The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over Page 7

  Walter stepped out to be confronted by the older man.

  ‘Are you in charge?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’ve given your man here a statement; I am getting very cold and not a little irritated. I need to go home.’

  ‘I’m getting cold and not a little irritated too,’ said Walter, striding down toward to the bench.

  The man huffed and puffed and followed.

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ Walter said, ‘after that we’ll have a quick chat and then you can go.’

  Milkins pursed his lips and nodded his head and led the dog to the water for a drink.

  ‘Well?’ said Walter. ‘What’s the score?’

  The doctor looked away from the dead woman and said, ‘Estimated time of death between half eight and half past ten last night. There are no obvious injuries.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Too early to say. You’ll have my full report before close of play today.’

  ‘And if you had to guess?’

  ‘I am not a guessing man.’

  ‘Try! Please.’

  ‘If I had to guess, I’d say carbon monoxide poisoning.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Colour. Look at the skin. Hypopigmentation, a common sign.’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Walter, peering at the corpse. ‘Not natural causes then?’

  ‘Oh no, I’d be very surprised at that.’

  Walter nodded. ‘Ring me, will you, when you’re done?’

  The doctor nodded, and they all turned and watched the ambulance bouncing down the track toward them.

  ‘Karen.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Have a word with the solicitor guy. Ask him if he saw anyone else. Tell him we’ll need his fingerprints to eliminate him. Tell him to go with the local boys and get that done and then he can go home.’

  ‘Sure Guv.’

  Walter peered across the lake and pictured the scene when the killer was here. Was the murder carried out on site, or elsewhere and the victim brought here? It was a quiet enough place. It could have been done on site, in which case what was the killer doing while it was going on? Standing by, watching? Maybe. A killer isn’t going to be too squeamish. But if not, pound to a penny Walter would wager the killer would have wandered off, a quick stroll round the lake perhaps, maybe a good place to find footprints in the mud, especially if the path was rarely used.

  He called the local officer over and instructed him to make certain that SOCO took casts and photographs of all footprints in the vicinity, and especially those on the far side of the lake.

  ‘Don’t let me down,’ said Walter, staring into the young kid’s eyes.

  ‘I won’t,’ he replied earnestly, and he wouldn’t because this was the most important thing he had ever done.

  ‘Cresta?’ called Walter.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Much as I would have expected. A remote place that the killer has previously visited. That’s how the he-she thing knows it’s here. Probably been here before with a partner, maybe more than once, maybe with more than one partner, a scene of happy memories, I’d say.’

  ‘Memories?’

  ‘Yes, the partner’s gone now, departed, maybe voluntarily, maybe died...’

  ‘Maybe murdered,’ added Walter.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What sparked everything off?’

  ‘Loss of the partner, I would say.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. But how long ago?’

  ‘Within the last twelve months. Not recent, I suspect. It’s been festering in the back of the brain, building, slowly. At first they imagined they could cope with it.’

  ‘When all the while they couldn’t.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘How many people have been through a broken relationship in the last twelve months?’

  Cresta pulled a face that said it all.

  ‘Another random killing?’ said Walter.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘The he-she thing is either incredibly lucky or incredibly clever.’

  ‘Why lucky?’ asked Cresta.

  ‘The track has been freshly re-gravelled so no car tyre tracks that we can trace, the heavy rain has probably washed away any footprints, the same scenario.’

  ‘That looks like luck.’

  ‘That’s what I think, and if the he-she’s had all the luck up to now, it’s about time their luck ran out.’

  Cresta nodded.

  ‘Man or woman?’ asked Walter, as Karen came back.

  ‘I can’t tell,’ said Cresta.

  ‘Man for me,’ said Karen.

  ‘Me too,’ said Walter, ‘course it’s a man.’

  ‘Let’s wrap it up here and get back to Chester.’

  Returning in the car Karen said, ‘Was the press conference such a success?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Cresta.

  Walter said nothing.

  ‘We now have a dead old lady on our hands,’ said Karen.

  ‘That would have happened anyway,’ said Cresta.

  ‘You think? Is this not his response to our baiting?’

  ‘He or she, are in this for the long-term. It, for want of a better word, will keep on killing until you catch them.’

  ‘I think Maggie O’Brien would still be alive if we hadn’t done the broadcast,’ said Karen.

  ‘Rubbish!’ said Cresta.

  ‘We’ll never know,’ said Walter, ‘but we now have more to go on, more evidence, more leads, so from that point of view, the broadcast was an undoubted success. In the end the evidence will trap him.’

  ‘Or her,’ added Cresta.

  ‘That too.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  They hadn’t been back in the office more than twenty minutes when Karen took a call from Prestatyn. ‘Dai Williams for you,’ she said. Walter grabbed the phone. ‘Hi Dai.’

  ‘Saw you on the telly.’

  Walter laughed. ‘That was the idea.’

  ‘I never knew you were so good looking.’

  Walter guffawed. ‘I’ll take your word for that.’

  ‘You are going to owe me one very big drink.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve found a witness for you.’

  ‘For the Mostyn death?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A schoolgirl, though she doesn’t look like a schoolgirl, as you will see when you meet her. Her name is Chloe Evans; she’s fourteen but looks twenty. She says she saw the whole thing.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘At school I should think.’

  ‘Could you have her there at half four?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Prestatyn station?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘We’ll be there, oh and Dai, I owe you one.’

  ‘Yep, and I know you won’t forget.’

  Walter rang off and told Karen to organise a car for quarter to four. Told her to keep it to herself, they’d go alone.

  Mrs West made a rare appearance and stood in the centre of the room and said, ‘About this meeting?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Cresta.

  Karen nodded and Walter couldn’t avoid being rounded up by the three women, and a couple of minutes later the meeting got underway.

  ‘Who wants to start?’ said Mrs West, sitting at the head of the polished mahogany table.

  Cresta glanced at Walter, as if seeking his permission. Walter nodded her onward and she began.

  ‘We are looking for a loner...’

  ‘Aren’t we always,’ mumbled Karen.

  Cresta forced a smile and continued. ‘Aged between thirty and forty, is my best guess...’

  There’s that word again, thought Walter. Guess, which was all it was, and couldn’t anyone guess? You didn’t have to go to some fancy Yankee university to do that.

  ‘We could be looking for a m
an or woman, and I want to stress that; there is still no evidence that this is the work of a man. Margaret O’Brien was a very small and slight lady; anyone could have picked her up and carried her. We are looking for someone who was in a meaningful relationship, probably the most meaningful relationship of their entire life, maybe their only relationship, a relationship that has gone horribly wrong. I suspect they had a ferocious row and split, maybe they fought, physically; perhaps the other party simply upped and left, walked out, abandoned their lover, or maybe they were murdered by the person we are seeking. Whatever it is, the perpetrator felt dirty and damaged when it all came tumbling down.’

  ‘So we could have five unexplained deaths not four?’ said Mrs West.

  ‘That’s quite possible,’ said Walter.

  Cresta resumed. ‘They are a car owner, a driver, with probably a nice car, in full time employment, a decently paid job, maybe living alone...’

  Another worthless word, thought Walter. Maybe. Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe I’m a Chinaman. Was it all guesses and maybes? Is that what we are paying for?

  ‘The killer will go on killing until he or she is caught. I expect them to become more brazen, take more risks, seek more publicity, and most interestingly of all, I suspect they may try and attack you.’

  With the you, she glanced at Walter. They all did.

  And just in case anyone hadn’t understood her meaning, Cresta said, ‘To kill you.’

  ‘That’s comforting,’ he joked.

  ‘I am serious.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Karen.

  ‘So do I,’ said Mrs West. ‘You must be on your guard, Walter. Try not to go out alone, especially at night; try not to be alone.’

  What wonderful words they were, he pondered.

  Try not to be alone.

  He had been trying not to be alone for more than thirty years, and had failed miserably.

  ‘If any of you three ladies wish to come and sleep with me, you are all most welcome... in the spare room I assure you.’

  Karen laughed aloud.

  Cresta grinned.

  Mrs West looked genuinely shocked, before realising he was joking, when she said, ‘You are a fool, Walter.’

  Cresta began again. She sure as heck liked the sound of her own voice, thought Karen.

  ‘I strongly suspect he or she will contact us direct.’

  ‘With what aim in mind?’ asked Karen.

  ‘To bait us of course.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ said Walter. ‘It will give him pleasure.’

  ‘Women like pleasure too,’ grinned Cresta.

  No one was going to argue with that.

  ‘When is the PM due on Mrs O’Brien?’ asked Mrs West.

  ‘This afternoon, ma’am,’ said Karen.

  ‘You said earlier you might have some thoughts,’ Cresta said to Walter.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Well let’s hear them,’ said Mrs West.

  ‘We think this person is in full time employment, but two of the deaths occurred in the middle of the afternoon; and another in the early hours of the morning. That suggests if they are employed it isn’t in any ordinary day job. But not nights either, as if they start in the evening and go through to the early hours.’

  ‘Yeah, like a barman or a night club bouncer, that would fit the bill,’ said Karen.

  ‘It would,’ said Walter, ‘though there must be any number of jobs that fit the bill too. Taxi drivers for example, transport ready to hand, the public trust taxi drivers and never think twice about jumping into a taxi cab when they would never get into a stranger’s car, or hospital porters on the four till midnight shift or whatever it is they work, bus drivers, train drivers, supermarket stockists, there’s any number of jobs that fit these odd hours.’

  ‘I like nightclub bouncers,’ said Mrs West.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Cresta.

  Mrs West shot her a look over her glasses. ‘Oh? And why is that?’

  ‘There is positive ID the person responsible is slight. Have you ever seen a slight bouncer?’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘I know who’s slight and works in nightclubs,’ said Karen.

  ‘Who?’ said Mrs West.

  ‘Pole dancers and strippers.’

  Not all pole dancers and strippers were slight, Walter thought, though he didn’t say.

  Cresta’s face lit up.

  ‘That would work perfectly. Maybe someone who had a grudge against the punters. Did any of the men have any history of attending strip clubs?’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ said Walter, ‘but anything’s possible. Karen, can you look into that?’

  ‘Don’t forget two of them were preachers,’ said Karen.

  ‘Makes no difference. Preachers ogle too,’ said Walter, he was going to say perv, but stopped himself just in time.

  ‘The thing I don’t understand is this latest death,’ said Karen. ‘It doesn’t fit in with anything else. It buggers up the work times for a start.’

  ‘Everyone has a day off,’ said Walter.

  ‘And it’s an old lady too, all the others were men.’

  ‘As I said before,’ said Cresta, ‘the he-she thing is getting bolder.’

  ‘So what do we expect next time, if God forbid there is going to be a next time?’ said Mrs West.

  ‘Impossible to predict,’ said Cresta. ‘Random killers do exactly that, kill randomly.’

  ‘Just so long as it isn’t a child,’ said Walter.

  ‘Oh, God help us, not that,’ said Mrs West. ‘That’s not what you think, is it?’

  ‘It’s not what I think, it’s what I fear.’

  There was a short silence as they pondered on that dreadful possibility, and then Mrs West asked, ‘Anything else?’

  No one had.

  Meeting over.

  At half past three Walter whispered to Karen, ‘Where’s purple haze?’

  ‘Gone to freshen up,’ said Karen, grinning.

  ‘Good. Come on, let’s go, I know a cracking tea bar on the way.’

  They crept from the office and five minutes later they were negotiating the inner city ring road in a brand new unmarked white Jag, heading for Queensferry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They took the A55 expressway, a four lane highway known as the top road, that ran over the hills, always going up, or always going down. On one of the down stretches, away to the left, set on the hill, was a spectacular bungalow. In the sunshine a man was mowing the grass. Harry Wilkinson couldn’t stop himself; in time he would cut that grass on the day he died.

  Walter said, ‘When I retire I am going to buy a bungalow just like that, and raise chickens.’

  Memories from long ago of those spectacular bantams back in Jamaica filled his head, and the yellow yoked eggs they always produced.

  ‘And when will that be?’ asked Karen, giggling.

  ‘Ages yet,’ said Walter. ‘Why? Are you after my job?’

  ‘Course I am, thought you knew that.’

  They shared a look as the bungalow slid away over Walter’s left shoulder and out of sight.

  Half way to Prestatyn, Walter ordered Karen to pull into a packed lay-by. There was a portable café there called Jock’s Trap. It was run by Jocky Smith; a man Walter had arrested ten years before for aggravated burglary. Since then they’d become loose friends and Jock had pretty much gone straight ever since. He was widely known for his strong sweet tea and toasted bacon sandwiches.

  ‘We’ve plenty of time in hand, pull in for a snack,’ Walter said. ‘Fancy a bacon butty?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Karen, ‘diet.’

  ‘Don’t you ever eat?’

  ‘Yes, at meal times.’

  Walter pulled a face.

  He stepped from the car and Karen shouted after him, ‘I’ll have an orange juice.’

  Ten minutes later they were back on the road, Walter trying hard not to belch, sucking peppermints, then taking the Prestatyn turnoff and dropping down towar
d the coast.

  The main police station was surprisingly large for a smallish town, located on the sea side of the main road through the area. Karen pulled into the car park and cut the engine. The Jag was a pleasure to drive; she’d take it again whenever the opportunity arose. Inside, Dai Williams came out to meet Walter who introduced Karen.

  Dai was typically Welsh built, short and stocky, with trimmed straight sandy hair, and he wore round-framed glasses that seemed out of place.

  ‘Is the girl here?’ asked Walter.

  ‘She is, interview room three, follow me. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Walter said, ‘Ta,’ and Karen smiled at the guy and nodded.

  Walter took off his raincoat and set it on a chair outside, opened the door and stepped inside.

  The girl was standing with her back to Walter, staring at a notice board. On hearing the door open she turned round and smiled at the guy, an automatic smile, she was the kind of girl who would smile at any man. Her mother was sitting at the table wearing creased jeans. She didn’t stand up, didn’t say anything, just half smiled at the newcomers.

  ‘Chloe Evans, I believe?’ said Walter.

  ‘That’s me,’ said the girl, still smiling at the guy who looked a little younger in the flesh.

  She was tall and very pretty, well developed, tumbling auburn hair; didn’t look fourteen at all. She was wearing a short blue skirt, tailored school uniform, far too short, no more than twelve inches from waist to hem, black tights, light blue blouse and a tiny neatly knotted blue and yellow striped tie, probably a clip-on.

  ‘You must be Walter,’ she said, too forward for Karen’s liking, ‘I saw you on the telly.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector Walter Darriteau, and this is Sergeant Karen Greenwood.’

  Karen bobbed her head and took a seat.

  The mother didn’t speak.

  ‘Take a seat, will you, Chloe,’ said Walter, as he sat down.

  Chloe pulled a seat back from the table and sat down and crossed her legs, displaying her knickers. Walter couldn’t help but notice. The mother saw the look on Walter’s face as he averted his eyes.

  ‘Pull your chair in and put your feet on the floor and sit up straight!’ said the mother, and the girl sulkily did as she was told.