The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “Lodge’s death threw everything into a frenzy,” he answered. “A second inspection straightaway. Immediate action. A new management team drafted in to oversee the staff. New structures and systems coming into place. A complete overhaul, but there’s still talk of closure. It’s not an instant thing anyway. They need to find places for twenty or so residents. The woman I spoke to, Coombes, who told me all this, she is … at least was … in charge. She sounded really bitter. As if she had been blamed for everything and it was nothing to do with her at all.”

  He watched two young female members of staff coming out of the front door, chatting as they made their way towards the staff car park. He thought they looked happy, carefree even.

  “She, Ruth Coombes, as good as says it’s all their fault.” He pointed to the young women as they got into a car. “It’s been down to a turnover of staff … low pay, long hours, her hands were tied, she did her best blah blah blah … problems with getting new employees in and training and then keeping them seems to be the gist of it. More than a touch of the ‘bloody foreigners’ about it all.”

  “No CCTV cameras,” Carrie pointed suddenly to the building. “Should there be? It would make life a lot easier if we could rewind and see everyone coming in and out at the time of Mr Lodge’s death. Might there be some elsewhere? Covert recordings we could check?”

  He paused, seeing a grey-haired gardener, carrying a tray of bedding plants and a handheld spade, coming out from around the far side of the building to the left and making his way to the entrance. There, he knelt and started digging out dead plants from two urns to either side of the front doors.

  “Guv…?” she said, after a few moments’ silence.

  “Sorry Carrie, I was just thinking … Big issue, apparently, CCTV in care homes – privacy and dignity and all of that. Anything that’s up has to be overt; all out in the open for everyone to see. They’ve not done it here because of the costs, so Mrs Coombes said.”

  He stopped for a further second or two, looking at the gardener, before shaking his head and going on.

  “The fact is, Carrie, if The Scribbler was here, and he did kill Edwin Lodge, he could pretty much stroll in and out as he pleased at visiting times. I asked Mrs Coombes about security and she didn’t seem to know what to say. From what I can make out, a signing-in book’s about the be-all and end-all of it – and that seems to be pretty lax. Visitors pretty much come and go as they wish.”

  He watched as the grey-haired gardener put the old plants into a plastic bag he had in his pocket, then started placing bulbs into the first urn. He could, thought Gayther, be The Scribbler. Same sort of age and build, forgettable, overlooked, maybe a new employee who then came face-to-face with one of his victims and had no choice but to silence him and his ravings. Gayther sighed. If only it were that easy, but he made a mental note to check on him later.

  “So, what are your thoughts, guvnor?” Carrie asked. “If Mr Lodge was murdered by The Scribbler, did he recognise a member of staff? Someone who came to visit another resident? A workman fixing a radiator? Did The Scribbler realise and then come and kill him?”

  DI Gayther raised his arms and spread his hands out wide as if to say, ‘who knows?’.

  She went on, “Or could it just be that, in his dying days, Mr Lodge was tormented about his homosexuality, which he saw as an ungodly thing, had visions of The Scribbler and then took his own life … and this is just us …” she hesitated for a second because of Gayther’s expression but then went on, “… chasing ghosts?”

  “Well that, Constable,” replied the older man, “is what we are here to find out. Come on, we’ve an appointment with Mrs Coombes in …” he checked his watch, “five minutes ago.”

  * * *

  DI Gayther and DC Carrie sat in the reception area of the care home, the entrance behind them. They’d been directed there by a young, stick-thin woman in the office to the right as they went in through the front doors. She slid back the glass pane, asked their names, and waved them through the next set of doors into reception. There was a moment’s confusion as Carrie pushed the doors, found they were locked, and had to ask the thin-as-a-rake woman to let them in. She pressed a button on the office wall and the doors opened.

  “There is some security then,” said Carrie, walking through and leading the way. “Of sorts.”

  Gayther nodded and replied, “Some, but at busy times, visiting times, when The Scribbler would have come in unnoticed, they’d all just pass straight through.”

  “They need a CCTV camera up there in the office,” Carrie replied as she sat down. “Just there.” She pointed. “Solve everything, that would.”

  He nodded again as he sat down too and looked around.

  The reception area’s walls were magnolia-painted, the sofa and chairs a brown-and-orange stripe; the floor looked like wood, but was more likely, thought Gayther, laminate. The place smelled of antiseptic and possibly vomit and urine, although that may just have been his over-active imagination.

  The reception area was an almost perfect rectangle, with a gated-off flight of stairs to one side, leading up, he assumed, to a floor of bedrooms. Another door led to a long corridor where he guessed most of the patients’ rooms were located. He could see, through the windows, a wide garden behind the building. To the left through more doors, he assumed, would be a lounge and other communal areas, and maybe a kitchen.

  “I told you, I’ve been through this before, we all have, weeks ago, with the proper police, just after the reverend’s death,” said Mrs Coombes in a sharp voice, as she came through the doors towards them. A tall, thin, old-fashioned-looking woman, she seemed harassed, as though she had more important things to do right now. After brief introductions, she sat straight-backed, a file on her knee, half-open with a passport-sized photograph of the deceased Reverend Lodge attached to the first page of papers.

  “It’s a pain, I know,” replied DI Gayther, nodding sympathetically. “But I’ve just been asked to go over the case one final time … with my colleague … so we can close our file. Not to trouble you further. I just want to go through a few things, get it straight in my mind.”

  “I don’t believe it was a suicide,” she answered abruptly. “If that’s what you’re thinking. Not for a second. I told the last policeman. The Indian gentleman. The reverend was not himself. He would not have taken his own life. He was a man of the cloth. He opened the window for fresh air. In his befuddled state, he must have leaned out too far …”

  “Can you tell me a little about … the reverend? When did he come here?”

  “Two years ago, give or take. A very nice man. Very nice indeed. A sensible and well-organised man. He sold up, not that he had that much, being a vicar, and came to us. He knew he was suffering from dementia. He declined steadily over that time, mentally rather more than physically. Forgetfulness. Meandering talk. Wanderings. In his mind.”

  She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts.

  “The last day or two before, well, I probably shouldn’t say this … he was not himself at all. He was always so polite and thoughtful. But, at the end, he turned in on himself and kept talking, almost arguing with himself, so angry and frightened, about someone coming to kill him.”

  DI Gayther leaned forward. “The last day or two of his life. Was there a specific moment when he changed?”

  “He soiled himself at the fete on the Saturday, which would have been … two days before. I remember that. He was very subdued afterwards. But that’s normal. Incontinence. They can feel ashamed and embarrassed … if and when they are aware of what they’ve done.”

  She considered what she was going to say, choosing her words carefully, and then carried on.

  “It seemed to come on quite quickly after that. The madness. That’s what I believe it was. His mind was going, poor old chap. I believe he got quite vocal with Jen, one of our regulars, and with Sally, another of our care assistants. He grabbed her arm so hard he left red marks on it.”
>
  “The fete?” interrupted Carrie suddenly. “So, you had people coming in from outside? Do you have a record of visitors?”

  Mrs Coombes smiled. “Not for that, no. There’s a signing-in book for visitors, but …” she added, seeing the officers look at each other, “… it depends who is on. Kazia’s on, at the moment, nice enough girl, but new. Been here a couple of weeks.”

  “So, the fete …?” said Carrie.

  “We have a little old-fashioned fete – tombola, second-hand books, home-made cakes – once a year on the last Saturday in September … quite late really … for the residents and their families and anyone who wants to come and see us. We get a few locals wander in, waifs and strays mostly, looking for something to do, and sons and daughters planning ahead for a place for Mum or Dad. It’s all free and easy, donate a pound or two on the way in, that’s all.”

  “So …” Carrie pressed, “was there a big turnout? Were there any passers-by coming in? Was there anyone you didn’t recognise? Was there—”

  “Goodness …” replied Mrs Coombes, “so many ques–”

  “What my colleague meant to ask,” interrupted DI Gayther, glancing across at Carrie, “was this: did the vicar come down and join in the fete?”

  “Why, yes, of course. He was most keen and had talked about helping out on the second-hand book stall, which he did for a little while. That was his thing really, books and reading. Not that the books would have interested him much. Mills & Boon romances mostly. He was interested in architecture and … I don’t know, English Heritage and National Trust–type matters. He was very well-read and interesting, although he would never press his opinions on you.”

  She laughed unexpectedly. It sounded surprisingly joyful, thought Gayther.

  “I remember seeing him later sitting in the shade in a wheelchair – it was quite a sunny day. September can be nice, of course. We always seem to have a sunny fete. Anyway, he didn’t really need a wheelchair, but his legs ached after a while. He was eating a 99 ice cream … the chocolate flake first, while all the ice cream ran down his fingers. He knew what was happening and was joining in the fun and laughter. I didn’t see him after that but was told later, by Sally, that he had been taken back to his room. Do you know, I can’t remember if he soiled himself at the fete or later in his room.”

  DI Gayther asked, “I wonder if he saw anyone he knew at the fete. Did you notice anyone talking to Mr Lodge, other than staff?”

  She shook her head. “No, not that I saw, though I’m sure he must have done. But we had about twenty or more residents there at different times and I was back and forth, to the gate, the refreshments, doing the prize draw later on, so I wasn’t really focusing on Mr Lodge particularly. A lot of people locally would have known him, of course, from his church days, and would have stopped to talk if they saw him.”

  DI Gayther went on, “Did he have many visitors, Mr Lodge? Family, friends?”

  “He was a single man, never married, no children. He had a brother I think, an older brother, who had passed away. The brother and his wife, his second wife, I believe, had a daughter and she visited the reverend with her husband earlier in the year, from New Zealand or Australia, one or the other. They took him out for lunch while they were over here. They didn’t come back again before they went back home. I don’t know why. Perhaps they didn’t have time.”

  She looked around, as if nervous, and then continued.

  “There were occasional visitors from his church in the early days. I remember a church warden who came and read the bible with him on Sundays for a while. I don’t know what happened to him. He may have moved away. And a couple of lady parishioners visited on and off some weekends, but I think one of them passed over and the other didn’t come back after that. I don’t think he had any visitors since his niece, thinking about it.”

  She paused and turned her head and looked around the reception area as if to check she could not be overheard. She then leaned towards them.

  “There is something I didn’t mention before. To your Indian gentleman. It didn’t seem relevant. But there was a young man, in his early thirties, I’d say, who came very often, two or three times a week, for the first few months Mr Lodge was here.”

  She hesitated for a second or two.

  “There was some light-hearted talk that he might be the reverend’s secret son. They were both tall and slim and … I don’t know, there was something about the way they stood, slightly bent and stooping almost, that made people stop and wonder. But there was some sort of argument and the reverend was left in tears when the young man stormed out – and he never came back. The reverend never talked of it and, by and large, it was forgotten about.”

  She looked over her shoulder and then spoke in a low whisper.

  “I think he might have been the reverend’s, um, special friend … if you know what I mean.”

  Carrie spoke. “So this … friend of Mr Lodge … he’s not been seen for a while now? He wasn’t at the fete?”

  “Goodness me no, but, funnily enough, Mr Lodge did receive a letter from him, out of the blue, well it must have been a week or two before the fete. Sally or Jen, they were his favourites, so we tried to match them up as often as possible, read it to him. It was just a polite note really, in a little thank you card, saying he was going to France, I think it was, to start a new job and wishing the reverend well. It upset him though. The reverend.”

  Before either officer could say anything, the doors into the reception area opened, and they all turned to see who was coming through.

  Mrs Coombes stopped talking and looked up expectantly as a short Asian man in his forties, immaculate in his dark-grey suit, white shirt and cuffs, came through the doors into reception. He stood there smiling at them.

  “This is Dr Khan,” she went on, getting to her feet and doing the introductions. “He was here at … after … Mr Lodge’s … demise.”

  Dr Khan looked from DI Gayther to DC Carrie and then spoke in impeccable, clipped English. He sounded as though he was enjoying himself, thought Gayther.

  “You’re going to ask me if the Reverend Lodge fell out of the window or killed himself? Let me give you the answer.”

  * * *

  Dr Khan sat in the remaining empty armchair and smiled warmly at them all as he put his leather bag down by the side of his feet. He then reached into his pocket, took out his mobile phone and touched several buttons. A long pause, as he read what was on the screen, scrolled down and read further, and then, after a second long pause, smiled again. He looked at DI Gayther and spoke.

  “Would you like me to summarise my statement to the coroner? It gives you the key facts.”

  “No,” answered DI Gayther, irritated by the man’s theatricality. “I have your statements, both from my colleagues and the coroner’s report. I’d just like to ask you, and Mrs Coombes, a few questions, first of all, to get the timeline of the vicar’s death straight in my head.”

  The doctor and Mrs Coombes both nodded and smiled as Gayther continued.

  “Mrs Coombes, Reverend Lodge had his evening meal with some of the other residents, as usual, on Monday 1 October and, after sitting in the residents’ lounge for half an hour, was taken back to his room afterwards by a Sally Reece at 7.45pm? All very normal.”

  She nodded her agreement and started to say what it was that Reverend Lodge had eaten, but Gayther hushed her gently – “Please just correct me if I’m wrong or miss something you think is significant” – and moved on.

  “Sally helped him to get ready for bed and was joined by Jennifer Coates just after 8.00pm. About 8.10pm. The three of them chatted together, settling him down, and then Reverend Lodge was left alone to read from about 8.25pm, 8.30pm. He seemed calm and relaxed at that time—”

  “That’s right,” interrupted Mrs Coombes. “We’d made a slight change to his medication to calm him, with Doctor Khan’s approval, and he seemed much happier.”

  The doctor nodded his agreement as Mrs Coomb
es went on.

  “He liked to read for about an hour before he went to sleep. The girls had to prop him into place and put his book, a large-print book, on a stand with a lamp light on it. One of them would go and check on him at half-nine or ten and help him put everything away, back in its place. He was a very tidy man. As often as not, he’d be fast asleep when they went back in.”

  Carrie went to speak, to ask something, but Gayther waved her down with his hand. He noted the flash of irritation that crossed her face as he did so.

  DI Gayther carried on speaking to Mrs Coombes and the doctor. “So, Mrs Coombes, he was alone from just before 8.30pm until … Sally went in at 9.55pm. She discovered his empty bed. The window was now open. It wasn’t when they left him. She looked out and saw his body on the path below.” Gayther noted the lack of emotion in the woman opposite him but thought that she must see death time and again in her job, most weeks probably, and become hardened to it. As he knew he was. Or, as he should put it, “toughened”, not “hardened”.

  “Yes, that’s all correct,” she replied. “Sally set off the alarm and ran down the corridor towards the stairs leading to … just over there.” She pointed to the staircase at the far right of the reception area. “Jen and I were here. I went through those doors there, to the ground-floor rooms, with Sally, to fetch Doctor Khan, who was here attending to a patient.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it, Doctor Khan?” asked Carrie. “Attending to a patient at that time of night?”

  The doctor spread his arms wide and smiled warmly, “It’s all part of the service.” Gayther thought, but did not ask, that he must be private, not NHS, and on a hefty out-of-hours call-out fee.

  DI Gayther turned to the doctor and asked, “So, please tell me what happened from this point.”

  Dr Khan cleared his throat and leaned slightly towards Gayther. “I believed, from the tone of the care assistant’s voice, that this was an urgent matter and so I came out of the patient’s room, turned left and made my way down the corridor towards the care assistant and Mrs Coombes.”