The Scribe

by A A Chaudhuri

  His eyes rested on a map of London, marked with five red circles denoting the locations of each murder. Unlike many notorious serial killings, the murders weren’t confined to a specific radius; two had been in the heart of the City, one closer to the West End, the last two in North London. The killer was like an octopus – prepared to stretch his tentacles in different directions, so long as the victims fitted certain criteria.

  It wasn’t just the killer who was stressing him out. He’d just come off the telephone with Rachel. Another rancorous conversation, in which she’d reminded him about his son’s football game the next morning; that if he failed their son yet again, the poor boy would never forgive him, might well be mentally scarred for life and turn into one of the nutters he frequently put behind bars.

  Carver had gritted his teeth throughout the more-or-less one-way discourse, resisting the urge to take petty swipes back at Rachel, mindful of Carl and the fact that he didn’t want to lose what access he had to his boy by aggravating her further. He knew he wasn’t the best father, that he’d let Daniel down too many times. But he also knew his son. Daniel was stronger than his drama queen mother gave him credit for. And, at the end of the day, he was Daniel’s father, and Daniel knew how much he loved him – would give his life for him in a shot.

  He looked at his watch: a little after 8 pm. He was just thinking about wrapping up to leave when there was a knock on the door and in walked Sergeant Matthews. ‘There’s someone here to see you. Says they have information which may be relevant to the Scribe murders.’

  Carver looked up, irritated by the phrase the sergeant had used to refer to the killer even though he knew it wasn’t his fault. When Carver had briefed the press on Natasha Coleridge’s murder, he’d used the term “inscribed” to illustrate the way in which “Tort” had been etched across her chest. The press had capitalised on this and christened the killer “The Scribe”. Now the title was splashed across every front page, aired on every news channel, spreading like wildfire up and down the country.

  In Carver’s experience, serial killers craved attention and fame. And now the bloody press had dished out both to the latest lunatic on the loose on a gold-rimmed platter – a title sure to fuel the killer’s thirst for blood. As usual, they’d made things worse, not better.

  ‘Name?’ Carver wanted more information before letting the stranger in. They’d already had umpteen people rocking up claiming to have information that could be helpful to the case. But the majority had been bonkers, or glory-seekers, or straight dead-ends.

  ‘Connor Dexter.’

  Fortunately, this name rang a bell. Carver recalled that Dexter was an ex boyfriend of Sarah Morrell’s, and one of the first people Drake had questioned following her murder. He’d been staying over at his fiancée’s flat the night she was killed, a watertight alibi confirmed by the fiancée’s flatmate.

  Carver was intrigued to know why Dexter was back, voluntarily. He had to know something.

  Five minutes later, they sat across from one another in an interview room. The overhead lights were blinding, the setting bland and deeply unfriendly. Perfect.

  Dexter was smart, clean-cut, ridiculously good-looking. And, as Carver noted from Drake’s report, in the throes of a successful legal career. He found himself feeling quite envious of the lucky bastard.

  Despite his looks and success, at that moment Dexter appeared about as confident as a four-year-old boy on his first day at primary school. He sat back in his chair, his eyes wide and fretful, his fingers nervously tapping the table as if he was high.

  ‘How can I help you, Mr Dexter?’

  Dexter spoke anxiously. ‘I remembered something, something that might be relevant to Sarah’s murder.’

  ‘Something you failed to mention to my colleague, Detective Constable Drake, seven weeks ago?’ Carver had no patience for people who held back – who wasted police time and hampered his investigations by failing to be honest from the outset.

  ‘I only just remembered,’ Dexter replied weakly. Carver didn’t buy it for a second. His eyes were a sure giveaway. But he let it go. He didn’t seem like a bad sort; he was just scared for his own skin, like most people.

  ‘Okay, go on.’

  The tapping continued. ‘As you probably know, I dated Sarah from the beginning of April to around mid-June 2010.’

  Carver nodded. ‘And?’

  ‘Something rather odd happened on our first date.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We were having a drink in a bar in Bloomsbury. It was going really well until a woman – tall, slim, elegantly dressed, probably in her late thirties – walked up to our table and started having a massive go at Sarah.’

  The adrenaline was there again. Carver leaned in. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Elizabeth Stirling.’

  This was big. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She accused Sarah of sleeping with her husband, told her to stay away or she’d live to regret it.’

  ‘And what was Sarah’s reaction?’

  ‘Sarah wasn’t fazed in the slightest. Gave as good as she got, almost as if she was enjoying it. She accused Mrs Stirling of being cold and infertile, and insinuated that this was why the professor had strayed. I’d never felt so uncomfortable in all my life. I realised then that Sarah was as hard as nails, that she and I were never going to work long-term. In a way, I found her more intimidating than Mrs Stirling. Ruthless, that’s what she was.’

  ‘And when Sarah said these things to Mrs Stirling, how did she react?’

  ‘To give her her due, she handled herself very well. Remained dignified. But I could see the hurt in her eyes. And the anger.’

  ‘Did you ever come across Mrs Stirling again?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘And did you or Sarah end your relationship?’

  ‘It was kind of mutual.’ Dexter briefly lowered his eyes to the floor then looked back up at Carver whose gaze hadn’t left him. ‘Sarah was a man-eater. She was very sexy and very sure of herself. Irresistible to most men. But she wasn’t a keeper. She wasn’t someone you could imagine sharing your life or having children with. Once we’d got over the sex, there wasn’t much left. I guess it just fizzled out.’

  ‘Why did you come here today, Mr Dexter? You say you only just remembered the encounter between Sarah and Mrs Stirling, but we both know that’s not true. What you’ve just told me is something that would stick in a person’s mind forever. Why did you hold back until now?’

  Dexter held up his hands. ‘Okay, you got me. I did hold back, and I’m sorry for that. But I guess I panicked. And I didn’t want to get Mrs Stirling into trouble. She seemed like a decent woman, and I felt sorry for her. But now that some time has passed, and there’ve been four more murders, I didn’t think it was right to keep it from you. Whoever’s responsible can’t be allowed to go on butchering innocent women the way they have.’

  ‘I’d hardly call Sarah innocent, would you?’

  ‘Sarah was a lot of things. She certainly wasn’t the nicest person in the world, that’s for damn sure. But she didn’t deserve to die like that. And neither, I’m sure, did any of the others.’

  ‘I agree with you there.’ Carver sat back, then asked a question he’d gone over and over in his mind for the past fortnight. ‘And tell me, Mr Dexter, do you consider Mrs Stirling to be capable of such atrocities?’

  ‘I don’t know, Chief Inspector. I don’t know her well enough to speculate. But I do know that if someone had said some of the cruel, hateful things Sarah had said to Mrs Stirling to me, I’d be angry. Very angry.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘So, when will I get to meet Justin?’

  Maddy and Paul left the shelter of Bow Road station for the glacial outside air. As Maddy spoke, a cloud of warm air trailed from her mouth. She plunged her hands into her coat pockets for extra warmth as they turned left in the direction of home. It had been a fun night, and for a few hours they’d been able to banish the
murders from their minds.

  After letting off steam about his mother, Paul had spent the rest of the evening gushing over his new boyfriend. Justin was American and worked as a graphic designer on the South Bank. In the bar, Paul had shown Maddy a photo they’d had taken together in a passport photo booth, arms around each other’s necks, grinning inanely at the camera. Maddy could see the attraction. He was very much Paul’s type. She hadn’t seen him this happy in some time, and was glad for him. She only hoped Justin was for real, and didn’t let Paul down, the way he’d been let down so many times in his life – by his parents, his mother especially, and by other men.

  ‘Sadly, I’m guessing not till the New Year. He’s flying back to the States for Christmas on Sunday. Got two weeks off in sunny Palm Springs, the lucky bastard.’

  ‘He didn’t ask you to join him?’

  Paul laughed. ‘Mads, we’ve only been dating a couple of months. I think it’s a bit early to go on holiday together and meet the parents.’

  ‘I don’t know, whirlwind romances do happen, you know.’ For a split second, Carver’s face popped into Maddy’s head. She quickly shook her mind free of it and picked up the pace. They’d only been outside a couple of minutes, but her toes were already numb. She dreamed of hot chocolate and buttered toast as an incentive to keep going.

  They were only a few paces from home when Maddy’s phone rang. She fished it out of her handbag. It was Carver. Her heart leapt. Even at 10.30 pm on a Friday, the man didn’t rest, or worry about interrupting other people’s leisure time. Or maybe he’d wanted to hear her voice? No, that was stupid. He certainly didn’t view her that way. What was she, fifteen!

  ‘Hello, DCI Carver.’ Maddy glanced at Paul, who rolled his eyes in irritation. He kept his gaze on her as she listened intently to what Carver was saying.

  ‘No, I don’t see why he’d be lying. I hardly knew the guy, but he seemed decent enough. Probably the reason why he and Sarah didn’t last.’ She paused. ‘No, I never met Mrs Stirling, so I really can’t help you there. I don’t blame her for being pissed off, though. That’s evil, even by Sarah’s standards.’ Another pause. ‘But would she really be capable of carrying out six murders single-handedly? I’m including Frank in that. Surely, it’s Stirling who she’d want to take revenge against, not the women he slept with?’

  Another pause, during which time they reached the front door of their building.

  ‘No, I can’t think of anyone else who’d bear a grudge against Professor Stirling. He was very popular, and I don’t remember any students speaking ill of him. Sorry not to be of much help.’ Paul turned the key in the door. ‘Okay. Yes, have a good weekend too. Goodnight.’

  Maddy followed Paul inside, luxuriating in the warmth of the centrally heated hall as she closed the door behind her. She felt the cold in her lungs and chest, and lightly stamped her feet up and down to get the sensation back in her toes.

  ‘What the hell did he want?’ Paul asked crossly as he began to trudge up the stairs to their flat. ‘He shouldn’t be calling you so late. It’s bordering on harassment.’

  ‘Relax, will you?’ Maddy urged, trying to keep up. ‘He’s just doing his job. And he must be under a ton of pressure.’

  They stopped outside their door. Paul turned to Maddy, said more gently, ‘True, I didn’t think of it like that.’ He opened the door, reached inside for the light, and flicked the switch. ‘But, as I’ve said before, I don’t want him putting you in jeo …’

  He didn’t finish his sentence. His back to Maddy, he’d gone rigid. Slowly, he turned around to face her, but said nothing. He’d gone white.

  ‘What is it?’ Maddy asked nervously. Seeing that she wasn’t going to get a response, she eased herself past, Atticus appearing at her feet as she did so. ‘Hey, little guy.’ She briefly looked down with a loving smile, then up again.

  And that’s when she understood Paul’s reaction. The living room door was open, and she could see directly into it. It looked like a tornado had ripped through it, the floor strewn with overturned furniture, books flung across the room from the bookshelf in the corner. The phone was off the hook, while a vase of flowers she’d arranged only yesterday had been knocked to the ground, water flooding the rug beneath it. Maddy shivered as she took in the carnage and realised a stranger had been in their flat.

  Who was it? The killer? Some random burglar? Her heart prayed for the latter; her head told her otherwise.

  As she continued to stare, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It made her start. ‘Sorry,’ Paul said. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘Don’t be, I should have known it was you. I’m just a bit shaken up. Do you think it’s the killer?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but we need to check all the rooms, see if anything’s been taken, before we call the police.’

  Maddy nodded and reluctantly made for her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. She always shut it before leaving the flat. The intruder had been in there too.

  She went in alone, while Paul checked his own room. As she’d feared, it was a mess. Her duvet and pillow were lying on the carpet, the white fluffy insides coating the carpet like a blanket of snow.

  All her dressing table items were lying in disarray on the floor. Her chest of drawers had received similar treatment, her underwear and several carefully ironed shirts sprawled in a haphazard heap.

  Her laptop, however, which aside from her mother’s jewellery was the most expensive item she owned, didn’t appear to have been moved.

  Maddy felt violated. And then a worse thought struck her. In her bedside cabinet she kept a photo of her and her parents, taken six months before they died. Petrified that she might have lost it forever, she darted over to her bed and pulled the drawer open. Thank God. It was still there. Intact. She pulled it out, cradled it against her chest, willing it to give her strength.

  After a minute or so, she kissed the photo and tucked it safely back inside the drawer. She then got down on her knees and fished under the bed for the safe where she kept her mother’s jewellery. She breathed a sigh of relief when she felt the metal structure, pulled it out and saw that it was undamaged. She keyed in the code, just to check the contents were still inside, and exhaled once more when she saw nothing had been taken.

  And then, looking up, she caught sight of her wardrobe. Had he been in there too – touching, smelling her clothes, tainting them with bloodstained hands?

  Paul appeared as she made her way towards it. ‘Christ,’ he said, seeing the mess.

  She stopped, turned to look at him. ‘How’s your room?’

  ‘Pretty similar. Some of my records are damaged. Bastard. Luckily none of the classics. But nothing of real value’s been taken. Laptop’s still there. Strange, don’t you think?’

  ‘It would be if we were dealing with a straightforward burglary,’ Maddy said. She gestured to the wardrobe. ‘I need to check in there.’ When she opened it, Maddy barely noticed that her clothes were still hanging just as she’d left them.

  All she could focus on was the red lipstick scrawl on the inside door mirror:

  You didn’t listen to me. I warned you to stop helping Carver. If you do not, next time it won’t be your home that’s ripped apart. It will be something far more precious.

  ***

  Carver scrutinised the message. Tried to understand how the killer could have known Maddy was still helping him. The only explanation was that he’d been watching them when they’d all been gathered at Natasha Coleridge’s flat. That was the only time he and Maddy had come face-to-face since Emma Marsden’s death.

  He went over to Maddy, sitting on the edge of her bed. The room was still a tip, forensics going about their business. ‘We need to take your phone. Check for bugs, any kind of tampering.’

  ‘Okay, sure.’ Maddy watched Carver pass her phone to a gangly CSO who carefully placed it in a clear sealed bag, as if it was a stick of dynamite. ‘It’s got all my contacts on it,’ Maddy said. ‘Will I g
et it back soon?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s the first thing they look at.’ Carver gave her a reassuring smile.

  He’d got the call at 11.30. Having just walked through his front door, hungry and craving sleep.

  Rather than call 999, and against Paul’s advice, Maddy had insisted on calling Carver directly. It had pissed Paul off. He’d accused her of virtually spitting in the killer’s face, of not taking his threat seriously. But then, his rant over, he’d tried to reason with her, pointing to the upheaval surrounding them, reminding her of the killer’s clear warning that this was nothing compared to what would come next if she didn’t do as he asked.

  But Maddy was too sure of her instincts to be swayed. She trusted Carver. She’d struck a connection with him. He was the right person to call, and she didn’t care what Paul or anyone else said.

  No sooner had he heard her out, heard the alarm in her voice, than Carver had jumped in his car, calling Drake from the wheel and telling him to assemble a forensic team at Maddy’s quick sharp.

  Paul appeared with coffee and they moved to the kitchen, one of the few rooms left intact by the killer.

  ‘Mr King,’ Carver said, ‘what time did you leave to meet Ms Kramer this afternoon?’

  ‘Around 5.30. Maddy had called earlier to say she was kicking off work about then, and we agreed to meet at 6.45 at Jewel bar on Glasshouse Street. She said she was going to try and fit in a bit of Christmas shopping first.’ Paul looked to Maddy for confirmation.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she nodded.

  ‘As you were leaving the flat, did you notice anyone suspicious, either in the building, or outside on the street?’