The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (a court of thorns and roses ebook free TXT) 📗

armchair and looked around at the age-old carpet, sofa and chairs and other furniture. There were photos of her, when she was younger and happier, with a handsome, moustached man, one with helmets and skis, smiling, another in swimming costumes on a beach and a final one, with a young boy, the now awkward teenager, all huddled around a birthday cake with an ‘8’ on it.

“Oh,” she said, coming back in with two mugs of tea and seeing Gayther looking at the photos. “That’s my David. Everyone called him Dave, but he was always David to me. He passed over five and a half years ago. There’s not a day goes by I don’t …”

Gayther nodded as he took the mug of tea. “I lost my wife, Annie … not so long ago.”

She smiled at him and did not seem to know quite what to say other than “I’m so sorry”. She then asked if he took sugar or sweetener or wanted a biscuit. Like most people, he thought, she doesn’t want to hear of let alone talk about someone else’s loss, only her own.

He smiled back, at this sad, crushed woman, wondering whether the husband had died unexpectedly, without life insurance. He could sense the despair.

“Well, look at me,” she said, a little more brightly. “Kai told me I must ask to see your ID card or warrant or whatever it’s called. Just in case. I’m sure you’re not, er, you know.” She flapped her hand, not quite sure what it was she wanted to say.

Gayther reached inside his jacket pocket and handed her his warrant card. She looked at him and then down at the photograph, which she studied carefully.

“It’s quite old,” he said. “And it’s like passport and driving licence photos. You look grim, like a waxwork. At least I do. And I had more hair then. And less flesh.” He felt himself gabbling to the woman and wasn’t sure why.

“You’re still recognisable,” she said reassuringly, although, as the photo was little more than five years old, he wasn’t sure that was much of a compliment.

“Thank you … I just wanted to talk a little, I won’t take up too much of your time, about Reverend Lodge.”

“Such a nice man,” she answered quickly. “And so sad when he died. Was it …” she lowered her voice and then mouthed the word, “suicide?”

“What do you think?” asked Gayther simply.

“I don’t know,” she answered, looking at him. She hesitated and then went on. “I didn’t really see much of him. I did for him once or twice, that’s all. Sally Reece and Jennifer Coates kept him pretty much to themselves. None of the rest of us got a look in.”

“Why was that then; why do you think they did that?” Gayther pressed.

She sat back, putting her mug of tea carefully on a table by her side. “I wouldn’t like to say for sure but …”

Gayther waited, sensing an explanation was coming. He hoped the teenager would not come in at this moment, or put on loud, thumping music from upstairs, disturbing her thoughts as they formulated into words.

“The residents … well, most were too far gone to … but not all and sometimes they’d … well, they’d pay us for things … to get them little treats from the supermarket, things like that, nothing much, just for a pound or two extra … but every little helps as they say.”

“So, these two care assistants … they kept the Reverend Lodge to themselves as he paid them for … what did he pay them for, Karen?”

Gayther looked at her, could see how uncomfortable she felt. She twisted slightly in her seat, almost squirming, uncertain what to say next.

“Nothing … like that. I don’t think. I don’t know for sure. There was talk that, well, Mr Simkins, one of the other residents, gave both Sally Reece and Jennifer Coates money regularly. Quite a lot of it. I know that for a fact because I heard them talking once, comparing how much he’d given them and it was, well, something like £20 each. I don’t know what they did to get that from him, but it wouldn’t be for buying a box of Jaffa Cakes from Tesco.”

Gayther smiled at her, but then thought maybe he should have shook his head. That she was angry in some way, that she’d been cheated of extra money.

He was not sure money for sexual favours from female care assistants would lead anywhere with the Reverend Lodge, but he made a mental note to charge his phone and then text Carrie, Sally and Jen. Favours for money with Lodge? And others? Sex? Then he thought he’d put Sex?! and an emoji if he could find one with a surprised face. He knew there was one with tears on it as if crying with laughter, but didn’t think that was the right one to send.

“No, quite. Is that why you left the care home, Mrs Williams?”

“Good Lord, no,” she replied.

He waited for her to go on.

“Long hours. Eight to eight some days. You have to sign away your rights. It’s hard work at times, lifting people, even with the equipment, and I’m not getting any younger.”

She held her arms out towards Gayther. “And my wrists and legs, I have arthritis. And you get no pay if you’re off sick, not until the third day when you have to go to the doctor and sign on for the state sickness pay.” She shook her head in frustration.

“I’ve got a job in the supermarket in town. Pay’s the same, well a bit less, but the hours are better. I do eight until three and then get any bits I need in town and I’m home by half-three most days.”

He nodded.

She smiled at him.

Gayther then went on, “The reason I’m here is to ask you about Miss Bright’s nephew. I believe he came to see her a day or two after the fete but went to the wrong room and didn’t