“Stupid,” he said furiously. “Stupid.”
“No, Dennis, it’s …”
“It is stupid. I cannot come.” He leaned towards her, his face twisted in sudden anger. “I do not have a present for him.”
And with that, he turned and stormed out of the building, slamming the rickety old door behind him.
* * *
Carrie tried with all her strength to loosen the material tied tight around her wrists behind her back.
She flexed her wrists back and forth to try and slip a hand out.
Then pulled her hands outwards as hard as she could. To rip the material. All to no avail.
She sat back, thinking about how to free her arms and legs and get away, and suddenly realised the lantern was still there, just in front of her. A light bulb. Some heat. A chance. If she could jiggle around on her bottom and take the lantern cover off with her hands, she could maybe press the material against the bulb. Burn it through.
Started jiggling.
Backed up to the lantern.
Felt for the cover.
Wondered suddenly whether a forty-watt bulb would give off sufficient heat to burn through cloth if she held her wrists there long enough. Probably not. But she had to try. She struggled to remove the cover. Had to unscrew it with one hand while stopping the base from moving with the other. Too hard to do. Thought she could maybe smash the lantern cover and bulb, and use a shard of glass to cut through the material.
Held the lantern.
Dropped it on the floor.
It didn’t break. Not a far-enough fall.
Carrie held the lantern behind her back. Struggling up onto her knees. Thought of sitting back suddenly as hard as she could on the lantern to shatter it. Debated. A second or two. No more. Then struggled up further, leaning against the wall, onto her feet. Still bound together, still so tight. Letting the wall take her weight, she stretched first one foot and then the other to try to loosen the binding round her feet. No luck. There was no give at all.
She dropped the lantern again.
Higher up this time.
The cover cracked open and the light bulb shattered.
She was in darkness now. Could see a little, though, shapes and shadows, from the moonlight streaming in through the roof. Looked at the door in front of her. Where the man had gone out and might come back at any moment, full of anger and rage. God knows what he might do. This child-like man having a furious tantrum. Or the other brother, The Scribbler, might appear. He would kill her in seconds. Knifed to death, most likely. She had to get away now.
Carrie lowered herself onto her knees, lost her balance, and fell forward onto her face. She shook her head, still so painful, and rolled over and back onto her bottom. She searched gingerly behind her with the tips of her fingers for a piece of glass from the cover. She found one, a large-ish chunk, touching the edges carefully and picking it up and holding it against the cloth between her wrists. Up into a crouch. Started cutting backwards and forwards.
Heard a noise outside the door of the building. Footsteps. A pushing at the door.
Stopped cutting. Was silent. Watching carefully. Breath held.
This was it, she thought, my final moments, as the door creaked slowly open.
She swallowed, subduing the sob in her throat. Thought suddenly again of Noah and her mum and dad. Then, defiant, started slashing as hard as she could with the shard of glass at the cloth between her wrists.
She sobbed now.
In anger and frustration.
And fear too.
If she could free her hands, at least she’d have a chance to cut her legs loose or to slash The Scribbler across the face in self-defence as he went for her with the knife. She looked back up to see the man now in the doorway, silhouetted against the moon.
Breathed out jagged breaths.
Close to tears.
And then she spoke, in stuttering words.
“Nice to s … see you, guv … what kept you?” She could not disguise the joy and relief in her shaking voice.
“This and that,” Gayther answered, looking across at her crouched down in the shadows. “Had to have my tea first. Obviously.”
She sobbed again. “Anything nice, guv, for your tea?”
She thought he said the word ‘Pot’. Expected him to complete the phrase ‘Pot Noodle’, but, as he finished the word ‘Pot’, two shots rang out.
There was a moment’s silence.
Gayther’s head seemed to shimmer and shake in the moonlight. A haze of brain and bone and he fell forward, dead before he hit the ground.
Carrie screamed and screamed again.
Looked back at the doorway.
And saw The Scribbler standing there holding a gun.
PART FIVE
THE OLD BARN
26. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, 11.25PM
Carrie knew she was about to die.
Wanted to say something profound. Or at least think about something important. Could do neither.
She did not seem to be able to say or think or do anything.
She stared through moonlight and shadows as The Scribbler stepped forward and studied Gayther’s corpse laying on the ground in front of him. He pushed at the side of Gayther’s head with his foot. Watched as it tipped slowly to one side. He seemed to think for a moment. Then nodded to himself. Job done. He stepped over Gayther’s body and looked at Carrie. After a while, he spoke.
“Who was he?” he nodded back towards the corpse.
She looked up at him. Struggled to say the words.
“My … g … guvnor,” she stuttered, eventually, close to sobbing.
She knew she was in shock. That she could not function properly. Unable to talk clearly. Nor defend herself. If she struggled up, she would fall down. If she sat back, she would stumble over. So, she just stayed there, crouching. Waiting for him to raise the gun and shoot her in the head. Same as Gayther. Gone in an instant. She tried to compose herself in the long silence.
“A bad man,” he said finally.
Another long silence. She tried to frame the words in her mind before speaking. Was not going to let him see her cry.
“Good man … very good,” she said finally, unable to say more.
He shrugged, as if to say, ‘no matter, he’s dead now anyway, good or bad. It makes no difference.’ She thought, her mind slowly unravelling, that this is what the other brother had said, about bad men. That they were heroes, killing them.
“You’re no hero,” she said suddenly, the words coming to her unexpectedly easily. She felt sudden anger. It seemed to revive her, help her think straight.
“I rid the world of bad men,” he answered. “Men with loving wives and little children. Men who lie and cheat and hurt their families and make the beast with other men … other men … men not women … Men who force themselves on their own children. Make them do things … dirty things. Terrible things.” He thought for a moment. “The world is a better place without them. They are monsters.”
She looked at him now, hearing the emotion in his voice. His justification. His reasoning. His logic. The sick assumption that gay men and paedophiles were one and the same. It somehow gave her courage, to talk, to speak, to answer back. To try to save her life. This was her chance to reason with him. Take control. But the anger was rising almost uncontrolled in her.
“You just shot a good man. Roger. My friend.” Her voice wavered and she paused to try to steady herself.
“His name was Roger Gayther and he loved his wife and his son and he was a good man. A kind man to me. A loving man. He brought bad men, men who kill wives and children, to justice … He was the best of men.
“You just killed him for no good reason. You shot him from behind. You did not even give him a chance. You’re not a hero. You’re a coward, that’s all you are.”
He did not answer her.
His silence encouraged her to go on.
She rose unsteadily, arms and legs still tied, to her feet, her
weight pressing against the barn wall.
“Cowards kill from behind. That’s what you are. A coward. And now you’re going to kill me. Tied up. Defenceless. Big man you are. Shooting someone who can’t even defend themselves.”
He did not speak.
She could not see his face clearly in the shadows.
Waited, letting the silence go on and on. Until he finally responded.
“I don’t kill women,” he said quietly. “Not unless—”
“You tried to before,” Carrie interrupted. “In the kitchen. You hit me and knocked me out. What was that then? A big oops?”
“That was …” He stopped speaking, the words tailing away as though he were ashamed of himself and what he had done.
Carrie knew this was the moment. It was in the balance. This was the tipping point. If she said the wrong thing, he would kill her. Regardless of what he had just said. The right thing and she would live. For now, anyway. She didn’t know how she was going to get out of this alive, though. It was only delaying the inevitable.
“Your mum,” Carrie said. “It was your mum who told you to kill me, wasn’t it? Do you always do what your mum says, or do you sometimes do what you think is right?”
He was silent.
She pressed on. “Was it your mum who told you to kill all the men … and Edwin Lodge at the care home … you killed him too, didn’t you? Did Mummy tell you to do that?”
“Shut up,” he said quietly, close to a whisper, almost under his breath.
She needed to do this. “You don’t need to do what Mummy tells you, all the time. She’s a bad person. You’re not. I can tell. You’re a good person. Your mother’s a monster.”
“Shut up about Mother,” he shouted back and stepped forward.
Carrie shut her eyes. Expecting a blow across the face. Striking her into unconsciousness. And then the bullet. Some sort of blessing that. But there was silence.
And she heard, in the distance, down towards the farm, gunshots.
She opened her eyes. To look at The Scribbler.
But he had already turned, had stepped over Gayther’s body, and was moving quickly to the door of the barn.
* * *
“What’s that? What’s happening?” Carrie shouted across to The Scribbler, who was standing by the door, looking out and listening, his head at an angle, as if he might be hard of hearing in one ear.
“My brother. He’ll be shooting at the police. They’ll all be dead. He’s a sharp shooter. The sharpest shooter in town.”
Carrie did not know what to say. Knowing Gayther, he’d have come alone or brought Thomas and Cotton and made them wait in the car while he scouted around. Please God, she thought, don’t let the man with the melted face have seen them sitting patiently in the car. Creeping up on them. Pulling the door open. Shooting them at point-blank range. Those two sweet young boys.
They were both silent, listening intently.
For more gunshots. Other noises. Shouts. Yells. Anything. Signs of life.
But there was just silence, the stillness of the night.
“What can you see?” Carrie asked, her voice cracking.
“From here?” The Scribbler replied. “The barns. The farmhouse. Part of the drive. Your boss must have parked further down, just too far to see. He’d have had other police with him. Yes?”
She nodded. “Two new detective constables, I think, yes. Thomas and Cotton. Both about twenty. All their lives ahead of them.” She stopped, knew she had to be strong now.
He shrugged as he turned towards her as if it were of no significance. “Two, yes, that’s right. Two shots. That’s all my brother would have needed. That’s what we heard.” He nodded, as if satisfied. “They’ll both be dead,” he added as a matter-of-fact afterthought.
She swallowed, composing herself as best she could. The horror of it all. Then spoke in a measured voice. “What will your brother do now?”
“There’s an outhouse with a cesspit. It’s where he … he’ll put the bodies in there. Then he’ll check on Mother … she’ll need putting to bed … then he’ll come here …”
“You have to stop this,” Carrie said. “Give yourself up. You can’t go on.”
He didn’t reply. She thought he was thinking. Weighing the odds.
“I’ll speak up for you. You and your brother.” She had to keep the desperation out of her voice. “I’ll say you were good to me. That you didn’t hurt me. That you let me go. That will help you. Just set me free now. Untie my arms and legs. I will go and …”
“No,” he shouted, wanting her to be silent. “No!”
She hesitated. This man was dangerous, so much harder than the slow brother.
She tried a different approach. Quiet and reasoning.
“You could go. You and your brother. Leave me here. Just take off through the forest into the night. Disappear.”
“Mother,” he said simply. “We cannot abandon Mother. This is her home. She will not leave it, no matter what. She would be better off in a … I did look … at places for her … she was not happy about that. But she could not manage here on her own. She needs her boys. Her best boys. She needs us. And we need her.”
“Go and be with her, then. Now. Leave me here. You and your brother go and put her to bed. Make her comfortable. See her to sleep. I’ll still be here in an hour. We can talk about things then. Sort things out.”
She felt the shard of glass still in her hands.
Knew that, given time, she could free herself.
Be running off into the night.
He stood and looked down at Gayther’s corpse again. Carrie could not follow his gaze. Had to look upwards and away. She knew that if she did see Gayther’s body and his shattered face that she would crack, her heart breaking for the sad, kind old man she’d got to know a little. That she’d expected to work with day after day for years to come. His life taken from him so coldly.
“I’ll need to get rid of this first,” he said, as if it were a nuisance, a bother, no more than a dead mouse found on a doormat. Not a once living, breathing man with thoughts and feelings and love in his heart. Carrie knew she had to switch off, blot out what she was thinking, and focus on practicalities. On getting The Scribbler out. On cutting the cloth round her wrists and feet. On running hard and fast away from here.
The Scribbler tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers and reached down towards Gayther’s body. He stepped over the corpse and around it, getting into a better position to lift Gayther up by the shoulders. Carrie looked away as The Scribbler dragged Gayther backwards to the door. He stopped close to the doorway, breathing hard already, and looked back towards Carrie and was about to speak. To tell her to wait there.
In that moment, The Scribbler and Carrie both froze into silence.
The sound of heavy footsteps and jagged, panting breath.
The Scribbler pulled Gayther to the side, reached for his gun and turned to fire.
* * *
The slow brother stopped just outside the doorway. In that instant he was about to be shot.
Carrie expected him to throw his hands in the air and shout, “No!”.
But he just stood here, waiting. The smart brother drew in his breath loudly, stepped back, did not shoot.
“What is it?” the smart brother snapped.
“I went to my room,” the slow brother said in his careful, steady voice as Carrie watched, willing him to speak faster, to get to the point. “To get a toy for the birthday party.”
He turned towards Carrie.
The smart brother turned too, confused.
“But two policemen were taking Mother away. In the back of their car. She looked at me as they drove off. She was sad. She was crying. I ran after the car and shot at the two policemen in the front. To stop them taking Mother.” He dipped his head down. “But it was too fast. I missed.”
The two brothers looked at each other.
The smart one stepped forward, put his arm on the other’s sho
ulder.
“I missed,” the slow brother repeated himself. “And now Mother has gone.”
A silence. Then the slow brother spoke again.
“Why have they taken Mother?”
The smart brother did not answer.
“What will they do with her?”
The smart brother did not reply.
“How will we get Mother back?”
The smart brother looked at the slow brother.
Carrie could sense the helplessness and the despair between them.
“We’ll get Mother back. Don’t worry. I will think of something.”
And he turned and looked at Carrie.
She guessed what had happened. Gayther had come ahead, scouted round. Taken an age to find her. A police car there as back up or arriving when Gayther didn’t return on time, most likely. Two local officers going to the farmhouse. The old woman there telling all or falling ill perhaps. Taken off, either way. Out of the line of the coming fire.
No matter. Carrie knew what came next. After the shots at the car. The police officers already radioing through. For the teams that were always called for in a hostage scenario. Negotiators. Marksmen. For Gayther and her. Except Gayther was dead. And she would be next. Before they even got here. She had no idea what these two brothers would do at any moment.
She looked back at the smart brother and spoke quietly, sensibly. Taking charge. As fast as she could.
“The police will already be on their way now. With dogs. And guns. And helicopters. They will surround the farm. They will move in closer and closer, searching and using sensors to find us in this barn. Then they will give you one chance to come out with your hands up. One chance only. And if you do not take it, they will storm in and shoot you both dead.”
She watched the slow brother look from her to his brother and then back again. She could almost hear him swallowing.
She waited. For the smart brother to respond.
He was about to speak. But she pressed on, saying much the same as before to see what the slow brother might say and do. To set the brothers against each other.
“Give yourself up now. Let me go. I’ve said I’ll speak up for you. You two can wait in the kitchen. In the farmhouse. I’ll make sure they don’t shoot you. I’ll save you. Make certain you get a fair hearing.”
The Scribbler Page 27