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

thank you, Carrie, I do know.” DI Gayther signalled and then swung the car across the A12 on to the side road towards the coast.

“And the others. The drag act and the sales rep. What about them?”

“The drag act … Peter Halom … turned himself in and confessed to the murders. That was the biggest waste of time and manpower ever. Seems he had done his act in some of the pubs and clubs The Scribbler had been to. This fellow said he had been suffering from blackouts and had convinced himself he’d committed the murders in some sort of trance-like state. We had psychiatrists and all sorts in to persuade him he didn’t. Then he went to the press, who had a field day. Front page of the old News of the World newspaper. Nightmare.”

She nodded, “It’s about a mile down here, on the right … and the sales rep?”

“Simon Burgess … a freelance agent for baby and childrens-wear from Sussex. He bought stuff cheap from Indian wholesalers in East London on Sundays and then sold it at twice the price to small independent shops in East Anglia, up as far as Cromer and Hunstanton on weekdays. Not much of a living even then. His ex-girlfriend wrote in, bizarrely, a long and rambling letter saying it was him and how he used to make her dress up as a schoolboy and then beat her and rape her ‘from behind’, as she put it.”

“Wild goose chase?” she replied, and then added, “About half a mile now, guv.”

“He was in the area at the time of each murder – and no alibis, or at least nobody recalled him. He stayed overnight when he was in Norwich or higher up on the coast. The old boy who’d got talking to The Scribbler saw Burgess drive by a week or two later and made a note of the number plate. He then ballsed it all up by picking someone else out of a line-up. The ex, his by-now-pregnant ex, then retracted her statement and said he was with her on two of the occasions. Looking at the files, I’d say Challis and Burgess are worth another close look … if we had then what we have now – CCTV, DNA, all of that – we’d have put one of them away.”

“You have arrived at your destination.”

“This is it, we’re here.”

“Thank you, Constable Carrie. Where would I be without you?”

“Driving off Southwold Pier, guv?”

They smiled at each other.

Both thinking that they’d liked each other when they’d worked together before.

And then, that they’d make a good team moving forward. 2. MONDAY 12 NOVEMBER, MID-MORNING

DI Gayther slowed the car, looking along the long row of battered post-war prefabs to his left and the slope ahead of him that seemed to take the road down into an alleyway and woods. Finally, he turned his head towards the tree-lined grounds and building behind the tall brick wall to his right.

“It’s in here,” Carrie said, pointing to the sign on the wall by the wide driveway: ‘Kings Court’. There were times, he recalled from when they had crossed paths a while back, that she spoke to him as if he were half-witted. With most people, it would annoy him, but he had a soft spot for Carrie and so it amused him.

He drove the car onto the driveway and pulled over to the side so they could survey the care home. A big, Gothic-looking house, red-brick and turrets, with a long gravel drive opening out into a tarmac car park with twenty, twenty-four spaces in front of the building and more, ‘Staff Parking’, further round at the side.

Carrie tapped at her mobile phone, turning it off and slipping it into her trouser pocket. “All neat and tidy,” she said encouragingly, studying the care home.

“Fur coat, no knickers, as they used to say, Carrie … it was actually in special measures, before Lodge’s death.” He reached for the file tucked between their seats and took out a sheet of paper. “This print-off … a press cutting from two months or so ago, just before his death … If you read it, please. I want to sit here and watch the comings and goings for a few minutes.”

“The Kings Court Care Home near Dunwich in Suffolk provides residential and nursing care for up to thirty-two people, some living with dementia,” she read aloud.

“I’ve read it,” he sighed. “I know what’s in it.”

She carried on reading, this time in her head…

A care home that has served the Suffolk community for more than thirty years has been inspected by the Care Quality Commission and is now in special measures after being rated as inadequate.

The service was not considered ‘safe’ … patients’ records were not always accurate and up-to-date … concerns about staff training in safeguarding and … whether patients were drinking sufficient fluids … staff were caring … but sufficient care was not taken to maintain patients’ dignity.

According to the report, the rating for this service is ‘inadequate’ and is now in special measures … services in special measures are kept under review and, if we have not taken immediate action to propose to cancel the provider’s registration of the service, will be inspected again within six months … The service will be kept under review and, if necessary, could be escalated to urgent enforcement action.

If not enough improvement is made within this timeframe and there is still a rating of ‘inadequate’, we will take action in line with our enforcement procedures to begin the process of preventing the provider from operating this service.

“So,” Carrie asked, “if it was in special measures before and there’s been a death – even an accidental one from their viewpoint – is this … commission thing … now beginning the process of … is it, the home, now being closed down?”

“Lodge’s death threw everything into a frenzy,” he answered. “A second inspection straightaway. Immediate action. A new management team drafted in to oversee the staff.