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

And the son … getting the records wiped … the London lawyer. That doesn’t add up. None of it. We need to follow that up at some point soon. It worries me. Something’s not quite right there either. I just can’t put my finger on it. Anyone? Any thoughts on Challis? From what you’ve seen so far? Is there something I’m missing?”

He turned towards Cotton, who looked pensive but didn’t say anything.

Thomas shrugged slightly, “Not sure, sir.”

He turned towards Carrie. “Go on then, Carrie, you’ve been itching to say something. What is it?”

“Boss Man, sir. He popped in five minutes before you arrived. Looking for you. He wants you to go and see him at 11.30.”

Gayther shrugged his shoulders. “Did he say what it was about? I’m due to see him at the end of the day anyway.”

Carrie shook her head. “No, sir. He didn’t give anything away, sir. Just asked if you were in yet and, when I said you weren’t, that you should go and see him at 11.30.”

“Ask or tell, Carrie?”

“Sir?”

“Did he say, ‘Ask Gayther to come and see me’ or ‘Tell Gayther to come and see me’? Ask or tell, big difference.”

“Not certain, sir.”

“Did he ask you anything … about what we were doing?”

Carrie paused. “I was sitting here sir, Thomas was there, Cotton was there. Where we’re sitting now. The door was pushed open. Boss Man stuck his head round. ‘Is DI Gayther in yet?’ he said. I said ‘No’. He said, ‘Get him to come and see me at 11.30’. That was it, sir.”

Gayther nodded. “Okay, well, we’ll see what that’s about.”

Carrie looked at Thomas and Cotton. She shook her head ever-so-slightly. Gayther did not notice as he stood up and gathered up his papers and files.

“Okay, everyone, crack on … full steam ahead. Meet back here at, let’s say, noon.”

He stopped.

“High noon, possibly, depending on what Boss Man has to say.”

* * *

“Sit down, Roger … take a seat.”

Bosman gestured Gayther towards the chair on the other side of the desk to him in his small and compact office.

“Guv,” Gayther replied, sitting down. He could see a new, thin file on the desk between them. Nothing was written on it.

There was a long pause as Bosman looked at Gayther, who looked back steadily, impassively, waiting for the conversation to begin.

“Roger, so tell me, how are you getting back into the job?”

“Well, thank you, very well, we’ve hit the ground running.”

“So I’ve been hearing … tell me what you’ve been up to so far … succinctly.”

Bosman settled back in his chair, looking relaxed, his hands folded neatly together in his lap. As if he has all the time in the world for me, thought Gayther. Waiting for me to dig a bloody great hole for myself and to keep on digging until I disappear.

“Early days. Going through the old files. Cold cases. LGBTQ+ … as you know.”

Bosman smiled encouragingly at Gayther as if to say, ‘go on’.

“And I’ve got that young Carrie with me, she shows promise. And two of the new DCs, Cotton and Thomas, helping out. Doing desk research and that sort of thing.”

Bosman rested his arms on the desk. “So, what have you been looking at first, Roger, which case?”

“This and that. Prioritising. Getting things in order. Getting up to speed. Sorting things out. Setting up a system.”

Bosman crossed his arms, sat back and looked long and hard at Gayther. “You’ve had a tough year or so, Roger. I know that. Annie. Your … ill health. Recuperation. I’m not unsympathetic. We’re very supportive of … mental health issues … in the job these days. Do you feel you’re ready to be back in the cut and thrust just yet?”

“Yes, definitely, 100 per cent,” Gayther paused, sensing Bosman was leading the conversation somewhere he did not want it to go.

“Then, as you are 100 per cent, and you don’t need molly-coddling, don’t give me the prioritising getting-up-to-speed bullshit. Since when did you ever set up a system? Or do anything by the book. Or approach anything other than in a zig-zag. Straight question, Roger, straight answer. What case have you been working on?”

“The Scribbler, remember him? The gay serial killer … the serial killer of gay men … from the late eighties. One of the victims … one of the ones who got away, a Reverend Lodge, was found dead a month or so back, came out of a first-floor window at a care home near Dunwich, with The Scribbler’s motif … criss-cross scratching … on his stomach. We’ve been looking at that case first. It’s an interesting one.”

Bosman lifted up the file on the desk and opened it. Gayther could not see what was in the file but watched as Bosman read through whatever it was. A single page of notes, Gayther guessed.

There was a moment’s silence. And more.

Gayther felt Bosman was dragging it out.

That he was about to be pulled off the case. Or worse.

“Roger. How many LGBTQ+ cold case files did we give you?”

“About this many,” Gayther lifted his hands, a gap of about four or five inches between them.

“Is there any compelling evidence that gives you a strong reason for re-opening this particular case first and so … enthusiastically?”

“The Scribbler’s victim is dead … his trademark scribble on the corpse … The Scribbler may kill again soon.”

Bosman dropped the file back on the desk, sighed louder than he needed to as he sat back and then turned to look out of the small office window, thinking.

“Other than a scribbled stomach, which does not seem to have troubled anyone else … the doctors, the coroner … only you … what else do you have? Specifics, Roger.”

“Well …” Gayther thought quickly, “we’ve been to the care home. Checked that out. And we’ve talked to two of the original suspects that we pulled in, one, the third one, has disappeared. And we’re going to talk today to …”

“Enough,” Bosman said, his voice rising. “Other than the scribble, do you have anything