The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “Not a lot, Carrie. I’ve just been checking. Long time ago. Another world. You’ll have seen the typewritten reports of each case from Hendry, the officer in charge at the time. There were three or four others involved. Hendry’s long gone. He passed over back in the 1990s. Lung cancer. I went to his funeral. His wife seemed surprisingly cheerful, if I remember right. The others will have one foot in the grave by now. We’ll catch up with them at some point, have a quiet word with those who are still about. Other than that, there are a few exhibits.”

  “Exhibits?”

  “Items of evidence, Carrie. Wakey, wakey. From the deceased victims. There’s not much. Most of them were discovered face down and rotting in a ditch six months after they went missing. But we’ve two or three items. A boot from Marven found close to where the body was discovered in a ditch. Shoes from MacGowan that were pulled off before he was dumped in another ditch. A hair found under the fingernail of Davies; he maybe pulled it out during a struggle with The Scribbler.”

  “Any good?”

  “I think Marven’s boot is too much of a long shot. It’s likely it just came off as The Scribbler dragged the victim’s body to the ditch. He probably never actually touched it. The other boot was found in the water at the bottom of the ditch. MacGowan’s shoes might be a possible – it depends on whether The Scribbler pulled them off and, if so, whether he still had his latex gloves on. If he did pull them off, why did he leave them there? I don’t think we’ll get lucky with them.”

  “Waste of time then, guv, asking for them to be DNA tested?”

  “Maybe, but who knows. I can put it through on the basis that if we can get some DNA we can see if there’s a match on the main database. But there’s a problem, well two problems really. Back then, we pretty much just fingerprinted items. These days, with DNA, we can retrieve DNA from skin cells left behind when – if – The Scribbler – came into contact with an object such as the boot. But it’s a big if, whether there are any skin cells on, say, the shoes that we recovered. If The Scribbler pulled them off, well he was wearing latex gloves, so that’s a non-starter.”

  “And the other problem?” Carrie asked.

  The other issue is that we, well some of us, were pretty gung-ho, PC Plod, in those days in the way we handled things. A year or two ago, they looked at the rape and murder of an old lady, in her eighties, walking her dog on old Felixstowe beach in 1979. Funnily enough, they had her boots and reckoned the rapist … the murderer … ripped them off, and so, DNA-wise, there might have been skin cells on those. Nothing … they reckon the way the boots were fingerprinted at the time destroyed any chance of DNA.”

  “And the hair, under the nail, that’s a possibility, surely? Got lucky there,” Carrie queried.

  “If it’s his, maybe. And if there’s a root. And if they’ll DNA test it. If. If. If. Thing is, without a root, you can’t get a full profile, not at present anyway, and upstairs may say no because they want to preserve the little bit of hair they’ve got. If the hair’s rootless, and I’m no expert, you can establish ethnicity, but that’s about it. If we get DNA from a suspect and there is a match, it would not be complete, so the evidence wouldn’t be … the reality is that, given its age and everything, it’s probably degraded so much and will be of too poor quality to do much with it.”

  Carrie swept up the crumbs of her biscuit and tipped them into the cellophane wrapper in front of her before pushing it into the bottom of her emptied coffee cup. She glanced at Gayther’s forehead, paused and went to speak, but then thought better of it.

  “So, what are we doing today, guv? Going to see the two victims who got away, Wade the teacher and Wilkerson the bank manager? In case they’re next on The Scribbler’s ‘to do’ list?”

  Gayther looked at Carrie and shook his head as if to say the ‘to do’ list comment wasn’t appropriate. He finished the rest of his coffee and squashed the cup down into Carrie’s and then spoke.

  “We’re going to cut to the chase, Carrie. We’ve got Thomas and Cotton’s notes and are going to pay visits to Challis and Halom and, in his absence, to the wife of Burgess. One of them’s The Scribbler. Let’s see if we can find out what they were doing the night of Lodge’s death. We’ll give them all a little squeeze and see if one of them bursts open.”

  * * *

  “So, which one’s first, guv?” Carrie asked, as they sat in the car in a layby on the A12. “Challis … Halom … Burgess?”

  Gayther rifled back and forth through the file on his lap in front of him.

  “Halom … he’s the closest. I’ve a photocopy of The News of the World front page from … whatever the date was. 1989, I think. Let me show you. Refresh your memory.”

  He passed an A4 sheet of paper to Carrie and then carried on speaking as she began reading it.

  “This is the drag-act guy who … dear God, where to start? Obsessed, for whatever reason, with the case. His bedroom was covered with cuttings about the killings. Came forward to say he thought he did them while in a trance … said he had blackouts … the ‘zombie killer’ some of the lads at the station called him. Anyway, the desk sergeant initially humoured him and took a statement and filed it under a pile of papers at the bottom of a cabinet and forgot about it.”

  “So, how did he end up on the front page?” Carrie held up the piece of paper. “With his face all over this rag?”

  “Halom kept coming back demanding to be charged with the murders. Made a nuisance of himself, hanging around the car park, stopping the senior officers, the cleaners, anyone who’d listen. He got short shrift. He then went to the newspapers. The News of the World ran a front page. God knows why. We were then instructed from on high to interview him under caution, but, well, these days you have to be sympathetic to mental health issues, but then, he was just a swivel-eyed loon they wanted in and out of the building as soon as possible.”

  Carrie finished reading the piece and then pointed to the photo of Halom on the page as she handed it back. “Not a bad likeness to The Scribbler – if the original sketch was close to the man we’re after.”

  “Well, we think that’s what set him off. The likeness being shown on TV. Apparently, his father, a real bully boy, told Halom, Halom junior, they had the same name and middle name too … creepy … that the mugshot was of him … a dead ringer. That put the idea in his head and it escalated from there.”

  Carrie looked out of the window across the fields to her left. “Okay, so, the guy has, has had, serious mental health issues. But what about the nights of the killings? Did he have an alibi for all of them? Did he drive a car – was he mobile … could he have done them, the murders? Presumably they checked it all out as per usual?”

  “Yes, but probably half-heartedly. He said he killed them all, but he was at home, supposedly, for each of the crimes according to his dear old mum. He had a licence and there was a family car, hers – the father was a lorry driver, so he was away for much of the time. There was nothing to place him at the scenes of any of the crimes. To be honest, they just wanted to shift him out of the way so they could focus on finding the real killer. There was no reason to dig deep. He was just another nut. You get them with every case.”

  Carrie watched as it started to rain, a thin and endless drizzle, before she spoke again. “So, why are we bothering now, all these years on?”

  Gayther wiped at the inside of the fogged-up windscreen with the sleeve of his jacket. “There are two ways to look at this one. The first is that he’s simply a sad case who had some form of mental illness when he was young and wanted attention at the time. I expect there’s some sort of name for it. Look-at-me-itis, probably.”

  He paused, thinking for a moment, before going on. “Anyway, he’s since spent his life doing odd jobs and a drag act around caravan parks, trading stolen goods, living with his old mother in Wickham Market. With her until recently anyway. All a bit seedy and squalid but essentially harmless. And we’ve his DNA on file and that hasn’t matched any crime at any time
in any place since. And so, if that’s the case, we’re wasting our time.”

  “And the other way?” asked Carrie as she fastened her seat belt ready to go.

  “The other is that he is The Scribbler. He did the killings, using his mother’s car while she stayed at home and the father was on the road, trucking all over the place. The mother knew it … but lied to protect her precious son … the only thing she had as her husband was a big thick brute of a man. He got lucky. Or was clever. Never got caught. Then came out, did this drag act and that became the outlet for all of his urges. I’m not sure dancing around in frilly underwear would be enough to keep him satisfied, but who knows?”

  “How likely is that, guv? Less likely, surely? That doesn’t really seem possible to me.” Carrie opened her window a little to let in some air.

  “I’d agree with you, Carrie, if it weren’t for one thing.” Gayther started the car, looked back over his shoulder and pulled the car out on to the A12 before continuing.

  “His mother moved into sheltered housing in Leiston a while back. She’s eighty-something and maybe needs to go into a home now. Leiston to the care home is seven miles. Not that far round here. Maybe, just maybe, young Mr Halom paid a visit to the home with her on its open day to see if she’d like it … and who should be sitting there to welcome him but the Reverend Lodge, the man he tried to murder all those years ago.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to Wickham Market, guvnor,” said Carrie as they came off the A12 and passed a sign for the village. “I’ve never been here before. What’s it like? At least it’s stopped raining.”

  Gayther smiled. “Much the same as all of the other decaying villages up and down the A12.” He rummaged in his trouser pocket and pulled out a scribbled-on envelope, which he passed to Carrie. “It’s the IP13, zero something one. Google Maps it for me please, my phone’s dead.”

  Carrie took the paper, leaned forward and pressed some buttons on the mobile phone resting on her thigh. “I’ve got reception. Who’d have thought?” She looked closely at the screen and then fiddled with it, turning the picture from side to side. “Bungalow. Looks like it’s in a horseshoe-shaped close. All old bungalows. Great long gardens. Then trees and fields behind. Room for a cemetery full of bodies.”

  They drove along a wide, twisty-turny road, fields stretching out on either side.

  By a new housing development. Executive homes. Then the town square, lined with small, mostly empty shops.

  And finally beyond, heading out towards fields again.

  “Sharp left here,” said Carrie, “Sorry, yes … look, here it is. The close … just along here.”

  Gayther turned the car, drove along a little way and then brought the car slowly to a halt by a postbox, looking out across the eight bungalows he counted in front of him.

  “Which one is Halom’s, guv? Which number?”

  “Six, I believe,” Gayther replied, counting from his left. “That one there. The one with the weathervane on top of the garage. That’s weird. Why would you have a weathervane there where you can’t see it from your own home or garden? That’s stupid, that is.”

  “Well he’s at home, look, the van on the drive?” she pointed to it and then added, “Do you want me to put the registration into the system, DG05 … see what comes up?”

  He nodded, “Yes, can do … let’s just sit here for a minute and watch for twitching at the windows. These little closes out in the sticks are all the same. Old men and women sitting watching each other’s every move. See who’s bought themselves a new hat. Nothing better to do with their time.”

  “Look there,” he said after a minute, “to the left of Halom’s. There’s someone at the window already.”

  “And there,” he added a minute later. “Two doors to his right. They’ve opened the top bit of that window so they can listen. They’re there as well.”

  He waited a further minute before speaking. “Any second now, and we’ll see Halom standing there the other side of the window, dressed up like Norman Bates’ old mother in Psycho. You wait.”

  “Registered to his mother, still Maureen Halom,” Carrie said after a minute or two. “The van. All clean … but a bit odd that, the old lady owning it … so how do you want to play this, guvnor? I’ve been thinking …” She stopped speaking, waiting for his response.

  He thought and then replied, “Go on.”

  “The bungalow is actually listed in the records as Lilac Cottage rather than number six … although it’s a bungalow and there are no lilac trees. So, on paper, we’re not to know, are we? That he’s at number six. I wonder whether we might start with the neighbours, asking for Mr Halom and then striking up a conversation with them after they’ve directed us to number six … get a bit of background on him, as it were? Have they seen anything strange? Out of place?”

  Gayther shook his head. “We need to play this one straight, Carrie. Dead straight. Halom will know his rights … from what I’ve read of him, he’ll scream blue bloody murder if he finds out we’re being clever-dicky. And he will. Invasion of privacy. Slander. I want this all low-key, under the radar – until we’ve got something solid to present to Boss Man.”

  She nodded and then said, “So we just, what, open the gate, walk up the path, knock on the door and when he answers it, we say … what? Hello, me old mate, tell me, are you The Scribbler?”

  “Not quite, Carrie.” Gayther opened his car door, undid his seat belt and went to step out of the car. “That’s what we want to know, but there are ways and means, Carrie, ways and means. Come and watch. Watch and listen. Listen and learn.”

  “Guv?”

  “Yes, Carrie?”

  “I’d, um …” She pointed at the plaster on Gayther’s forehead, “… take that off first if I were you.”

  * * *

  Carrie stepped out of the car. Followed Gayther as he pulled the plaster from his forehead.

  To the gate. The path. The door.

  Watched as he pressed the doorbell, struggling to unstick the plaster from first one finger and then another. Finally, he pulled it off and tucked it into a pocket.

  He then turned back towards her and grimaced. Carrie was not sure why. It was a face to suggest he smelled something bad, rotten even. She looked at the faded brown door and dirty net curtains at the windows to either side and then down at the step. An empty milk bottle. Old leaflets tucked behind. And then she saw, on a folded-over tabloid newspaper to the side by Gayther’s shoes, a fat pigeon lying there, its neck broken, a thin line of blood from a nostril.

  “Uurgh,” she said instinctively, under her breath.

  She looked across at Gayther. Could see he was stifling a fit of laughter because of her unexpected reaction.

  She looked away, biting her lip and digging a thumbnail into her index finger, to stop herself laughing.

  For a minute or more, they both avoided each other’s eyes, their backs to each other. Gayther glanced down again at the pigeon, which looked as though it had just been killed. He wondered if Halom had done it or whether it was a gift from someone.

  Carrie looked across at the van parked in the drive by the side of the bungalow. She thought it was about as grubby a van as she had ever seen. She moved across to check the front for any signs of damage and then, seeing it was all intact, the tyres.

  He turned and looked over, steady at last.

  “Anything?” he said.

  “Below legal minimum this side.” She walked round the other side. “One’s above, just. The other’s worn on the inside quite badly.”

  She came back and stood on the step next to Gayther.

  “What do you think? Start with the tyres?”

  Gayther hushed her down, leaning forward, listening at the front door.

  The bungalow was quiet and still. The windows all closed. The curtains to the windows on the left, the main bedroom, thought Gayther, were pulled to. He checked the windows to the right, another smaller bedroom, and those were open. He could see
through the frosted glass of the front door, watching for movement, the darting of a body from the main bedroom into the hall and away to the rooms at the back of the bungalow.

  Nothing. But Gayther sensed someone was there.

  In the main bedroom, just behind the curtain, listening too, waiting for them to go.

  He rang the doorbell again, then clattered the letterbox with his fingers. Stood back, waiting. A minute passed. Then close to another.

  There was movement from the bedroom to the left, the sound of coughing, a door opening and a figure appearing, through the frosted glass, in the hallway. A face, pressed close to the glass, looking out at Gayther and Carrie on the doorstep. Gayther could feel the man’s gaze upon him.

  “Who are you, what do you want?” A rasping voice, from years of smoking, with a Suffolk accent. Harsh, defensive.

  “Mr Halom? It’s the police, open up please,” Gayther asked politely but firmly.

  A moment’s pause. Gayther waited for the man to swear at them, to tell them to clear off in as many words. But the rattling of a chain at the door signalled its opening.

  Halom stood there in front of them. Mid-fifties but looking older. Sunken-faced and skeletal inside his frayed-brown dressing gown. Cancer, thought Carrie instinctively. Veined and bony-legged, feet in incongruously feminine fluffy pink slippers. Halom looked at Gayther, coughing as he did so. He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and took out an off-white handkerchief, which he coughed phlegm into.

  “Police, what do you want?” he said eventually, his words choking out. “I’ve told you I’m not letting you in any more without a warrant. Snooping and prying. It’s harassment. I’ve told you I’m through.”

  “We won’t take up any of your time, Mr Halom. My colleague and I …” Gayther gestured towards Carrie, “… are just doing a routine enquiry relating to an incident near Dunwich on the first of October … van owners in the area … can you tell me where you were on the evening of the first? It was a Monday.”