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

“I’ll need to hang on to this for the time being, as evidence. Carrie, write Ms Simmons a receipt.”

Carrie looked blankly back at Gayther.

“Just write, in your notebook, shotgun certificate received from Angela Simmons by DI Gayther, then date it and sign it and tear it out to give to Ms Simmons.”

Gayther then turned back to the old woman.

“Angela.”

She looked at him with vague eyes.

“I need to speak to your … ex-husband, Simon Burgess.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because …” Gayther replied, thinking for a minute. He paused for so long that Carrie thought he had forgotten what he was going to say. She was about to prompt him when he spoke again.

“Because, Angela …”

Carrie stepped forward, took out her mobile phone, tapped two or three times and then scrolled down and showed her the photo of the hooded man leaving the Red Lion. “Is this your husband, Simon Burgess?”

She noted Gayther’s quick look of annoyance towards her, knowing full well it wasn’t Burgess.

The old woman stepped forward, peering myopically at the screen.

She looked up slowly at Carrie and then across at Gayther. “Get out,” she said suddenly. “Out. I’ve nothing to say to you.”

* * *

“Out!” the old woman said again, but louder this time, close to shouting, as Carrie and Gayther just stood there. “You’ve no right to be here, coming in under false pretences. This has nothing to do with my gun. You lied to me.”

Carrie looked over at Gayther, as she closed her mobile phone and put it back in her pocket.

Gayther held his hands up, palms outwards in a conciliatory gesture. But he didn’t move.

“We just want to speak to Simon to—” he said calmly.

“If you don’t get out of this house now,” the woman interrupted, “I’ll pick up the phone and call 999.”

Carrie looked at Gayther, who inclined his head towards the living room, indicating she should leave.

She turned, hesitated, waiting for Gayther to move away from the woman, too. He did not. Instead he took a notebook and pen from his pocket and wrote in it before tearing out the sheet of paper.

“The Scribbler … you remember The Scribbler, don’t you, Angela … He killed again on the first of October and possibly last night. We’re investigating. He’ll kill again. We need to speak to Simon.”

He turned to his side and placed the sheet of paper on the draining board.

“We’re going to leave now, as you’ve asked us to do, but I’m putting this here, with my name and number on it. We can come back and, as you’re obstructing our line of enquiry, we can take you in for questioning … and forensics can come in here and search the place inch by inch from top to bottom. Turn it all over. Floorboards and all. See what they can find. I think that would be interesting. But I don’t think you’d want that, would you?”

He turned away, as if to leave, but then stopped and said, almost as an afterthought, over his shoulder.

“Or you can just text me an address for Simon – that’s my personal number – and we’ll leave you in peace.”

Carrie walked out of the kitchen into the living room and through to the front door.

She thought Gayther was there as well, a step or two behind her.

Stopped and turned back as she heard a groaning noise from the woman.

“I don’t know anything,” the old woman said forcefully. “I don’t know where he is. He left the best part of two years ago and I’ve not heard a thing from him since.”

Gayther turned back to speak to her.

“Years ago, Angela, you said, you told us he was The Scribbler, then you changed your mind when you fell pregnant.” He paused. “Is he The Scribbler?”

Carrie looked at the old woman, who seemed to be torn by terrible indecision, not sure what to say next.

“Your child, Angela?” Gayther asked. “What did you have, a boy or a girl? They’d be, what, thirty-something now?”

Carrie kept watching the old woman, seeing her face change from uncertainty and doubt – on the edge of revealing the truth – into anger and fury.

“If you’re not out of this house in ten seconds, I am going to call the police. 999. Get out now!”

Gayther hesitated, watching the old woman move across and take the landline phone from its wall bracket.

She looked back at him as she put her finger on the 9, ready to press it for the first of three times.

Gayther nodded at her and turned to leave, saying “Come on” to Carrie as he passed her. Carrie followed him out, but couldn’t help noticing the old woman smiling grimly as she put the phone back on the wall.

“Guv, shouldn’t we have taken the shotgun off her?”

Gayther waved her away. “More important things to worry about than that, Carrie. We’re chasing a serial killer. Remember?”

Carrie shook her head and bit her lip as they walked to the car.

“Okay, so what do you reckon, guv? About Simon Burgess?” Carrie asked, as she opened the car door and climbed in next to Gayther.

He blew out a breath loudly as he started the car and began to reverse it. “Mark my words, Carrie. It’ll be him.”

“Oh yes?” she asked, putting on her seat belt.

“I’ve been a copper for thirty years and after a while you get an instinct for these things. There’s something about it that tells me it’s him. Simon Alan Burgess … wherever you are, we’re coming to get you.”

Carrie turned away and pulled a face. 12. WEDNESDAY 14 NOVEMBER, 4.43PM

The man, wearing latex gloves, stood at a urinal in the public toilets in a park in Ipswich as dusk was falling.

He had been there, like this, as if he were urinating, for the best part of five minutes, maybe closer to ten.

He was listening to two other men who had gone into a cubicle at the far end of the toilets.

He knew what they were doing. Had sat on a bench nearby, an old War of