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

He held the remote control in his hand as he pointed it towards the screen that sat on top of an old pine, five-drawer, chest that took up most of the far wall.

“That’s live, that is, see there, the bottom half of the screen, and it’s still recording …”

“How long have you had it?” Carrie said conversationally, standing behind the landlord and to the left, Gayther to his right.

Chapman shook his head. “It’s a new system. We put it in last month, maybe six weeks ago. We had some trouble with a new chef, Nathan, a black lad. Some of the locals were giving us, well him, a hard time. A couple of the old timers thought it would be funny to hide in the bushes and throw bananas at him as he left. It’s still a bit 1970s round here. Multiculturalism hasn’t quite reached this far.”

“Did you report it?” Carrie asked. “Hate crimes are a priority for us.”

“No, Nathan didn’t want any fuss, just wanted to keep his head down and get on with it. Do his job. He’s a good chef. I had a word with one or two of the men we thought it was and talked about barring racists and it seems to have settled down. That reminds me to have a chat with Nathan later on to check he’s all right.”

“So, you put it in to see who was racially abusing Nathan?” Carrie said as Chapman carried on talking over the top of her.

“We put in the system anyway, after the banana throwing, so we could monitor everyone coming in and out. Only thing is …” he added, “a young lad, Josh, the local odd-job man, did it and he put it up too far to the left. It only really covers the doorway, some tables to the side and a bit of driveway, so we can’t actually see the whole car park, which is what we wanted … so we could match people up to their cars. We’re going to get him to move it or maybe put in a second one further round. Well, hopefully. He seems to have disappeared these past few weeks.”

Chapman thought for a minute. Then called out.

“Cath, Cath?”

A moment’s pause, footsteps, and she was at the door, looking in.

“Can you remember what the times were when they came in and out?”

Gayther and Carrie looked towards her and smiled as she moved into the room, both thinking how she looked like the stereotypical barmaid: brassy, dressing younger than her age, rather too heavy with the make-up.

She paused. “They came in together at 8.00pm, just past, and she left at 9.30, give or take, and he was out at about 10.00, maybe quarter to. The PC, whatever his name was, this morning, had a good look.”

Gayther, standing to the right of Chapman, watched over the man’s shoulder as he pressed first one button and then another to bring last night’s recording onto the screen, tutting as he did so.

“Give it here,” said his wife, “I’ll do it, I found it before. When they came in.”

“What do you remember of them?” Gayther asked Chapman’s wife. “Did you speak to either of them?”

Chapman answered, “I told you. We were busy. Neither of us served them. The girls would have taken orders and delivered food and drinks and maybe got talking to them. You’ll have to come back, with your other colleagues. They’re on tomorrow at six for the quiz night.”

Mrs Chapman stopped, her finger on the button. Gayther could see the screen was about to start showing the footage from 8.00pm last night.

“Actually, Barry, what I said to the police earlier was wrong. I’ve been thinking … although I don’t remember seeing them, I do remember someone shouting out ‘cow’ at some point in quite a nasty way and there was silence for a second or two … in case there was a slanging match or something … and then everyone ignored it and carried on talking. That was a man and about that time and I think it might have been him … look, here we are, 8.00.52 … 53 … it’s exciting, isn’t it … that’s Jeremy coming in, old soldier that he is. They’re in next.”

Carrie leaned forward. Gayther did too.

They saw the unmistakable face of Karen Williams coming in, glancing up at the camera as she passed beneath it. A split second, but a full and clear shot of her face.

A second or two’s pause.

A hooded man, head down, pulling at the hood so it covered his head more fully as he passed beneath the camera.

“Damn,” said Gayther angrily.

“The photo the police showed us this morning matched the freeze-frame of that lady coming in. We had to go back and forth quite a bit to match them,” Mrs Chapman said. “We assume that was her man friend just behind her … let me find the bit where they left.”

As she pressed more buttons, Gayther reached into his jacket pocket and took out three folded-up sheets of paper, one photo on each, of Challis, Halom and a younger Burgess. He opened them and spread the three sheets out, holding them in front of Mr and Mrs Chapman. “Recognise any of these men?” he asked.

Chapman looked at the photo of Challis. “No,” he said. Next, the photo of Halom. “No,” he said again. Then the photo of the younger Burgess. He turned his head this way and that. “Him, maybe. But I couldn’t say where from. And not recently. He may have been in the pub, but he’s not a regular.” He paused and then shook his head before adding, “Who are they? The Chuckle Brothers? They all look like brothers.”

His wife stopped what she was doing to take a look. She gazed for a moment or two at the photo of the younger Burgess. “I’ve not seen him before … nor him,” she added, pointing to the photo of Halom. “Although they do look similar, don’t they?” She paused as