yelled; then reprimanded himself.

  Didn’t want to wake the co-sharers of Iona House. Must keep quiet.

  Closed the lid, forced it down; sat on it, the fastener almost caught. More effort, more pressure. Down you bugger! There! Done! Shut it at last. Flicked the right fastener. It closed with a satisfying click. Weight on the left side. Click!

  Job done.

  Brownhead had disappeared.

  The only thing that remained was to dispose of the case, and Sam knew exactly how to accomplish that.

  He grabbed the handle and wheeled it toward the back door. It ran like a dream, you would never have guessed there was a nine stone woman inside, or whatever it was.

  Parked it there, ready. He would leave in an hour.

  Returned to the sitting room. Picked up the handbag. Emptied the contents on the low table. Cosmetics, ladies tools, eyebrow plucker, nail file, nail clippers, two more that he didn’t recognise; women’s toiletry things, only to be expected, and a very fat purse.

  He flipped it open and emptied the cash on the table.

  A huge roll of notes.

  Sam was used to seeing banknotes; working in the casino someone would always have a fat wad, and the desire to show it off to the world, every night, though more often than not on the way in than the way out.

  This roll could compete.

  One thousand seven hundred pounds. Jeez! He was in the wrong business. Maybe she should have paid for the meal after all; maybe she should have paid him for his company.

  He held the bag to the table and swept everything back into it, purse, change, condoms, the whole bloody lot. Clicked it shut. Went to the wood-burning stove. Flipped it open, threw it inside. Real leather it was, expensive too, a pity really, and the cash as well, but he couldn’t take any chances. It had to be destroyed. It was all going, burning cheerfully, brightening up the apartment, not entirely useless; spreading its warmth into the room.

  Sam went to the kitchen. Made a corned beef sandwich, dash of English mustard. Ate it in a hurry. Pretty good. He returned to the back door. Opened up, went outside. Glanced up at the Victorian façade. No lights on. The building fast asleep. Went inside, through to the front door, crept outside,
on to the small spongy lawn. Glanced up again. No lights, no sleepless nights, everyone asleep. He heard a single car chugging along the road, diesel engine, old model, rattly exhaust. Ducked into the porch. It was a taxi, probably the last fare of the night, the driver hurrying home to a cold bed. Then it was gone and silence returned.

  Sam went inside and locked the front door. Through the house to the back. Went outside again. Opened up the hatchback that he’d earlier reversed as close as he could to the door.

  Manoeuvred the case over the threshold, it bounced down on to the gravel path. Shush! Christ, it was heavy. Presented it to the car’s backside. He knew it would go in; he’d brought it home that way. It must go in. Tried to lift it. Couldn’t get the leverage. It wouldn’t budge. Changed his position. Tried again, all his strength, up it came, then over the rim and heavily down into the back.

  Gee! Wouldn’t like to do that again. Never will, that’s the main thing.

  Closed the hatch, almost silently. It was one of the reasons he liked the Cayton Cerisa so much. All the doors closed with the softest of clunks.

  Went back inside. The fire was still burning. He glimpsed curling twenty-pound notes, slowly blackening, catching fire, turning to ash, worthless things, worthless trash.

  Glanced round the sitting room.

  She had never been there. No trace.

  Maybe the odd fingerprint, but he would go to work on that in the morning. He’d have to make an early start because he was back at work tomorrow night.

  One last look round.

  For now, it would do.

  Turned off the lights. Went out the back. Carefully locked the door. Gently climbed into the car. Started the engine. It was truly quiet, yet it sounded like thunder. Pulled the car round the side of the house and out on to the road, headed for Queensferry.

  There was almost no traffic about, the occasional police car, he noticed that. He stayed inside the speed limits, not too slow to attract attention, not too fast to attract a speeding ticket. He was the model citizen. Always had been. Always will be. It wasn’t his fault everything had gone so terrifyingly wrong. It could have happened to anyone.