The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “Not really, guv, not when I’m not all that sure what I’m looking for. Most of the missing cases, the formal ones anyway, are usually resolved within a week. Most people turn up somewhere, alive. There’s a hardcore of about 2,500 people a year who go missing and are never seen again. I don’t have numbers yet, but I’d assume lots of teenagers, people struggling with their sexuality, maybe middle-aged men who have just had enough and walked away.”

  Gayther thought carefully and then said, “I think what I want from you, if you can do it, is a list of middle-aged men who have gone missing each year since, what 1988 to 1990, from around here and who have never been found.” He looked across and saw the flash of exasperation on Carrie’s face.

  “But…” Carrie said and then stopped.

  “Go on,” Gayther encouraged her to speak further.

  She took a moment to formulate her words. “I can see that … if we had a list of, let’s say, I don’t know, so many middle-aged men who went missing every year from 1988 and we drilled down into what we had on them … not a lot, I think, and only half of the possible total anyway … and so long ago … we may get a lead … possibly. Maybe they all drank in the same pub or borrowed a book from the same library. But The Scribbler … if it’s not this Smith … may have simply stopped … or emigrated … or died. I mean, it’s all so … vast and endless.”

  Gayther nodded, sensing she had more to say.

  “I mean The Scribbler had a pattern, a clear, unmistakable pattern. He was a young man who picked up … sexually confused middle-aged men in bars. Killed them and left their bodies to rot in ditches. He then stopped … dead in his tracks as far as we can see. So, my question, the one we should be focusing on, in my opinion, is that. Why did he stop? Don’t serial killers just go on and on until they’re caught?”

  Gayther shrugged, indicating he didn’t know. Then he spoke.

  “It’s a myth, from what I’ve read, that serial killers can’t stop. They can go for periods when their urges are subdued, I guess, and eventually they age and their testosterone levels subside and ooze away.”

  He pondered for a moment before going on.

  “Who knows why The Scribbler, in his twenties, in his physical prime, stopped … it could be for any number of reasons. I’m guessing, maybe, with the ones that got away, he got spooked and thought he might be caught next time and he didn’t want to shame his dear old mum and dad. He could have died. Cancer. A car accident. He could have moved overseas. He could even have married or got into some sort of twisted relationship with a goat that satisfied his urges … whether that would be enough on its own, I’m not sure.”

  “So, can we do any sort of trace on all those possibilities. From all those years ago?”

  Gayther shrugged. “I don’t know, Carrie. I’m just trying to spread the net far and wide, then pull it in and go through everything we’ve got, bit by bit.” He then asked, “And the deaths, Carrie, of young men in their twenties, in the three, six, twelve months after the last murder? What did you turn up?”

  Gayther saw the quickly covered look of frustration on her face again. He knew that, if he weren’t her DI, she’d speak quite sharply to him at times. Instead, she spoke in a calm and measured voice.

  “Again, where to start, guv? According to the local council, there were about 7,500 deaths in Suffolk last year. So, add in Norfolk and Cambridgeshire and we’re looking at, assuming the same sort of numbers there, maybe 22,000 or more for the year after the last murder thirty-odd years ago. That’s 400 or so deaths a week and, I’m guessing now, but if, say, perhaps 10 per cent would be younger males, we’d be looking at 2,000 deaths a year for how many years? … and it’s just me … doing this … and we don’t know what we’re looking for, do we? Not really.”

  Gayther sat back in his seat, “Points taken, Carrie. If this were a major investigation and we had the resources, we could do it. The answer’s out there, all the evidence we need, we just have to find it. One tiny clue. A sudden twist of luck. That’s all.”

  Carrie answered, “If this Smith is The Scribbler, as you say he is, then we have the answer already, surely? And Karen Williams and other possible witnesses at the care home … maybe CCTV footage from roads, petrol stations … and all that happened before, the witnesses, the other victims who got away, that’s the evidence and all we need to put him away … we don’t need to chase ifs, buts and maybes from thirty years ago.”

  “You’re right, Carrie,” replied Gayther. He smiled at her. “As always … look, okay, let’s wait and see if Thomas and Cotton turn up some photos. Meantime, go and see if you can find out where … if there are still clothes from the original killings. We need to start thinking DNA. And I’m going to go through the files for the other two victims who got away … see if they are still about. Come and find me when you’ve got the photos and we’ll head back up to see Karen Williams. See if she can put a face to the name for us.”

  * * *

  “Is it sunny today, guv?” Carrie asked, squinting through the car windscreen. “I’m not sure …” She took a tissue from her pocket and wiped at the grime on the inside of the window.

  “Very good, Carrie,” Gayther replied, accelerating the car up the A12 towards Saxmundham. “In the old days, of course, you could get a trainee to empty your car once a week … clean it … polish it even … but nowadays …” He let the sentence tail off.

  “They’ve invented driverless cars, guv, maybe you could invent a self-cleaning car, make your fortune.”

  “It’s a thought, Carrie. It’s definitely a thought.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “So,” asked Gayther, “these photos from Thomas and Cotton, to show to Karen Williams. They were quick. What have they turned up?”

  Carrie opened the file on her lap and took a sheet of A4 paper out and held it up for Gayther so he could see it.

  “Well, he’s pretty much how I imagine The Scribbler would look these days. Lean, stringy. Which one’s that?”

  “Challis, the builder. It’s off his website. The ‘About Us’ page. The two men either side of him are his sons, Toby and Alex. Toby, the bigger lad on the left, is the one who was arrested for the burglary.”

  “Okay,” replied Gayther, taking a closer look. “Hard to imagine Knucklehead knowing a London lawyer. Something to look into. When we get to Saxmundham, fold the page so only old man Challis can be seen.”

  “And this one is Halom, the drag act. Here’s one of him in full regalia strutting his stuff at Great Yarmouth.” She showed Gayther first one photo and then moved it to the side. “And here’s the other from the files, smirking. His most recent arrest. He’s a cocky one, guvnor.”

  “Quite a difference, Carrie. The master of disguise … mistress of disguise … whatever. I can’t see it being him somehow, even though he has a similar look about him as Challis. Show me again? … yes, thin as a whippet, my old mum would have said. And mad eyes, she’d have said that, too.”

  “And here’s Burgess. They had a bit of trouble with that one, ended up getting a photo off his wife’s – his ex-wife’s – old Facebook page. Not been used for ages. Seems they split up a while back, but Thomas trawled through her photos. Most photos with him in it have been deleted but there’s a family shot with a baby, the first granddaughter, and Burgess is in the middle of the group. A bit blurred as they zoomed in, but you can make him out fairly well. His features, anyway. They did their best.”

  Gayther grunted as he looked at it. “Another that looks like The Scribbler. How I think he looks anyway. In fact, all three of them, Challis, Halom, Burgess, could be related. Peas in a pod. Three identical strangers. Again, fold the page as best you can so only his face can be seen, no one else’s.”

  Carrie nodded and started folding the various pages.

  They drove along for a while, both with their own thoughts, as they approached the turning for Saxmundham.

  Carrie then cleared her throat and spoke.

  “
Shame we’ve no scissors, guv, we could have cut them and just put the photos on the same page … a sort of identity parade … and then asked Karen Williams if she recognised any of them as John Smith … there, that’s done,” she added a minute or two later, putting the papers back in the file and taking her mobile phone from her pocket.

  “Give them here,” Gayther said, taking the papers and folding them up and tucking them into his pocket.

  “Of course, if you used your mobile regularly, instead of letting it run down and leaving it wherever, I could have sent photos … of the photos … to you.”

  “Actually, Carrie, Little-Miss-Know-All, I do have my phone on me today and it is charged and working fine … I just prefer the traditional ways.”

  They smiled at each other.

  Easy together.

  A team already.

  Gayther signalled, swinging the car across the A12, at the Saxmundham turn-off.

  “Could it really be as easy as this?” Carrie asked. “Karen Williams simply pointing at one and saying ‘that’s him’, and we go and bring him in for questioning?”

  Gayther nodded as he accelerated the car towards their destination. “Why not? These things don’t always have to be complicated. Stranger things have happened. Years ago, we had a robbery down Ranelagh Road way. Really nasty one, killed the pets, took a dump in the bed, all of that. We pulled in every burglar locally who wasn’t inside. Long story short, it turned out it was a young kid, first-time offender, eighteen-year old, lived over the road. He’d tried it on with the wife, she rebuffed him two or three times and he seemed to accept it. Then, a week or two later, he did all that. It wasn’t a burglary, just his revenge.”

  “Of course,” Carrie replied, “if it is one of these three, the ones they pulled in and questioned and eventually released without charge, there’ll be a huge fuss in the papers about letting him escape to kill again.”

  Gayther shrugged. “Maybe, but there was never enough evidence to charge, let alone convict, any of the three last time round. Chances are, it was one of them. Higher up pulled in the net soon after, unofficially, of course. Young mother went missing. A small child was murdered. Unrelated, but considered more important than gay men at that time. Anyway, this time …”

  “Could they not have kept an eye on them, guvnor, even for a while? See what they did next?”

  Gayther exhaled loudly. “Resources, Carrie. And harassment, of course. You can’t just tail someone indefinitely. Anyway, the arrests would have been enough to spook whichever one of them did it. After all, that’s when the killings stopped.”

  Carrie nodded as Gayther went on.

  “This time, if this Karen Williams recognises one of them, or even if she doesn’t and we can still catch him quickly, before he kills again … well, we can’t do more. We’re acting as fast as we can and even if this is all a wild goose chase as you suggested yesterday, we’ll only have spent a few days on it, when all’s said and done …”

  “Left here,” Carrie said suddenly, looking down at her mobile phone.

  “I’ve been here before, Carrie, yesterday; I think I can remember that far back. I’m fifty-five and I’m not yet senile.”

  “No, guv. Sorry, guv,” Carrie smiled.

  Gayther huffed theatrically before going on. “Fact is, how can I put this … the media … how big a story is it? Police incompetence is always popular with the media and loved by all the virtue signallers on Twitter, but the killings … from so long ago … to the general public? Back then, it got publicity, but not as much, and as long as … well, if it were pretty young women … cute kids … it would have got a load more and plenty of resources as well. A lot of people in the police force … I shouldn’t say it … but it was a different era and … well, there wasn’t as much empathy as there could have been for gay men. Anyone LGBTQ+.”

  “And right, just in here.”

  “Thank you, Carrie, what would I do without you acting as my carer?”

  “That’s all right, guv, then left again and we’re there.” She turned her phone off and slipped it back in her pocket.

  Gayther continued talking as they approached the close. “The media, the public, too, won’t give two hoots about Old Man Lodge dying, whether he was pushed or jumped, and nor will they care about what happened to a load of troubled, middle-aged men thirty years ago. Dead gays don’t matter. And if another middle-aged white man dies. And another. And one more. Well, I doubt that they’d care that much either, truth be told. Not really. But I bloody well do. Knowing what my brother went through … what the hell is that doing there?”

  Carrie looked up. Saw the police patrol car parked outside of Karen Williams’ home.

  “Shit,” exclaimed Gayther, reaching to undo his seat belt and get out of the car.

  “Wait,” Carrie said, putting her hand on his arm.

  Gayther and Carrie watched as a young female police constable got out of the back of the car, leaning back in to help a dark-haired teenager out. Another, older female police officer got out of the front passenger side.

  “That’s Kai, Karen Williams’ son,” Gayther said. “What’s he been up to? County lines runner? Oh … no.”

  They watched as the older female police officer said something to the driver of the car, a younger male policeman, and then, her arm brushing the back of the teenager, she guided Kai up the path to the door with the young female police officer following behind.

  “Oh, don’t tell me. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me,” Gayther said. “Something’s happened to Karen Williams.”

  As the female police officers and the teenage boy entered the house, Gayther moved again to get out of the car. Carrie touched him on his arm once more. “Let me go, guvnor. Have a word with Mark, the driver. I know him. I used to play pool with him and his ex.”

  Gayther nodded his agreement, then sat waiting as she hurried over to the police car and tapped on the window.

  He watched as the window was wound down and saw Carrie leaning in. A series of questions and answers. A long conversation. He opened the window of his car, to listen. He could not quite hear what was being said.

  Carrie stood up, turned and came back towards Gayther. He studied her face. Their eyes met. She shook her head, a sad, final gesture. Gayther assumed the worst as Carrie got back to the car.

  “Karen Williams?”

  “She was killed in a hit-and-run accident on the B1119 late last night. Walking back from a pub, the Red Lion, where she’d met a friend for a drink according to Kai Williams. They’ve just returned from identifying the body. They’ve got a counsellor coming, and Ali and Sara, the two officers, are waiting until she arrives.”

  “CCTV?”

  “No, not on that road, not from the A12 to until you get to the town centre.”

  “At the pub?”

  Carrie shrugged. “I don’t know. Mark’s not sure who’s handling it yet.”

  “Did she die at the scene?”

  “A young couple driving home from a theatre in Ipswich saw her body by the side of the road at about 10.45pm. The woman went over, the man was too squeamish, and she was dead then. Hit at speed from behind and thrown against a tree, they say.”

  “Witnesses? Anywhere?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Mark says not.”

  “Who was the friend?”

  Carrie pulled a face. “I don’t know. Apparently, Kai said his mum went out at short notice to meet someone for a meal at the pub. He thinks she might have been on a date. That’s all he knows.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He asked why we were here and I just said we were following up a lead, a few things, in the close. Cold case enquiries. I didn’t actually say it was anything to do with Karen Williams. Was that the right thing to say?”

  Gayther nodded.

  “They’re treating it as a hit-and-run. They’re checking garages and hospitals and CCTV on the A12 and in Saxmundham to see if they can uncover anything, a dama
ged car or anyone who was injured. There’s no talk of anything else.”

  “Of murder?” Gayther said.

  “Do you think …?” answered Carrie.

  “I don’t know, Carrie. Big coincidence if it isn’t. Look, while everyone is taking care of Kai Williams, you and I can pay a visit to the Red Lion on the way back. Let’s drop by and see what we can discover.”

  7. TUESDAY 13 NOVEMBER, LUNCHTIME

  Gayther and Carrie sat quietly at a corner table in the Red Lion pub just outside Saxmundham. They both had a glass of dark fizzy drink, each with ice cubes and a slice of lime, in front of them.

  “Tastes disgusting, whatever it is.”

  “Coke Zero. No sugar.”

  “Diet Coke, then? With sweeteners … loads of chemicals that’ll give you cancer in twenty years.”

  “No, Coke Zero.”

  “So, what’s the difference? Diet Coke. Zero Coke. I assume they’re both sugar-free. And calorie-free?”

  Carrie shrugged. “Same drink. Different taste. Good for diabetics paddling about in the shallows.”

  Gayther huffed and puffed as he pushed his half-empty glass away and looked around him.

  It was a quaint, old-fashioned pub, full of low beams, a mish-mash of dark tables and chairs and a mix of cushions that, Gayther thought as he moved one slowly away from him, had seen far better days.

  The pub seemed bigger on the inside than the outside, with more nooks and crannies appearing as they went further in.

  It was about a third full, but short-staffed, and the husband-and-wife landlords seemed rushed off their feet serving lunchtime meals. After introductions and brief mentions of Karen Williams, they had shown Gayther and Carrie to a tucked-away table near the back and asked them to wait until the pub had settled down. “Twenty minutes, no more,” said the husband. Gayther and Carrie declined the offer of something to eat.

  “They’ve got CCTV,” Carrie said suddenly after a few minutes’ silence. “Above the door as you come in. That should make it easier.”