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

mouth. Made her promise, in his oh-so-slow and simple voice, not to scream if he took his hand away. She nodded. He took his hand away. She screamed again. Louder this time.

He had covered her mouth with his hand again, more in sorrow than anger. Had pulled a handkerchief from one pocket, some sort of string-twine-rope thing from the other. Then set about making sure she wouldn’t be able to scream any more.

She had stared furiously at him as he did this, but he would not meet her eyes. He was almost shame-faced. Then she twisted and turned, close to petulant rage. But he simply held her down, almost apologetically, until she slowed and then stopped.

He had cut the cloth that held her hands. Sat her up. Put her back against the barn wall. Retied her hands, just as tight behind her, to a huge wooden post by the wall.

Legs still tied together, stretched out in front of her. He had then left her there. Unable to move or call out.

She had pulled as hard as she could against whatever it was that held her hands tight. Some sort of rope. But it did not show any sign of loosening or weakening. Neither the rope nor the post. She tried to arch her back, putting her weight behind it, but could not move much at all. Not far enough anyway. She could twist her legs and turn her body, but that was about it. She was stuck fast and she knew it.

Now she was exhausted and was waiting for the man to come back. Strangely, she did not fear him. Or at least not as much. She could see and hear he was what her mother would call “not all there”. Grandpa would have called him “a simpleton” from a distance or “Simple Simon” if he knew him well. The way he did what he did – the material in her mouth, the untying and tying of her hands carefully, almost gently, was almost respectful. And he did not notice, or comment, on her damp trousers.

She feared the other brother more, much more, the one who had struck her and then knocked her out. He was harder, more calculating. Had those staring eyes that witnesses had talked about. He was The Scribbler, she thought. No doubt about that. Not this one.

And the mother. Who looked so old and brittle. She was even worse. The Scribbler had acted on her instructions. The brother with the melted face troubled her, though. She did not know how he fitted into all of this. Nor how she was still alive. She should be dead already.

She thought suddenly of Noah. His soft smile. Giggling laughter. His sweet innocence.

And it was all she could do not to break down and sob.

She had to be strong. Not give in to anger or fury. Had to be ready to try and talk her way out of this when the man with the melted face came back. Hoped that it would be him rather than The Scribbler.

That she would have a chance. To talk her way out of it.

She sat quietly, her head still aching, her body exhausted, thinking what she would say.

And hoped, more than anything else, that the next person she saw would not be The Scribbler. 23. SATURDAY 19 NOVEMBER, EARLY EVENING

Gayther laid back on his sofa at home, feet up on the coffee table, eating a ready-made, microwaved lasagne meal for one that he’d picked up from the Co-op over the road.

Watching some early Saturday night programme on ITV. Endless fake bonhomie, inane nonsense, load of rubbish, really.

Foil container. Plastic knife and fork. Tin of indeterminate fizz.

Fast food. Straight into the bin when he’d finished. All of it. Then back to work. Nothing much else to do when all was said and done.

He put the half-eaten lasagne on the coffee table and reached for the file by his side. Flicking through the papers. Scanning notes. Running through ideas. Round and round and round, going nowhere fast.

He feared that this – checking out the remaining vans with Carrie, Thomas and Cotton the next morning – was his last chance to progress the case. Even then, it was a long shot at best.

The possibility that one of these vans belonged to the man seen by the boy with the dog in the woods seemed unlikely. The child, as likely as not, he thought, guessing at the numbers and letters and make and model of the van. He was twelve, for Christ’s sake.

And the chances that the missing Philip Taylor was somehow bundled up in the bin bags over the man’s shoulder seemed even more improbable. And that the man was The Scribbler was … just so … he searched for the right phrase … a million-to-one shot, surely. Then again, stranger things had happened over the years. Time and again.

The Scribbler, he thought. If this doesn’t come off, it has nowhere else to go. He had nowhere else to go. There was nothing in the other files as big as this. Bits and bobs. Leftovers. He’d be sidelined. Where Bosman and all of the others wanted him to be. He might as well take his pension and go off into the sunset.

Rat.

A-tat.

Tat.

Gayther shook his head. All he wanted was a little bit of peace, time to mull things over, think things through. And his feet hurt. Toes really. He did not know why. He wondered if it was to do with the diabetes.

He decided to ignore the door. Reached for the TV remote control. Turned the sound down. To pretend nobody was in.

As they were knocking, he suddenly realised it meant his doorbell wasn’t working. He’d need to get some new batteries for it. Something else to remember. Household stuff had been, well, Annie had dealt with all of that before she died. Since then, it was rather hit and miss. More miss, actually. He never seemed to have any toilet paper. Or kitchen roll