The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  How could any woman not be intrigued by a man who listed his interests as lino cutting and fashion? Not to mention the Writer and Broadcaster bit that carried hints of glamour.

  She’d put on the good navy blue suit; she could still squeeze into it despite the few extra pounds that had crept up on her almost unnoticed over the previous couple of years. She left her city centre loft apartment, buzzed open the garage door, jumped into her Audi sports, and drove the short way into town. She had fallen into the habit of driving everywhere. She knew it was lazy, but what the hell. There were other more important things to spend her precious energy on.

  She simply hoped that Tristram’s lack of a picture wasn’t because he was so dog god awful, and a picture of a short fat bald man who had trimmed his age by ten years filtered into her mind. You could never tell with men, so many of the bastards were out and out liars, and through her career she felt as if she’d met every last one of them. Just so long as she had never met Tristram before. Sally shivered at the thought.

  Samuel had chosen her because she was short, he could look down on her, and he liked that, and more so, imagined that women did too, being looked down on by their partner, and also because she looked vaguely tarty. It was difficult to say why exactly, her clothes appeared expensive, and the locket around her neck had cost a pretty penny. Her straight auburn hair curled under her chin and had been expensively coiffured, and though she may have been a few pounds overweight, no one was perfect.

  She said she was thirty, but he thought you could add five years to that. Human beings were born liars. In Samuel’s world everyone lied; everyone except Desi of course. Sally had written a biog that came over as if she were a founder member of the Women’s Institute, listing cake and jam making as some of her hobbies. Samuel seriously doubted that. She looked far more of a good time girl to him, he could see it in her eyes, and he doubted if she had ever baked a cake in her life.

  He saw her standing there, looking nervous, smoking a cigarette, bunch of damp daffs in her hand, and he walked away. He would make her wait. Come back in ten minutes, no, fifteen, see if she was still there.

  She was still there, in her businesswoman’s dark suit, a little like the women in the Building Society opposite, she didn’t exactly have an ID badge pinned to her lapel, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. Come to think of it, he didn’t know what she did for a living, maybe she had come straight from work, maybe she really did work in a building society or a bank. He didn’t care. He ambled along the busy corridor, passed her by; she barely offered him a second glance. Why not? Women often did. Did she think he was too good to be true? Or did she think he wasn’t coming?

  He turned round and wandered back. She was still standing there, facing away from him and staring down at the daffodils, as if they had somehow failed her.

  ‘Sally?’ he said, in his smoothest sexy voice.

  The girl started and swivelled round. Almost fell over. Her face lit up at the sight of the neat blond gentleman before her. He was a little on the short side, but that didn’t matter, still taller than her. She liked his neatly trimmed hair; and the dark suit, she liked his kind face and trim figure, she liked his bright blue eyes, and the neat gold tiepin. Christ, she liked everything about him. To her, he appeared to be perfect husband material. She could imagine herself being married to this guy, having his children, it was quite perfect, this might be her lucky day, she thought.

  ‘Tristram?’ she said, smiling, all hint of discomfort gone.

  Samuel nodded.

  ‘You’re late,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said sweetly, smiling at the slight admonishment. ‘I had to take my mother to the hospital.’

  ‘Nothing serious I hope?’

  ‘No, it was her monthly check-up, I forgot all about it.’

  ‘You are here now, that’s the main thing.’

  He glanced down at the soppy daffies and slipped them from her hand. She seemed happy to be rid of them, and a moment later he gave them to an ancient woman who was shuffling by.

  Samuel then said, ‘Shall we go in?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Oh yeah, so long as you do.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said.

  ‘Me to. Come on,’ and he strode toward the door and held it open.

  Good old-fashioned manners too, and she liked that.

  Once seated at the corner table in the Hunting Rooms restaurant they sat and studied the vast menu.

  ‘It’s very expensive,’ grinned Sally, all the while thinking, is this guy really going to splash this much cash on me? Or did he expect her to go Dutch?

  ‘Not too expensive for us,’ said Samuel, ‘My invite, my treat.’

  Sally smiled across the table. If she hadn’t been impressed before, she was now.

  Samuel chose his meal, not the most expensive items on offer, but not far off, and then he said, ‘I always fancy champagne at lunchtimes, don’t you?’

  Sally smiled at that too. The date was getting better and better. If she drank too much she could always leave the car and walk home, and then she said, ‘Yeah, course anything you say.’

  They talked about this and that, and something and nothing, and then quite surprisingly, the plates were empty, the glasses were empty, the bottles were empty, and the meal was over.

  She had never once asked him about his home or his work, there didn’t seem the time. The foreign waiter presented the bill. Sam took one look at it, brought a roll of cash from his top pocket, peeled off the necessary and a big tip, and the waiter grinned at the pair of them, grabbed the money and ran.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t make a contribution?’ she asked.

  She’d come well equipped, plenty of cash in her bag for emergencies, he’d be surprised. One thing that Sally Beauchamp had in abundance was money. Her chosen career path had always paid incredibly well, and she had never once been forced to edge downmarket, or take a lower price. Discount was a word that didn’t exist in her language, premium prices more like. Top of the range is top of the range, she told herself, and people would always pay through the nose for top product.

  ‘No,’ answered Tristram, ‘but thanks for offering. I appreciate it.’

  He had a gentle smile, and a gentle way about him, almost slow, though that wasn’t the right word at all, relaxed, that was nearer the mark, and she certainly felt relaxed in his company, and she’d felt that way long before she’d dispatched a quantity of vintage Champagne.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Do you want to go out again?’

  Too bloody right! She wanted to blurt, but remembered herself in time. ‘Maybe,’ she said, sucking her finger.

  ‘Tomorrow night?’

  She pulled a face. ‘I might be able to do that.’

  She was playing hard to get. He didn’t care. He wanted to date her again, he wanted to see what she was made of, he wanted her back at his place, he wanted...

  ‘What time did you have in mind?’ she asked.

  ‘Eight o’clock OK?’

  She bobbed her head. ‘I might be able to do that.’

  ‘We could go for a meal in some country pub.’

  Sally nodded, feeling more secure now that she’d secured a second date, didn’t say anything.

  ‘Where do you want to meet?’ he asked.

  ‘Outside the library, by the old picture house.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I can do that, I’ll see you there.’

  Sam nodded and stood up and she did too. She didn’t think she was incapable of driving, and the car wasn’t far away, and neither was her apartment, and she hated walking.

  ‘Thanks for the meal, Tristram,’ she said, as they headed back toward the Audi.

  He had insisted on escorting her, and she liked that too.

  It was cool.

  He was cool.

  Sally’s mind lurched into overdrive.

  She could see her entire future mapped out before her.

  ‘Don’t be lat
e,’ she said, as they parted.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ he muttered, as he strode away, leaving her to watch him go.

  He never once looked back.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Donald Shelbourne was gradually putting his life back together. He had given up the tiny flat he shared with Armitage and moved in with the widow, Mrs Everrit. Six months later they bought their council house under the government’s right to buy scheme, and from somewhere, managed to rake together sufficient cash to add a small extension to the side of the house.

  Armitage had his own bedroom again, and if all was not exactly right with the world, it was certainly a heck of a lot better.

  Donald was keen to make the arrangement more permanent and married the widow at the earliest opportunity. Smelly Everrit was now Armitage’s stepbrother. That didn’t bother Armitage much either, he was too busy with his singing and dancing and flower arranging. Smelly played rugby and football and went fishing in the upper reaches of the River Dee. Came home stinking like a dead crab, even worse than usual. Their paths rarely crossed.

  Armitage was now ten and next term he would go to the big school in the city, probably Chester’s most famous school, Kings. They had accepted him under a longstanding scholarship arrangement. Kay, ever mindful of the importance of planning ahead, had put his name down two weeks after his birth, and though the parent’s situation had now radically changed, indeed Mrs Kay Shelbourne was long deceased; the school honoured the arrangement, and indeed went further, by waving the fees.

  They might have thought it odd that the Curzon Park address had morphed into Kenneally Council Estate, but if they noticed that, they said nothing, and didn’t change a thing.

  They had been persuaded of the boy’s potential when glimpsing Armitage’s outstanding dance class reports; and on hearing him sing, as had been suggested they do, in the cathedral choir, where already he was one of the four chosen soloists. The Kings school ran a choir of their own, and Armitage would be a useful addition. The boy was something special, everyone said so, and Kings was ready and willing to wave fees for exceptional boys whose parents were no longer able to foot the bill.

  Army was hugely impressed with the school, and the tutors, who promised him individual after hours attention, should he desire it. Armitage did desire, ever eager to learn, ever eager to improve the skills in his chosen paths.

  He was looking forward to the day when he would first set foot in the establishment as a bone fide pupil. For Armitage, it couldn’t come soon enough.

  ––––––––

  During the summer holidays, immediately before he was due to start at senior school, a top motor racing meeting featured at Oulton Park. His father was going, taking the new wife; and Smelly too, and they tried hard to persuade Armitage to accompany them.

  ‘I’m not interested in cars, dad, you know that.’

  ‘I know that, son, but I thought it would be nice to have a day out, all together as a family.’

  ‘I’d be bored to tears, and anyway, I have promised to help Mrs Greenaway. She has four weddings to do; I can’t let her down now.’

  ‘Perhaps another time, eh?’

  ‘If you want to take me out, dad, you could take me to the Shrewsbury Flower Show.’

  ‘But we are not interested in flowers.’

  ‘And I am not interested in cars!’

  ––––––––

  His father, his new wife, and Smelly, piled into the ancient German hatchback that Donald had been servicing all week, together with a huge picnic, and they set off eastbound on the Nantwich road.

  On a fast straight stretch of tarmac Donald put his foot down.

  ‘Doesn’t she go? Terrific engine,’ he exclaimed, happy that his work had paid such dividends.

  ‘Not so fast,’ said the widow, ‘you’re frightening me.’

  ‘Go on Mister Shelbourne,’ yelled Smelly from the back seat. ‘Faster!’

  It was all the encouragement Donald needed, as he gently pressed the accelerator. The car surged forward. Began vibrating. Didn’t feel right at all.

  The back axle cracked, nearside, close to the wheel.

  The weight of the load and the velocity of the vehicle stressed it to breaking point. The rear nearside wheel fell alarmingly to the left, and flattened.

  ‘What the?’ screamed Donald, glancing at the dash. 70mph.

  ‘Don!’ yelled the widow. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ snorted Smelly.

  The car bucked and reared violently, then veered straight across the oncoming lane.

  Up ahead, one of Midge Ridge’s maroon grain wagons, a brand new bulk tipper, was speeding westwards. It was late, hauling a delivery of heavy milling wheat, bound for Rank Hovis McDougall at Birkenhead. The driver was under pressure to deliver. The truck was speeding. The two vehicles were closing at more than 150mph.

  Donald wrestled with the non-responding steering wheel. The truck driver was distracted by his newly installed mobile phone trilling away through the cabin. He knew it would be the same old demand: ‘Where the hell are you?’

  The trucker cursed. He was caught between answering and paying attention to the road. When he glanced up and ahead he saw the old red hatchback, out of control, crossing the centre line, coming toward him on the stretch where there was only one lane in each direction.

  Belatedly, the trucker emergency braked.

  In the hatchback Donald was frantically braking too, not that it was having much effect. He grabbed the handbrake.

  The car fishtailed and continued its course along the oncoming lane.

  ‘Donald!’ shrieked the widow, staring forward. ‘Donald! Donald! Look out!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ yelled Smelly.

  Donald didn’t say a word.

  His eyes grew wide, his hands sweaty, as he gripped and twisted the wheel ever tighter.

  Too late.

  SMASH!

  The car struck the centre of the maroon cab unit.

  Glass shattered, hurling high-speed shards of death through the air.

  The trucker swore and closed his eyes.

  Pieces of the hatchback flew in all directions.

  Pieces of the passengers followed.

  Pieces of the picnic rained down.

  The truck tipped over.

  Ran along the highway on its side, clipped two more oncoming cars. The noise was deafening. The trailer deposited twenty-five tonnes of best heavy English milling wheat along the highway, as it slithered along the tarmac, one long trail of high protein corn, spitting sparks as it went.

  The hatchback fuel tank exploded.

  The remains of the passengers began to fry.

  A sweet aroma of freshly roasting meat and wheat filled the sunny country air.

  The truck finally rumbled to a standstill.

  The trucker clambered out, his head bleeding, his hands shaking, his shirt torn, his voice silent, his phone obliterated. He staggered to the front of the cab. Remnants of the hatchback, and the passengers, and the picnic, were all ablaze, half jammed beneath and between the upturned front wheels. He turned round and vomited over the cheerful dandelioned verge, then turned back toward the truck.

  Fire was licking around the front tyres.

  He remembered he’d recently taken on a full load of diesel.

  It could go up at any minute.

  He ran for his life, forgetting his wounds, forgetting everything, away from the truck, along the highway, toward Chester.

  The truck exploded.

  Blew the trucker into the air.

  He somersaulted three times before landing face down in some bordering gorse bushes, their long and spiteful needles happy to impale a stranger.

  Somewhere close by people were screaming.

  People came running.

  Cars arrived from nowhere.

  Mobile phones burst into life.

  Far too late for Donald and the widow, and Smelly Everrit
.

  The trucker groaned and rolled over and fell from the hedge and landed face down in a freshly laid cowpat.

  Ten minutes later sirens could be heard, echoing through the green Cheshire countryside, and then the rumbling sounds of stressed diesel engines, huffing and puffing toward the carnage.

  ––––––––

  It was half past three before the police arrived at the flower shop. They had been to the house and had eventually found a neighbour who knew where the boy worked.

  Mrs Greenaway and Army were feeling jubilant. The shop had enjoyed its best day ever, thanks to Mrs Greenaway’s reputation, and Armitage’s burgeoning skills. Some of the wedding bouquets that went out that day were better than Mrs Greenaway had ever seen before. The till had been singing, and Army knew that he would rack up a decent bonus. Mrs Greenaway was a sensible woman, and fair too, she recognised the raw talent she had on her hands, and she wasn’t about to let him slip through her fingers by paying him poorly.

  Armitage was now the best paid boy in his school.

  He was still keeping busy, crouched down amongst the remaining blooms.

  They had finished all that day’s special orders; he was using the time to prepare an eye-catching new display that would sit in the centre of the small window. He saw the policemen enter the shop, but that wasn’t unusual. Policemen were always dropping in on the traders in the town, ensuring that everything was just so.

  Mrs Greenaway smiled a greeting at them and they forced a smile back. Army didn’t think anything of it. Carried on caressing the delphiniums. One of the policemen whispered something in her ear. Army watched on. The cheerfulness on Mrs Greenaway’s face and the bonhomie in her body language vanished in an instant, replaced by one of shock.

  She’d known Donald Shelbourne. True, she hadn’t got on with him as well as she had with Kay, but she’d known him for a dozen years at least.

  How dreadful.

  What could be the matter? thought Army. Perhaps one of the complicated wedding displays had collapsed.

  She came over and said they had some terrible news.

  His father’s car had been involved in an accident on the way to Oulton Park. His father, his father’s second wife, and her son, had all been killed. She was most dreadfully sorry. There was nothing more she could say.