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

Carrie finished reading the piece and then pointed to the photo of Halom on the page as she handed it back. “Not a bad likeness to The Scribbler – if the original sketch was close to the man we’re after.”

“Well, we think that’s what set him off. The likeness being shown on TV. Apparently, his father, a real bully boy, told Halom, Halom junior, they had the same name and middle name too … creepy … that the mugshot was of him … a dead ringer. That put the idea in his head and it escalated from there.”

Carrie looked out of the window across the fields to her left. “Okay, so, the guy has, has had, serious mental health issues. But what about the nights of the killings? Did he have an alibi for all of them? Did he drive a car – was he mobile … could he have done them, the murders? Presumably they checked it all out as per usual?”

“Yes, but probably half-heartedly. He said he killed them all, but he was at home, supposedly, for each of the crimes according to his dear old mum. He had a licence and there was a family car, hers – the father was a lorry driver, so he was away for much of the time. There was nothing to place him at the scenes of any of the crimes. To be honest, they just wanted to shift him out of the way so they could focus on finding the real killer. There was no reason to dig deep. He was just another nut. You get them with every case.”

Carrie watched as it started to rain, a thin and endless drizzle, before she spoke again. “So, why are we bothering now, all these years on?”

Gayther wiped at the inside of the fogged-up windscreen with the sleeve of his jacket. “There are two ways to look at this one. The first is that he’s simply a sad case who had some form of mental illness when he was young and wanted attention at the time. I expect there’s some sort of name for it. Look-at-me-itis, probably.”

He paused, thinking for a moment, before going on. “Anyway, he’s since spent his life doing odd jobs and a drag act around caravan parks, trading stolen goods, living with his old mother in Wickham Market. With her until recently anyway. All a bit seedy and squalid but essentially harmless. And we’ve his DNA on file and that hasn’t matched any crime at any time in any place since. And so, if that’s the case, we’re wasting our time.”

“And the other way?” asked Carrie as she fastened her seat belt ready to go.

“The other is that he is The Scribbler. He did the killings, using his mother’s car while she stayed at home and the father was on the road, trucking all over the place. The mother knew it … but lied to protect her precious son … the only thing she had as her husband was a big thick brute of a man. He got lucky. Or was clever. Never got caught. Then came out, did this drag act and that became the outlet for all of his urges. I’m not sure dancing around in frilly underwear would be enough to keep him satisfied, but who knows?”

“How likely is that, guv? Less likely, surely? That doesn’t really seem possible to me.” Carrie opened her window a little to let in some air.

“I’d agree with you, Carrie, if it weren’t for one thing.” Gayther started the car, looked back over his shoulder and pulled the car out on to the A12 before continuing.

“His mother moved into sheltered housing in Leiston a while back. She’s eighty-something and maybe needs to go into a home now. Leiston to the care home is seven miles. Not that far round here. Maybe, just maybe, young Mr Halom paid a visit to the home with her on its open day to see if she’d like it … and who should be sitting there to welcome him but the Reverend Lodge, the man he tried to murder all those years ago.”

* * *

“Welcome to Wickham Market, guvnor,” said Carrie as they came off the A12 and passed a sign for the village. “I’ve never been here before. What’s it like? At least it’s stopped raining.”

Gayther smiled. “Much the same as all of the other decaying villages up and down the A12.” He rummaged in his trouser pocket and pulled out a scribbled-on envelope, which he passed to Carrie. “It’s the IP13, zero something one. Google Maps it for me please, my phone’s dead.”

Carrie took the paper, leaned forward and pressed some buttons on the mobile phone resting on her thigh. “I’ve got reception. Who’d have thought?” She looked closely at the screen and then fiddled with it, turning the picture from side to side. “Bungalow. Looks like it’s in a horseshoe-shaped close. All old bungalows. Great long gardens. Then trees and fields behind. Room for a cemetery full of bodies.”

They drove along a wide, twisty-turny road, fields stretching out on either side.

By a new housing development. Executive homes. Then the town square, lined with small, mostly empty shops.

And finally beyond, heading out towards fields again.

“Sharp left here,” said Carrie, “Sorry, yes … look, here it is. The close … just along here.”

Gayther turned the car, drove along a little way and then brought the car slowly to a halt by a postbox, looking out across the eight bungalows he counted in front of him.

“Which one is Halom’s, guv? Which number?”

“Six, I believe,” Gayther replied, counting from his left. “That one there. The one with the weathervane on top of the garage. That’s weird. Why would you have a weathervane there where you can’t see it from your own home or garden? That’s stupid, that is.”

“Well he’s at home, look, the van on the drive?” she pointed to it and then added,