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

“Well, it’s early days. We’ve only just started. There are still plenty of leads to follow up.”

Bosman leaned forward and re-opened the file.

“We’ve had a complaint from this care home. A Mrs Coombes. That you were aggressive and intimidating in your manner and that you ended your visit by chasing an employee down the corridor. That you were told to stay away and then went back again to harass that same employee. This was a matter put to bed by Imram Abidi, what, seven weeks ago? Imram’s razor sharp, very reliable. You didn’t even speak to him first before storming in, did you?”

“No. But …”

“And Barry Johnson’s been on to me – he’s got the Karen Williams case. You turned up at the house of this Mrs Williams out of the blue, then took it upon yourself to interview – re-interview – the landlords of the pub where she’d been that night and then, to top it all, you went back to the care home to threaten this employee again. So, you’ve trampled over Johnson’s case left, right and centre and pissed him off big time.”

Gayther nodded. “I guess I …”

“And, as if that’s not enough, I’ve just heard from the solicitor of Ray Challis in London. Again. Again, Roger. I had to deal with him before when his son was arrested and wanted his records wiping. Pain in the arse know-all. Seems a plain-clothes police officer driving a silver Ford turned up at the Challis workplace unannounced … well, you know the rest … you’ve been hassling him, too … God’s sake, he was interviewed thirty years ago and released without charge. I was on the team, remember? I interviewed him. Me.”

Gayther nodded, not sure what to say.

“Roger, giving you the LGBTQ+ cold case files was a way of …”

“Shunting me sideways into a portacabin office to shuffle files here and there … back and forth … until I gave up and took retirement.”

“Roger, we go back a long way. To Annie.” Bosman paused, before adding quietly, “Best man won … Look, you’re a good officer. We just want to ease you back in slowly.”

“Be rid of me for good, more like.”

“I’m not having an argument with you, Roger. And you forget yourself. You need to remember I was promoted to this side of the desk, not you. Get over it.”

Gayther looked down, not wanting Bosman to see the resentment in his eyes.

Bosman stood up, indicating the meeting was over. “Take the Scribbler file and …” he held up two hands as if he were holding a thick pile of files, “… put it at the bottom. Forget about it. Unless you have compelling evidence, I don’t want to hear any more about this … Scribbler.”

“Or else?” Gayther answered as he stood and turned to leave.

“Roger,” Bosman said sharply and was about to add …

But Gayther had left, slamming the door as he went.

* * *

Gayther sat alone in the half-empty staff canteen, at a corner table, looking out across the car park, nursing a now-cold mug of coffee. He had eaten a packet of three biscuits, knew he shouldn’t have, given his diabetes, and had the crumbs from them all down his front. He brushed at them half-heartedly and sighed, not sure what to do next. He could just go out the front doors now and walk and walk and walk until he vanished into thin air. He knew he wouldn’t. But part of him would like to. A big part.

There were moments when he felt he could not be a policeman any more. That the new breed of police officers, with their systems and analytics and algorithms, and political correctness and doing everything just so, had somehow passed him by. His policing, mixing dogged perseverance and intuition, was from another age. A time when he knew how the world worked, what was what, and what was right and wrong. Now, it was all topsy-turvy and he was out of place. An oddball. A misfit. An old man on medication. He felt like taking his police pension and selling his house and moving away. They – he and Annie – had talked of retiring to Spain or Portugal. But he knew he did not have the funds, not really, his modest three-bed semi on the outskirts of Ipswich getting him little more than a one- or two-bed apartment on some holiday complex in some obscure resort. And he did not play golf. Nor like the sun that much.

Fact is, he was alone with nothing much to do to occupy himself outside of the job. His high-flying son was busy, getting on with his life in London. An important job in the Met. Birthday and Christmas cards. The odd visit. No partner. No grandchildren. He thought that moment had passed. He had no hobbies or interests. No friends. No other relatives either, apart from the cousin with the horse face who had pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth.

If he dropped down dead tomorrow, no one would really care.

Not even him.

He turned his face to the window and thought he could just about give up now.

“Guv, guv?” Carrie sat down opposite him at the table. “What’s going on, what did Boss Man say?”

He turned slowly towards her, forcing a smile. He really wanted to be left alone, to stew over things. “Off the case, Carrie. Unless we have compelling evidence.”

Carrie sat there looking at him, could see he was upset. Then she spoke, “Isn’t the drawing and scratching out on Lodge’s stomach compelling evidence?”

“Not compelling enough, apparently. Maybe I just jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

Carrie shook her head. “Someone put them there, the drawing and the scratches, and it wasn’t Lodge … remember, you said, there was no knife found.”

Gayther shrugged. It was all he could do to show interest.

He wished she would go away.

Then he could go home and go to bed. Forget about it all, for a while anyway.

Carrie smiled as she reached across and