The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  ‘We can all be wrong, Karen.’

  ‘True.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  When they arrived back at the station Walter went straight to see Mrs West and told her of the file. She retained it, told him there were things she needed to bone up on. Walter was disappointed but went back to reading the diaries. He had nearly finished.

  When I was younger I toyed with the idea of becoming a minister. To tell the truth it was not my idea, but that of the vicar, Blair McGowan. I would never have considered such a thing without his input. I studied hard and took the first informal examinations that I comfortably passed. The Rev was mighty happy at that, and I guess at the time I thought it might have impressed Machara.

  All the while there was something bugging me. I found it hard to convince myself there was a Christian God. I mean, if there were, would there really be so much suffering and evil in the world?

  Or was the doubt that was always in my mind the devil’s work?

  Perhaps it was, but the thing that finally made me bin the whole preaching ethos, was the overwhelming feeling that all too often, the devil’s work was a damned sight more exciting, more alluring, more tempting, than anything our so called God had to offer. The big D puts temptation in all of our ways, if you trust the Christian doctrine, and that much is easy to believe. My problem is I was always more inclined to bite the apple, than walk away. I figured out pretty early that a potential vicar shouldn’t think that way.

  Now, as I am coming toward the end of these diaries you might think I should say sorry for what I have done. I can’t do that. I’m not sorry. I enjoyed my work. Desiree’s murder was worth at least what I accomplished in revenge, probably more so, despite the terrible things she had done. To my mind it was repayment to the world for her loss, and for my loss too.

  If I had my time all over again I would do precisely the same thing. Looking back on it now as I write these words, the only surprise is that it took me so long to get started. If there is something eating you, whoever you are, wherever you are, something you desperately want to accomplish, then do it now, before it is too late.

  I doubt I shall write very much more. One way or another, things are coming to a head. Whosoever readeth these words, you can be assured they are the truth, as I see it, and nothing but the truth.

  I am not sad, I am not even disappointed, I am satisfied.

  I can’t wish you well. I don’t wish any of you well. Just the opposite if truth be known. I wish you all great unhappiness, and especially that black copper. I hope he rots in hell, and sooner rather than later. I hold him responsible. And remember this, Walter Darriteau, you and I will be meeting soon, nothing is more certain, so think about that!

  Do you recognise those words?

  They were among the first words you ever spoke to me - you pompous bastard!

  The difference is, beyond the curtain, I really shall be waiting for you, with a grin on my face, and a knife in my hand.

  Armitage Samuel Holloway, nee Shelbourne, Iona House, Chester.

  Walter sighed and closed his eyes. He set the book down and stretched his arms and legs. He still didn’t feel quite himself. Perhaps it was to be expected; perhaps he was getting old, though he would never admit that, not even to himself. Threats from beyond the grave from a psychopath, was that a first? Probably not.

  He strolled outside and sat opposite Karen.

  Cresta looked hopefully across the desks.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Finished. You can have them.’

  ‘Great!’ she said. ‘Not before time,’ and she bolted to the private office before he could change his mind.

  ‘Well?’ said Karen. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘He threatened me with hell from beyond the grave. Said he’d be waiting for me.’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Course not! I’m not going to hell.’

  Karen grinned her cheeky grin and said, ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’

  Walter sniffed a laugh. He noticed that she was looking a little better, and as he was thinking of that, two guys came into the office and strolled across the room as if they owned the place, as if they knew their way around blindfolded.

  They were both just north of thirty and just north of six feet, fit looking blokes, like rowers. The leading one a grammar school boy judging by his accent, white skin, short mousy hair, tiny nose that looked as if it belonged on a rabbit. The other was fractionally taller, tanned, overlong straight and floppy blond hair that he proceeded to adjust with his palm, loud voice, speaking poncy English as if he couldn’t care less who heard what he had to say. Dai Williams over at Prestatyn had a name for men like him, Rodneys, he called them, and Walter could empathise with that.

  They strolled through the office and went into Mrs West’s room without so much as knocking.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Walter, though he had a good idea. ‘Anything else happening?’

  ‘A newsagent in Boughton got attacked, some dispute over a lottery ticket.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A bloke at Blacon was attacked by his wife.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘She hit him over the head with his computer gaming machine; he had to go to hospital.’

  ‘Poor love.’

  ‘You’re not really interested are you?’

  ‘Nope, I’m not, but I’ll tell you what does interest me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want you to look into the deaths at Eden Leys. They’re really bugging me, I can’t think of anything else. If any laws have been broken in that hellhole of a place I want to be the man at the front of the queue waving the big stick.’

  ‘OK, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is what I want.’

  ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘Coroner’s reports would be a good place.’

  ‘I’ll look at it now.’

  Walter bobbed his head and tried to imagine what had gone down in Eden Leys. He’d been checking up on their bland website, edenleys.com. Didn’t tell him much. No surprise there. Bland exterior, bland content, bland words, but inside? Who knows what?

  Mrs West’s office door opened. The two guys came out looking pleased with themselves, closed the door behind them, and marched straight across the room without looking round. Headed straight for the exit and within seconds they were through and away and out of the building.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ said Karen, ‘but didn’t the blond twerp have our file under his arm.’

  ‘Looked that way.’

  ‘And you’re not going to do anything about it?’

  ‘What do you suggest I do? Limp after him and snatch?’

  Karen pursed her lips and sniffed.

  The phone before them burbled into action.

  She snatched it up, said ‘Sure,’ and handed it to Walter.

  ‘Step inside Walter please,’ the voice commanded.

  He didn’t answer, just set the phone down; shared a look with Karen and limped toward the door. Once inside she pointed to a chair and began speaking before he’d settled.

  ‘The Desiree Holloway case is closed.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Just like that, Walter.’

  ‘Who were those guys?’

  ‘Don’t be dim, Walter, you know the answer to that as well as I do.’

  He exhaled a huge breath as if he had been holding it in all week.

  ‘People down there,’ and he tried to point south, adjusting his arm, vaguely toward Eden Leys, twenty-five miles away. ‘People down there are killing innocent people, and they are getting away with it, and we don’t seem to give a toss.’

  ‘You can’t prove that.’

  ‘I could have proved it!’

  ‘You can’t prove it now, and that is all that matters. I
have been assured that nothing like that is happening today.’

  ‘Oh, bully beef!’

  ‘Don’t be rude, Walter.’

  ‘I am not happy about it, ma’am.’

  ‘There are lots of things I am not happy about, but we just have to get on with it. We are a small cog in a big machine. It’s best to keep on turning, as if we are well oiled, best not to jam and screech and bugger up the works.’ She glanced at his lips-pursed face. ‘Don’t look so offended, Walter, it’s nothing personal. We’ve put a stop to our killer, that’s the main thing, that’s what will be remembered, let’s be thankful for that.’ She paused a mo and forced a smile and then said, ‘Now, what’s next? I do believe there is a problem over at a Boughton newsagent. I think you should pay them a visit and show the flag.’

  Walter’s mind was still firmly elsewhere.

  ‘That is all, Walter. Good morning.’

  He heaved himself from the chair and muttered something she didn’t hear and went outside.

  ‘Well?’ said Karen.

  ‘The Desiree Holloway case is closed.’

  ‘Can’t say as I am surprised.’

  Walter sat heavily in his chair.

  ‘Closed but not forgotten, Greenwood. So long as I live I will keep an eye on that place. Somewhere down the track an opportunity will arise to reopen it, and when it does, I shall be there, grinning at those responsible like the grim reaper, waggling the big stick.’

  Karen smiled. She could imagine that. He was like a huge black terrier, and a hungry one at that. He was incorrigible.

  ‘Do you still want me to dig out the coroner’s reports?’

  ‘No, not officially,’ and he winked at her.

  ‘Got you, Guv, leastways I think I do.’

  There was a pause for thought and then he said, ‘What are you doing later?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Thought we could go and have a few jars, celebrate the closure if you like, maybe a nice meal afterwards, my treat, on me, say Pierre’s, I love it there.’

  ‘Oh sorry, Guv, I can’t, not tonight, I’ve promised to cook a meal for Darren.’

  ‘Who’s Darren?’

  ‘Gibbo, Guv, Darren Gibbons, you know.’

  ‘Oh yeah, course, DC Darren Gibbons, he of the youth and body building muscles and a solid punch.’

  ‘It’s a little treat for him for coming over to my place the other night.’

  Lucky Gibbo, he thought, but didn’t say.

  ‘I see. Ah well, never mind, another time, maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, anytime, just say.’

  Walter left the office at just on seven. He ambled away and limped up the high street, bought an evening newspaper from Reg the Rag and went into his favourite watering hole. It was a popular place and already half full. He knew some of the people there, enough to exchange nods, and many of the drinkers recognised him from his recent TV appearances, but he was in no mood to chat. He took up his usual station at the end of the bar and ordered a pint of stout.

  There was something bugging him. Sam told him he’d bribed one of his officers to release secret files. Who’d do that? Gibbons? He thought of him now, enjoying a meal over at Karen’s place. No, he didn’t think it was him. And someone had tipped off the press as well. Who’d do that? Jenny? Surely not. Gibbons maybe and he thought of him right then, enjoying a lovely meal over at Karen’s place. Bugger it! Forget about it.

  There was a stinking mole in the team somewhere, and he would make it his business to snag him, or her, and something else that Sam had said came back to him. Walter’s bathroom and kitchen were dirty. Maybe they were, men didn’t notice such things, leastways not normal men. He’d stick a card in the post office window tomorrow morning for a cleaner. No visitor would enjoy a dirty bathroom and kitchen. No female visitor.

  He sank half the pint in one swoop and began thinking of the dead.

  Colin Rivers, the Lay Preacher with a penchant for going out late, planning church events, run down and smashed on the ring road. The Right Reverend James Kingston, upwardly mobile through the cathedral ranks, talked of as a future bishop, pushed under a train in an almost replica death to Desiree’s. William Camber, the lonely old fisherman, drowned in the New Cut. Maggie O’Brien, a gentle old lady who never hurt a fly, drugged and gassed to death in Delamere Forest. Jago Cripps, the confused young guy, dabbling in drugs, trying to make sense of life, had his wrists sliced open with a craft knife. Sally Beauchamp, another young kid, caught up in high class prostitution, drugged and suffocated with brown parcel tape wound repeatedly around her head and neck until she looked like a brown mummy, her body dumped in a North Wales’ quarry, and beyond that to the seven deaths at Eden Leys.

  Walter was ashamed to think he could not even recall their names, plus the two attempteds, as Karen called them, one on her at the racetrack, his sergeant, his oppo, hung out to die, and one on him, in his own house, for God’s sake, the bloody cheek of it, in his front room, in his favourite chair, injected with foreign blood. He shivered as he recalled the sight of the syringe emptying its poisonous cargo into his body.

  What had it all been for?

  There was still something bugging him.

  How many of those deaths could have been avoided if he had really been on top of his game? How many lives could have been saved? How many of those people would still be walking round the city right now, perhaps in this pub, enjoying a quiet pint, if only he had apprehended Armitage Samuel Holloway, nee Shelbourne, sooner?

  One, two, three, four, five, six, just how many?’

  Had he failed them?

  He hated to think of it that way. Maybe he had.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He had attended all the funerals, looked the relatives in the eye, saw the mixture of respect and doubt that lingered there, and all the while he knew what they were thinking. Why my son, my daughter, my husband, my aunt, my father? Why oh why oh why?

  It was a question he couldn’t answer.

  It always was.

  His glass was empty.

  He nodded the barman over and bought another pint, extra cold.

  Forced a smile and paid the bill.

  Drank a silent toast to the dead.

  Seven times over.

  Author’s Notes

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real characters, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Many of the places mentioned in the book actually exist. The Shroppie Fly at Audlem for example is an excellent place to spend a sunny afternoon. Many places do not exist of course, such as the Eden Leys complex, which has never and hopefully, will never exist. Rumours persist that operations were carried out on live Alzheimer’s and dementia patients at the Porton Down site in Wiltshire. Do they still? Let us hope not.

  Please don’t write and tell me that Mostyn Station doesn’t exist either. I know that, but for the purpose of this book it does. Artistic licence if you will. The station was actually closed in 1948, though some of the buildings remain to this day, and trains still regularly rumble through. Perhaps one day with a more user-friendly attitude to rail, the station might re-open, and if and when it does, let us hope it avoids any fatal accidents. Similarly I know that the Chester Police HQ is no longer in the city centre, but for this series of books, it is!

  MI7 really did exist, though it is reported to have been closed after World War II. Could it still exist today? Of course it could. Whether it does or not, I shall leave you to decide.

  Special thanks are due to Anne Sellars RMN who knows more about people with dementia type illnesses than most of us, after nursing such patients for more than twenty-five years. She put me right on technical matters and also thanks are due for her proofreading skills, advice, and encouragement.

  I hope you enjoyed the book. If you did, you might like to know there will be another Inspector Walter Darriteau thriller released next year. I am very excited about that and so is he! Please look out for it.

  There are also th
ree other Walter Darriteau cases already out there – “The Sound of Sirens”, “The Twelfth Apostle” and “Kissing a Killer” – all available in paperback and as ebooks. Please check those out.

  When you have a few spare minutes I’d hugely appreciate it if you could place a brief review of this book on any of the main bookselling sites. That would be very kind of you, and it would help me enormously.

  Thank you for reading,

  You have made my day!

  David.

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  © David Carter & TrackerDog Media 2017

  Did you love The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over? Then you should read The Sound of Sirens by David Carter!

  The ancient city of Chester, Friday night, and the weekend starts here. High summer, skimpy fashions, it’s a hot night, and the town’s relaxed. It’s 11pm and the pubs are beginning to close. The band has just finished playing; packing their instruments away, but the night is still young.

  A young man enters the crowded pub. Walks up to the small stage. Pulls out a handgun and empties four shots into the lead singer. One, two, three four. Waves the gun at the stunned and shocked crowd. Yelling, hollering and screaming breaks out, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, and the killer walks through the valley of death and out into the night, laughing as he goes.

  The Sound of Sirens floats across the humid city.

  Inspector Darriteau is soon on the scene. He only lives locally, and truth is, he’d much rather be at work than lying in bed searching for sleep that rarely comes. The local crime reporter turns up too, Gardenia Floem, nice woman, nice teeth.

  ‘Is this drugs related?’ she asks.

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ mutters Walter. ‘Get her out of here!’

  So begins David Carter’s fascinating Walter Darriteau murder mystery, “The Sound of Sirens”, but is it drugs related, Walter ponders, and if it isn’t, what’s it all about?