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

just me … doing this … and we don’t know what we’re looking for, do we? Not really.”

Gayther sat back in his seat, “Points taken, Carrie. If this were a major investigation and we had the resources, we could do it. The answer’s out there, all the evidence we need, we just have to find it. One tiny clue. A sudden twist of luck. That’s all.”

Carrie answered, “If this Smith is The Scribbler, as you say he is, then we have the answer already, surely? And Karen Williams and other possible witnesses at the care home … maybe CCTV footage from roads, petrol stations … and all that happened before, the witnesses, the other victims who got away, that’s the evidence and all we need to put him away … we don’t need to chase ifs, buts and maybes from thirty years ago.”

“You’re right, Carrie,” replied Gayther. He smiled at her. “As always … look, okay, let’s wait and see if Thomas and Cotton turn up some photos. Meantime, go and see if you can find out where … if there are still clothes from the original killings. We need to start thinking DNA. And I’m going to go through the files for the other two victims who got away … see if they are still about. Come and find me when you’ve got the photos and we’ll head back up to see Karen Williams. See if she can put a face to the name for us.”

* * *

“Is it sunny today, guv?” Carrie asked, squinting through the car windscreen. “I’m not sure …” She took a tissue from her pocket and wiped at the grime on the inside of the window.

“Very good, Carrie,” Gayther replied, accelerating the car up the A12 towards Saxmundham. “In the old days, of course, you could get a trainee to empty your car once a week … clean it … polish it even … but nowadays …” He let the sentence tail off.

“They’ve invented driverless cars, guv, maybe you could invent a self-cleaning car, make your fortune.”

“It’s a thought, Carrie. It’s definitely a thought.”

They smiled at each other.

“So,” asked Gayther, “these photos from Thomas and Cotton, to show to Karen Williams. They were quick. What have they turned up?”

Carrie opened the file on her lap and took a sheet of A4 paper out and held it up for Gayther so he could see it.

“Well, he’s pretty much how I imagine The Scribbler would look these days. Lean, stringy. Which one’s that?”

“Challis, the builder. It’s off his website. The ‘About Us’ page. The two men either side of him are his sons, Toby and Alex. Toby, the bigger lad on the left, is the one who was arrested for the burglary.”

“Okay,” replied Gayther, taking a closer look. “Hard to imagine Knucklehead knowing a London lawyer. Something to look into. When we get to Saxmundham, fold the page so only old man Challis can be seen.”

“And this one is Halom, the drag act. Here’s one of him in full regalia strutting his stuff at Great Yarmouth.” She showed Gayther first one photo and then moved it to the side. “And here’s the other from the files, smirking. His most recent arrest. He’s a cocky one, guvnor.”

“Quite a difference, Carrie. The master of disguise … mistress of disguise … whatever. I can’t see it being him somehow, even though he has a similar look about him as Challis. Show me again? … yes, thin as a whippet, my old mum would have said. And mad eyes, she’d have said that, too.”

“And here’s Burgess. They had a bit of trouble with that one, ended up getting a photo off his wife’s – his ex-wife’s – old Facebook page. Not been used for ages. Seems they split up a while back, but Thomas trawled through her photos. Most photos with him in it have been deleted but there’s a family shot with a baby, the first granddaughter, and Burgess is in the middle of the group. A bit blurred as they zoomed in, but you can make him out fairly well. His features, anyway. They did their best.”

Gayther grunted as he looked at it. “Another that looks like The Scribbler. How I think he looks anyway. In fact, all three of them, Challis, Halom, Burgess, could be related. Peas in a pod. Three identical strangers. Again, fold the page as best you can so only his face can be seen, no one else’s.”

Carrie nodded and started folding the various pages.

They drove along for a while, both with their own thoughts, as they approached the turning for Saxmundham.

Carrie then cleared her throat and spoke.

“Shame we’ve no scissors, guv, we could have cut them and just put the photos on the same page … a sort of identity parade … and then asked Karen Williams if she recognised any of them as John Smith … there, that’s done,” she added a minute or two later, putting the papers back in the file and taking her mobile phone from her pocket.

“Give them here,” Gayther said, taking the papers and folding them up and tucking them into his pocket.

“Of course, if you used your mobile regularly, instead of letting it run down and leaving it wherever, I could have sent photos … of the photos … to you.”

“Actually, Carrie, Little-Miss-Know-All, I do have my phone on me today and it is charged and working fine … I just prefer the traditional ways.”

They smiled at each other.

Easy together.

A team already.

Gayther signalled, swinging the car across the A12, at the Saxmundham turn-off.

“Could it really be as easy as this?” Carrie asked. “Karen Williams simply pointing at one and saying ‘that’s him’, and we go and bring him in for questioning?”

Gayther nodded as he accelerated the car towards their destination. “Why not? These things don’t always have to be complicated. Stranger things have happened. Years ago, we had a robbery down Ranelagh Road way. Really nasty one, killed the pets, took a dump in the bed,