The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  Donald and the squirt could go to hell.

  Armitage was thrilled at the news.

  He began sleeping better, he began dancing better, he began looking better, and Mrs Greenaway could guess the reason why, when she heard the welcome news that Donna Deary had fled the town. Not before time, she muttered, not before time.

  This newfound sense of wellbeing did not spread to his father. Things lurched from bad to worse. The Shelbourne Motor Company failed to pay for the latest batch of cars. The wholesalers were furious and immediately descended on the forecourt and repossessed everything that hadn’t been paid for. The Shelbourne Motor Company had entered its death throes. Donald wasn’t thinking straight. He had even used Armitage’s inheritance, Kay’s money; that she had so clearly earmarked for her only son. He hated doing it, and now Armitage would never see a penny.

  One week later the business went bust. It owed just shy of a million pounds. An Official Receiver was appointed to wind up the company’s affairs. Donald was out of a job. He was broke, and he was broken.

  Armitage had no understanding what all that meant. He had always hated the garage and the cars and the filthy mechanics and the stink. He was pleased to see it go, and pleased to be free of being taken there on a Saturday morning. Now he could go straight to the florists and for a short while life was heaven.

  But it hit home when the house was put up for sale. Donald had mortgaged everything. The equity had fled as quickly as Donna. His father told him they would be moving out.

  ‘Where are we going to live?’ moped Army.

  He adored the house, his room, and the garden where his mother had chased and played and laughed with him, such happy, sunny days that now seemed so long ago, days that would never return.

  ‘I have found a little flat for us,’ said his father. ‘On Kenneally drive.’

  ‘On Kenneally drive?’ said Army, imagining he was hearing things.

  ‘Yes. We are moving there on Saturday.’

  ‘But that’s...’

  ‘Yes, I know... it’s on the council estate.’

  Armitage pulled a face and then said: ‘Will I be able to take Porridge?’

  ‘Yes, son, of course, Porridge is coming too.’

  So they moved into a small two bedroom flat on the second floor at number 39 Kenneally Drive on the same council estate that Donald had always been so sniffy about. As it turned out, the residents seemed quite friendly, even to the dancing freak with the plummy voice.

  Donald was soon making friends. It was as if a mighty weight had been chipped from his shoulders. He’d met a young widow by the name of Janet Everrit who lived in the house on the corner. She had taken a shine to the upright well-dressed bloke who’d moved in up the road.

  Donald and Army began taking tea there. Donald fixed up her old car and he would drive them all to the supermarket on the Saturday morning to buy provisions. It was sure as hell better than taking the public bus. They began spending evenings at the Everrit house too, and the following week they even had a sleepover. Armitage was forced to share a room with Smelly Everrit. Army had never shared a room before, with anyone, other than Porridge.

  He didn’t like it much, but his dad seemed happy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It had gone two in the morning by the time Samantha left Jago’s flat. It was dark and quiet and cloudy, now looking like rain, as she opened his car and adjusted the seat, jumped inside, clicked open her bag, dragged out a folded baseball cap, and pulled it down over her face. She started the car and rolled from the car park and headed across town for the swimming pool, just as the fine rain began tumbling down.

  Her own car was still there, alone and safe and unmolested. She pulled Jago’s car skew-whiff into a bay some way off, glanced round, no one about, and stepped out into the miserable night. Checked she’d left nothing behind, quietly closed the door, took Jago’s keys with her to her own car, opened up, jumped in and drove away.

  Sam’s flat was located on the south side of the city. It was one of four apartments in a redbrick Victorian detached house. Two flats to the left, ground floor and first, and two mirroring flats to the right. Sam’s was the ground floor right. She’d lived there on and off for five years and she liked it. The other residents were single and quiet and past fifty. They kept themselves to themselves, immersed in their work and their studies and their books. They would occasionally say hello in passing but that was about it. At least two of them were shortsighted and another was going deaf. She had rarely been in any of the other flats, and they had rarely been in hers, and that suited Sam just fine.

  As she crossed the river on the Grosvenor Bridge, she buzzed down the passenger window and hurled Jago’s keys over the handrail. They turned over in the air several times and splashed into the river. On the still night air she imagined she heard the plop, though she might have been mistaken.

  There was no one about at the flats. Iona House was asleep.

  The other three residents, two guys and a woman; were strict timekeepers. They all went to bed between half past ten and eleven o’clock, and they didn’t hear the car cruise into the small car park, and they didn’t see or hear Sam get out of the car and hurry inside.

  Each of the flats possessed a wood burning stove that provided hot water and heating. Sam would keep it burning all year round, except for the hottest summer months. She stood before the stove and undressed. Took off her jacket and skirt, opened the stove, as the iron metallic clunk echoed through the old house, couldn’t be helped, tossed the clothing inside. Blouse? Yeah, that too. Slipped it off and in it went. Three minutes later and the clothing didn’t exist. The last item she would remove that night would be the gloves. The glovely lady, she said aloud, mimicking Jago’s idiotic voice. I am the glovely lady. She giggled. Would she burn those too? Of course not, that was unthinkable. Desi had bought them special. She’d wash them thoroughly in the morning.

  Sam smiled and yawned. It had been a good day. It had been a good night. She went to bed, slept really well; didn’t think of Jago Cripps once. He was a rapist and woman molester, a drug addict and a wastrel. The world would not miss the likes of him, and there was certainly no reason for Sam to waste precious time thinking about the guy.

  ––––––––

  In the morning Sam rose at ten. Turned on the radio. Nothing new. No murders in the city. Turned on the Internet. Nothing special. Big fuss over some oil leak off Africa, but that was nothing new either. Navigated to the word processor, settled on the kooky AR Delaney font, and wrote a letter. It had been coming for a few days. Today it would be written and posted, and after that, the next night’s clothes needed attention. Yesterday had been an off day; but tonight it was back to the casino. Work could not be avoided. The bills still had to be paid; the mortgage on Flat 2 Iona House wouldn’t pay itself.

  Walter knew there was something weird about the letter the moment Jenny Thompson handed it to him. One large A4 manila envelope, one solitary sheet inside judging by the skinny feel of it, one self adhesive first class stamp, one postmark reading Chester City, 2.30pm from yesterday. It was the address that grabbed Walter’s attention. A homemade label, black print on white paper, ink jetted letters, unusual font, taped to the envelope.

  ––––––––

  Private and Personnel

  Inspector Wally Darrito

  Chester Police Station HQ

  Chester

  ––––––––

  Two spelling mistakes in eleven words. Walter opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on, grabbed the letter opener from the centre of the desk, eased it inside the flap, and carefully opened. He had been right. A single sheet of unfolded A4 paper. Same inkjet printing, same strange font.

  ––––––––

  Wally,

  ––––––––

  We thought you was clever. Perhaps you should retire, sod off back to Jamaca. You aint up to the job, mate. Its past y
our retirment. You said we’d be meeting soon. It hasn’t happened. It aint going to happen. Your thick, but we like you. Keep smiling, that’s what fool’s do.

  ––––––––

  The Chester Mollesters

  ––––––––

  Walter silently read the message three times. Counted the spelling mistakes, four in all, to add to the two on the address label, five if you included the missing apostrophe in “its”. Poor grammar too, was, aint, horrible, really clunky, and obviously written by an ill educated person, or maybe that was what the writer intended. The big question was, was it from the killer, or was it some sick hoax from someone desperate for attention?

  He held the paper to the light. No watermark, standard supermarket issue copy paper if he had to guess. Untraceable. He slipped it into a clear plastic sleeve and ambled to the photocopy machine, made four copies, returned to his desk, placed the original and the envelope into his drawer and closed and locked it. Ambled across the office, taking the copies with him, pondering as he went as to any hidden meaning in the signature: The Chester Mollesters. It wasn’t something he’d ever come across before.

  He tapped on Mrs West’s door.

  ‘Come,’ she said, glancing up and removing her spectacles.

  ‘I’ve had a letter, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘From the killer?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Come in, shut the door, sit down.’

  ––––––––

  They talked about the letter. He showed her a copy; assured her the original was untouched and would be sent to forensics for fingerprinting and DNA tests. She asked him if the phrase Chester Mollesters meant anything to him and he said it didn’t. She asked him what he thought the letter meant. He said he thought the killer had already struck again. Mrs West grimaced and rolled her eyes and said, ‘Not the child you mentioned, God forbid.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, ma’am.’

  ‘Bring Karen and Cresta in, eh, let’s see what they think,’ and in the next minute they were all around the table staring down at Walter’s copies.

  ‘You said he’d be in touch,’ said Mrs West to Cresta, ‘And he has.’

  Cresta glowed and then added, ‘Could be a woman, Mrs West.’

  Karen said, ‘How does the killer know about Jamaica?’

  ‘I think we can blame the worldwide web for that one,’ sighed Walter.

  ‘The he-she thing is baiting you,’ said Cresta.

  ‘I know that,’ said Walter, and then he said, ‘There are two things that interest me, the spelling mistakes for a start.’

  ‘And me,’ said Karen.

  ‘Is the person poorly educated, or is it a con?’

  ‘I think it’s a con,’ said Cresta. ‘It’s too obvious. Jamaca looks so wrong.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Walter. ‘So we might assume the person is well educated.’

  ‘For sure,’ said Cresta. ‘Uni wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Chester Mollesters?’ said Karen.

  ‘Means nothing to me,’ said Walter. ‘Dreadful expression, not the kind of words you would associate with adult murders.’

  ‘You said there were two things?’ said Mrs West.

  Walter bobbed his head. ‘Why does the note refer to we? Surely there isn’t a team of the buggers at work.’

  ‘More likely the royal we,’ said Cresta, ‘Didn’t Mrs Thatcher once say: We have a grandson? I don’t believe there is more than one person involved for a minute, split personality, yes, two different people, highly unlikely.’

  ‘Yet it’s as if the killer is part of a couple,’ said Karen.

  ‘In his or her mind they still are, except, as we have discussed before, I believe the partner is no longer there. Gone but not forgotten, the killer can’t get the thought of being in a couple out of their mind.’

  ‘Do you think they will contact us again?’ asked Mrs West.

  ‘Highly likely,’ said Cresta.

  ‘Yes, I agree with that,’ said Walter.

  ‘So what are we doing now?’ asked Mrs West, just about keeping the natural tetchiness out of her voice.

  ‘We’ll see if there is anything on the letter, the paper itself, maybe even in the ink, or the envelope, or the stamp, but I doubt there is,’ said Walter.

  ‘And the checking of the cars?’

  They all glanced at Karen.

  ‘We have so far checked out the owners of, and searched three hundred and eight cars that match the vague description. We haven’t found anything unusual except some weed in one of the cars, quite unrelated.’

  ‘I hate to say it,’ Mrs West said, ‘but we seem to be stalling. Are we really waiting for another murder to kick-start things?’

  ‘I am going to stay late, go through everything again, right from the beginning,’ said Walter. ‘I still think we might be missing something.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said Karen.

  Walter nodded his appreciation.

  They checked out purple Cresta, hoping for inspiration.

  She sensed her moment and threw out the first thought that came into her head. ‘The he-she thing will kill again’ she said, ‘for sure.’

  ‘Great,’ muttered Mrs West. ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘I’ll be late in the morning,’ said Walter. ‘Funeral, I’ll be at the cathedral, Right Reverend James Kingston.’

  They all nodded and went back to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Samuel was getting dressed. He slipped on a fresh blue shirt and red tie. He glanced in the mirror. Cocked his head from side to side. His neat short blond hair looked at its best. Man moisturiser, he couldn’t get enough of it, certainly kept the crow’s feet at bay. He was only surprised more men didn’t swallow their pride and use it. He had a lunchtime meet and was looking forward to it. He slipped into the black casual shoes he’d bought with Desi in Manchester, and the gold tiepin Desi liked so much.

  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. Samuel missed his trips to Cottonopolis, with Desi. Afterwards he tried it once by himself but it wasn’t the same. Never mind, there was nothing that could be done about that now.

  Samuel had a date.

  A blind date; and blind dates were always the most exciting. He’d found her 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. He 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. Samuel wasn’t taking any chances.

  They’d 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. He glanced at his watch. 12.15. Soon be time to go.

  ––––––––

  Sally Beauchamp was looking forward to the date, even if he was something of a mystery man. He assured her she would not be disappointed. She’d soon see. She had no idea what he looked like. He said he was too shy to upload his picture on the Internet. He would recognise her, because she would be carrying a bunch of daffodils. Make sure you do! Sally felt stupid, standing there with a bunch of yellow flowers, flowers weren’t really her thing, and the weird thing was, she had no way of recognising him at all, he’d insisted it be that way, and that made her nervous, and she’d almost called the whole idea off, but then again, she was up for adventure, always had been.

  Sally came from a good family and had trained as an accountant, but the pay had been lousy and her progress painfully slow, and one day when a client had been in town, he’d asked her to go for a drink after work. He was pretty old, at least forty-five, but as her mother would have said, well preserved, and his greying hair suited him, and she h
ad nothing better to do, so she agreed.

  He took her for a wonderful meal and with the coffee afterwards he said he was going to make her a proposition. Yeah? She’d said, expecting some kind of pass to be made, and in a way it was, though not as she had expected. I’ll give you £500 cash now to spend the night with me, here at the hotel. He’d said it just like that, bold as brass, not even bothering to lower his voice.

  Sally had had a fair bit to drink, and the guy was quite handsome, more so now through the booze, and £500 was £500. She’d smiled and said, OK, and that was all there was to it.

  It was a good night, and a very profitable one too. Michael had been a man of his word, and in the morning they parted, smiling at one another, a few aching bones on either side, the roll of used tenners sleeping contentedly in her handbag.

  It was her ticket into prostitution.

  She’d never planned it, she told herself, she had never even considered the idea, the career move, as she later came to refer to it. It had just happened, as if by accident, and the truth was, she had never regretted it, not really.

  That had been ten years before, and now in her mid thirties she was a woman of means and was looking to settle down. She was looking to retire. She was on the lookout for a husband, maybe even start a family, it was not too late, and something about this guy intrigued her.

  Tristram, his name was, and she had never known a Tristram before, it sounded kind of cute, sexy even, Trist...ram, and his brief biog said: Writer and Broadcaster seeks an attractive lady with a view to marriage and, eventually, hopefully, children. Interests include foreign travel, lino cuttings, and fashion.