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

out of the car, reaching for a pad and pencil in his pocket.

Knew he needed to get the van’s registration number noted down to give to his colleagues. Knew too that if he used his phone he’d probably end up photographing himself instead by mistake.

And it was a chance for him to look over the front of the van for any damage that might have occurred last night – putting his suspicions to rest; or confirming them.

He walked out of the visitors’ car park towards the staff parking area. Both areas were half-full of cars but empty of people. He saw the van straightaway as he came around the corner. Dark blue and anonymous. Hard to see at night, if the lights were turned off and the van accelerated fast towards a vulnerable woman walking at the side of a dimly lit road. He made a note of the van’s number plate.

Went to walk to the front of the van.

Heard a noise behind him.

Turned and saw Aland standing there.

“What the fuck you want?” the handyman said. Gayther noted he was clenching his hands into fists, could feel the anger coming off him, close to striking out.

Gayther stepped back, raised his hands, palms outwards in a conciliatory gesture. “My coll …” he began and then stopped, thought for a second and just said, “I’m picking up my friend … I’m waiting for her.”

“Why you …?” the handyman gestured towards the van and then towards the pad and pen in Gayther’s left hand. He moved forward towards Gayther, who stepped further back, two or three more steps, so that he was now close to the front of the van. Near enough to check for damage.

Gayther glanced down. The van’s bumper was bent and damaged. The paint scratched and scraped. Somehow, it did not surprise him.

But he was not sure if this was fresh or old damage. The van, fifteen years old or more, had been round the block many times.

“When did you do this?” Gayther asked quietly, dropping his hands and pointing to the front of the van.

The handyman moved closer. He was so close to Gayther that he could smell him, a mix of tobacco and sweat. He looked down and then shrugged. “It. How I had it.” Gayther took it to mean the van was like this when he got it.

Gayther stepped back one more time, felt his heel now pressed against the kerb by the edge of the parking area.

He looked at the handyman, who stared back without blinking and then raised his finger to his throat, making a cutting motion. “You fuck off. Go ’way’.”

Gayther shook his head at the ridiculousness of the cut-throat gesture. Raised his hands again, as conciliatory as he could be. “My car’s there,” he said, nodding towards his car in the visitors’ car park.

The handyman moved aside, gesturing for Gayther to walk by him to the car.

As Gayther passed him, the handyman spoke. “Hey.” Gayther turned and looked at him.

“You come back,” the handyman said, gesturing at his throat again.

This time, Gayther laughed openly at the stupidity of the repeated gesture. He knew he should walk away, sit in the car and wait for Carrie, passing the information he had to the officer in charge of the Karen Williams case when they were back at the station. But the handyman had riled him.

He knew he should keep quiet, say nothing. Not ask the question, “Where were you last night, between the hours of eight and eleven?” He did not need to anyway. He had the answer to that already, from the CCTV camera.

And he wanted to say something better, something that would give him the answer he wanted just by looking at the handyman’s face – a carefully prepared mask or a look of sudden shock. So he did.

“Karen Williams. She’s dead.”

There was a moment’s pause. A second or two, no more. The handyman held Gayther’s steady gaze, with a look of disbelief, then dropped his head down into his hands. Too fast for Gayther to judge accurately. He realised immediately he should not have made the statement, should have left it to the officer in charge. He could kick himself.

He turned around to walk to his car. Felt movement behind him.

Half-turned back as the handyman thumped him hard with clenched fists on his back, knocking him forwards.

Saw the ground coming towards him fast. Blacked out.

* * *

“Guv, guv, are you okay?” Carrie bent down on one knee. “Guv, guv?” She shook Gayther’s shoulder.

Gayther stirred and, after a moment or two, he sat up slowly onto his haunches, groaning a little.

“Funnily enough, Carrie, no, I’m not so good.” He touched his forehead gingerly, knocking off two or three pieces of gravel stuck to a bloodied graze. “I seem to have banged my head … and cut it.”

“Did you fall over guvnor, have a funny turn?” Carrie reached for a small pack of tissues in her pocket, slipped one out and passed it to him. He took it carefully and patted his forehead. She sat next to him on the ground, picking up his pad and pencil close by.

“I’m not that bloody old, Carrie. I’m not …” he searched for the best word, “… gaga. Aland turned up in his van. I’ve noted the number … and the front is damaged. Can you text the information to Mark … get him to pass it on to whoever’s in charge of the Karen Williams case.”

“Yes, sure.” She reached for her phone, turned the pad to look at the number and started pressing buttons. “But what happened to you? Did you have a little wobble and fall over?”

He sighed heavily, still feeling slightly dazed. “Give over, Carrie, I’m not that decrepit yet … Aland saw me looking and came across … I wanted to see his reaction, see if he knew about … I told him Karen Williams was dead. Just to see.”

Carrie looked up from her phone and made a face at him, “Oh …