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

It was a light rap on the glass part of the door. Whoever was there was trying to be friendly. He had fallen for that before, of course. Turned out it was someone who wanted him not only to donate to some charity or other but to sign up to a monthly direct debit. He signed, the lowest amount possible, just to get rid of them. A young Rastafarian girl with a funny hat and an eager face.

Rat-a.

Tat.

Tat.

There it goes again. He was just going to sit here and stay quiet until they went away. If it were anything important, Carrie, Thomas or Cotton, they’d have texted. Or knocked loudly and repeatedly. Carrie would have hammered away with some daft rhythm, no doubt. As if she were in River Dance or some such show. Not this timid, oh-so-polite (but persistent) tapping.

He checked his mobile phone, almost out of battery again. Nothing. No messages. All quiet. He’d text the three of them first thing in the morning. To get things sorted. Out and about by mid-morning. To wrap up this line of enquiry. And then what? He did not know.

He looked around the living room. It was all old and faded. He didn’t mind that so much. It was comforting in a way, he thought. The familiarity. But he now noticed the dust and the dirt. A smear of something white and crusty on the coffee table. Mud from his shoes trodden into the carpet by the fireplace. A stack of mostly empty Chinese takeaway cartons over by one of the two armchairs. God knows how long they’d been there. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had a Chinese.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Am I ever going to get any peace? Gayther got up and walked out of the living room, along the hallway and to the front door. He pulled it open, “Yes?” Loud, not quite a shout, but getting there.

He knew he sounded edgy and even aggressive, but you needed to be when dealing with these charity collectors. He’d once been chased down the length of Ipswich’s high street by a shaven-headed chugger because he’d smiled and been vaguely polite.

A skinny, middle-aged woman, the spit of Carrie, and a small, mixed-race boy of about five. Cheeky-faced. Gayther knew straightaway who they were and what their unexpected arrival on his doorstep meant. Carrie hadn’t gone to a children’s party as everyone had automatically assumed. She was missing. He felt sick.

* * *

“When did you last hear from her?” Gayther asked, smiling at the woman and boy now sitting politely on the sofa opposite him. He didn’t feel like smiling, but knew he had to for them. He must not show the sudden, growing alarm he felt.

“We haven’t. Not since this morning. When she left for work,” the woman answered simply.

She had seemed calm enough, thought Gayther, as they introduced themselves to each other on the doorstep. They shook hands awkwardly, knowing each other vaguely. They’d met, he thought, once or twice before. He then invited them through to sit down in the living room.

She was in control as she spoke her carefully rehearsed words, explaining that Georgia hadn’t come home as expected … not like her at all … no contact from her since … they were worried something might have happened.

An accident perhaps?

If only. Gayther suspected it was worse.

Having mentioned the word ‘accident’, he thought she might start crying. He hoped she wouldn’t. He didn’t handle that sort of thing very well. He never knew quite what to do. He wasn’t someone who hugged, not even people he knew well. He could pat her on the shoulder, but he’d need to kneel down to do it and it might look odd.

He smiled more encouragingly at her as best he could. Then at the boy, who sat there grinning cheerfully. He’s no idea what’s going on, thought Gayther. Poor lamb.

“She’s not answering her phone, either. That’s not like her. And she’s not replying to text messages.” The woman sounded tense and worried.

“She’s gone over to a farm in Rendlesham Forest,” Gayther answered, reassuringly – more reassuring than he actually felt. “The mobile coverage is patchy there … and her phone may have run out of battery.”

“I don’t think it would have,” the woman answered. “She plugs it in with a lead in her car … so it’s always topped up close to 100 per cent. Her phone’s … part of her … she has it there all the time.” She pointed to the back pocket of her jeans. Then she went on.

“When Noah was small, smaller than he is now … I looked after him a lot and I’d send her pictures and videos of him … doing things … just silly stuff … the first time he ate a Cadbury’s Creme Egg, things like that. She always keeps her phone close, and charged and turned on, always. Always,” she added for emphasis.

“So, you’ve had no texts or emails or calls since she left for work … when did you last try to contact her?”

“She said she’d be working most of the day, but that she’d pop back for lunch if she could … I texted her at about twelve-thirty and then about half an hour later … we had some baked potatoes … Noah likes baked potatoes with beans …” She smiled briefly at the little boy, who smiled back as she talked on.

“Nothing. I assumed she was busy, so I didn’t try her again. But I then took Noah to a little birthday party round the corner from ours from two until four. Georgia said she’d meet us there later on if she could and sing happy birthday. She didn’t turn up. I’ve called her two or three times since, but nothing. Georgy wouldn’t … she would have been in touch. I wouldn’t normally come and bother you, invade your privacy. But …”

She looked up at Gayther.

Still assuming an accident.

Gayther wished it