He’d done sweet F.A. since then.
Opened files, sorted papers into piles.
Moved them about and back again.
He was on his own, half-heartedly looking for a case that might be as satisfying to investigate as The Scribbler. But most, almost all, looked long dead and buried; one or two serious sexual assaults caught his eye, but looked impossible to progress through lack of evidence then, let alone now. A series of poison pen letters sent to local figures of authority accusing them of sex crimes against children might be a possibility, he thought, what with modern DNA techniques, but cack-handed police from the 1980s had probably destroyed any chances there.
Carrie had stormed off somewhere.
Thomas and Cotton seemed to have vanished. He suspected Bosman may have transferred them to someone else.
He sat there, trying to find a case, maybe two, that he could work on with Carrie when she was back with him on Monday.
And then, as he flicked aimlessly through a pile of papers, he noticed the words ‘John’ and ‘Donkin’, common-enough in Norfolk, but notable to Gayther as it was the name of a childhood friend. He stopped, looked through to see if it were one and the same person but saw that it was not – this Donkin had been born twenty, twenty-five years earlier. Not him then. Maybe his friend’s father. Gayther looked idly at the photo for a resemblance but could not really remember what the child had looked like, let alone the father.
Gayther worked through the details of the case and then sat up. John Andrew Donkin. Fifty years old in 1991. Worked in an insurance office in Ipswich. Married, to Rita, for twenty-five years, two children, twelve and fourteen, older boy, younger girl. Had been reported missing one Friday evening in September. Never came home from work.
He shuffled through the scant papers; the wife had reported him missing, but then, when interviewed, revealed Donkin had told her not long before that he was homosexual and the marriage was in crisis. He’d met someone else. A man. From what Gayther could see, assumptions had been made but never followed through, and the case had somehow found its way into the LGBTQ+ pile of files. He wondered if this Donkin had returned home or left to start a new life with his male lover or … maybe, just maybe…
He would follow it up himself. See if this might be another victim of The Scribbler.
Then sat back, realising that, even if it were, he had nowhere to go with it. He needed compelling evidence.
He opened other files with renewed vigour, to see if he could find cases like this that had somehow slipped through the net. Maybe the sheer weight of numbers would make Bosman change his mind.
Some thirty, forty minutes later, he had two more cases. A Graham Wellman and a David Nicholas, both from out-of-the-way Suffolk villages.
Middle-aged men who had disappeared over the years. Believed by their wives to have been secretly gay. Reported missing. Two and two put together – and made five by everyone, thought Gayther.
If they’d been reported missing, full stop, the cases might have been linked to The Scribbler, even though they were years later, seven and ten years after the last reported Scribbler case. The post-disappearance revelation that they were gay seemed to lead to these cases being filed away as little more than routine matters.
Gayther wondered whether there was any mileage in checking out these men and their whereabouts himself. Decided, again, that even if they seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, it was still some way short of that all-important compelling evidence.
Gayther looked up at the knock at the door and smiled as Carrie entered the portacabin. She smiled back, a file under one arm, holding out a plate with two slices of cut toast with butter and marmalade with the other.
“Got you this, in case you didn’t have breakfast today? Carbs and sugar.” She smacked her lips. “Lovely.”
She put the plate on the desk in front of Gayther, who pulled it towards him, picking up one of the pieces.
“I shouldn’t,” he said, laughing, “but I’ll make an exception for you … just this once … thank you, Carrie, that’s kind of you.”
He ate the first and then the second piece, one after the other, in rapid succession, leaving two more pieces remaining. He hesitated and then pushed the plate halfway towards Carrie as she sat down opposite him.
“Here,” he said, “take one … one each.” He picked up one piece and watched as Carrie took the one nearest to her. They both smiled at each other as they ate their toast. As they finished, Carrie spoke.
“You look happy, guv. Have you found a new case for us to investigate?”
He nodded, maybe. “I’ve found two, no three men, married men, who have gone missing over the years and, because they were later reported as being closet homosexuals, they’ve … well, the files seem to have ended up here. I don’t know why. I’d like to have a look at those, but …”
Gayther looked pained and then added, “Boss Man would have my … whatnots for paperweights …” he tailed off.
Carrie laughed. “We can do better than that anyway.” She placed a file in front of him, flipped it open, and then carried on speaking.
“A live case. A report’s just come in of a man gone missing the night before last … just down the road … ticks the boxes … Steve Deacon’s been watching out for me … and he’s passed this over.”
Gayther sat up. “Compelling evidence, Carrie?”
She nodded.
“Going that way.”
* * *
Carrie knocked on the red front door of the neat and tidy terraced house in the back streets of Beccles in Suffolk. She turned to Thomas, standing by her side, and smiled at him. He smiled back nervously. She wondered if this was the first time he’d been out on a case.
“Don’t worry,” Carrie said. “Leave the questions to me.”
He nodded at her. “I thought DI Gayther would want to be here.”
“He needs to keep his head down … don’t worry about that for now … anyway … look, if you think of a question I don’t ask, write it in your notebook and pass it to me.”
The door was opened, and Carrie and Thomas stood and looked at the woman in the doorway. Sixty or so, tall and angular, well turned out. She looked like she was sucking a lemon, thought Carrie.
“Mrs Taylor? I’m Detective Constable Carrie and this is my colleague, Glyn Thomas. We’re here to talk about your husband, Philip Taylor. You’ve reported him missing.”
The woman seemed taken aback. “Goodness, I didn’t expect a detective, I thought you’d send an ordinary policeman … woman … and not so soon. I’ve only just finished my lunch. Has something happened?”
“Just routine, Mrs Taylor. I was there when the report came through and it was given to me and I was coming this way anyway. May I …?” She said, stepping forward.
The woman invited Carrie and Thomas in. They made their way to the small but immaculate front room, pieces of bone china everywhere, and sat down in two wingback chairs facing a matching sofa. Carrie watched as the woman sat opposite and composed herself, brushing her hands across her skirt. Putting on a concerned face, thought Carrie, and no offer of a cup of tea.
Carrie began the conversation. “We’ve the basic details from you, Mrs Taylor … Philip John Taylor, white male, fifty-five years, five foot nine inches, balding, last seen leaving work early, a building society in Ipswich, at about two o’clock on Wednesday … tell me more, please—”
“Yes,” the woman interrupted, “when he wasn’t home as usual at six or by half past, I called his mobile … at about seven. It went straight to answerphone. I thought he might have gone for a drink with a friend from work … he does occasionally … and had forgotten we were going out to eat with friends that evening. By the time it got to nine or ten o’clock I was … disappointed.”
“Did you think of reporting him missing that evening?” Thomas asked, ignoring Carrie’s look.
“No, I didn’t think it was out of the ordinary then … I rang one of his f
riends in the morning – just in case he had stayed there overnight … he has done that once or twice if he’s had a drink. I thought, if he had been drinking or maybe his phone had run out of charge, well, I’d have looked silly reporting him missing that evening.”
“But you reported him missing the next morning?” Carrie asked.
“Yes, because Brian, the friend I phoned, said that Philip had left work early in the afternoon, about two o’clock, to go to the dentist in Ipswich – our old dentist moved there and, well, as it’s close to his workplace, Philip wanted to stay with him … and he didn’t go back to work afterwards, nor come home. That isn’t like him at all.”
“The dentist’s name, Mrs Taylor?”
“Mathias. M. A. T. H. I. A. S. George Mathias. I don’t know the practice name or address, I’m afraid. It’s in Ipswich, or just outside.”
“We can check that,” said Carrie, making a note. “Does he know anyone else in Ipswich, Mrs Taylor, that he might have gone to see?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not that I know of.”
“Has he done this before? Stayed out for a day or two without telling you?” Carrie pressed.
“No, he’s always very punctilious.”
“When he stays out drinking, does he let you know?” Thomas interjected. Carrie looked at him, but he sat gazing impassively at Mrs Taylor.
“Well …” she smiled mirthlessly, “… he doesn’t go out drinking … as you put it … but he’s stayed out perhaps two or three times over the past year working for the building society. And no, he doesn’t tell me on the night, as we’ve agreed that he might stay over somewhere if he has a drink or two. He won’t drink and drive. He’s very careful like that.”
The woman paused.
Thomas scribbled a word or two in a notebook, but did not pass it to Carrie as she expected.
Carrie waited a moment and then went on.
“You’ve tried calling him again on his mobile?”
“Yes, two or three times. It just goes to answerphone every time.”
“May we take the number, Mrs Taylor, so we have it … for a possible trace?”
The woman nodded, rose and moved to an old-fashioned telephone table in the corner of the room. She opened a notepad next to the telephone and flicked through the pages.
“It’s 07956 …” She passed the notepad to Thomas, who noted the rest of the number on his phone. He then, after Carrie’s nod, pressed the buttons to ring the number.
As the woman took the pad back and moved to sit down, Thomas shook his head, “Still the answerphone.”
Carrie continued talking, “Mrs Taylor, this may seem an odd question, but I have to ask it. Have you checked to see that your husband is not in the house or the garden?”
The woman looked at Carrie in disbelief.
“It’s not as … there are cases where someone has been reported missing and, on investigation, they’ve been found in a back bedroom or a shed.”
The woman swallowed, taking in the significance of what Carrie was saying. She shook her head.
“May we, Mrs Taylor?”
The woman nodded her agreement
Carrie nodded at Thomas, “Go and check.”
There was a tense silence as they heard Thomas’s footsteps on the staircase, moving into one upstairs room and then another and, finally, back downstairs again.
He came into the front room and shook his head, all clear, and then went out towards the back door.
They waited, quiet and on edge, as they heard the back door being opened and closed and footsteps disappearing into the distance.
“Just routine, Mrs Taylor. I have to complete a form, tick boxes, to confirm I’ve covered the basics.”
The woman nodded back, to show she understood.
And then Thomas was back, nodding all fine, and Carrie could feel the tension ease out of Mrs Taylor.
“I also need to ask you if any important items may have been taken by your husband … a suitcase, clothing … anything to suggest he might have made plans.”
The woman shook her head. “No, no, everything is as it should be. I did check.”
There was a silence before Thomas spoke, interrupting what Carrie was about to say.
“So, it has occurred to you then, Mrs Taylor, that your husband might have been planning to leave?”
Another silence; both Carrie and Thomas noting to themselves the look on Mrs Taylor’s face. A look that screamed yes but whispered I am too ashamed to say so.
“No …” she answered hesitantly, “I just thought I’d check … as a loving wife.” She stopped, clearly not going to say any more.
Carrie then stared at Thomas, a warning look, don’t say anything else, leave it to me. She went on.
“Might he have been in touch with friends or family members at all, Mrs Taylor?”
The woman shook her head slowly. “I’ve checked, I have rung everyone I can think of.” She said it slowly, realising that this was almost an admittance that something was wrong, that others may know more about her husband than she did.
“When we get a missing person report, Mrs Taylor, it’s allocated to an officer, on this occasion me, to … to check the initial details … and to carry out a risk assessment. I need to ask you one or two more personal questions, Mrs Taylor.”
The woman nodded her agreement with a fleeting movement of her head. She did not, Carrie noticed, meet her eye, and was now keeping her head bowed.
“Okay, how would you describe your husband’s physical health?”
The woman raised her head, looked relieved. “Fine, generally. The usual aches and pains of getting older. His back hurts from time to time. He sits at a desk all day. But that’s about it.”
“Is he on any medication at all, that you know of?”
“No, no, he’s well.”
“And how would you describe your husband’s mental health, Mrs Taylor?”
“He’s been …” The woman stopped, to gather her thoughts, to say what she wanted to say correctly. Then seemed to think better of it. “He’s fine,” she nodded.
Thomas started speaking. “Has his behaviour been any different lately? … any reason you can think of why he might go missing?”
The woman glanced from Thomas to Carrie and back.
She’s hiding something, thought Carrie. But doesn’t want to say.
The woman pulled a not-that-I-can-think-of face and then said no, and then repeated herself once more, no not at all.
Thomas paused, “May I ask about your—”
Carrie interrupted, speaking louder than she meant to, “Okay, that’s all good, thank you, Mrs Taylor. We’ll need a photo, a recent photo, of your husband and, if you have it, the registration number of his car. We can check the car and mobile phone.”
The woman smiled briefly, suggesting they wait there a moment and then left the room.
Carrie turned to Thomas, speaking quietly. “Don’t ask about her marriage.”
“I just thought …”
“Well don’t. Not now,” Carrie answered.
There was an awkward silence until the woman returned, holding out a photograph and a sheet of paper.
“Here’s a recent photograph of Philip. Taken last Christmas at his office do. He’s in the middle. His friend Brian is to his left and that smiling young man, I don’t know who he is, someone from work I suppose, is on his right.”
Carrie took the photo and looked at it. She passed it to Thomas, indicating he should use his phone to photograph it. As he did so, she spoke to Mrs Taylor. “This is how he looks now?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, he’s a little lighter, I think he’s lost half a stone this past year … he’s taken up walking some evenings … but yes, it’s a good likeness.”
She then handed a sheet of paper to Carrie, a motor insurance certificate. “And this is his car details, YA … a Nissan Quashqai, a dark grey one …”
She watched as Carrie passed the paper to Thomas, who photographe
d it. Then asked, “What will you do next?”
Carrie scribbled in her notepad, tore out the page and handed it to the woman, “My number, if you hear anything from your husband … or family and friends … anyone … let me know.”
Carrie started moving towards the door. Thomas and the woman followed her.
“We’ll conduct enquiries to trace Philip … we’ll speak to his colleagues at work … the dentist … see if anything’s been reported … trace the car … the phone, of course. We’ll do all we can to find him quickly, I promise you.”
Brisk handshakes on the doorstep.
Mrs Taylor shut the door.
Thomas looked at Carrie and said, under his breath, “The Scribbler?”
Carrie nodded.
* * *
Gayther watched Carrie, Thomas and Cotton as they came into the portacabin and, exchanging quiet smiles between themselves, sat down around the table. Gayther pushed away the file he was reading and smiled back at them in anticipation. They look triumphant, he thought. Surely not a breakthrough? Stranger things had happened, though. He dare not hope.
“Anything of interest there, sir?” said Carrie, a big grin on her face.
Gayther paused, then sighed theatrically, playing along with her. “No, I‘ve spent the whole f … flipping day trawling through file after file of long-dead cases … victims … criminals … trying to find something worthwhile to do … but what have you got, sitting there grinning like a …”
“Cheshire cat, sir? We all are, sir … we’ve all got news for you. We’ve …” Carrie nodded towards Thomas, “… been to see the wife of Philip Taylor, the man from Beccles who disappeared from Ipswich, where he works, on Wednesday night.”
Thomas picked up the story. “Middle-aged man … and a bit … respectable married man from a building society … left work for a dentist’s appointment down the road on Wednesday afternoon. Not seen since. Disappeared without trace. Classic Scribbler scenario, sir. Absolutely ticks all of the boxes.”
The Scribbler Page 20