The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  Aland bothered him. He did not know why. He accepted that he was not The Scribbler, could not possibly be, all things considered. But there was something not quite right. It was too much of a coincidence that he was with Karen Williams no more than an hour or so before her death. It niggled away at the back of his mind. There was something obvious that he was overlooking, something right in front of him. He couldn’t place it, though.

  Gayther knew he needed to step back from Aland and that, if Aland was in some way mixed up with Karen Williams, he had to leave it to whoever was investigating her death. Do no more than tell his fellow officers that the man with her at the pub was Aland, or certainly looked like him.

  But then he looked up. Saw Aland driving a van into the car park and around the corner into the staff parking area.

  Realised Aland had not seen him.

  Gayther dropped down, as if he were reaching for something in the passenger footwell, and then stayed there. He hoped Aland would not recognise his car, which he would have seen the other day as he was weeding.

  He counted the seconds, to thirty, forty, fifty and then sixty. Wasn’t sure how long he should wait. He knew if he raised his head and Aland saw him there would be trouble of some kind; Aland running to Mrs Coombes and her complaining to the Chief Constable. He could do without that.

  He kept counting, to 90, 120, 150 and finally 180 seconds. Then raised his head up slowly. Aland was nowhere to be seen. He was not sure whether the handyman had walked by the car and into reception, or if there was a back-door entrance out of sight near the staff parking area.

  Gayther got out of the car, reaching for a pad and pencil in his pocket.

  Knew he needed to get the van’s registration number noted down to give to his colleagues. Knew too that if he used his phone he’d probably end up photographing himself instead by mistake.

  And it was a chance for him to look over the front of the van for any damage that might have occurred last night – putting his suspicions to rest; or confirming them.

  He walked out of the visitors’ car park towards the staff parking area. Both areas were half-full of cars but empty of people. He saw the van straightaway as he came around the corner. Dark blue and anonymous. Hard to see at night, if the lights were turned off and the van accelerated fast towards a vulnerable woman walking at the side of a dimly lit road. He made a note of the van’s number plate.

  Went to walk to the front of the van.

  Heard a noise behind him.

  Turned and saw Aland standing there.

  “What the fuck you want?” the handyman said. Gayther noted he was clenching his hands into fists, could feel the anger coming off him, close to striking out.

  Gayther stepped back, raised his hands, palms outwards in a conciliatory gesture. “My coll …” he began and then stopped, thought for a second and just said, “I’m picking up my friend … I’m waiting for her.”

  “Why you …?” the handyman gestured towards the van and then towards the pad and pen in Gayther’s left hand. He moved forward towards Gayther, who stepped further back, two or three more steps, so that he was now close to the front of the van. Near enough to check for damage.

  Gayther glanced down. The van’s bumper was bent and damaged. The paint scratched and scraped. Somehow, it did not surprise him.

  But he was not sure if this was fresh or old damage. The van, fifteen years old or more, had been round the block many times.

  “When did you do this?” Gayther asked quietly, dropping his hands and pointing to the front of the van.

  The handyman moved closer. He was so close to Gayther that he could smell him, a mix of tobacco and sweat. He looked down and then shrugged. “It. How I had it.” Gayther took it to mean the van was like this when he got it.

  Gayther stepped back one more time, felt his heel now pressed against the kerb by the edge of the parking area.

  He looked at the handyman, who stared back without blinking and then raised his finger to his throat, making a cutting motion. “You fuck off. Go ’way’.”

  Gayther shook his head at the ridiculousness of the cut-throat gesture. Raised his hands again, as conciliatory as he could be. “My car’s there,” he said, nodding towards his car in the visitors’ car park.

  The handyman moved aside, gesturing for Gayther to walk by him to the car.

  As Gayther passed him, the handyman spoke. “Hey.” Gayther turned and looked at him.

  “You come back,” the handyman said, gesturing at his throat again.

  This time, Gayther laughed openly at the stupidity of the repeated gesture. He knew he should walk away, sit in the car and wait for Carrie, passing the information he had to the officer in charge of the Karen Williams case when they were back at the station. But the handyman had riled him.

  He knew he should keep quiet, say nothing. Not ask the question, “Where were you last night, between the hours of eight and eleven?” He did not need to anyway. He had the answer to that already, from the CCTV camera.

  And he wanted to say something better, something that would give him the answer he wanted just by looking at the handyman’s face – a carefully prepared mask or a look of sudden shock. So he did.

  “Karen Williams. She’s dead.”

  There was a moment’s pause. A second or two, no more. The handyman held Gayther’s steady gaze, with a look of disbelief, then dropped his head down into his hands. Too fast for Gayther to judge accurately. He realised immediately he should not have made the statement, should have left it to the officer in charge. He could kick himself.

  He turned around to walk to his car. Felt movement behind him.

  Half-turned back as the handyman thumped him hard with clenched fists on his back, knocking him forwards.

  Saw the ground coming towards him fast. Blacked out.

  * * *

  “Guv, guv, are you okay?” Carrie bent down on one knee. “Guv, guv?” She shook Gayther’s shoulder.

  Gayther stirred and, after a moment or two, he sat up slowly onto his haunches, groaning a little.

  “Funnily enough, Carrie, no, I’m not so good.” He touched his forehead gingerly, knocking off two or three pieces of gravel stuck to a bloodied graze. “I seem to have banged my head … and cut it.”

  “Did you fall over guvnor, have a funny turn?” Carrie reached for a small pack of tissues in her pocket, slipped one out and passed it to him. He took it carefully and patted his forehead. She sat next to him on the ground, picking up his pad and pencil close by.

  “I’m not that bloody old, Carrie. I’m not …” he searched for the best word, “… gaga. Aland turned up in his van. I’ve noted the number … and the front is damaged. Can you text the information to Mark … get him to pass it on to whoever’s in charge of the Karen Williams case.”

  “Yes, sure.” She reached for her phone, turned the pad to look at the number and started pressing buttons. “But what happened to you? Did you have a little wobble and fall over?”

  He sighed heavily, still feeling slightly dazed. “Give over, Carrie, I’m not that decrepit yet … Aland saw me looking and came across … I wanted to see his reaction, see if he knew about … I told him Karen Williams was dead. Just to see.”

  Carrie looked up from her phone and made a face at him, “Oh … was that a good idea?” She paused and then asked, “What was his response?”

  “He looked shocked … fake or genuine, I don’t know. It was so fast. He pushed me as I walked away. Well, hit me on the back as hard as he could, really. I stumbled and …” he gestured at his forehead, “goodnight Vienna.”

  “There we are, message texted to Mark … so do we go and find him, Aland, and bring him in for assault … and to talk about the van?”

  Gayther rose stiffly to his feet as Carrie reached out to support him by the arm. “No, it’s not our job … let’s leave it for now. I think it might complicate matters … but text Mark again and tell him to get someone over here asap for the van … in fact, take s
ome photos of it now. Just in case.”

  Gayther stood and watched as Carrie circled the van clockwise and then again anti-clockwise before stopping in front of him.

  “Filmed it, guv. All good.”

  Gayther nodded carefully as he turned to go towards his car. “Anyway, more importantly … How did you get on with Sally and Jen? Did you get through Mrs Coombes?”

  Carrie walked alongside of Gayther to the car, her arm on his. It irritated Gayther a little, but he knew she meant well and wasn’t teasing him this time.

  “Mrs Coombes wasn’t there, or at least I didn’t see her. I spoke to the receptionist, same woman as last time and asked to see Sally. She wasn’t on duty. Jen was, and so this Kaz, on the desk, buzzed her and she came and saw me in reception …”

  “Did she recognise any of the photos?” Gayther reached in his pocket for his car keys.

  “Do you want me to drive, guv? Let you get your breath?”

  He nodded as he gave her the keys and she opened the passenger door and watched him climb onto the seat. “I’m going to have a splitting headache all night … do you have any Anadins or anything … painkillers for your lady things?”

  “’Fraid not, guv, but I’ll drive you back, give you a chance to shut your eyes … and no, guv, Jen didn’t recognise any of them, but I’ve left photos with her and my phone number … damn PACE, as you’d say … and she’ll show them round, to Sally and to Mrs Smith … who’s a bit Lady Gaga … and will then text me if anyone does and then bin the photos.”

  Gayther grunted as he sat down in the passenger seat.

  He waited as Carrie got into the driver’s side, fastening her seat belt, before speaking as gently as he could. “I’d rather you’d shown the photos to each of them in turn yourself, especially Mrs Smith, in case this Jen doesn’t … we can’t really rely on her to do our job. Not properly anyway.”

  Carrie nodded, “I can go back, get the photos, sort it out.”

  “Leave it for now, let’s keep out of the way … give Mark, whoever’s dealing with it, the chance to come over and speak to Aland and check the van over … see if Jen contacts you later today or tomorrow. If not, we can go back in tomorrow or the next day.”

  “So, what’s next, guvnor?”

  “Home, Carrie. You can play Space Invaders or whatever it is these days with your little boy. I can get a good night’s sleep. We can start afresh in the morning.”

  They looked at each other.

  Carrie smiled warmly at him.

  Gayther smiled back, wincing more than a little.

  8. TUESDAY 13 NOVEMBER, 4.55PM

  The man with the latex gloves sat on a bench in a back-street park in Lowestoft in Suffolk, close to an overgrown pond and within sight of the public toilets. He had been there most of the afternoon, watching the comings and goings, feeling the screwdriver and the Stanley knife in his pockets, waiting for his chance. Just the one, that’s all he needed.

  He knew that, in the on-off-on-off drizzle, he must look an odd sight. Wandering back and forth to the pond with his crumpled brown bag of crusts to feed the ducks.

  Dropping his head down as if studying his shoes whenever anyone walked by. Not that they did that often, though. And no one spoke to him.

  He could not help himself at these times. Had to wait and see if he’d get lucky. The urge getting stronger, more insistent, at each missed opportunity.

  He realised that he would be caught one day. A policeman would stop and ask him what he was doing. Or a man he persuaded to come with him in his van might turn and overpower him at the moment before killing, holding him down as he pressed 9 9 9 on his mobile phone. Or someone, when a man was reported missing, might remember seeing him there or walking to his van with that man.

  It was easier at the start, when he was younger and fitter. He could sit in bars and clubs in the city centre, in the corner, for hours on end. Anonymous. Far from home. Invisible. Night after night. Waiting for a sad, middle-aged man to make his nervous approach. So many bodies, so many faces, unlikely to be remembered by anyone – and there were no CCTV cameras nor mobile phones or Twitter and Facebook back then; none of these things he knew so little about.

  Even so, he’d nearly been caught. And some of the men had got away. An ever-present spectre just behind him, or just in front and around the next corner, for the rest of his life.

  There were too many kills, too close together, too near to home.

  He had stopped for a while, had held out for as long as possible. But the urge came back, as it always did, and he started again.

  He’d been forced over the years to go further away as he grew older and stood out more in bars and clubs and, eventually, he went to public toilets. Still meeting places for sad old men trying so hard and for so long to subdue their urges and hide their dirty secrets. And he went so far, up the A1 and down to the M25, ever searching. Harder and harder as time passed and, he guessed, so many of these men found what they wanted on the internet.

  But there were always one or two. One here, another there. All middle-aged men in suits.

  Six, nine months apart, sometimes a year. He once held out for as long as eighteen months.

  Never the same part of the country the next time, though.

  He had not killed in Suffolk for almost five years. Last time, the man’s disappearance made the front page of the local newspaper, as they often did. A respectable man goes missing. Sobbing wife and bewildered children make an appeal. A flurry of publicity and then a sudden deafening silence; no doubt because the man’s secret life had been exposed. Assumptions were made by the police and finally the family. A runaway off to start a new life with a gay lover. Or a suicide, as likely as not. The wife and children eventually accepting, in the unending silence, that he had taken his own life.

  Only now did he dare to come back, to his home patch of East Anglia, to hunt. Felt it safe to do so. Great Yarmouth, Beccles, Acle and now Lowestoft. He had checked out all of the parks there, one by one, making sure they met all of his criteria before he made his next killing. No speed cameras nearby. No CCTV in or around the park. A public toilet, run-down and unnoticed. Out of the way. And an empty, largely unused park free of mothers with young children, and teens on pushbikes, and families.

  Again, as dusk was falling fast, he saw a man walking by. A young man, maybe thirty, thirty-five. Married, most likely. With a pretty young wife and two little children. Blonde-haired girl. Cheeky-faced boy. All oblivious to his other, sordid life of public toilets and casual sex with strangers; men he’d never see again. Thought maybe this was a place where men like this still met.

  The young man stopped.

  Turned towards the man with the latex gloves. Smiled.

  About as obvious as he could be.

  The man with the latex gloves watched as the young man turned away and walked into the toilets. A final look back and the young man disappeared inside the building.

  He sighed to himself, the man with the gloves, patting the bin bags in one pocket and then the black tape in the other.

  He wanted an older man, someone like himself these days, someone who he could kill easily. Not someone young and strong and more powerful than him.

  He rose from the bench, looked towards the toilets and then turned and walked away, screwing up the crumpled brown bag in his hand and throwing it angrily towards the ducks.

  He knew exactly who he wanted.

  For his thirtieth kill.

  Someone old who looked like Father.

  9. WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER, MORNING

  Gayther and Carrie sat opposite each other in the staff canteen the next morning. Gayther had a fabric plaster stuck to his forehead, which Carrie tried hard to ignore.

  Both held paper cups of coffee in their hands and shared a packet of three custard creams.

  Carrie broke the last biscuit in two and gave Gayther the slightly larger piece. She wanted to tell Gayther he’d look better without the plaster on his head but could not q
uite bring herself to raise the matter.

  “So, what’s on the schedule today, guv?”

  “Have we got the likely lads in?”

  “Likely …? Oh, no, Cotton and Thomas are on a course today. ‘Politically Correct Bollocks’ I think you’d call it, guvnor. We should have them back again tomorrow, I think, or at least part of it. Did you have something in mind for them, guv?”

  “No, not especially, they’ve given me their notes so far. All of their thoughts. I wanted to arrange for the evidence we had from the original murders to be taken for DNA testing, though. They could have done the to-ing and fro-ing, dogsbody work on that for us. No matter, we can leave it just for the moment.”

  “Anything they’ve spotted that we haven’t? In their notes. They’re bright boys.”

  Gayther laughed.

  “Not exactly. For one of the murders, they found a mention in a statement that Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, they explained, in case I didn’t know who Quasimodo was, had been seen lurking in the pub. And for another, there was a reference to Frankenstein being there … again, they explained the difference to me between Frankenstein, Doctor Frankenstein, and Frankenstein’s monster, his creation. Kind of them, I’m sure.”

  “And what did you say?”

  Gayther saw her smirk.

  He laughed again.

  “Um … I said to them that it was Norfolk and it’s like the Hammer House of Horrors up there – Wolfman, Creature from the Black Lagoon …”

  “Count Duckula?”

  “Him too … and I explained the whole inter-breeding thing to them as well … marrying cousins and aunties and all of that … and so, for Norfolk, looking like Quasimodo and Frankenstein—”

  “Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Yes, well, it’s normal for Norfolk.”

  “And what did they say, guv, Cotton and Thomas?”

  “They seemed a bit bemused, to be honest.”

  Carrie laughed as she finished her biscuit and cleared her throat.

  “So, being serious for a moment, guv, what exactly do we have from the original murders? When I went through the notes, it wasn’t clear.”