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

he worked there Friday nights regularly, bingo when needed. So, I noticed he had noted the cabaret down in the diary for four days later. If you did it every week, week in, week out, would you do that? Would someone make a note ahead of going to church every Sunday? Or that you swam at the local leisure centre, Monday, Wednesday and Friday? No, it’s just routine. You don’t need to make a note of it. You know your own habits.”

Carrie nodded, but she reckoned it was all just too unlikely.

“And answer me this, Carrie,” Gayther said, sensing her frustration, “if he got called in on the day, because someone phoned in sick, or texted or whatever, would he rush straight to his diary and make a note of it? Would you? Of course not. A diary like that is for doctor’s or dentist’s appointments, a nephew’s birthday, stuff like that. Not to note something you were doing that very day. It’s not like you’d forget.”

She turned towards him, as Gayther drove the car back on to the A12. “If you didn’t believe him, why didn’t you press further, ask him more questions?”

“Because, as it stands, he’ll simply take our visit as being routine. He’s used to dealing with the police, petty crimes and stuff, and us turning up out of the blue about stolen goods. If I pressed him, even hinted at The Scribbler, we’d spook him. As it is, he’s given us a fact that we can check easily. At some point, in the next day or two, I’ll ask you to run up to the caravan park, take Cotton or the other one with you, just to double-check that out.”

“If he worked that night as he said?” she asked.

“Or not.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“If he said he did and he didn’t … then he lied … why? … we’ll want to know … maybe he was at the care home killing Lodge after all.” 10. WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER, LUNCHTIME

“Challis then, guv. The moment of truth. What are the chances it’s him? Or is this a wild goose chase after all?” Carrie sat in the passenger seat of Gayther’s car, sipping at an Americano from a local petrol station. She took the lid off the paper cup, blowing on the black liquid to cool it.

Gayther sat drinking his latte, watching the builder’s yard, the Challis & Sons Ltd sign above, on an industrial estate just outside Saxmundham in Suffolk. He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Carrie. Finding out exactly where he was on the evening of the first of October should rule him in or out, though.”

“What time do you expect them to arrive, guv?”

Gayther moved his cup from his left to his right hand and then checked the watch on his left wrist.

“The woman in there …” he gestured towards the yard, “… said they were due back just after lunch to pick up some parts. Someone should appear soon. Whether it’s Challis or the sons. Another fifteen minutes, maybe a bit longer.”

“Won’t she alert them to us, guv?”

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t do. I think you’ll find she thinks I’m a customer … not a policeman.”

Carrie looked at him doubtfully, but didn’t say anything.

Gayther looked around. “Is there anything bleaker than an industrial estate on an overcast and drizzly day?”

“Round here? Kessingland beach is pretty grim with the wind whipping in. Spent the night there once as a teenager, a group of us in a tent. Hard to peg a tent on a shingly beach. It got in a tangle and blew away and we ended up chasing it into the sea. One of the dads picked us up at 2.00am. And, um, anywhere up and down this stretch of coast with the dark mornings and dark nights. All a bit spooky. The beach by the Sizewell power station would be my bleakest place.”

“Lit only by the light of its radioactive detritus washing out to sea,” Gayther smiled as he finished the dregs of his coffee and crushed his coffee cup, squeezing it down the side of his seat.

“You need cup holders, guv. Between the seats. We could put our cups in them. Newer cars have them, you know.”

“Maybe, Carrie, maybe. There’s a bit of life left in this one yet. The body’s a bit old and battered, but the engine still has some go in it. There’s plenty of oomph under the bonnet.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Both thought of much the same joke, give or take.

Neither of them said it.

“So, Challis, guvnor. Run me through your thoughts on this one please before he arrives … hopefully.” Carrie finished her coffee, put the lid back on and rested the empty cup by her feet.

“Okay,” said Gayther, reaching for the file between the seats, “Challis was a plumber, is now a builder with his two sons. He used to drink in some of the pubs where The Scribbler met his victims. Maybe more. Was named by three or four people who saw an appeal on local TV. He had alibis for some of the murders, three of them, but not others. Nothing from forensics.”

“The alibis, guv, who provided them?”

“Hold on.” Gayther flicked through papers in the file, back and forth, until he found what he was looking for. “For two of them, little old ladies for whom he was doing odd jobs in the evening for cash in hand … installing a washing machine for one, unblocking a drain for another and, for the last one, an old boy, he was fitting a new cistern that night.”

“Friends or relatives, guv?”

Gayther shook his head, “No, apparently not, no personal connections.”

“Did Challis work alone?”

“He had a young lad with him at the time, Stephen Gill, who fetched and carried. An apprentice in all but name. But there was no mention that he was there for any of these cash-in-hand jobs. He had left by the time of the investigation, went off to college somewhere.