The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “Okay … well on that basis, I imagine the window cleaner or the postman or the fellow delivering an Amazon parcel could have …” Gayther stopped himself and sighed, adding their names first together and then, after rubbing them out with the sleeve of his jacket, separately. “But do you really think that’s likely? Really?”

  “Well they were the last, officially, to see him alive. So that puts them in the frame, surely? Who’s to say Sally didn’t go back at 8.45 instead of 9.55 and tip him out the window?”

  Gayther put the lid back on the black marker and looked straight at Carrie. “Why,” he asked, “would she do that? What possible motive could she have?”

  Carrie shrugged. “I don’t know. We were always told … by instructors.” She gathered her thoughts and then added, “Who knows, maybe The Scribbler was her brother … or Jen’s … and one of them heard Lodge’s ramblings and decided to silence him.”

  “Sally’s Chinese, in case you hadn’t noticed. That won’t be her real name because her proper name would be harder to pronounce …” Gayther hesitated for a moment and then went on, “Chinese people usually choose their own names when they arrive here. So she’d have picked Sally probably because she liked the sound of it.”

  “Jen, then … or maybe Sally was adopted by The Scribbler’s family?”

  “Pushing the coincidence a bit far, Carrie.”

  “More than The Scribbler happening to turn up where one of his victims lived?”

  “Yes, because for it – your supposition – to have been possible, The Scribbler would have had to have confided he was a serial killer to his supposed sister and – and – she would then have had to stumble across Lodge, the talkative victim. That’s two big ifs. The latter’s conceivable, the former isn’t, not in my book.”

  Carrie nodded.

  “But look, it does no harm … if you do some digging and, later today or tomorrow, if you want to see if you can talk to them again separately … that’s fine by me. Do what you need to do to discount them. Low profile though … I don’t want Mrs Coombes complaining about harassment. I’m due a meeting with the boss man – Bosman – later this week. I don’t want to be hauled before him to explain myself before that.”

  “So, who else do we put in the magic circle?” piped up one of the young men. Gayther did not look up fast enough to see who it was. No matter, they were identical twins to him.

  “Okay, Thomas, Cotton … We also have the man who visited Miss Bright and asked about the vicar. Did Carrie cover that? So, we put Karen Williams, the care assistant who dealt with him, on the board for him. Elsworthy is the singer who came in to entertain the residents. He’s on the list, too.”

  Gayther added ‘Bright?’ and ‘Karen Williams’ and ‘Elvis Elsworthy’ to the board, then thought better of it, and rubbed out ‘Elvis’ with the corner of his sleeve. “We’ve got their details and I’m going to pay a visit to them, one this afternoon, one in the morning.”

  “And us, sir?” one of the young men asked. Gayther could not remember which was which. The one on the left. “What can we do?”

  “We’ll also go back to the original three suspects,” said Gayther. “Challis the plumber, Halom the drag act and Burgess the sales agent. We want to know what they were doing the night of Lodge’s death. You never know. See what you can find out about them first – bring me updates and addresses as soon as possible and we can take it from there. But online only at this stage. I don’t want you to get ahead of yourselves, alert them to the investigation. Can you can start now?”

  “We’ll get straight on to it, sir,” one said.

  “Right away,” echoed the other.

  “And then,” said Gayther, writing on the whiteboard, “we have ‘Mr X, The Scribbler’. He may not be … Bright or Elsworthy … Challis, Halom or Burgess. He may be someone we can find in the files … or someone who’s not on the radar at all.”

  He stopped and pointed at the two young men.

  “As well as following through on the suspects, I want you to go through all of the files, see if anything catches your eye, that might have been missed. Suspects first, then files. And the two victims who got away, see what you can find on them too.”

  They looked at each other, ready to go.

  He waved them down, just for the moment.

  Then turned to Carrie.

  “And you, Carrie. I want you, as well as seeing Sally and Jen … and looking at the files … to find me a list of men in their twenties who died within a month, three months, maybe six of the last murder. Why did he stop killing? They sometimes keep going until they’re caught. Why did this one, with all that blood and death, suddenly stop?”

  He went on, talking to Carrie still.

  “And then get me a list and details of the other men who have gone missing from Norfolk and Suffolk … maybe Cambridgeshire, too … over the years. Those who have never turned up again. Maybe he hasn’t stopped killing. Maybe he’s been doing it for the past thirty-odd years in different places and we’ve just not realised it. If that’s the case, God help us, we’ve one of the biggest serial killers of all time on our hands.”

  * * *

  “Karen? Karen Williams?” Gayther stood in the porch of the neat, semi-detached house in a close in a nondescript housing estate in Saxmundham in Suffolk.

  He’d arrived half an hour or so earlier and been told by a truculent teenage boy that she was out at work but should be back just after three-thirty. He had sat in his car at the top of the road since then, waiting for her arrival.

  He had spent most of the time Googling her but could not find anything beyond an old entry for her and a David A. Williams on the 192.com site; no Twitter account, Facebook, Instagram, nothing.

  And then she’d walked by him, this slight, anonymous, middle-aged woman in her beige blouse and skirt, and he watched as she went into the house. Waited five minutes, then stepped into the porch.

  “Yes, yes, that’s me,” she answered, her hand raised to her forehead, brushing away an imaginary strand of hair. “Kai told me you wanted a word about Reverend Lodge, although I’m not sure how I can …”

  She then stopped, as if something had occurred to her suddenly, and she stepped back and added, “… but, where are my manners, do come in and sit down. Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  He nodded as he stepped inside the clean but tired-looking house. Not much money, he thought. Just about making ends meet. Struggling, most likely, whenever an unexpected bill came up.

  He sat in the living room perched on the edge of an armchair and looked around at the age-old carpet, sofa and chairs and other furniture. There were photos of her, when she was younger and happier, with a handsome, moustached man, one with helmets and skis, smiling, another in swimming costumes on a beach and a final one, with a young boy, the now awkward teenager, all huddled around a birthday cake with an ‘8’ on it.

  “Oh,” she said, coming back in with two mugs of tea and seeing Gayther looking at the photos. “That’s my David. Everyone called him Dave, but he was always David to me. He passed over five and a half years ago. There’s not a day goes by I don’t …”

  Gayther nodded as he took the mug of tea. “I lost my wife, Annie … not so long ago.”

  She smiled at him and did not seem to know quite what to say other than “I’m so sorry”. She then asked if he took sugar or sweetener or wanted a biscuit. Like most people, he thought, she doesn’t want to hear of let alone talk about someone else’s loss, only her own.

  He smiled back, at this sad, crushed woman, wondering whether the husband had died unexpectedly, without life insurance. He could sense the despair.

  “Well, look at me,” she said, a little more brightly. “Kai told me I must ask to see your ID card or warrant or whatever it’s called. Just in case. I’m sure you’re not, er, you know.” She flapped her hand, not quite sure what it was she wanted to say.

  Gayther reached inside his jacket pocket and handed her his warrant card. She loo
ked at him and then down at the photograph, which she studied carefully.

  “It’s quite old,” he said. “And it’s like passport and driving licence photos. You look grim, like a waxwork. At least I do. And I had more hair then. And less flesh.” He felt himself gabbling to the woman and wasn’t sure why.

  “You’re still recognisable,” she said reassuringly, although, as the photo was little more than five years old, he wasn’t sure that was much of a compliment.

  “Thank you … I just wanted to talk a little, I won’t take up too much of your time, about Reverend Lodge.”

  “Such a nice man,” she answered quickly. “And so sad when he died. Was it …” she lowered her voice and then mouthed the word, “suicide?”

  “What do you think?” asked Gayther simply.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, looking at him. She hesitated and then went on. “I didn’t really see much of him. I did for him once or twice, that’s all. Sally Reece and Jennifer Coates kept him pretty much to themselves. None of the rest of us got a look in.”

  “Why was that then; why do you think they did that?” Gayther pressed.

  She sat back, putting her mug of tea carefully on a table by her side. “I wouldn’t like to say for sure but …”

  Gayther waited, sensing an explanation was coming. He hoped the teenager would not come in at this moment, or put on loud, thumping music from upstairs, disturbing her thoughts as they formulated into words.

  “The residents … well, most were too far gone to … but not all and sometimes they’d … well, they’d pay us for things … to get them little treats from the supermarket, things like that, nothing much, just for a pound or two extra … but every little helps as they say.”

  “So, these two care assistants … they kept the Reverend Lodge to themselves as he paid them for … what did he pay them for, Karen?”

  Gayther looked at her, could see how uncomfortable she felt. She twisted slightly in her seat, almost squirming, uncertain what to say next.

  “Nothing … like that. I don’t think. I don’t know for sure. There was talk that, well, Mr Simkins, one of the other residents, gave both Sally Reece and Jennifer Coates money regularly. Quite a lot of it. I know that for a fact because I heard them talking once, comparing how much he’d given them and it was, well, something like £20 each. I don’t know what they did to get that from him, but it wouldn’t be for buying a box of Jaffa Cakes from Tesco.”

  Gayther smiled at her, but then thought maybe he should have shook his head. That she was angry in some way, that she’d been cheated of extra money.

  He was not sure money for sexual favours from female care assistants would lead anywhere with the Reverend Lodge, but he made a mental note to charge his phone and then text Carrie, Sally and Jen. Favours for money with Lodge? And others? Sex? Then he thought he’d put Sex?! and an emoji if he could find one with a surprised face. He knew there was one with tears on it as if crying with laughter, but didn’t think that was the right one to send.

  “No, quite. Is that why you left the care home, Mrs Williams?”

  “Good Lord, no,” she replied.

  He waited for her to go on.

  “Long hours. Eight to eight some days. You have to sign away your rights. It’s hard work at times, lifting people, even with the equipment, and I’m not getting any younger.”

  She held her arms out towards Gayther. “And my wrists and legs, I have arthritis. And you get no pay if you’re off sick, not until the third day when you have to go to the doctor and sign on for the state sickness pay.” She shook her head in frustration.

  “I’ve got a job in the supermarket in town. Pay’s the same, well a bit less, but the hours are better. I do eight until three and then get any bits I need in town and I’m home by half-three most days.”

  He nodded.

  She smiled at him.

  Gayther then went on, “The reason I’m here is to ask you about Miss Bright’s nephew. I believe he came to see her a day or two after the fete but went to the wrong room and didn’t know which resident she was. That must have been funny.”

  “Oh, it was,” she replied. “But no, he was Mrs Smith’s nephew, not Miss Bright’s. I came in to get Miss Bright ready for her lunch and he was just sat there in her armchair next to her … she was on the bed … he was, well, I don’t think he was getting much sense out of her. She drifts in and out. I caught the tail-end of what he was saying, asking her if there was a vicar in the home. I think perhaps … she was religious … she had a cross and a bible … and she wanted to speak to a vicar before she, well, you know.”

  “I’m confused,” Gayther said. “This man was in Miss Bright’s room. You heard him asking her if there was a vicar in the home. But … he was Mrs Smith’s nephew. How do you know that?”

  “Well, I said to him, ‘Can I help you?’ because I didn’t recognise him … we have a few regulars we get to know … and he said he was just asking if there was a vicar in the home and he sort of nodded and smiled towards Miss Bright as if it had been her who had been asking him. So, I asked him who he was and he said he was John Smith, a ‘long-lost’ nephew, that’s what he said, and I laughed and said that Mrs Smith was in the next room along and no wonder Miss Bright didn’t recognise him.”

  “And what did he say to that?” Gayther asked.

  “He smiled and said something about not having seen her – Mrs Smith – for many years. He then asked again if there was a vicar who could ‘say a few words’. That’s what he said, ‘say a few words’. I remember that and I told him the Reverend Lodge was in the room right above.”

  “Did you then show him to Mrs Smith’s room?” Gayther pressed.

  “No, I would have done, but I was running a bit late, and Miss Bright, well, I think she needed changing. So, he showed himself out and that was the last I saw of him.”

  “Did you ask Mrs Smith about him later, to see if they had had a nice chat.”

  “I did, but she’s another one who’s away with the fairies much of the time. She didn’t have anything to say about it. I don’t think she could remember what she had for breakfast that morning. And I was in at different times and on the other floor, and then I left, so I never did find out how that went or whether the Reverend Lodge said a prayer for Mrs Smith. I don’t know where he got the idea she was dying, though, as she’s physically quite well for her age.”

  Gayther finished his cup of tea and placed it carefully on the table by his side. As he thought about his next question, she spoke.

  “Why?” she asked, and then added, “perhaps I’m missing something, but why, I mean, what does John Smith have to do with the death of the Reverend Lodge. I don’t understand?”

  Gayther tried not to sigh, “We just have to tie up the loose ends. It’s possible John Smith may have some insight into why the Reverend Lodge died. If they spent some time together.”

  Before she could think about that, and ask another question he might struggle to answer, he went on.

  “Can you describe him for me, Mrs Williams?”

  “Mr Smith? I would say he was about fifty, maybe a little older. He had on one of those dark hoodies. He was wearing a cap, a sort of baseball cap, and blue jeans. I remember thinking how he was, well, quite old really, but dressed young. What did make me smile, although it’s a bit mean, is that he had these old blue canvas shoes on, with the Velcro strips across the top rather than laces. Hobos. It’s what all the old boys with dementia wear. It makes it easier to get them dressed and undressed.”

  “Did you notice his eyes at all?”

  “His eyes? No, not really. He was quite pale, though, with white stubble and, well, I wouldn’t say he was, what’s the word, um … albino, is it? He didn’t have pink eyes or anything like that, but he was very pale, and his skin sort of looked a bit flaky. I did wonder whether he might have been ill.”

  “Did he wear gloves? Maybe for eczema?”

  “I can’t say I noticed that.”

&
nbsp; “And his height and build?”

  “I, oh dear, I still think in feet and inches, I’m afraid. He was a bit taller than me, maybe five foot seven or eight. There wasn’t much of him. Ten or eleven stone?”

  “One last question, because we’d like to trace him, see if he can help us … what about his voice, how would you describe that?”

  “Oh …” she said, distracted suddenly by the sound of what Gayther assumed was the teenage son running downstairs, “he was from Suffolk. He had an accent, quite nice to hear, quite old-fashioned, it was. Everyone speaks, what’s it called, Estuary English these days.”

  Got him, thought Gayther as he nodded his thanks and rose to his feet to end the conversation and say goodbye. We can forget Sally and Jen … and Elvis bloody Elsworthy … and cut to the chase. This man is The Scribbler and the net starts closing on him from now.

  5. MONDAY 12 NOVEMBER, 4.10PM

  The man with the latex gloves stood beside a copse of trees close to run-down public toilets in Acle in Norfolk. He coughed and wiped his runny nose, which he always seemed to have at this time of year.

  He had, one way or the other, spent the best part of three hours in and around the park. Here by the trees for the past ninety minutes and more. Woollen hat pulled down. Fleece collar pulled up. Pocket-sized binoculars in his hands.

  Bird-watching, or so any casual passer-by who saw him would think, as he scanned the trees and sky.

  He was really waiting, as he had done so many times over so many years, for what he hoped would happen next, the perfect set of circumstances that would give him the opportunity for his next kill.

  He noted who had gone into the toilets and who had come out. Two teenage boys, one going in, the other waiting outside, were there for no more than two or three minutes. Two ladies going into adjoining toilets and out as fast they could; he could hear one of them commenting loudly on how dirty the toilets were from where he was. That was it, the only visitors.

  And then, as dusk approached and he was close to giving up and leaving, yet another wasted visit, a man walked by him, on the path. A similar age, but shorter and slighter. Balding. Rough and ready in anorak and boots.