The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over Page 5

  ‘What did you do that for?’ William yelled.

  The figure waved him goodbye.

  The effort of shouting expended energy that William could ill afford.

  The current had swept him into the centre of the canal, the deepest, coldest area. His legs had lost all feeling. He could no longer kick. His arms were weak and feeble. They were going the same way. He grimaced in agony.

  His head slipped beneath the surface. There was no sign of him. He’d gone. The driver felt elated. It had been so easy.

  100 Ways to Kill People.

  Push them in the Cut.

  A hand broke the surface. He wasn’t dead.

  It wouldn’t be long coming.

  William’s white arm rose into the sky. The fist clenched like some communist black and white propaganda movie from the fifties. It shook at the figure on the bank, at the world in general, at all the people who had ignored him, then retreated into the water, gone and forever still, soon to be forgotten.

  Sam grinned and turned about. Pulled out the book of birds and strolled away along the bank. What species could be recorded today? Barnacle goose, yes, tick, Canada goose, yes, another tick, kestrel, yes, mute swan, yes, lots of ticks; it had been a good day. It had been a very good day.

  Chapter Nine

  The gaunt figure was washed up the following morning, downstream beyond the new road bridge, below the power station at Connah’s Quay, dumped there by the retreating tide. One hand was missing, essential foodstuff for three hungry fox cubs. Two power workers had noticed the figure. They thought it was a mannequin, probably chucked into the water by a local band of mischievous kids. It didn’t once move; it must be a mannequin. One of the engineers wasn’t convinced and clambered down to take a closer look.

  He was right. It wasn’t a mannequin.

  The body was in Wales, nothing to do with the English, well beyond Walter’s jurisdiction. There, the Heddlu Gogledd Cymru ruled, the North Wales Police Service, but Walter had a pal in Prestatyn by the name of Dai Williams, and they would regularly speak and exchange intelligence and gossip. Dai was aware of Walter’s interest in the unexplained death at Mostyn station, hence one of his first calls was to him.

  ‘No ID yet, Walter,’ he said, in his happy singsong Welsh voice. ‘No one has been reported missing who fits the description, white man, difficult to age, we are saying between fifty and eighty, cause of death, drowning, no obvious injuries other than one nibbled paw.’

  Three hours later the police patrols found the rod and bag and eventual identification. The dead man was one William Camber from Chester, aged sixty, no known relatives, and William Camber left behind one final mystery.

  Was it suicide, accident, or murder?

  Walter and Karen knew the answer to that. They couldn’t prove it, they had precious little evidence, they simply knew.

  They were no longer seeking a double murderer, but a triple, and that was a rarity in itself, and there was something else of interest too. William Camber was an atheist. He had never shown any interest in churches or religion. The vicar murdering Islamist theory could be put to bed. They were looking for a serial killer; and a random striker at that.

  Random killers were always the hardest to catch.

  One of the telephones rang.

  Karen snatched it up.

  Walter heard her say, ‘Yes, he’s here, sure, I’ll send him in.’

  ‘What is it?’ Walter snapped, though he had a good idea who it was.

  ‘Mrs West wants to see you, right away.’

  Walter cursed aloud.

  Mrs West, known behind her back as John, was Walter’s superior. Her name was Joan West and she was ten years younger than Walter. She would often use the telephone to speak to her staff, even if they were sitting in the office right next door, preferring to keep her door closed whenever she possibly could. It wasn’t how the book suggested a station was run, but she didn’t care about that. It had served her well in the past and she wasn’t about to change.

  Walter stood up and waddled across the office mumbling, ‘That’s all I bloody need.’

  He knocked and went inside.

  ‘Sit down, Walter.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes. I think you need help.’

  ‘Help with what?’

  ‘On this serial killer we seem to have on the loose.’

  ‘We don’t even know we have such a thing.’

  ‘You said you did, and I believe you.’

  ‘What kind of help?’

  ‘A profiler.’

  Walter grimaced. He’d feared the worst. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘I think it is. We need to catch this bugger before it gets out of hand.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The killer of course.’

  ‘No, I mean which profiler?’

  ‘Cresta Raddish.’

  Walter grimaced. ‘Not her, she’s a menace.’

  ‘She’s very good. I’ve arranged for her to arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘That must be costing you a fortune.’

  ‘Money is not an issue; the only thing that matters here is...’

  Walter interrupted. ‘Yes, I know, the safety of the public.’

  ‘Quite. Make her welcome, Walter, and that’s an order.’

  ‘If you say so, ma’am.’

  ‘I do say, and please bear in mind this is happening on my watch, it’s my neck on the block here, not yours.’

  ‘It won’t come to that.’

  ‘It better not!’

  Cresta Raddish had made her name three years before by pointing the police directly to the Yorkshire killer operating in Sheffield, Hull, and Doncaster. She’d had further success helping to uncover the schoolteacher murderer flitting between Swansea and Cardiff. The whole team at Chester was intrigued and on parade to greet her the following morning.

  Mrs West led the welcome, mwa-mwahing Cresta in full view of the team. Walter was next up, though he wasn’t really a mwa-mwahing kind of guy. Cresta made a beeline for him, grasping his shoulders, depositing mauve lipstick on his cheeks, whispering in his ear, ‘I am so glad to meet you at last Mister Darriteau, I’ve heard so much about you and your fabulous work. It’ll be a pleasure to work with you.’

  ‘Call me Walter,’ he said, though he wasn’t so sure about the working with her bit, but at least she’d made a decent start.

  She had a strange aroma about her, Walter noticed that, not perfume exactly, and certainly not BO, more of the new age palaver, or dare one think it, hints of satanic worship, that same aroma that always hangs around those crazy colour filled shops that flog that kind of rubbish.

  Karen stood on the sidelines awaiting her turn. It seemed that Cresta was crazy about purple, or was it mauve? Skirt, blouse, scarf, shoes, eye shadow, and lipstick, all a pronounced shade of mauve. She was a buxom woman, not fat, more rounded, and Karen couldn’t help but notice as Walter and Cresta embraced, they made a handsome couple, except that he was a good twenty years older than she.

  Karen wouldn’t forget that, there had to be a good ribbing in there somewhere along the line, while for her part, she was looking forward to working with Cresta Raddish. Karen kept an open mind in all things, and if Cresta had helped to bring serial killers to justice in the past, it had to be worth having her onboard.

  Walter introduced Karen; and then the rest of the team, and in the next moment Cresta clasped her hands together and said, ‘Right let’s make a start shall we, there is no time to lose,’ and Walter appreciated the sentiment, if not her determination to lead.

  ‘Walter,’ she said, ‘could you bring us up to speed.’

  He nodded and glanced around the room. Twenty people assembled there, Mrs John West at the rear, grinning, imagined Walter, at her minor triumph in inflicting this weirdo on the rest of them, on him.

  ‘We have three unsolved deaths. A road kill, a fall or push in front of an express train, and most recently, a man seemingly t
umbling to his death, drowning in the New Cut. It would seem they are entirely unrelated, but the fact we have had three in such a short period of time is suspicious in itself. We are treating all three as murder, and the suggestion is that the same person is responsible. At this stage we don’t know if we are looking for a man or a woman, the only description we have is of a short, slight person observed at the scene of the railway death. It could be either.’

  ‘I think that is a very important point,’ interrupted Cresta. ‘On the face of it you could be forgiven for assuming this is the work of a man, after all most serial killers are men, and most female serial killers carry out their work in the medical sector, hospitals, care homes, and the like, but we must not be swayed by that. This could be a pioneering female serial killer revelling in that very fact, that she is a pioneer, so to speak. I read up on the notes last night. There is nothing here to suggest to me this is a man.’

  ‘Or a woman,’ butted in Karen.

  ‘Quite so, so we keep an open mind. I see that the press haven’t cottoned on to this yet. I suggest that should be the first move.’

  She glanced at Walter.

  He nodded his approval and Cresta continued. ‘Arrange a press conference for tomorrow. This person is dying to be recognised in the public domain for his or her actions. They are craving fame. Let us at least grant them that wish.’

  ‘With what aim in mind?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Three aims. Firstly, we are looking for leads of any kind from the general public. Secondly, we are seeking to put pressure on the perpetrator, to stampede them into further action...’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Of course it is, but it is far more likely that he or she will make a mistake if we hassle them into early action. Far better than to simply sit back and wait for the next well-planned and neatly executed, forgive the pun, tragedy.’

  ‘And thirdly?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Thirdly, Walter, is the best reason of all. I believe that this he-she creature will contact us in some way, and more accurately, you Walter, once they see your handsome face filling the plasma screens over teatime, pleading for assistance.’

  Everyone laughed at that.

  Walter pulled a face.

  ‘I take it that nothing came of your research into recent prison releases.’

  Everyone glanced at Karen. ‘There was one candidate,’ she said, ‘but he was away on a dungeons and dragons event in Birmingham at the time of the New Cut death.’

  ‘I am not surprised,’ said Cresta. ‘This isn’t someone who has been in the system before. This is a newbie, a pioneer.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ said Walter.

  ‘Anything else I should know?’ asked Cresta.

  There was nothing of consequence, so Cresta leant over and whispered in Walter’s ear, ‘Perhaps we could have a quiet word in private.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Now?’

  ‘No time like the present.’

  Walter led her away down the corridor to a quiet comfortable room set aside for just such heart-to-hearts.

  Cresta sat down and crossed her legs. Walter sniffed the air.

  ‘I don’t want you to feel I am taking over. I am not,’ she said.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Good. I’d like to make a few suggestions for the press conference.’

  ‘Fine by me. They have never been my favourite aspect of police work.’

  ‘Excellent. Here’s what I’d like you to do.’

  Chapter Ten

  Sam lay back on the bed, propped up against four pillows, nibbling a pre-prepared tuna salad, watching the old-fashioned spare television parked on the chest of drawers. The national news came on. Nothing. Not a thing. What was wrong with these people? What did Sam have to do to gain their attention?

  The local news came on, that oh so irritating music. The dumpy, dusky girl with the nasal voice. She was gabbling on about a party of local scouts who were flying to Tanzania to walk, or was it climb; up Mount Kilimanjaro. They still needed additional sponsorship, if anyone was interested, but three quarters of the way through, she interrupted what she was saying and said: ‘We’re going over now live to Chester Police Headquarters for a news conference,’ there was an excited frisson in her voice, as if something different was about to happen.

  Sam sat up straight and paid attention, slipped the salad on the bedside table.

  Could they have finally woken up?

  They had!

  Sam’s mouth fell open. Blue eyes widened.

  The small room filling the tiny screen was packed. The moving camera switched from showing the chatting journalists seated in rows, to the bank of desks at the front. There were three officers behind the desks, a fat black guy who looked due for retirement, a slim blonde who looked as if she had stepped straight in from the gymnasium, and a middle-aged white guy who was introduced as Bernie Porter, the Police Press Officer.

  He opened the meeting, introduced the players.

  ‘Inspector Walter Darriteau.’

  Sam grabbed a pad and a pen and began making notes. Darriteau. What kind of name was that? Hardly a Cheshire man, was he? Sergeant Karen Greenwood. She was a pretty kid, maybe mid twenties, but there was something of a hardness about her, the same kind of thing a prostitute develops, thought Sam, though only in a good way, it was difficult to describe, kind of the reverse side of the coin. She looked so fit, her clear skin pulled tight over her unmarked face, like a kid playing games with a balloon.

  The black guy was doing all the talking. Was there a slight West Indian accent there? Or maybe Sam was imagining it. Bet he’s a cricket fan.

  Darriteau had spoken about the man on the highway and now he’d progressed to a death at Mostyn Station. He was appealing for witnesses, someone must have seen the incident, the police were putting up a substantial reward, gee whiz, mumbled Sam, from zilch to this in a few minutes, this was more like it, and then Darriteau moved on to another unexplained death on the New Cut where a sixty year old man died in mysterious circumstances.

  Were you there?

  Did you see anything?

  I might have been, grinned Sam. I might have done.

  Anyone walking in the vicinity was advised, instructed, pleaded, it was difficult to tell which, to come forward. ‘We need your help,’ said the guy, staring earnestly into the camera. ‘I need your help.’

  He glanced at Karen as if for approval and she half smiled and nodded. All the while a strapline was streaming across the foot of the screen, black letters on a yellow background, telephone numbers direct to the twenty-four hour manned hotline in the Chester incident room.

  Then the guy turned to the side and faced a new camera.

  A much closer close-up, as close as could possibly be, if they went any nearer they’d cut off his considerable thatch of grey hair. Walter’s lugubrious face dominated the screen, huge dark eyes, satanic eyes, Sam thought, staring into a million living rooms, putting people right off their dinner.

  ‘I want you to know I am coming to get you. I shall find you wherever you are. I want you to think about that, and I want you to show courage. I want you to give yourself up, to hand yourself in at any police station, because you know that is the right thing to do, because you know that I will catch you in the end, nothing is more certain than that, and that day is coming, and remember this, you and I will be meeting soon, so think about that. Hand yourself in now, save yourself further anguish. The victims do not deserve their fate. You know it’s right. I know it’s right. I believe you are a clever person, and deep down you want to bring this to an early end, so think about it, and do the right thing.’

  Walter nodded and turned back to the front.

  He had made it personal.

  In cases like this, he always did.

  The camera cut back to Bernie Porter. He thanked Inspector Darriteau; he thanked the sergeant, said they would not be taking any questions at this time; it didn’t stop the journalists t
rying their luck and firing a barrage of questions at the panel. Bernie Porter threw up his hands and repeated, ‘No questions!’ and promptly wound up the meeting.

  The TV Company switched back to the studio. Nasal nose pulled an impressed face and in the next moment they were showing library pictures of the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.

  Sam sat perfectly still, staring ahead. Biting lips. Whispered, ‘Walter Darriteau, Inspector Walter Darriteau, you and I will be meeting soon, yeah, right.’

  Walter returned to the incident room and was greeted by a sporadic round of applause. He smiled and half waved and bobbed his head and sat down.

  Cresta came bubbling across the room.

  ‘Perfect!’ she cooed. ‘Just perfect,’ as she closed on him, and patted him on the back. ‘You’re wasted here. You should be on the stage.’

  Sam pointed the remote and flicked off the telly. No doubt it would be on the news again later, be at work by then, must set the recorder.

  A fat black detective. Who would have believed that? Sam wished Desi was here to share the moment.

  He’d laid down a challenge, this Darriteau person. Sam hurried into the other room and booted up the Internet. Typed in “Walter Darriteau” not really expecting much. One hundred and eight pages of entries about the guy. Jeez, he even had his own entry on Interpedia, the online encyclopaedia, and that was particularly interesting because anyone could update that site. The mind pondered on opportunities as Sam surfed the sites and devoured the data.

  Details of his cases, his press conferences, his history, his disciplinary matters, God, don’t you just love the Internet, a nosey parker’s whole new way of life!

  I want you to know I am coming to get you.

  Bloody nerve, there should be a law against public threats like that.

  Surely it was an infringement of Sam’s human rights.

  I shall find you wherever you are.

  Not if I find you first.

  You know that I will catch you in the end, nothing is more certain than that.

  Well come on big boy, let’s see you try!