Boom. Boom. Boom.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The footsteps stopped and she could see a shadow in front of her. A silhouette against the darkness. Almost blotting out the little light there was. Moving closer. Until there was nothing but blackness. And she could feel and smell hot breath on her face. Rancid breath.
She awoke.
The monster, the man with the melted face, loomed over her.
She screamed.
* * *
The slow brother knelt on his hands and knees, his head bowed.
In the farmhouse kitchen, by the feet of his mother in her high-backed chair.
Bent forward, her bony hands clasped together tightly, saying the Lord’s Prayer.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven.”
She paused, looked up. Clasped his hands in hers.
“Say it with me … let us pray together.”
He joined in, at first slowly and quietly, and then more loudly. He enjoyed the Lord’s Prayer. Could remember every word of it.
“Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
She stumbled, hesitating, as if suddenly choking on her words.
The slow brother kept going, now leading the prayer.
“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen,” the old woman said once and then again, “amen.”
She looked at the slow brother. Nodded. Eyes full of tears.
“Forgive us,” she whispered. Urgently. “Deliver us from evil.”
The old woman leaned forward, struggling to put her arms around her son. He sat there quietly, uncomfortable with her unexpected touch and not moving, even as she rested her head against his in an awkward embrace. He felt her crying. Did not know what to do.
He thought instead about the young woman in the barn who had slept for so long and had woken up as he bent towards her. He was pleased that she was not dead. But did not like it that she screamed. He did not want her to be frightened. He did not like the idea that they might hurt or even kill women. Because they were super-heroes. They killed only bad men. The baddest of all. Men who hurt children. Men like Father.
He did not like to think about Father and what he had done. What he had made them do. He tried very hard to forget. But sometimes he could not.
It was why he did not carry the lady into the large barn. It was where Father would take them from time to time. Sometimes him on his own. More often his brother. Now and then the two of them together.
He felt the old woman stroking him.
Her hands across his back and shoulders.
He kept as still as he could.
He had put the lady in the small barn, a warm and comfortable place. Found some rope and twine from another outbuilding to tie her hands and her feet. Tightly so that they were secure but would not hurt.
Knew that he must not let her go. That he had to keep her safe. Until his brother got back. He would decide what they should do. But he would not let his brother hurt her. They would keep her there. Look after her.
He thought, perhaps she might become a friend. A sister to them. A daughter to Mother. He would like that. He had always wanted a sister. He did not know how this would come about, but he hoped that it would.
He felt his mother close to him.
Her face almost touching his.
He felt her sweet, sickly-smelling breath on his cheek.
After the lady had screamed, he had stopped her and then gone back towards the outbuilding with the cesspit to get the shovel. To pretend to Mother. So she would not know. That the lady was alive. As he opened the outhouse door to pick up the shovel, he looked over and could see Mother sitting by the kitchen window of the farmhouse, watching him.
He lifted the shovel up to show her. She nodded. He then went towards the farmhouse and into the kitchen to go upstairs to get the old gun from the cupboard on the landing.
She barely looked up from her chair by the window as he came in. She was lost in thought. As he came back down, tucking the gun into his pocket, she turned slightly and nodded at him again and smiled a little. She looked sad. It made him feel sad too.
“Do not worry, Mother,” he had said. “Your best boys are doing good work.”
She went to say something to him, but then stopped and looked out of the window, keeping watch. “You’re a good boy,” she said finally, as he waited there. “Always be a good boy for your poor old mother … come … come and sit with me and pray.”
And now he wished he had not.
Because mother was holding him, embracing him, their faces, their mouths, almost touching.
It did not feel right.
He looked at her wet dripping mouth and did not like it.
* * *
Carrie knew where she was now. And what was going on. That she had wet herself. Not that that really mattered, all things considered. She was in an old barn. Her arms and legs tied together. Strapped to some sort of wooden post, part of the wall. She’d been put there by the man with the melted face. The brother of The Scribbler. To be killed by the man with the melted face. Or kept alive until The Scribbler returned. For him to do whatever he wanted with her. She did not know which.
Either way, she thought she was almost certainly going to die some time soon.
And that made her angry. Mostly with herself. That she’d been so stupid as to walk into the farmhouse.
And with Gayther, too. She had let herself be swept up by his outrage and gung-ho attitude.
When she had woken from her dream and screamed, the man with the melted face had clamped his hand over her mouth. Made her promise, in his oh-so-slow and simple voice, not to scream if he took his hand away. She nodded. He took his hand away. She screamed again. Louder this time.
He had covered her mouth with his hand again, more in sorrow than anger. Had pulled a handkerchief from one pocket, some sort of string-twine-rope thing from the other. Then set about making sure she wouldn’t be able to scream any more.
She had stared furiously at him as he did this, but he would not meet her eyes. He was almost shame-faced. Then she twisted and turned, close to petulant rage. But he simply held her down, almost apologetically, until she slowed and then stopped.
He had cut the cloth that held her hands. Sat her up. Put her back against the barn wall. Retied her hands, just as tight behind her, to a huge wooden post by the wall.
Legs still tied together, stretched out in front of her. He had then left her there. Unable to move or call out.
She had pulled as hard as she could against whatever it was that held her hands tight. Some sort of rope. But it did not show any sign of loosening or weakening. Neither the rope nor the post. She tried to arch her back, putting her weight behind it, but could not move much at all. Not far enough anyway. She could twist her legs and turn her body, but that was about it. She was stuck fast and she knew it.
Now she was exhausted and was waiting for the man to come back. Strangely, she did not fear him. Or at least not as much. She could see and hear he was what her mother would call “not all there”. Grandpa would have called him “a simpleton” from a distance or “Simple Simon” if he knew him well. The way he did what he did – the material in her mouth, the untying and tying of her hands carefully, almost gently, was almost respectful. And he did not notice, or comment, on her damp trousers.
She feared the other brother more, much more, the one who had struck her and then knocked her out. He was harder, more calculating. Had those staring eyes that witnesses had talked about. He was The Scribbler, she thought. No doubt about that. Not this one.
And the mother. Who looked so old and brittle. She was even worse. The Scribbler had acted on her instructions. The brother with the melted face troubled her, though. She did not know how he
fitted into all of this. Nor how she was still alive. She should be dead already.
She thought suddenly of Noah. His soft smile. Giggling laughter. His sweet innocence.
And it was all she could do not to break down and sob.
She had to be strong. Not give in to anger or fury. Had to be ready to try and talk her way out of this when the man with the melted face came back. Hoped that it would be him rather than The Scribbler.
That she would have a chance. To talk her way out of it.
She sat quietly, her head still aching, her body exhausted, thinking what she would say.
And hoped, more than anything else, that the next person she saw would not be The Scribbler.
23. SATURDAY 19 NOVEMBER, EARLY EVENING
Gayther laid back on his sofa at home, feet up on the coffee table, eating a ready-made, microwaved lasagne meal for one that he’d picked up from the Co-op over the road.
Watching some early Saturday night programme on ITV. Endless fake bonhomie, inane nonsense, load of rubbish, really.
Foil container. Plastic knife and fork. Tin of indeterminate fizz.
Fast food. Straight into the bin when he’d finished. All of it. Then back to work. Nothing much else to do when all was said and done.
He put the half-eaten lasagne on the coffee table and reached for the file by his side. Flicking through the papers. Scanning notes. Running through ideas. Round and round and round, going nowhere fast.
He feared that this – checking out the remaining vans with Carrie, Thomas and Cotton the next morning – was his last chance to progress the case. Even then, it was a long shot at best.
The possibility that one of these vans belonged to the man seen by the boy with the dog in the woods seemed unlikely. The child, as likely as not, he thought, guessing at the numbers and letters and make and model of the van. He was twelve, for Christ’s sake.
And the chances that the missing Philip Taylor was somehow bundled up in the bin bags over the man’s shoulder seemed even more improbable. And that the man was The Scribbler was … just so … he searched for the right phrase … a million-to-one shot, surely. Then again, stranger things had happened over the years. Time and again.
The Scribbler, he thought. If this doesn’t come off, it has nowhere else to go. He had nowhere else to go. There was nothing in the other files as big as this. Bits and bobs. Leftovers. He’d be sidelined. Where Bosman and all of the others wanted him to be. He might as well take his pension and go off into the sunset.
Rat.
A-tat.
Tat.
Gayther shook his head. All he wanted was a little bit of peace, time to mull things over, think things through. And his feet hurt. Toes really. He did not know why. He wondered if it was to do with the diabetes.
He decided to ignore the door. Reached for the TV remote control. Turned the sound down. To pretend nobody was in.
As they were knocking, he suddenly realised it meant his doorbell wasn’t working. He’d need to get some new batteries for it. Something else to remember. Household stuff had been, well, Annie had dealt with all of that before she died. Since then, it was rather hit and miss. More miss, actually. He never seemed to have any toilet paper. Or kitchen roll for that matter. It wasn’t easy at times.
It was a light rap on the glass part of the door. Whoever was there was trying to be friendly. He had fallen for that before, of course. Turned out it was someone who wanted him not only to donate to some charity or other but to sign up to a monthly direct debit. He signed, the lowest amount possible, just to get rid of them. A young Rastafarian girl with a funny hat and an eager face.
Rat-a.
Tat.
Tat.
There it goes again. He was just going to sit here and stay quiet until they went away. If it were anything important, Carrie, Thomas or Cotton, they’d have texted. Or knocked loudly and repeatedly. Carrie would have hammered away with some daft rhythm, no doubt. As if she were in River Dance or some such show. Not this timid, oh-so-polite (but persistent) tapping.
He checked his mobile phone, almost out of battery again. Nothing. No messages. All quiet. He’d text the three of them first thing in the morning. To get things sorted. Out and about by mid-morning. To wrap up this line of enquiry. And then what? He did not know.
He looked around the living room. It was all old and faded. He didn’t mind that so much. It was comforting in a way, he thought. The familiarity. But he now noticed the dust and the dirt. A smear of something white and crusty on the coffee table. Mud from his shoes trodden into the carpet by the fireplace. A stack of mostly empty Chinese takeaway cartons over by one of the two armchairs. God knows how long they’d been there. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a Chinese.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Oh, for Christ’s sake. Am I ever going to get any peace? Gayther got up and walked out of the living room, along the hallway and to the front door. He pulled it open, “Yes?” Loud, not quite a shout, but getting there.
He knew he sounded edgy and even aggressive, but you needed to be when dealing with these charity collectors. He’d once been chased down the length of Ipswich’s high street by a shaven-headed chugger because he’d smiled and been vaguely polite.
A skinny, middle-aged woman, the spit of Carrie, and a small, mixed-race boy of about five. Cheeky-faced. Gayther knew straightaway who they were and what their unexpected arrival on his doorstep meant. Carrie hadn’t gone to a children’s party as everyone had automatically assumed. She was missing. He felt sick.
* * *
“When did you last hear from her?” Gayther asked, smiling at the woman and boy now sitting politely on the sofa opposite him. He didn’t feel like smiling, but knew he had to for them. He must not show the sudden, growing alarm he felt.
“We haven’t. Not since this morning. When she left for work,” the woman answered simply.
She had seemed calm enough, thought Gayther, as they introduced themselves to each other on the doorstep. They shook hands awkwardly, knowing each other vaguely. They’d met, he thought, once or twice before. He then invited them through to sit down in the living room.
She was in control as she spoke her carefully rehearsed words, explaining that Georgia hadn’t come home as expected … not like her at all … no contact from her since … they were worried something might have happened.
An accident perhaps?
If only. Gayther suspected it was worse.
Having mentioned the word ‘accident’, he thought she might start crying. He hoped she wouldn’t. He didn’t handle that sort of thing very well. He never knew quite what to do. He wasn’t someone who hugged, not even people he knew well. He could pat her on the shoulder, but he’d need to kneel down to do it and it might look odd.
He smiled more encouragingly at her as best he could. Then at the boy, who sat there grinning cheerfully. He’s no idea what’s going on, thought Gayther. Poor lamb.
“She’s not answering her phone, either. That’s not like her. And she’s not replying to text messages.” The woman sounded tense and worried.
“She’s gone over to a farm in Rendlesham Forest,” Gayther answered, reassuringly – more reassuring than he actually felt. “The mobile coverage is patchy there … and her phone may have run out of battery.”
“I don’t think it would have,” the woman answered. “She plugs it in with a lead in her car … so it’s always topped up close to 100 per cent. Her phone’s … part of her … she has it there all the time.” She pointed to the back pocket of her jeans. Then she went on.
“When Noah was small, smaller than he is now … I looked after him a lot and I’d send her pictures and videos of him … doing things … just silly stuff … the first time he ate a Cadbury’s Creme Egg, things like that. She always keeps her phone close, and charged and turned on, always. Always,” she added for emphasis.
“So, you’ve had no texts or emails or calls since she left for wor
k … when did you last try to contact her?”
“She said she’d be working most of the day, but that she’d pop back for lunch if she could … I texted her at about twelve-thirty and then about half an hour later … we had some baked potatoes … Noah likes baked potatoes with beans …” She smiled briefly at the little boy, who smiled back as she talked on.
“Nothing. I assumed she was busy, so I didn’t try her again. But I then took Noah to a little birthday party round the corner from ours from two until four. Georgia said she’d meet us there later on if she could and sing happy birthday. She didn’t turn up. I’ve called her two or three times since, but nothing. Georgy wouldn’t … she would have been in touch. I wouldn’t normally come and bother you, invade your privacy. But …”
She looked up at Gayther.
Still assuming an accident.
Gayther wished it were only that simple.
He knew what he had to do. He had to reassure Carrie’s mother and son. That he’d get on to it straightaway, saying he’d visit the station, check if anything had happened, follow up on everything. He then had to get them to go back home and wait. Do what they’d normally do. Have their tea, watch television, read a story, go to bed. He’d take her mobile phone number, give her his number, too. Promise to text her just as soon as he had some news. Good news, he’d stress. She just had to be patient.
He then had to go to this farm, this out-of-the-way place that Carrie had last visited. He could not believe that Carrie would have blundered in. Stumbled naively into The Scribbler’s lair. And was now … it didn’t bear thinking about. He hoped that it was as simple as he had suggested. That her car had broken down and she’d been walking ever since back through the forest. It could be so, he thought. Unlikely. But possible. He had to cling to that hope.
He thought, no, he knew, that he should go to the station and pass this upwards. Do it officially. But he realised where that would lead. The inevitable over-the-top response. Cars galore. Gung-ho coppers. Police marksmen. An unpredictable outcome. If he texted Thomas and Cotton as a heads-up, just in case something goes wrong and you don’t hear back from me in half an hour, call in the cavalry, he could check it out alone more quickly. Quietly, sensibly, ready to call for reinforcements as necessary, he could maybe come out of this okay.
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