The Scribbler Iain Maitland (good books to read txt) 📖

She went to say her opening words, “Good to see you again, sir”, but as she did so, he turned the papers he was reading round so they were facing her on the desk. Old man in a hurry, she thought.

“Read this, Carrie,” he said abruptly, pushing two sheets of A4 paper across towards her.

She took the sheets and sat down at the desk and began reading the first one. He picked up his mug of tea and swung round on his chair, his back to her, looking out of the window towards the back of the main building and what looked like a building site. The police station was being renovated. Ladders, pots and paints and stacked-up scaffolding seemed to fill the whole space. It was a mess. He hated mess.

“Still At Large,” she read the front page headline of the local newspaper out loud, “The Scribbler.”

“When was this…?”

“Two years ago. Thirtieth anniversary of the first killing,” he replied. He gestured towards the two sheets and she carried on reading without speaking.

“Police are still searching for The Scribbler, the serial killer who murdered six people in Norfolk between 1988 and 1990.

“He is described as white British and would now be in his fifties.

“The Scribbler met his victims in bars and clubs in and around Norwich and later stabbed them to death.

“He carved a cartoon likeness of each victim onto their torso.

“The first victim was Donald Worthington, a 53-year-old abattoir supervisor.

“The second victim was 42-year-old office clerk Andrew Marven.

“The other four victims, middle-aged men from the Norwich area, were found dead in the summer and autumn of 1990.

“Police believe The Scribbler may have killed twelve men in total.”

She stopped, cocked her head at an angle, and looked across the desk at Gayther. “If he drew a cartoon likeness of each victim, should he not be known as ‘The Caricaturist’ rather than ‘The Scribbler’?”

He turned and looked at her. “‘The Scribbler’ is snappier. And more accurate, although the press, the media, don’t know it. He used to criss-cross the body with cuts after he drew the likeness … as if he were scribbling it out in a rage. Read the other page, Carrie. I’ve started a summary.”

She nodded and continued reading. She worked her way down the half-page of bullet-pointed, handwritten notes in his small, neat hand.

The Scribbler. White Male. Early twenties/Now mid-fifties. Slim build. No distinguishing features.

She looked up. “Do we have a likeness … of this Scribbler?”

He dug into the briefcase by his feet and pulled out one more sheet, which he handed to her. “It’s probably the worst I’ve ever seen in thirty or so years. Mr Potato Head. Your little boy could have done a better job with his crayons.” He stopped and thought and then added, “How is … your little boy?”

“Noah’s well. Started school in September … just round the corner from my mum’s. We’ve moved in with Mum for now. She’s helping out, taking him and collecting him from school when I can’t.”

“Is … your partner—”

“No,” she said, interrupting and shaking her head. “He’s gone for good this time. I had enough of it. I’m just trying to sort out the legal stuff. Solicitors are involved. He doesn’t make things easy. Do we have an aged version of this?” She changed the subject, holding up the picture of The Scribbler.

“I’ve just asked for one, for what it’s worth. It’s in the system, but Christ knows how long that will be. It’s certainly not a priority.” He leaned forward suddenly, took a fountain pen out of his inside jacket pocket and drew three lines across the forehead of the image and lines between and to either side of the nose and mouth. He stopped and added stray hairs from the nostrils and ears. “There, that’s what he looks like now. Old Mr Potato Head.”

“Eyes?”

“Blue. Or Blue-grey. Or brown, according to one witness.”

Gayther drew a pair of glasses on the image. “He might have glasses these days, unless he’s like me and pretends he doesn’t need them.”

“Height?”

“Five eight, nine. Slight build. Lean. Stringy. Everyone seems to agree on that.”

“No distinguishing features at all?”

“None that were recalled by anyone. One witness said he had ‘staring eyes’ and another ‘mad eyes’, but someone always says that … especially when the person has just tried to murder them. That’s about it.”

She stopped and paused. “And who gave us the descriptions?”

“Three of his victims escaped. We also had statements and descriptions from a barmaid at the time. And an old boy who got into a conversation with him … read on, though. My summary. I’ve not finished it yet. You were here earlier than I expected.”

Six victims – forties, fifties, family men, closet gays.

Three got away – teacher, bank manager, vicar. Now aged 65 to 80+.

Three prime suspects: Challis (plumber), Halom (drag act), Burgess (sales rep). All released without charge.

She wasn’t sure who to ask about first, but this was one of an endless stream of cold cases they’d be looking at over the coming days, so she decided to come straight to the point.

“And so …” she said, “why are we looking at this case again now? First of all?”

“Because he’s back, Carrie. The Scribbler is back.”

* * *

DI Gayther eased his old silver Ford Focus out of the police station car park and headed across towards the A12, to go north up the Suffolk coast.

“So where are we off to, guv? A stroll on Southwold Pier? Fish and chips at Aldeburgh? A boat on Thorpeness Mere? I like a nice boat ride, me,” Carrie asked cheerfully.

“You’ll be lucky,” he replied, then paused and added, “You might get a bag of chips on the way back … for now, we’re heading just beyond the power station at Sizewell. Near Dunwich … I’ll tell you why in a minute. Let me bring you up to speed on the case first, though. I’ve been working on it all weekend.”

He turned to the young policewoman in the seat beside him. “I was