Three or four minutes later, with his fingers a bright orange and already regretting what he had eaten, he reached into his pockets for a tissue. Out of luck, he wiped his hands clean inside his pockets and decided he wouldn’t test his blood sugar levels that day. They’d be off the scale. Gone twenty, he reckoned. Danger territory.
He looked up through the window on the sunny side. Saw Thomas out the front of the police station, standing by the wall checking his phone.
Waiting, Gayther assumed, for Cotton and Carrie to arrive. They’d come in together. The three stooges.
Place still looks like a builder’s yard, thought Gayther, looking out the back window. A never-ending mess.
He sat up, rummaging through his notes. Four vans for him to check. Two done this morning. Two to do this afternoon after he’d caught up with Carrie, Thomas and Cotton. If any had uncovered a possible, he’d go back with them later. Do it properly.
Nothing suspicious so far, not from the first two he’d visited anyway. One van was parked up on the drive of a semi-retired window cleaner on the other side of Ipswich. He’d knocked on the front door to talk about having his windows cleaned. The man – a William Harrison – was black with grizzled grey hair. Not The Scribbler then. He withdrew as politely as he could.
The other, a chimney sweep this side of Ipswich. About to go out as Gayther pulled up alongside in his car. A tall, broad Irishman who’d never have been picked out of an identity parade for The Scribbler, not in a million years. Another struck off the list. Another polite withdrawal. Two down, two to go.
And now Cotton appeared at the front of the police station, exchanging a few quiet words with Thomas.
Comparing notes, no doubt. They looked subdued. Downcast. No joy then, thought Gayther, from their respective van checks.
They both stood there, fiddling with their phones, waiting for Carrie.
Gayther wondered if this were all a waste of time and effort. This whole Scribbler thing. Most police investigations were, he thought. Charging blindly down wrong avenues, twists and turns, fits and starts before, as often as not, stumbling across the truth, if they ever did, as much by luck as judgement. He rubbed his face with his hands, ground knuckles into his eyes. It had all been a dead loss so far. The Scribbler. Chasing shadows and ghosts. This will-o’-the-wisp figure.
He thought, for a minute or two, about The Scribbler and whether he’d got it all wrong. All of this. Edwin Lodge. Everything. The marks on the stomach were the only evidence, such as it was, to indicate that this was the work of The Scribbler. He wondered whether there was some way Lodge could have learned of these cartoonish marks and, in his torment, had inflicted the wounds on himself. It was possible, for sure.
But no, he decided finally, there was the knife, or rather the lack of it. No knife was found near Lodge’s body, nor in his room. So where was it? In The Scribbler’s pocket. That’s bloody well where. The only place it could be.
Even so, was this whole van and the boy with the dog something and nothing? A poacher most likely. A deer, maybe. There were plenty hereabouts. The boy’s identification of the old identikit image no more than hit and miss.
Gayther groaned. Boss Man will have my balls for this, he thought.
What a bloody shambles. A right old mess.
Still, go down fighting. All guns blazing. Out with a bang not a whimper and all of that.
He swivelled round in his chair as he heard the door to the portacabin opening. Smiled first at Thomas, leading the way, and then Cotton, a step or two behind. They stood there awkwardly, not sure how to greet Gayther. He nodded at them, “Thomas … Cotton,” and gestured to them to sit down in the chairs opposite him.
“No sign of Carrie?” asked Gayther to neither of them in particular.
“No, sir,” replied Cotton. “Not yet.”
“We’d agreed to meet outside about one o’clock,” Thomas added. “But she’s taking her little boy to a birthday party after so she may have …”
Gayther checked his watch. “Well, she’s only fifteen minutes late. She’ll be in a layby somewhere, shovelling down cheesy chips as fast as she can.”
“Chips with curry sauce, sir,” Thomas commented.
“Curry sauce, Thomas?” Gayther queried.
“Her favourite, sir, chips with curry sauce. She gets them up at the crossroads, sir, Captain Haddock’s.”
There was a moment’s silence.
No one seemed to quite know what to say.
And then Gayther moved the conversation on.
“So, Thomas … anything?”
“No, sir. The first two vans, on the way to Norwich, they weren’t there, at the addresses. I sat and waited, just like you said, but nothing, sir. I can go back tomorrow. Might be more likely to be at home on a Sunday, sir? These two and the other two I’m due to check out this afternoon?”
Gayther nodded, “Yes, you may have a point … maybe … and Cotton, what about you?”
“Same as Thomas, sir. They weren’t there, the vans. I waited and the first one, the one up at the Gainsborough estate, turned up after an hour. He’s a carpenter, sir, John Alan Simpson, according to the van and I’ve checked him out online, sir, and it’s not him. He doesn’t match the description of The Scribbler. I don’t think he …”
“And the other one, Cotton? Did you see the owner of the second van?”
“No, sir, no sign of that. I can go back this afternoon, sir, or tomorrow, like Thomas, sir. They’re more likely to be at home then. We could do them all together, sir?”
Gayther leaned back in his chair, checked his watch again.
“Okay, I’m happy to call it a day for now … It’s been a long week and we’ve been going nowhere fast … Carrie, have either of you heard from her?”
“We’ve been texting each other, sir, all morning, sharing ideas, sir,” Thomas answered.
“And …?”
“She’d got lucky, sir, with the first two. Both at home and she spoke to them and texted …” He looked down at his mobile phone, pressed a button and scrolled. No. No. Rendlesham. Beware UFOs!
“When was this, when you last heard from her?” Gayther asked.
“Um … 11.28, sir. I’m not sure if she texted as she was leaving the second van or when she arrived at Rendlesham. Hard to say, sir.”
Cotton then spoke. “We texted her when we were out the front, sir, but it just goes to answerphone. If she’s running late and has nothing to report, she may have gone straight to this kids’ party.”
Gayther smiled, “That’s the farm out at Rendlesham. She drew the short straw. Bit of a journey, that. She’ll be ages and I doubt there’s any signal out there either … at the farm … or on Mars … or Jupiter … if the UFOs have taken her.” He wanted to do a Uranus joke but couldn’t think how to work it in naturally. Thomas and Cotton would probably look blank-faced at him anyway. Or tell him it wasn’t pronounced like that in these PC days.
Cotton looked hopefully at Gayther.
As did Thomas. “We’ll catch up with her, sir, after this party. Let you know if she’s found anything.”
Gayther could see they wanted to get off home.
“Okay, look, let me know … text me … I’ll make sure my mobile’s switched on. If there’s a possible anywhere in there, Carrie and I can go over and follow it up. Until then, Mr Thomas … Mr Cotton … have a good afternoon and evening …”
21. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, MID-AFTERNOON
The man wearing the latex gloves drove Carrie’s car steadily along the road that cut through the forest.
He kept it at thirty miles per hour. A habit now. Always careful not to stand out. To be noticed.
He drove as if he knew where he was going. But wasn’t in a particular hurry. Just an ordinary man going about his humdrum business.
He was driving a dark and nondescript Smart car. A woman’s car, he thought. Not a man’s. A mother’s car. A booster cushion sitting there on the seat behind him. He knew he was safe fr
om CCTV and speed cameras on this road. There was nothing like that out here. But it worried him that, as cars passed, the drivers and passengers might look across and see him and wonder why he was driving a car like this. That they might remember him later, if or when the car was found and it was shown on television.
“Doris, dear? Come here quickly,” an old man watching the television might call out to his wife preparing their tea in the kitchen.
“This young policewoman’s gone missing and they’ve found her car in Rendlesham Forest …” The old man would ponder for a minute as his wife stood behind him watching the news, too.
“Isn’t that the one we saw on the Rendlesham road with that man driving it? Doris, call the police … I remember what he looks like.”
The man with the gloves dipped his head down whenever a car passed. He did it three or four times. One or so a minute. All they would see, anyone who looked across, would be the top of his head. Balding now. Like so many men of his age. In his haste, he had forgotten to put on a cap and he regretted that.
He knew where he was going to take the car. He had thought of setting fire to it, but decided that was too risky. He would just hide it. Three or four miles from home. Deep in the forest. He’d been there once or twice before. A dark, almost impenetrable, place. Through trees, down a slope and into bushes. Not somewhere hikers or dog walkers would go, nor even stumble across. A mile down this road. Then left. And left again. Off the road, down a track and, finally, into the densest part of the forest.
Not far enough from home. Not really. But he knew he needed to walk back. Had to do that through the forest. So he would not be seen. He realised he should take the car farther away. Ten, twenty miles. But he did not know where he would hide it. And the longer he spent in the car, on main roads, the riskier it was. CCTV and speed cameras were everywhere closer to the towns of Woodbridge and Ipswich.
He had to get back as soon as he could. To sort everything out properly. He had not intended to kill the policewoman. Had panicked and lashed out. Acting on Mother’s instructions. Had managed to control himself quickly enough, though.
He did not think the policewoman was dead. He had not finished the job. Alive and conscious now, most likely. His brother would have put her somewhere, tied up, in one of his not-so-secret special places. He would have to deal with it, with her, when he arrived home. He did not want to, but what else could he do? What choice did he have?
Take her somewhere quiet.
Shoot her painlessly. Through the back of her head.
Bury the body deep.
But he did not kill women. Only bad men. Men like Father who pretended to be respectable. Family men who led double lives. In public toilets with other men while their wives and children waited patiently and unknowing at home.
He did not want to kill this woman.
But did not know what else to do.
They could not keep her locked up forever.
If the police came, it would be better if she were found alive than dead. He knew that well enough. But there were so many bodies at the farm that one more hardly mattered. They would go to prison forever either way and Mother would be left at home to die alone.
He knew in his heart that it was likely that the policewoman had told someone that she was going to the farm. Someone would come looking for her soon, he thought.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Monday at the latest.
He reached into his pocket, felt the gun there. One person, another policewoman or man, he could deal with. But then more would come. And dogs. And police with guns, and it would all be over. One way or the other.
He would go down fighting, he decided, rather than spending his remaining days in prison. There was a chance, he thought, if he wrote a confession when he got back, that his brother and mother would be spared. That everything that had been done had been done by him and him alone.
But he could not trust his brother to stand up to the police, knew he would say, in his slow and simple voice, that he had buried the bodies. As if that were right and decent and no more. And Mother knew, too. They would all be implicated to some degree or other. Perhaps it would be better if they all went together. There were plenty of bullets.
One for his brother while his head was bowed down as he smoked one of the cigarettes he loved so much.
And another for Mother while she slept, her mouth hanging open. When she was at peace. In sweet dreams.
And the last one for him, shutting his eyes and putting the gun into his mouth and pulling the trigger. One moment there. The next, gone forever. He did not know where. If anywhere. He did not really believe in heaven. Not for him anyway.
He looked up. Checked the rear-view mirror. Nothing. No cars behind. Hadn’t been since he turned on to the main road. He’d got lucky. Looked ahead. Towards the side road he was going to take on the left. Just there in the distance. Not far now. He accelerated the car.
A layby on the other side of the road. A car in it. Facing towards him. A police car. His luck suddenly breaking unexpectedly. The man with the gloves had no time to think. He could not stop, do a three-point turn, go back where he came from. That would look odd. Attract attention.
He could drive on by. Head fixed straight ahead, looking into the distance. Nice and steady speed. Calm and relaxed. Or turn left as planned. A man in a woman’s car, though. The number plate noted and easily checked. A car that belongs to a police officer. A young woman.
He drove up to the police car. His eyes met those of the policeman in the passenger seat.
Turned left instinctively. Then drove on. Did not look back.
Knowing full well that the police car would appear in his rear-view mirror at any moment.
22. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, LATE AFTERNOON
Carrie was on her back, laid out flat, gazing upwards. Her eyes focused slowly. There was a roof up there, she thought. No, a ceiling. No, not a ceiling … what was it? It was … no, it’s gone … whatever.
She came round again a few minutes later.
Maybe longer.
Looked upwards once more. It bothered her, this … this whatever it was.
It was made of something that was … no, she couldn’t think. Wood, was it? Wood? The sky was made of wood. It made no sense.
She felt sick. And was wet somewhere. Down between her legs. Her brain hurt. And she didn’t want to move in case it made the pain worse. In her head, it was. The pain. She had to lie here. As still as she could. In the wetness. Until the pain went away.
She lay there a little longer, just a minute or two more. She would think about things soon. But not just yet.
She drifted in and out of consciousness. Trying to think about something … she wasn’t sure what … whenever she was awake. It was there, what she wanted to mull over, just beyond the edges of her mind.
And then it was gone. Whatever it was. And she thought maybe she had fallen asleep again. Did not know how she could do that with the pain inside her head. And the feeling of sickness.
Now she could hear noises. Birds, that was it. In the trees. Bird song. Was she outdoors? Was it the morning? Was she late for … what was it … no, it was gone again.
She lay there, still unmoving. This time she was going to stay awake and think what it was she needed to think about. Something bad, it was. Not good. Something … no, she couldn’t remember.
And now she was dreaming. Some monstrous thing was behind her. In her mind. Just in the shadows. A nameless shape. An unspeaking presence. But a monster.
Something that scared her.
Wanted to hurt her. If it caught her.
She needed to get away.
She jolted awake. The pain in her head did not make her wince. It had before, she thought. She was sure of it. Now, the pain was still there. But it was … she searched her mind … scissors … that made no sense.
She could not find the word she wanted. Scissors … nails … sharp. It suddenly came to her. Just like that. Sh
arp. That was what the pain was. No, it was not sharp, it was … blunt.
What was she thinking?
A blur.
Everything out of focus.
She just needed to lie here. Until the pain had gone. And she could think straight. It was just inside her head. The pain. Nowhere else. But she felt uncomfortable. Her arms stretched out. Behind her and above her head? That made no sense. She went to move her arms. To wrap them around her chest. To comfort herself. But could not. Her hands were stuck together. They didn’t feel right.
She wondered for a moment if she had legs. A sense of panic suddenly. She remembered a story about a man who woke up in bed and had no legs. Bader. The name came to her suddenly. Douglas Bader.
She had drunk in the pub. The Douglas Bader.
Somewhere near Woodbridge, it was.
What made her think of that? Had she been drinking? Was that why she was wet?
She tried to move her hands to reach her legs but could not. She realised suddenly she was lying down flat. On a rack in a torture chamber. Her arms stretched up and out behind her. Her hands. Her arms. And they were tied to something. Why was that? Why was she tied up? Had she been bad?
Her legs. She could feel them, but they felt as though they were one. One leg. That made no sense. To have one leg. One big leg? Why did she have one big leg? She should have two legs. Not one. What a puzzle this was. A conun … dumb … no, it was no good.
She lay back, exhausted.
The pain in her head. Her uncomfortable arms. Her big, strapped leg. The dampness.
She was gone again, back into her uneasy sleep.
It was dark, wherever she was. A tunnel, maybe. So black. And she could not move. Her head ached. Her arms and legs hurt now. She still felt sick. But she needed to move. To go. To run. But she was paralysed.
The presence was there again. Nearby. In front of her this time. And coming closer. She could hear, no she could feel, the heavy footsteps. The boom … boom … boom getting ever nearer.
The Scribbler Page 24