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

Not The Scribbler then. He withdrew as politely as he could.

The other, a chimney sweep this side of Ipswich. About to go out as Gayther pulled up alongside in his car. A tall, broad Irishman who’d never have been picked out of an identity parade for The Scribbler, not in a million years. Another struck off the list. Another polite withdrawal. Two down, two to go.

And now Cotton appeared at the front of the police station, exchanging a few quiet words with Thomas.

Comparing notes, no doubt. They looked subdued. Downcast. No joy then, thought Gayther, from their respective van checks.

They both stood there, fiddling with their phones, waiting for Carrie.

Gayther wondered if this were all a waste of time and effort. This whole Scribbler thing. Most police investigations were, he thought. Charging blindly down wrong avenues, twists and turns, fits and starts before, as often as not, stumbling across the truth, if they ever did, as much by luck as judgement. He rubbed his face with his hands, ground knuckles into his eyes. It had all been a dead loss so far. The Scribbler. Chasing shadows and ghosts. This will-o’-the-wisp figure.

He thought, for a minute or two, about The Scribbler and whether he’d got it all wrong. All of this. Edwin Lodge. Everything. The marks on the stomach were the only evidence, such as it was, to indicate that this was the work of The Scribbler. He wondered whether there was some way Lodge could have learned of these cartoonish marks and, in his torment, had inflicted the wounds on himself. It was possible, for sure.

But no, he decided finally, there was the knife, or rather the lack of it. No knife was found near Lodge’s body, nor in his room. So where was it? In The Scribbler’s pocket. That’s bloody well where. The only place it could be.

Even so, was this whole van and the boy with the dog something and nothing? A poacher most likely. A deer, maybe. There were plenty hereabouts. The boy’s identification of the old identikit image no more than hit and miss.

Gayther groaned. Boss Man will have my balls for this, he thought.

What a bloody shambles. A right old mess.

Still, go down fighting. All guns blazing. Out with a bang not a whimper and all of that.

He swivelled round in his chair as he heard the door to the portacabin opening. Smiled first at Thomas, leading the way, and then Cotton, a step or two behind. They stood there awkwardly, not sure how to greet Gayther. He nodded at them, “Thomas … Cotton,” and gestured to them to sit down in the chairs opposite him.

“No sign of Carrie?” asked Gayther to neither of them in particular.

“No, sir,” replied Cotton. “Not yet.”

“We’d agreed to meet outside about one o’clock,” Thomas added. “But she’s taking her little boy to a birthday party after so she may have …”

Gayther checked his watch. “Well, she’s only fifteen minutes late. She’ll be in a layby somewhere, shovelling down cheesy chips as fast as she can.”

“Chips with curry sauce, sir,” Thomas commented.

“Curry sauce, Thomas?” Gayther queried.

“Her favourite, sir, chips with curry sauce. She gets them up at the crossroads, sir, Captain Haddock’s.”

There was a moment’s silence.

No one seemed to quite know what to say.

And then Gayther moved the conversation on.

“So, Thomas … anything?”

“No, sir. The first two vans, on the way to Norwich, they weren’t there, at the addresses. I sat and waited, just like you said, but nothing, sir. I can go back tomorrow. Might be more likely to be at home on a Sunday, sir? These two and the other two I’m due to check out this afternoon?”

Gayther nodded, “Yes, you may have a point … maybe … and Cotton, what about you?”

“Same as Thomas, sir. They weren’t there, the vans. I waited and the first one, the one up at the Gainsborough estate, turned up after an hour. He’s a carpenter, sir, John Alan Simpson, according to the van and I’ve checked him out online, sir, and it’s not him. He doesn’t match the description of The Scribbler. I don’t think he …”

“And the other one, Cotton? Did you see the owner of the second van?”

“No, sir, no sign of that. I can go back this afternoon, sir, or tomorrow, like Thomas, sir. They’re more likely to be at home then. We could do them all together, sir?”

Gayther leaned back in his chair, checked his watch again.

“Okay, I’m happy to call it a day for now … It’s been a long week and we’ve been going nowhere fast … Carrie, have either of you heard from her?”

“We’ve been texting each other, sir, all morning, sharing ideas, sir,” Thomas answered.

“And …?”

“She’d got lucky, sir, with the first two. Both at home and she spoke to them and texted …” He looked down at his mobile phone, pressed a button and scrolled. No. No. Rendlesham. Beware UFOs!

“When was this, when you last heard from her?” Gayther asked.

“Um … 11.28, sir. I’m not sure if she texted as she was leaving the second van or when she arrived at Rendlesham. Hard to say, sir.”

Cotton then spoke. “We texted her when we were out the front, sir, but it just goes to answerphone. If she’s running late and has nothing to report, she may have gone straight to this kids’ party.”

Gayther smiled, “That’s the farm out at Rendlesham. She drew the short straw. Bit of a journey, that. She’ll be ages and I doubt there’s any signal out there either … at the farm … or on Mars … or Jupiter … if the UFOs have taken her.” He wanted to do a Uranus joke but couldn’t think how to work it in naturally. Thomas and Cotton would probably look blank-faced at him anyway. Or tell him it wasn’t pronounced like that in these PC days.

Cotton looked hopefully at Gayther.

As did Thomas. “We’ll catch up with her, sir, after this party. Let you know if she’s found anything.”

Gayther could see they