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

An old woman stood there, a shotgun pointing at them.

* * *

“Fall back, observe, call for support?” Carrie asked quickly in little more than a whisper.

“No time. Stay calm. Make eye contact …”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The old woman, bloated and dishevelled, with a food-stained black T-shirt, loose grey jogging bottoms and men’s faded decking shoes, looked from Carrie to Gayther and back again. She angled the shotgun downwards and gestured for them to get out of the car.

“Do you have a firearms licence for that?” asked Carrie sharply as she stepped out.

The old woman looked at Carrie for a moment before answering. “I’ve a shotgun certificate if that’s what you mean. A .22. Rimfire. For vermin control and rabbiting. You see all sorts up there …” she gestured towards the fields, “with .308s, stalking deer. This is just for my bit of land.”

“You can’t go pointing it at people, though, can you?” Carrie half-asked, half-demanded, as Gayther walked round from the other side of the car towards them. “Not unless you want your licence revoked.”

The old woman shrugged. “I didn’t mean anything by it. A woman on her own needs something. You get all sorts here. Up by the woods. Creeps and weirdos. Couples meeting each other. Men usually. Doing things. It’s not decent. It’s not right.”

Gayther stepped forward. “Do you have a gun cabinet for it?”

She nodded, then shrugged again. “I thought you were the police. You have that look about you. Is that what you’ve come for, to check the certificate?”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked slowly towards the cottage. Gayther and Carrie followed her along the path; once crazy-paved, now dull and overgrown with weeds.

“Stroke of luck,” Carrie whispered to Gayther, who nodded his agreement.

They stepped through the doorway. Into a worn and faded living room of dark browns, a soot-black fireplace and swirly carpets, unchanged for many years.

There was an overwhelming smell of damp and decay and something else – something Carrie could not quite place as she resisted the urge to put her fingers to her nose.

“Through here,” the old woman said, taking them into the narrow kitchen at the back. A wartime kitchen, thought Gayther, like his old grandmother had when he was a small boy. A rabbit lay dead on the windowsill. He noticed the kitchen opened on to a half-inside, half-outside, lean-to toilet. Door open. Seat up. Unflushed, he thought. He ignored the smell but noticed Carrie wrinkling her nose.

The woman pointed to a metal cabinet on the wall on the other side of the kitchen.

Gayther approached it, tugging to see if it was attached firmly to the wall. It was. He then pulled at the door to see if it opened. It did.

“Do you have a key for it?” he asked as the old woman leaned the shotgun against the sink. “Let me see you put it away before you show me the licence.”

The old woman opened the cupboard door beneath the sink and rummaged about inside. A moment or two later, she slowly withdrew her hand, holding a key, which she showed and then handed to Gayther.

“There’s not much point having a gun cabinet if a burglar could look under the sink and find the key for it. You might as well leave it on the windowsill,” he said.

The woman shrugged.

As if to say, ‘who cares’, thought Carrie. She looked like she might be drunk or had at least downed a drink or two to dull her misery.

This old, broken woman just stood there, waiting.

“It should be in a safe with a combination lock, at least,” Gayther said in a slightly raised voice. “Better still, a key safe with a fingerprint lock. This is a dangerous weapon. It kills. Where do you keep the ammunition?”

The woman turned to the sink again, as if in slow motion, bent down, rummaged about.

“Here,” she replied, as she stood back up. “Here’s the ammunition.”

Gayther took the box from her and Carrie could see he didn’t quite know what to say next.

“Let’s get this locked away properly now,” Carrie stepped in. “In the gun cabinet. Then find a good hiding place for the key while you sort out a proper place to keep it. And let’s see your certificate, please.”

The old woman looked at Carrie, then passed her the gun.

Gayther handed Carrie the key and the box of ammunition, which she put on the draining board next to the sink so she could sort out the cabinet.

The old woman turned and left the room to fetch the certificate.

“Guv?” Carrie asked after a moment, hearing the creak of the stairs as the woman walked up them. “Simon Burgess. There’s no sign of him living here.” She pointed to the single mug and bowl and spoon left on the draining board to be washed up.

“Ssshhh,” Gayther hushed Carrie. “I’m trying to listen.”

Creaking floorboards on the landing.

A moment’s silence. But no sound of voices, no unexpected movements, no sudden creaks from other parts of the cottage.

And then the faint screech as a drawer was opened. The old woman searching through papers.

Two or three minutes later, as Gayther and Carrie put the gun and the ammunition in the cabinet, the woman was back, a brown A5 envelope in her hand. She offered it to Gayther.

He took it carefully, fingertips at each corner, and looked down at the word ‘Shotgun’ written in the top left-hand corner. He then opened the envelope and slipped out the folded piece of paper, unfolded it slowly and looked at it.

“What is your name, please?”

“Angela Margaret Simmons.” She paused and added carefully, “Formerly Angela Burgess.”

He nodded. “This certificate is in the name of Simon Alan Burgess … and it’s out of date … look.”

She stood there, searching for words. She seemed surprised, thought Carrie. “I didn’t know,” she finally answered. “I thought a certificate covered a property.”

Gayther shook his head as he put the certificate back in the envelope and gently slipped it into his jacket pocket.