The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (life changing books txt) 📕

any casual passer-by who saw him would think, as he scanned the trees and sky.

He was really waiting, as he had done so many times over so many years, for what he hoped would happen next, the perfect set of circumstances that would give him the opportunity for his next kill.

He noted who had gone into the toilets and who had come out. Two teenage boys, one going in, the other waiting outside, were there for no more than two or three minutes. Two ladies going into adjoining toilets and out as fast they could; he could hear one of them commenting loudly on how dirty the toilets were from where he was. That was it, the only visitors.

And then, as dusk approached and he was close to giving up and leaving, yet another wasted visit, a man walked by him, on the path. A similar age, but shorter and slighter. Balding. Rough and ready in anorak and boots.

The balding man made eye contact, nodded and smiled briefly at him, maybe walked a little slower. A sign of interest.

Stopped again then, at the step up to the toilets, glancing round, before entering. Another tell-tale sign for sure. This would be the next, the man with the gloves decided, his thirtieth kill. Easy to overpower, this one. A manageable corpse. He reached into the left pocket of his fleece, checked the screwdriver and the Stanley knife were there.

Bin bags and black tape in his trouser pockets.

Ready to use.

If he got lucky with this one.

He savoured the moment, counting the seconds. Knew, if he had judged it correctly, that he should give the balding man in the toilet two or three minutes before following him in. He counted down from 180 in his head. Got to 120, 90, close to 60 and then, impatient, started walking across as slowly as he could. He tucked his binoculars into the right pocket of his fleece, checking around to make sure no one was in sight. All clear, and so he went into the toilets.

He paused for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He almost recoiled from the stench, although he had known worse. Wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He drew breath in through his mouth.

Three urinals, all filthy, overflowing. Dirt and tissues and Godknows-what beneath.

Three cubicles, two half-open, the other with its door pushed to. The balding man would be in there, shifting nervously, full of excitement.

The man hesitated. Even after all this time, he never quite knew whether to tap on the door or wait outside for a signal. He coughed, then paused, listening for a response. He could hear the man on the other side of the door, waiting for him, breathing heavily in expectation. So, he stepped forward, pushed at the door, which seemed to be sticking, pressed harder as it slipped its latch and opened fast.

The balding man sitting there, his head down.

Moving back, startled, as the door hit him; either on his head or on his knees. He wasn’t sure which.

Looking up, face full of fear as he stared at the man with the latex gloves standing there in the doorway.

“What the …?” The man struggled to his feet, covering himself then pulling his underwear and trousers up and buttoning them. “How dare you …” he added angrily, stepping forward now and pushing the man with the gloves back, outside of the cubicle.

The man with the latex gloves stumbled backwards, steadied himself.

Dipped his head down, brought his gloves to his face, as if wiping his brow.

“Sorry,” he said, as he turned away. “Didn’t know you were in there.”

He hurried out of the toilets. Across to the trees and to the path that wound its way towards the exit and his van parked in a quiet street. He cursed himself for rushing forward in his enthusiasm and desire, for not waiting for a clear sign from the man that he was interested.

He had made this mistake before.

Been chased.

And been lucky to get away.

He sat there in his van, coughing, and then slowing his breathing as best he could until it was regular. Watched in the van’s wing mirror to see if the man in the toilets was coming this way. Knew that if he had judged correctly, if the man was a secret middle-aged homosexual, he might have changed his mind, come looking for a second chance.

He sighed, knowing too that he dare not wait to find out. He had spent so long checking the park, the entrances and exits, the hiding places, the absence of CCTV, the busy and the quiet areas, that he knew he was safe so long as he left now. Could not risk the man in the toilet seeing him in the van, noting the number, maybe reporting him to the police.

He started the van’s engine. Wiped his nose one more time.

Looked back over his shoulder, seeing the road was clear, pulling out and away.

Thinking already of the place he would go tomorrow evening. To find his next kill.

PART TWOTHE SUSPECTS

6. TUESDAY 13 NOVEMBER, EARLY MORNING

The four of them – Gayther, Carrie, Thomas and Cotton – sat around the table in the portacabin the next morning.

Carrie pushed a cup of coffee across the table towards Gayther. He stopped rummaging through his papers and looked at it.

“What … exactly is that, Carrie?”

“New cups from the new machine, sir. They’re called ripple cups. Because of these ridges here, see. Eco-packaging, sir, environmentally friendly. Save the dolphins, sir.”

Gayther grunted. “I meant the drink, Carrie, what is it, tea or coffee?”

“Hard to say for sure, sir. I pressed the button for coffee, with milk but no sugar, sir, what with you paddling in the shallows, sir.”

Gayther saw Thomas and Cotton exchange puzzled glances over their coffees. “Ignore Carrie,” he said, “you’ll only encourage her.” He smiled at them and then continued. “Look, okay, let’s get ourselves up-to-date on this Scribbler case.”

Gayther shuffled his notes, put them to one side