“Stop then, stop here, rest for a minute.”
They stopped and laid the bagged body down between them.
“I forgot my axe. I left it at the van.”
“Leave it for now. One of us can go back and get it later and shut the doors and lock the van, too.”
The man with the axe crouched down by the body. He reached into his pocket for a small tin and a box of matches. With shaking hands, he opened the tin and took out a roll-up cigarette, thin with tobacco at one end, fatter at the other. After lighting two matches that burned down to his fingers, he lit the cigarette with the third and smiled happily to himself as he inhaled the smoke.
“Go on. Tell me. Please.”
The man with the gloves sighed as he crouched down, too, reaching across for the tin and rummaging through for the best-made cigarette, which he lit, dragging on the strong tobacco. He looked across at his brother, so similar to him except for the sagging eyelid and crumpled skin to the right side of his face. An accident, it had been said, when burning a field. The reality was a mix of violent blows and a hot iron pressed too hard and too long by Father so many years ago.
“I was walking through the woods …”
“Which woods?”
“I was walking through the woods near Ipswich when I heard screaming. I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl.”
“A girl,” the man with the axe said firmly. “Girls scream when they are in pain. Boys do not.” He touched the side of his face again. “Go on, tell the story.”
“I heard screaming and I ran into the woods. There was a man there …”
“What did he look like? The man? Like Father?” the man with the axe asked. “Tell me.”
“The man wore a suit. Like Father used to wear when he went to work and for church on Sundays. And he stood there with the boy and the girl on their knees at his feet …”
“What did they look like, the boy and the girl? Were they pretty?”
“Yes, she was a pretty blonde girl with pigtails and he was a handsome blonde boy with curly hair. And the man stood over them holding himself in his hands.”
The man with the axe looked down at the ground and shook slightly. After a while, he dragged heavily on his cigarette and then spoke. “He is a very bad man.”
“I said to the children, “Go, children, go on, run away and I will deal with this bad man. And they ran off and I saved them by …” he gestured towards the body.
“He was a very bad man … can I see his face?”
The man with the gloves finished his cigarette, squeezing the tip with his fingers and then dropping it and crushing it into the ground with his foot. He glanced over at his brother, saw the look of excitement on his face, and then reached for the bagged body. He felt with his fingers across the plastic, searching for the old man’s nose and forehead and then down to his chin. He ripped at the bag as it tore, exposing the dead man’s face.
“There,” he said. “Can you see?”
The man with the axe leaned in, peering at the face, closer to the body than he needed to be.
“He is a bad man.”
“Yes.”
“The little girl and the little boy will be safe now.”
“Yes.”
“There will be more bad men?”
“Yes … but don’t worry about that now … come on, give me a hand … let’s get him to the pit.”
One final look from the man with the axe and he pulled the black plastic back over the face. The man with the gloves knew, as they stood and heaved the body up, that they were not yet done with it. Almost, but not quite.
He realised, as they took the body to the cesspit, that the man with the axe would suggest that he alone would deal with the body, that the man with the gloves should go and fetch the axe and shut the van doors and lock the van.
“Yes,” the man with the gloves said, a minute or so later, when they rested the body on the ground close to the cesspit. “I’ll go and lock the van.”
The man with the axe smiled to himself as he turned away to drag the body towards the pit.
“I’ll see you in the farmhouse in ten minutes,” the man with the gloves said.
“Yes,” the man with the axe answered.
“Make sure you’re clean and tidy before you come back to the farmhouse. For Mother.”
The man with the axe nodded his agreement.
14. THURSDAY 15 NOVEMBER, MORNING
“So,” Gayther said, looking at Carrie, Cotton and Thomas around the desk in the portacabin office. “A bright and early start. All well with everyone? We have a busy day. Busy, busy, busy. Lots to do.”
Cotton and Thomas nodded and smiled.
Carrie went to say something.
Gayther hushed her down, eager to share out the day’s workload straightaway.
“Cotton, Thomas – jobs for you this morning. I want you to track down the two who got away from The Scribbler. Alan Wade, the teacher at the private school in Ipswich. And the other … Martin Wilkerson, the bank manager from Diss. They’d be retired now. See what you can find. I’d like to have a chat with them. You never know. Every little thing is helpful.”
Gayther turned to Carrie.
She went to speak.
He shook his head, silencing her. “In a minute … busy, busy.”
He continued, “Carrie, lots to keep you occupied. I want you to speak with whoever’s handling the Karen Williams case … and Aland … and bring us up to speed on that as soon as you can … I think we can dismiss them as Scribbler-related, but you never know. Sally and Jen, whichever one it was you spoke to, contact them and see if anyone recognised the photos. We’ll go back in this afternoon if they did. If we get a positive identification, we can move forward fast on that.”
“We also need someone to check out Halom and whether he was at the caravan park when he said he was. Probably best to run up there. Carrie, can I leave that with you for this afternoon, please? Take Thomas or Cotton.” Before she could answer, he went on. “Burgess … vanishing like this … I don’t buy it. Something about it bothers me. He’s the one my money’s on. So, Cotton, Thomas … one of you … have another go at that this morning. Dig deeper. See if you can find him. I can’t help thinking he’ll not have an alibi for the night of Lodge’s killing. If he doesn’t … well, maybe the net’s closing in already.”
Gayther blew out his cheeks, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms out above his head. He then leaned forward, summing up, “And that just leaves Challis and his completely over-the-top reaction to our visit yesterday. And the son … getting the records wiped … the London lawyer. That doesn’t add up. None of it. We need to follow that up at some point soon. It worries me. Something’s not quite right there either. I just can’t put my finger on it. Anyone? Any thoughts on Challis? From what you’ve seen so far? Is there something I’m missing?”
He turned towards Cotton, who looked pensive but didn’t say anything.
Thomas shrugged slightly, “Not sure, sir.”
He turned towards Carrie. “Go on then, Carrie, you’ve been itching to say something. What is it?”
“Boss Man, sir. He popped in five minutes before you arrived. Looking for you. He wants you to go and see him at 11.30.”
Gayther shrugged his shoulders. “Did he say what it was about? I’m due to see him at the end of the day anyway.”
Carrie shook her head. “No, sir. He didn’t give anything away, sir. Just asked if you were in yet and, when I said you weren’t, that you should go and see him at 11.30.”
“Ask or tell, Carrie?”
“Sir?”
“Did he say, ‘Ask Gayther to come and see me’ or ‘Tell Gayther to come and see me’? Ask or tell, big difference.”
“Not certain, sir.”
“Did he ask you anything … about what we were doing?”
Carrie paused. “I was sitting here sir, Thomas was there, Cotton was there. Where we’re sitting now. The door was pushed open. Bos
s Man stuck his head round. ‘Is DI Gayther in yet?’ he said. I said ‘No’. He said, ‘Get him to come and see me at 11.30’. That was it, sir.”
Gayther nodded. “Okay, well, we’ll see what that’s about.”
Carrie looked at Thomas and Cotton. She shook her head ever-so-slightly. Gayther did not notice as he stood up and gathered up his papers and files.
“Okay, everyone, crack on … full steam ahead. Meet back here at, let’s say, noon.”
He stopped.
“High noon, possibly, depending on what Boss Man has to say.”
* * *
“Sit down, Roger … take a seat.”
Bosman gestured Gayther towards the chair on the other side of the desk to him in his small and compact office.
“Guv,” Gayther replied, sitting down. He could see a new, thin file on the desk between them. Nothing was written on it.
There was a long pause as Bosman looked at Gayther, who looked back steadily, impassively, waiting for the conversation to begin.
“Roger, so tell me, how are you getting back into the job?”
“Well, thank you, very well, we’ve hit the ground running.”
“So I’ve been hearing … tell me what you’ve been up to so far … succinctly.”
Bosman settled back in his chair, looking relaxed, his hands folded neatly together in his lap. As if he has all the time in the world for me, thought Gayther. Waiting for me to dig a bloody great hole for myself and to keep on digging until I disappear.
“Early days. Going through the old files. Cold cases. LGBTQ+ … as you know.”
Bosman smiled encouragingly at Gayther as if to say, ‘go on’.
“And I’ve got that young Carrie with me, she shows promise. And two of the new DCs, Cotton and Thomas, helping out. Doing desk research and that sort of thing.”
Bosman rested his arms on the desk. “So, what have you been looking at first, Roger, which case?”
“This and that. Prioritising. Getting things in order. Getting up to speed. Sorting things out. Setting up a system.”
Bosman crossed his arms, sat back and looked long and hard at Gayther. “You’ve had a tough year or so, Roger. I know that. Annie. Your … ill health. Recuperation. I’m not unsympathetic. We’re very supportive of … mental health issues … in the job these days. Do you feel you’re ready to be back in the cut and thrust just yet?”
“Yes, definitely, 100 per cent,” Gayther paused, sensing Bosman was leading the conversation somewhere he did not want it to go.
“Then, as you are 100 per cent, and you don’t need molly-coddling, don’t give me the prioritising getting-up-to-speed bullshit. Since when did you ever set up a system? Or do anything by the book. Or approach anything other than in a zig-zag. Straight question, Roger, straight answer. What case have you been working on?”
“The Scribbler, remember him? The gay serial killer … the serial killer of gay men … from the late eighties. One of the victims … one of the ones who got away, a Reverend Lodge, was found dead a month or so back, came out of a first-floor window at a care home near Dunwich, with The Scribbler’s motif … criss-cross scratching … on his stomach. We’ve been looking at that case first. It’s an interesting one.”
Bosman lifted up the file on the desk and opened it. Gayther could not see what was in the file but watched as Bosman read through whatever it was. A single page of notes, Gayther guessed.
There was a moment’s silence. And more.
Gayther felt Bosman was dragging it out.
That he was about to be pulled off the case. Or worse.
“Roger. How many LGBTQ+ cold case files did we give you?”
“About this many,” Gayther lifted his hands, a gap of about four or five inches between them.
“Is there any compelling evidence that gives you a strong reason for re-opening this particular case first and so … enthusiastically?”
“The Scribbler’s victim is dead … his trademark scribble on the corpse … The Scribbler may kill again soon.”
Bosman dropped the file back on the desk, sighed louder than he needed to as he sat back and then turned to look out of the small office window, thinking.
“Other than a scribbled stomach, which does not seem to have troubled anyone else … the doctors, the coroner … only you … what else do you have? Specifics, Roger.”
“Well …” Gayther thought quickly, “we’ve been to the care home. Checked that out. And we’ve talked to two of the original suspects that we pulled in, one, the third one, has disappeared. And we’re going to talk today to …”
“Enough,” Bosman said, his voice rising. “Other than the scribble, do you have anything concrete?”
“Well, it’s early days. We’ve only just started. There are still plenty of leads to follow up.”
Bosman leaned forward and re-opened the file.
“We’ve had a complaint from this care home. A Mrs Coombes. That you were aggressive and intimidating in your manner and that you ended your visit by chasing an employee down the corridor. That you were told to stay away and then went back again to harass that same employee. This was a matter put to bed by Imram Abidi, what, seven weeks ago? Imram’s razor sharp, very reliable. You didn’t even speak to him first before storming in, did you?”
“No. But …”
“And Barry Johnson’s been on to me – he’s got the Karen Williams case. You turned up at the house of this Mrs Williams out of the blue, then took it upon yourself to interview – re-interview – the landlords of the pub where she’d been that night and then, to top it all, you went back to the care home to threaten this employee again. So, you’ve trampled over Johnson’s case left, right and centre and pissed him off big time.”
Gayther nodded. “I guess I …”
“And, as if that’s not enough, I’ve just heard from the solicitor of Ray Challis in London. Again. Again, Roger. I had to deal with him before when his son was arrested and wanted his records wiping. Pain in the arse know-all. Seems a plain-clothes police officer driving a silver Ford turned up at the Challis workplace unannounced … well, you know the rest … you’ve been hassling him, too … God’s sake, he was interviewed thirty years ago and released without charge. I was on the team, remember? I interviewed him. Me.”
Gayther nodded, not sure what to say.
“Roger, giving you the LGBTQ+ cold case files was a way of …”
“Shunting me sideways into a portacabin office to shuffle files here and there … back and forth … until I gave up and took retirement.”
“Roger, we go back a long way. To Annie.” Bosman paused, before adding quietly, “Best man won … Look, you’re a good officer. We just want to ease you back in slowly.”
“Be rid of me for good, more like.”
“I’m not having an argument with you, Roger. And you forget yourself. You need to remember I was promoted to this side of the desk, not you. Get over it.”
Gayther looked down, not wanting Bosman to see the resentment in his eyes.
Bosman stood up, indicating the meeting was over. “Take the Scribbler file and …” he held up two hands as if he were holding a thick pile of files, “… put it at the bottom. Forget about it. Unless you have compelling evidence, I don’t want to hear any more about this … Scribbler.”
“Or else?” Gayther answered as he stood and turned to leave.
“Roger,” Bosman said sharply and was about to add …
But Gayther had left, slamming the door as he went.
* * *
Gayther sat alone in the half-empty staff canteen, at a corner table, looking out across the car park, nursing a now-cold mug of coffee. He had eaten a packet of three biscuits, knew he shouldn’t have, given his diabetes, and had the crumbs from them all down his front. He brushed at them half-heartedly and sighed, not sure what to do next. He could just go out the front doors now and walk and walk and walk until he vanished into thin air. He knew he wouldn’t. But part of him would lik
e to. A big part.
There were moments when he felt he could not be a policeman any more. That the new breed of police officers, with their systems and analytics and algorithms, and political correctness and doing everything just so, had somehow passed him by. His policing, mixing dogged perseverance and intuition, was from another age. A time when he knew how the world worked, what was what, and what was right and wrong. Now, it was all topsy-turvy and he was out of place. An oddball. A misfit. An old man on medication. He felt like taking his police pension and selling his house and moving away. They – he and Annie – had talked of retiring to Spain or Portugal. But he knew he did not have the funds, not really, his modest three-bed semi on the outskirts of Ipswich getting him little more than a one- or two-bed apartment on some holiday complex in some obscure resort. And he did not play golf. Nor like the sun that much.
Fact is, he was alone with nothing much to do to occupy himself outside of the job. His high-flying son was busy, getting on with his life in London. An important job in the Met. Birthday and Christmas cards. The odd visit. No partner. No grandchildren. He thought that moment had passed. He had no hobbies or interests. No friends. No other relatives either, apart from the cousin with the horse face who had pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth.
If he dropped down dead tomorrow, no one would really care.
Not even him.
He turned his face to the window and thought he could just about give up now.
“Guv, guv?” Carrie sat down opposite him at the table. “What’s going on, what did Boss Man say?”
He turned slowly towards her, forcing a smile. He really wanted to be left alone, to stew over things. “Off the case, Carrie. Unless we have compelling evidence.”
Carrie sat there looking at him, could see he was upset. Then she spoke, “Isn’t the drawing and scratching out on Lodge’s stomach compelling evidence?”
“Not compelling enough, apparently. Maybe I just jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Carrie shook her head. “Someone put them there, the drawing and the scratches, and it wasn’t Lodge … remember, you said, there was no knife found.”
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