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

was that a good idea?” She paused and then asked, “What was his response?”

“He looked shocked … fake or genuine, I don’t know. It was so fast. He pushed me as I walked away. Well, hit me on the back as hard as he could, really. I stumbled and …” he gestured at his forehead, “goodnight Vienna.”

“There we are, message texted to Mark … so do we go and find him, Aland, and bring him in for assault … and to talk about the van?”

Gayther rose stiffly to his feet as Carrie reached out to support him by the arm. “No, it’s not our job … let’s leave it for now. I think it might complicate matters … but text Mark again and tell him to get someone over here asap for the van … in fact, take some photos of it now. Just in case.”

Gayther stood and watched as Carrie circled the van clockwise and then again anti-clockwise before stopping in front of him.

“Filmed it, guv. All good.”

Gayther nodded carefully as he turned to go towards his car. “Anyway, more importantly … How did you get on with Sally and Jen? Did you get through Mrs Coombes?”

Carrie walked alongside of Gayther to the car, her arm on his. It irritated Gayther a little, but he knew she meant well and wasn’t teasing him this time.

“Mrs Coombes wasn’t there, or at least I didn’t see her. I spoke to the receptionist, same woman as last time and asked to see Sally. She wasn’t on duty. Jen was, and so this Kaz, on the desk, buzzed her and she came and saw me in reception …”

“Did she recognise any of the photos?” Gayther reached in his pocket for his car keys.

“Do you want me to drive, guv? Let you get your breath?”

He nodded as he gave her the keys and she opened the passenger door and watched him climb onto the seat. “I’m going to have a splitting headache all night … do you have any Anadins or anything … painkillers for your lady things?”

“’Fraid not, guv, but I’ll drive you back, give you a chance to shut your eyes … and no, guv, Jen didn’t recognise any of them, but I’ve left photos with her and my phone number … damn PACE, as you’d say … and she’ll show them round, to Sally and to Mrs Smith … who’s a bit Lady Gaga … and will then text me if anyone does and then bin the photos.”

Gayther grunted as he sat down in the passenger seat.

He waited as Carrie got into the driver’s side, fastening her seat belt, before speaking as gently as he could. “I’d rather you’d shown the photos to each of them in turn yourself, especially Mrs Smith, in case this Jen doesn’t … we can’t really rely on her to do our job. Not properly anyway.”

Carrie nodded, “I can go back, get the photos, sort it out.”

“Leave it for now, let’s keep out of the way … give Mark, whoever’s dealing with it, the chance to come over and speak to Aland and check the van over … see if Jen contacts you later today or tomorrow. If not, we can go back in tomorrow or the next day.”

“So, what’s next, guvnor?”

“Home, Carrie. You can play Space Invaders or whatever it is these days with your little boy. I can get a good night’s sleep. We can start afresh in the morning.”

They looked at each other.

Carrie smiled warmly at him.

Gayther smiled back, wincing more than a little. 8. TUESDAY 13 NOVEMBER, 4.55PM

The man with the latex gloves sat on a bench in a back-street park in Lowestoft in Suffolk, close to an overgrown pond and within sight of the public toilets. He had been there most of the afternoon, watching the comings and goings, feeling the screwdriver and the Stanley knife in his pockets, waiting for his chance. Just the one, that’s all he needed.

He knew that, in the on-off-on-off drizzle, he must look an odd sight. Wandering back and forth to the pond with his crumpled brown bag of crusts to feed the ducks.

Dropping his head down as if studying his shoes whenever anyone walked by. Not that they did that often, though. And no one spoke to him.

He could not help himself at these times. Had to wait and see if he’d get lucky. The urge getting stronger, more insistent, at each missed opportunity.

He realised that he would be caught one day. A policeman would stop and ask him what he was doing. Or a man he persuaded to come with him in his van might turn and overpower him at the moment before killing, holding him down as he pressed 9 9 9 on his mobile phone. Or someone, when a man was reported missing, might remember seeing him there or walking to his van with that man.

It was easier at the start, when he was younger and fitter. He could sit in bars and clubs in the city centre, in the corner, for hours on end. Anonymous. Far from home. Invisible. Night after night. Waiting for a sad, middle-aged man to make his nervous approach. So many bodies, so many faces, unlikely to be remembered by anyone – and there were no CCTV cameras nor mobile phones or Twitter and Facebook back then; none of these things he knew so little about.

Even so, he’d nearly been caught. And some of the men had got away. An ever-present spectre just behind him, or just in front and around the next corner, for the rest of his life.

There were too many kills, too close together, too near to home.

He had stopped for a while, had held out for as long as possible. But the urge came back, as it always did, and he started again.

He’d been forced over the years to go further away as he grew older and stood out more in bars and clubs and, eventually, he went to public