The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  Based on the theory that everyone needed the lavatory sometime, she was waiting, standing in the doorway to one of the hospitality suites, as if she had popped out to take a personal call, ostensibly talking on a mobile phone to a non existent lover. No one glanced at her twice.

  A fat woman waddled by and went into the toilets.

  Then a slim woman followed her in. The slim woman. The broadcasting blonde. Walter’s rock.

  Time to move.

  Time to get to work.

  Samantha closed her phone, slipped it in her pocket and followed them inside.

  The fat woman was washing her hands.

  The blonde woman was locked in a cubicle. The big woman glanced at the smart woman with the bright blue eyes. Rolled her eyebrows in half recognition and said, ‘Mustn’t miss the big race.’

  ‘You’ve got time; one of them’s split a plate.’

  ‘Really? Super, I fancy the favourite here,’ and she bustled away, time enough to get a big bet on the shiny black mare.

  Samantha followed her toward the exit, through the narrow corridor toward the door. White tiled walls from floor to ceiling. In the background the sound of dripping water, the chemical stench of disinfectant block. The door flapped closed. The big woman had gone. Sam opened her bag, took out a light chain, drew it across the entrance, fixed it to the walls with sticky tack, blocking admission, pulled out the homemade sign, bright red letters, Toilets Closed For Cleaning, not in wacky type, amazing what you could knock up on the computer, hung it on the chain, it wouldn’t really matter to desperate users, there were plenty of other facilities just along the way.

  Went back to the main room.

  One cubicle door still firmly closed.

  Noises coming from within.

  Plenty going on.

  Samantha crept into the cubicle next door.

  She’d left her bag open, no need to unclick.

  Closed the pan lid. Stood gently on top.

  Took the rope from the bag.

  Set the bag on the window ledge.

  Reached up to the top of the dividing wall.

  Pulled herself up.

  Outside, the crowd was going crazy, the racket flooding in through the open windows. The mare was leading, a hundred and fifty yards to go, the crammed stands had never been so raucous. Karen didn’t hear Sam, couldn’t hear a thing above the crowd.

  Samantha peered over the top.

  Blondie was down there, still busy; looking straight ahead, upset tum by the smell of things. Still hadn’t heard a thing. Couldn’t hear a thing.

  Neatly tied, pre-prepared rope, brand new, white, almost silky, thin but very strong, there would be only one chance, she had been practicing at home on a large specially bought teddy bear. Had it off pat.

  Lowered the noose.

  Go on Pandora! Go on! Yelled the crowd outside.

  The colt was catching the mare.

  The crowd was in ferment.

  Quickly down, over the hair, around the porcelain neck, perfect, and PULL!

  The knot tightened instantly.

  Karen’s eyes almost popped from her skull.

  What the fuck! She wanted to scream, but couldn’t say a word.

  Reached for her bag and the salvation of the Glock 22.

  The bag was on the floor.

  Karen was rising fast.

  She grasped at thin air.

  Samantha yanked the rope hard and fastened it to the strut of the open metal-framed window.

  Karen’s hands clutched at the rope, desperately trying to slip her fingers inside the knot. Her weight dangling on the rope tightened the noose.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She couldn’t shout.

  She couldn’t reach for the gun.

  She couldn’t ease the knot.

  She was turning purple.

  She was dying.

  Samantha smiled.

  Seven up.

  100 Ways to Kill People.

  Hang them in the lavatory at the local racetrack.

  That should give them something to think about.

  That might make that arrogant bastard Darriteau think again. Serve him right for his negligence. Serve him bloody well right. He could pay this time. See how he liked it, to lose someone you really cared for. And all the time he thought it was his turn today. Arrogant prick! Typical man. Couldn’t see beyond his own importance. Couldn’t see the end of his gigantic nose.

  The colt had pipped the mare on the line, spoiling Ladies’ Day, for some. The crowd grew quiet. Long faces. Wallets were being checked. How much are we down?

  Samantha collected her bag and hopped down from the pan.

  Choking sounds, soft dying gurgles, came from the cubicle next door, growing ever fainter. She made her way to the exit. Eased her way over the sign.

  Two women were coming in after the race

  ‘Closed for maintenance,’ Sam said, smiling and pointing at the notice. ‘There’s another one just along there,’ and she took them outside and showed them along the corridor.

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Samantha turned and hurried away toward the exits.

  Job done.

  Number seven.

  Seven times over.

  Mission accomplished.

  There would be no more.

  Now she was satisfied.

  She would leave Walter alone to mull over forever his own inadequacies. To miss the one he loved. See how he liked it. See how he coped. He could stew in his own filthy juice. He’d probably get fired, which was precisely what he deserved. He could spend the remainder of his days mulling over how he had hopelessly let down his rock. How he had totally failed to detect the Chester Mollester. To reflect on what a truly useless piece of shit he was.

  Karen blacked out.

  No feeling, no sense.

  Gently swinging on the end of the rope, her hands limp by her sides, knickers around her ankles, filthy muck oozing down the inside of her thighs, designer handbag and loaded Glock 22 still asleep and unemployed on the floor.

  Ladies’ Day at Chester races, in the Ladies.

  The mare’s in trouble.

  Favourite downed.

  Seven up.

  Balmy breeze floating through the open window.

  Swaying body.

  End of a rope.

  Job done.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The first time Desi saw Eden Leys she was taken there by taxi. She made a mental note of the route for she was determined to pass the driving test that was now imminent. She had been collected from the small railway station at Whitchurch, and from there they headed south on the A41, until the road forked at the big truck stop, left going to Wolverhampton, right to Shrewsbury. She held on tight as the taxi swerved around the roundabout to the right, before turning left onto the Shrewsbury road.

  ‘Not far now, miss,’ said the cabby, in his gentle local accent. ‘Coming up on the left.’

  Desiree peered that way, at the gigantic former aircraft hangers that were now used as grain stores, though the European grain mountain had long since vanished, flogged off to pay for the club.

  Then a sharp left turn down a narrow straight road, a single square red sign, on the left, Trencherman Research PLC, No Unauthorised Persons. The road continued onward, bisecting two vast grey neglected hangars. Up ahead she could see a guard post, red and white barrier across the road, tall wire fence topped with rolled barbed wire, winding away to the left and right as far as she could see.

  Set back ten yards inside the wire were conifer plantations, thick enough to stop anyone on the outside from seeing into the interior.

  Beyond the entrance was a two-story redbrick building, wide and flat-topped, that again blocked any view of what was beyond. The cabby pulled up at the gates, nodded at one of the security guards as if they were familiar, and completed a three-point turn, making ready to leave.

  ‘That’s twelve pounds, miss,’
he said.

  Desiree tugged fifteen from her purse and slipped it into his hand.

  ‘Thanks miss,’ he smiled. ‘Do you want a hand with your bag?’

  She had brought just the one large case.

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ she said, and stepped out into the sunshine.

  ‘Good luck,’ he called over his shoulder, and drove away.

  Desiree turned and looked at the two guards who were eyeing her up. They wore dark blue uniforms with yellowy-gold flashes on their shoulders, badges on their left chest. When she was closer she could read the gold writing: Trencherman Research – Security, that ran all the way around the outside of the badge in a circle.

  She walked toward the guard hut and smiled.

  ‘Desiree Holloway signing in.’

  The guards nodded and one muttered, ‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ and began tapping on his laptop.

  It must have checked out.

  ‘Passes?’ he said, holding out his hand.

  She showed her ID and that was checked and entered too.

  Must have been OK.

  ‘That’s fine, ma’am,’ and then he turned and called another bloke forward who was sitting and reading a trashy tabloid newspaper.

  ‘Tom, another one for Mary Craigieson,’ he called, and Tom set his paper down and came forward and said, ‘Rightho.’

  ‘He’ll take you there, ma’am.’

  Desiree nodded and in the next moment she was following Tom through the gate to a dark blue four by four parked on the inside of the fence. He took her case and set it in the back, started the vehicle, and drove around the redbrick building, left, right, right again, and then left again, and headed into the heart of Eden Leys.

  ‘Are you busy?’ she asked, making small talk.

  ‘Always busy, ma’am, always,’ and that was that. He didn’t speak again until he was saying goodbye, after dropping her at a modern grey and glass structure somewhere in the centre of the complex.

  She glanced up at the entrance. Terminal 19, it said, in big silver letters, and picked up her bag and went inside.

  Professor Mary Craigieson showed Desiree her accommodation, modern, comfortable, but rather small, showed her where she would be working, within Terminal 19 itself, explained something of the work she would be employed on, an area where most newcomers began, advised her that her four day induction and basic training programme would commence at eight thirty the next morning, then introduced her to another young woman called Sarah Sleepman, who would show her the facilities and explain the daily routine. Desiree Holloway was in, an accepted member of the Eden Leys Research team.

  She was excited at the prospect of getting down to work, of making a contribution, of using her skills and expertise, of pushing her research programmes further than she had ever been permitted at university.

  All the training, all that hard work, all the imaginative and creative ideas that flowed through her head, all engendered through the total love of science she possessed, was about to come to fruition. She couldn’t wait to start.

  Not for nothing was Eden Leys known within the scientific community as the Porton Down of the north. Desiree had been expecting a large site, what was it Mrs Bloemfontein had said? It is a huge site, you will want for nothing there, supermarket, cinema, bowling facilities, swimming pool, I doubt you will feel the need to leave very often.

  She hadn’t been wrong. The complex was far bigger than Desiree had ever imagined, mind boggling, like a mid sized town, beavering away on countless research projects in dozens of modern buildings, all set behind the ring of impenetrable conifers and juniper trees that were set inside the ring of firs.

  The other four countries involved possessed their own terminals within the site, more than one in the case of the United States, they always had to be bigger, but all results and breakthroughs were immediately shared, fed into the giant central computer system housed within Terminal 10.

  Desiree was surprised to bump into Professor Jim McClaine, and he was equally surprised to see her. He ruefully explained that he had never realised how qualified she was, how brilliant she was, now that he knew her pioneering work was gaining universal praise. He said he wished he could turn the clock back, have that time together in Australia all over again, where he freely admitted he had kept things from her.

  He’d hopelessly underrated the young woman, and he wasn’t the first person to do that. He couldn’t believe that someone so young, from such an ordinary background, could be so talented, and he apologised profusely, almost embarrassingly so. Afterwards they became friends, sharing an occasional coffee together, joining the same bowling teams, for teamwork and extra curricula activities were always encouraged at Eden Leys.

  Experimenting on live animals had always been part of Desiree’s brief. She had known that all along, since the very early days at Liverpool University. It didn’t bother her at all. She understood well enough that the best way to advance science, to find cures, to engineer scientific breakthroughs, to make real progress, advances that only a few years before would have been unthinkable, was experimentation on live and living tissue.

  Started on mice, worked up through rats, guinea pigs, cats, dogs, to chimpanzees, that was the accepted ladder of progression. Almost all the animals were bred on site; the breeding programme carried out in the single story green roofed Terminal 8. It saved a great deal of hassle. What people didn’t know about, they couldn’t crow about.

  Working with mustard gas had long been one of Desiree’s aims. She had written a dissertation on the Effects of Mustard Gas on Living Tissue, and already she was becoming an authority on the subject.

  Dabbing mustard gas onto a chimp’s arm took some courage.

  Desiree steeled herself, and as in so many things, once it had been done for the first time, it was always easier thereafter. She was desperate to get onto the PLACAD programme and she would do almost anything to achieve that.

  Working on fresh human body parts was interesting too. They would arrive daily by dispatch rider from hospitals within a hundred mile radius of Eden Leys. Usually they were young and healthy parts, presumably from patients who may have died through accident, or other diseases, that had not contaminated the portions that arrived vacuum packed and ready to go. There was little difference between working on a human liver to that of a pig, lamb, or chimp, and freshness was everything.

  Desiree hugely enjoyed her work. She was making rapid progress, enjoyed three pay increases in her first two years there, and had attended further crammer colleges in California and Bavaria. She had made many new friends, had passed her driving test first time, had treated herself to the latest updated version of the Supa Cayton Cerisa, silver with a dashing maroon flash; that she used to drive home, those visits becoming ever fewer and farther between. There was little else to leave the site for as all her requirements were amply catered for, and she rarely did.

  She joined, and enjoyed the frantic social life, though never once took a lover, despite the many overtures that came her way, including during one drunken night in the Red Caves Social Club, from Professor McClaine himself.

  She was no longer interested in the squelchy business, or so she told herself, and afterwards an idea spread around the quarters that she was a lesbian, a rumour that came back to her like a boomerang, and one that she rightfully laughed off in a millisecond.

  Desiree Holloway was utterly content in her work.

  It was what she had been born to do.

  She did have one problem, and one she couldn’t share with another living soul. She was hearing voices.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Samantha left the grandstand and made her way toward the exit. No hurry. No rush. No alarms. No intention of attracting attention. She skipped down the stairs and headed out across the forecourt toward the gates. Behind her, the crowd were still murmuring, wondering how they had lost so much cash. An elderly gent was manning the exits. He saw the classy young woman coming toward him, a gentle
smile on her pretty face.

  ‘Not going already?’ he said.

  ‘Lost on the first three races,’ she said, ‘that’s enough for me.’

  ‘Ah well, never mind. There’s always next year, pity about Pandora, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sure was.’

  He held the door open for her and she smiled again, stepped through, and headed up the cobblestoned hill toward the city.

  The old guy took one last look outside, at the opportunistic group of five or six rough looking youths gathered there, hoping to bunk in without paying, they could forget that, and he stared at them and frowned and closed the gate and fastened it shut.

  Walter was busy doing his rounds. The favourite mare had just been turned over, pipped on the line, much to the annoyance of the crowd. Almost everyone had backed Pandora with all they possessed. The smile had returned to the bookie’s faces.

  Walter wasn’t smiling.

  He made his way to the back of the main stand. Gibbons was there hanging about, hands in pockets, looking bored.

  ‘Where’s Karen?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Bog,’ muttered Gibbons, nodding up at the Ladies sign.

  ‘How long has she been in there?’

  ‘Five minutes, maybe ten. She’d got a touch of...’

  ‘Yes, I know. Diarrhoea. Anyone else go in?’

  ‘Nah. Two women came out. A fat gal and a black haired woman.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘Navy blue suit, black bag, black shoes.’

  ‘Slim, slight, and attractive? Right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gibbons standing up straighter, taking his hands from his pockets, pondering on what Walter had said.

  Walter glanced up at the Ladies sign. Ladies’ Day. Ladies.

  It wasn’t him the bastard was after, it was the lady.

  ‘Come on!’ he yelled, as he headed for the entrance.

  By the time he was at the door the younger Gibbons was already ahead of him. He pushed through the door as if it didn’t exit, ripped down the homemade sign that brought all their instant nightmares home, dashed into the main room.