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

He was interviewed but had nothing to say of relevance. We don’t seem to have the complete notes on that, though.”

“Could they have been mistaken, the old folk? Maybe got confused and got the dates wrong?”

“One old lady wasn’t sure … they were interviewed weeks later, of course. Said it has been a Monday or a Wednesday night because Coronation Street was on the telly at the time he came round. She then went with the Monday, which was the night in question, and said Challis was there for about an hour after the programme ended. If it was that night, Challis would not have had time to get to Norwich to the bar to meet … hold on … MacGowan.”

“And the other ones?”

“Well, this is interesting, Carrie. Digging through the notes, one of the old dears and the old fellow named the days correctly for the respective murders, but both seemed to base their recollection on receiving receipts through the post from Challis, weeks later and dated for the appropriate night.”

“So, you’re thinking—” Carrie said.

“For those two,” Gayther interrupted, “Challis could genuinely have been fixing a drain and a cistern. Equally, he could have been out killing and then, to cover his tracks, issued receipts for the work he’d done the night before or the night after and wrote the wrong date on both of them.”

“But not for the first old woman?”

“There’s nothing in the notes, but who knows? Maybe he did but she never mentioned it. All three of them were in their late seventies or early eighties. I doubt many of them could distinguish one same-old day from another.” Gayther was silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts.

“So, no one at the time picked up on this receipt thing?”

“No, it just caught my eye as they were mentioned in passing in two statements. If he were doing cash-in-hand jobs, why would he give them receipts – and weeks after he’d done the work? Odd that. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, of course. When you’re so close to something you don’t always see the wood for the trees.”

“And, since then, there’s been nothing on Challis on the database?”

“No, but there’s this business with the son, Toby, and the burglary near Dunwich and the lawyer from London wanting everything deleted from the files. DNA and all. That’s so odd, as well. For just a big Suffolk lad. I’d like to have had that DNA to see if there’s any sort of match, familial or otherwise, somewhere down the line … take another look at this photo of them, Carrie. Father and sons. I took it again from their website.”

Carrie took the A4 sheet of paper offered to her by Gayther and looked down at the three men standing, proud and upright, with arms folded, in front of the Challis & Sons Ltd sign at the yard.

“Thing is, Carrie, you can see from old man Challis in the middle …” Gayther pointed to the photograph, “… well, there’s that look again, isn’t there? Lean. Not an ounce of fat. Same as Burgess and Halom … and these big lads, Toby on the left, Alex on the right, well, you’d not want to pick a fight with those big buggers. They don’t look like him. The mother must have been a colossus.”

“Hang on, guv,” Carrie replied, looking over to the builder’s yard and then back across at him. “Isn’t that them in the van over there? … I’ll check the number.”

Gayther looked over as the van came to a halt and the father got out of the driver’s side and one of the sons exited from the passenger side.

He watched as Challis, the father, turned and looked towards him and Carrie, reached back into the van and came out with a sledgehammer. Challis started walking purposefully towards Gayther’s car, before breaking into a run.

* * *

“Who the fucking hell are you?” Challis stood aggressively by Gayther’s car, bending down towards the car window so his face was only inches from Gayther’s.

Gayther looked back blankly at him through the glass. It seemed to enrage Challis further. He moved the hammer from one hand to the other and then spoke again, full of anger.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Challis put the sledgehammer down and reached to pull open Gayther’s door.

Carrie, anticipating the move, pressed a button to lock the car doors.

Gayther spoke in a measured tone. “I am DI Gayther and this is my colleague … George … Carrie. We’d like to ask where you were between the hours of six and nine pm on the first of October.”

Carrie looked at the man, who seemed to be in such a terrible rage.

“Why don’t you fuck off? This is just state harassment again. Police. Tax enquiry. VAT inspection. Speeding tickets. You’ve not left us alone for months. I’m not talking to any of you any more without a solicitor. So, you can just fuck off and request a meeting in writing.”

Gayther nodded and spoke clearly and firmly, “We’ll do just that for you, Mr Challis.”

As Challis picked up the sledgehammer to walk away, he turned back towards Gayther and looked him in the eye.

Carrie thought for one awful moment that Challis was going to lift the sledgehammer with both hands and slam it into the car windscreen, shattering the glass. Instead he spoke, this time in a lower, more threatening voice.

“You smarmy bastards are all the same. You’ve not left us alone since … my boy makes one single mistake … one mistake, that’s all … and you’re all over us. Harassment. Victimisation. That’s what this is.”

Gayther maintained eye contact and spoke in a louder, firmer voice – but still polite. “Tell me where you were between six and nine pm on the first of October and that’s it, over. We’ll go away and leave you in peace.”

Challis stood still for a minute, searching for words, thought Carrie – although he looked as likely to explode as anything else.

“If …