The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  ‘You know the answer to that. Contacts of course, you can have any colour you like. There’s a place up in Manchester that sells nothing but weirdly coloured lenses, fab it is, we built up quite a collection, red, yellow, black, gold, purple, you can have any colour eyes you want.’

  Walter sniffed and said, ‘I know someone who’d adore purple eyes.’

  ‘Do you? Who?’

  ‘You don’t know her.’

  ‘Who, Walter? Who?’

  ‘Cresta.’

  ‘Who’s Cresta?’

  ‘The profiler on the case.’

  ‘Ah yes, that Cresta Parsnip, or whatever she’s called, I read about her in the Sunday supplements. American, isn’t she?’

  ‘Raddish, her name’s Raddish. She’s not American, just studied there. Crazy about the colour purple.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I did consider doing her, taking her down, but your sweet chick was a much more enticing target. Are you plugging that girl, Walter?’

  ‘No, course not. I’m old enough to be her father.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop a lot of men, Walter, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Walter shook his head and said, ‘Which killing gave you the most satisfaction?’

  ‘Oh that’s easy.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Right Reverend of course, the railway killing, that was so sweet, so poetic. I thought of Desi every second as he was crunched under the wheels. It seemed somehow truly appropriate that there he was, a man of God, meeting his maker in an identical fashion. God could go and chew on that, part payment for my Desi’s loss. Had to be that one, didn’t it?’

  ‘I still don’t understand why Desiree was killed.’

  ‘She was killed Walter because she was stealing information, you moron! That’s how they saw it; they couldn’t prove it; so they eradicated the problem. Simple as that. One day there’s a big difficulty, the next day there isn’t. You are beginning to annoy me! Great ape, you say?’

  Walter glanced up at the guy. He was standing there like a bartender waiting for the drinker to choose his poison.

  ‘I said: Great ape did you say?’

  His eyes were wilder this time, didn’t look like he’d brook an argument.

  Walter nodded.

  ‘Good man,’ and he carefully unscrewed the green cap. Fixed a large needle on the syringe. Slipped it into the bottle. Carefully drew it back, fully loaded, scarlet blood, foreign blood, killing blood.

  ‘Byes-e-bye, Walter baby, it’s been nice knowing you.’

  In went the needle.

  Walter grimaced. Said nothing.

  Down went the plunger. In went the blood.

  Walter cursed. Stared at the syringe.

  Stared at the blood as it left the vehicle, entering his body.

  Nothing happened.

  He wondered how long it would take.

  Sam grinned.

  Mission accomplished, at long last.

  Seven times over.

  Seven times one is seven.

  Seven deaths.

  Desi avenged, at last.

  The fat black cop was on his way to hell.

  Desiree could sleep easy in her grave.

  100 Ways to Kill People.

  Inject an Inspector with the blood from a great ape, in this case, a murdered chimpanzee.

  Poetic. Truly poetic.

  ‘Time to be going, methinks,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to be here when the cavalry arrives, if indeed they ever do. Bye bye, Walter, have a nice death.’

  ‘You’re sick in the head. You should see someone.’

  ‘And you my friend; are dying. Make the most of the tiny time you have left, and just to be on the safe side, to make sure there is no mistake this time, I think a dash of rat is called for, don’t you?’

  The killer grinned and picked up the red-topped bottle.

  Walter shook his head. He still needed a pee.

  Chapter Fifty

  Karen and Gibbons jumped from the car. Ran toward the house, Karen stumbling, still weak. Gibbons paused to help her up. ‘Go on!’ she said. There was dim light on in the front room. Someone was in. Perhaps the old fool had fallen asleep in the chair. She joined Gibbons at the open front gate. ‘How do we get in?’ he whispered.

  ‘There’s a key,’ she said, ‘under a big stone, we came back late one night for a chat, he’d left his keys in the office, and he said there was a key under the stone, but it had been snowing and we couldn’t even find the bloody stone.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘By the peony, Walter said.’

  ‘What does a peony look like?’

  ‘No idea, try that big stone there.’

  Gibbons turned over the stone, nothing but wriggly worms and pregnant earwigs caught out in the streetlight. Turned over another. Same as before. Turned over another. Faint light glinted from a rusty key, half buried in the mud. He grabbed it, wiped it on his sleeve, and raced to the front door. Slipped it quietly into the lock. Gently turned. The lock opened, the door freed, eased it open, Karen at his shoulder.

  There were muffled voices coming from the front room. They ran to the doorway, looked in.

  Walter was tied to the chair.

  There was a slight guy standing over him, dressed in black, stupid grin on his face, a huge syringe in his hand loaded with scarlet liquid. More bottles on the table, one empty, one full, one half empty, plus another smaller, clearer container.

  ‘Are you all right, Walter?’ screamed Karen.

  ‘Oh no sister, he isn’t,’ said the man in black. ‘He’s on his way to meet his maker, a gigantic chicken we believe. Do you have any thoughts on the subject?’

  Gibbons ran at the guy.

  Sam turned toward him, syringe first, jabbing it in the air between them, snarling, ‘Come on hero boy, want some?’

  Karen staggered to the hall, thinking about the Glock she’d left at work, went to the kitchen, rummaged in drawers, came back with two old carving knives, one sharp, one not, slipped one to Gibbons. Sam looked nervous. Karen moved around to the guy’s left, Gibbons to his right.

  ‘You’re finished,’ said Walter. ‘Finished! Give yourself up before you get hurt.’

  Walter didn’t look well. He needed a pee. Badly.

  ‘Shut up old man! It’s you who’s finished.’

  Gibbons thrust the knife forward, tried to knock the needle from the guy’s hand. What was in that thing?

  Karen lurched at the guy from the left, nearly fell over. Sam had expected it. She was loyal to the last, and seeking revenge. He knew that. He jabbed the needle toward her face, aiming for the eye, Karen swayed left, missed by a whisker, but the needle grazed her right earlobe, not time enough for him to press the plunger. In the scramble he’d taken the knife from her, yanked it clear from her weak grasp. He was strong. Much stronger than he looked. Surprisingly strong, but she already knew that.

  Sam hurled the syringe at Gibbons while jabbing the knife at Karen. The loaded needle turned over in flight and bounced harmlessly from Darren’s shoulder. Sam turned on the balls of his feet and flashed the carving knife at Gibbons.

  Gibbons slashed back. Both missed. Karen glanced at Walter.

  His mouth was open and he was breathing heavy. He didn’t look well at all.

  Sam and Gibbons were jabbing at one another like feuding pirates.

  Karen saw her moment, rushed in from the side, used the last of her strength, issued a left handed forearm smash, cack handed, Walter noted, that always took people by surprise, every time, knocked Sam off balance. Gibbons waded in, dropped the knife, he’d never liked knives, flexed his muscles and punched the guy in the chest, a thundering blow to the torso, a professional strike, honed in the gym he so adored.

  Walter managed a grin. Sam went down, falling backwards, over the coffee table, squealing and panicking and scattering the bottles of blood, and the scissors and the empty coffee mug, shattering the glass phial, shards of razor sharp glass slipping into his bo
dy, injecting clear chemical into the small of his back.

  They stared down at the man in black, suddenly immobile.

  At his startled and panicked eyes.

  At his trembling and unmoving body.

  At his quivering and silent lips.

  At his final moments.

  At his death.

  ‘Don’t touch anything!’ yelled Walter. ‘It’s some kind of chemical weapon; you’ll need to ring HAZCHEM. And call an ambulance. Quick! He’s injected me with foreign blood. And cut me loose! And get me a bucket! I need a pee!’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The following morning the police arrived at Iona House, slightly earlier than planned, Karen, Gibbons and Jenny Thompson, but no Walter. He was fixed in the Countess hospital, having his blood changed, tests run, a lucky escape, no rat, but the chimpanzee had been removed, just in time, along with all the rest, though it had been a close call. ‘Where’s the fat black chap?’ asked Mrs Hymas cheerily.

  Gibbons and Karen shared a look.

  ‘The fat black chap is unavoidably detained. He sent his apologies,’ said Karen.

  ‘Oh really? That’s a shame. I’ve made him some fairies specially.’

  ‘Perhaps we could take him some back.’

  ‘Oh yes, would you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Karen. ‘You don’t have a key do you, for flat number two?’

  ‘No. Why? What time will Sam and Samantha be back?’

  ‘Sam and Samantha won’t be coming back.’

  ‘No! Why? They haven’t had an accident, have they?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘How terrible.’

  ‘We have a search warrant,’ said Karen, flashing the document before Mrs Hymas’s face.

  There was a momentary pause and then something seemed to click in her old watery eyes.

  ‘They have been very naughty, haven’t they?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘They used to spin me some yarns. They used to think I was doodle alley, senile, and I am not.’

  ‘Did they?’ said Gibbons. ‘Tut tut tut.’

  ‘What kind of yarns?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Oh crazy things, they said that if I was ever naughty they’d wrap me up in Christmas paper and throw me in the river at midnight, silly things like that. Only a joke I know, but sometimes it kept me awake at night.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to worry about anything like that any more,’ said Karen. ‘We’re going into the flat now; we’ll come back and see you later.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, you’re all right. You stay here.’

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘Great idea, you do that.’

  The officers smiled and nodded and left Mrs Hymas to her fairies, crossed the hall and stared at the stripped timber door. Karen followed procedure and knocked loudly. No sound, no reply, no surprise. Gibbons took out a small jemmy from his deep trouser pocket, placed it on the rim of the door, applied pressure, his biceps bulging beneath his shirt as he began levering; Karen and Jenny both noticed that. Three seconds and the timber split with a loud crack. One more jerk, and the door flew open, a couple of old wood screws tumbling to the hall floor, as if in protest at being disturbed.

  The officers slipped on rubber gloves and went inside, with Walter’s parting words still ringing in Karen’s ears.

  ‘Find me that diary; and any details of any documents deposited with a solicitor.’

  They’d entered a large sitting room with views out over the front lawn and the driveway. Karen wasn’t alone in wondering what had gone on in that room. It was pretty ordinary, a little old-fashioned, leather settee, modern TV, nothing of any great interest, clean and tidy, well cared for, but no obvious diary. They went through to the kitchen. A large solid fuel stove, gone out now, ideal for disposing of bloody clothing, Karen imagined, or evidence of any kind, even body parts. Who knows what had gone through that furnace?

  Into the bedroom, nice double bed, everything clean and neat and tidy. Opened the floor to ceiling wardrobe, fine clothes, and lots of them, expensive too, men and women’s, dozens of shoes on the floor, all neatly stored side by side, again, men and women’s, similar sizes, very expensive, Karen noted that, top ticket designer gear, better than she could comfortably afford, and sitting on the shelving to the right-hand side, were four white heads, polystyrene models, topped with trendy styled wigs, four different colours, black, blonde, red, brown, very smart.

  Gibbons thought he recognised the black one.

  ‘Look at these,’ said Jenny.

  She’d opened a bedside table. Five contact lens containers, five different coloured lenses.

  ‘Explains a lot,’ said Karen.

  ‘And these!’ said Gibbons, brandishing a pair of touchy feely breasts in front of his chest. ‘They’re fab, just like the real thing!’

  ‘Put them down!’ said Karen, grinning.

  ‘What’s he like?’ said Jenny.

  But still no diary. Karen thought it might have been in the bedside table, last chore of the day, maybe, before a peaceful night’s rest, update the terror records; update the murder diaries. She returned to the inner hallway, opened the door to the second bedroom.

  ‘Oh...my...God!’

  The other two hurried to join her, peered over her shoulder at the noticeboard she was gawping at, and her own picture staring back, a blown up black and white photo culled from one of the news conferences. Through the middle of her face in scrawled red ink was a splashed handwritten cross.

  Next to her image was one of Walter, a large red question mark next to his likeness, and then one of Cresta Raddish too, so far without comment.

  ‘Proof if proof be needed,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘Look at this lot!’ said Jenny.

  Karen and Gibbons swivelled round and saw the bottles of what looked like blood, and specimens of what appeared to be living tissue stored in formaldehyde, animal or human, it was hard to tell. The blood and samples were sitting on a tall teak shelving unit that also housed clear glass bottles, containing God knows what substances, some labelled, some not, and binders containing computer printouts, large red notebooks, smaller secretary sized notepads, all full of neat handwriting. No obvious diary, not that Karen could see.

  ‘Look there,’ said Jenny, pointing carefully to a steel craft knife. The blade was retracted and the tool was partly hidden behind one of the larger glass jars.

  ‘Potential murder weapon for killing number five, I’d say,’ said Karen.

  ‘Remind me which one that was again,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘Cripps, Jago Cripps,’ added Jenny, ‘the one at the flat.’

  ‘Ah yes, that’s the fella,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘Give me a bag,’ said Karen.

  Gibbons pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and unfastened the top, held it open; Karen took the knife and dropped it inside, and wondered what they would find next.

  Pushed against the far wall was a computer desk. On top, an ultra modern computer and printer with failed red printed notices discarded to one side. Gibbons recognised them from the Ladies’ loo.

  Toilets Closed For Cleaning.

  He said nothing, didn’t want to remind Karen of that dreadful day.

  ‘Maybe the diary’s on the computer,’ suggested Jenny.

  ‘Could be,’ said Karen. ‘Boot it up, Gibbo.’

  Gibbons fired up the machine, as Karen turned back to the info wall. Practically every newspaper article ever written on the case was up there, some with rude comments and threats scrawled over them, others blank. Gave her a weird feeling, staring at her own defaced face. She looked so worried up there, she thought, frightened even, perhaps she was. Not an image any police officer would wish to portray. In future she’d try and address that. She shivered and turned back to the computer.

  Jenny and Gibbons were standing over it.

  ‘Need a password,
sarge,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘Could be anything,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Try Samantha,’ said Karen.

  Didn’t work.

  ‘Let’s try Desiree,’ said Gibbons.

  Didn’t work.

  ‘Try seven,’ said Karen.

  Didn’t work.

  ‘How about Sam the man or son of Sam?’ said Jenny.

  Neither worked.

  ‘What about: murdering bastard,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Karen.

  Didn’t work anyway.

  ‘Could be anything,’ said Jenny again.

  ‘Bag the lot up and take it back to the station,’ said Karen. ‘They’ll have password detection programs there. Won’t take them too long.’

  Gibbons nodded and went outside to collect the police canvas bags from the boot of the car.

  ‘What about these?’ said Jenny, pointing at the samples and bottles.

  ‘I don’t think we should touch them,’ said Karen. ‘They could be hazardous. Think we need advice on that.’

  Gibbons was back, overheard her, said: ‘I agree. You saw what it did to Sam the man.’

  ‘Sam, the he-she thing,’ corrected Jenny.

  ‘Yeah, that to.’

  Karen turned back to the shelves. Took out one of the red notebooks. Opened it up for a better look and noticed a date. It was a diary, they were all diaries, all seventeen of them, page a day diaries for the previous seventeen years.

  Walter’s gruff voice flashed into her head.

  Bag it up and bring it home. Don’t open it, don’t read it, and don’t give it to Mrs West or Cresta, not until I’ve seen it.

  ‘Give me a bag, Gibbo.’

  He passed her a canvas bag. She counted them in, seventeen in all. Seventeen years of what? Hatred, violence, murder, what exactly? A step-by-step account of how to terrorise and murder people. And for what? The guy was sick in the head, but weren’t they all? Bring back the rope, Karen thought, and yet, and yet, when it came down to it, did she really want that? To see and hear of criminals dangling to their deaths from the end of a rope?

  She flexed her head and felt her neck beneath the dark polo necked jumper, still sore, still horribly marked. She remembered being hung herself, less than a week before. She recalled how it felt, the darkness of it, the panic, the final thoughts, the kicking of the feet, and all she could really think about was the crazy image that when they found her, her knickers would be dangling around her ankles, and how crazy was that? She would never forget it. She could never forget it. Never, ever. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Bring back the rope.