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

if anything’s been reported … trace the car … the phone, of course. We’ll do all we can to find him quickly, I promise you.”

Brisk handshakes on the doorstep.

Mrs Taylor shut the door.

Thomas looked at Carrie and said, under his breath, “The Scribbler?”

Carrie nodded.

* * *

Gayther watched Carrie, Thomas and Cotton as they came into the portacabin and, exchanging quiet smiles between themselves, sat down around the table. Gayther pushed away the file he was reading and smiled back at them in anticipation. They look triumphant, he thought. Surely not a breakthrough? Stranger things had happened, though. He dare not hope.

“Anything of interest there, sir?” said Carrie, a big grin on her face.

Gayther paused, then sighed theatrically, playing along with her. “No, I‘ve spent the whole f … flipping day trawling through file after file of long-dead cases … victims … criminals … trying to find something worthwhile to do … but what have you got, sitting there grinning like a …”

“Cheshire cat, sir? We all are, sir … we’ve all got news for you. We’ve …” Carrie nodded towards Thomas, “… been to see the wife of Philip Taylor, the man from Beccles who disappeared from Ipswich, where he works, on Wednesday night.”

Thomas picked up the story. “Middle-aged man … and a bit … respectable married man from a building society … left work for a dentist’s appointment down the road on Wednesday afternoon. Not seen since. Disappeared without trace. Classic Scribbler scenario, sir. Absolutely ticks all of the boxes.”

“Okay, well, so … what … the evidence, the compelling evidence … what are you saying … you’re saying it’s The Scribbler?”

“Hold on, sir,” Carrie grinned again. “We’ll get to that … we’ve just been to the dentist and Taylor left there at about three forty-five. They’ve got CCTV, so we have clear images of what he looks like and is wearing. Then he just vanished. His car, we got the plate from Mrs Taylor and put it straight out, has already been found by a park nearby. No CCTV there, but I’ve asked if we can get it picked up so it can be checked over properly.”

“Okay, well, that sounds like a missing person case as it stands. I mean, you know, maybe, I guess. We can but hope. I’ve known cases to turn on a sixpence like this. What we need to do is—”

“No, sir. That’s not all, sir. There’s more,” Carrie interrupted. She looks fit to burst, thought Gayther, who nodded, go on.

“Cotton’s been seeing the cases coming in and yesterday morning, well, two and two usually make four … a boy, a twelve-year old boy walking his dog in woods the other side of Ipswich, saw a man acting suspiciously the night before … a couple of hours after Philip Taylor went missing … loading … well, the boy didn’t know what it was … something big and heavy into the back of the man’s van. He told his mum and she’s been in touch. She thought it might be someone poaching deer.”

Gayther laughed.

“While we, me and Thomas, have been up to speak to Mrs Taylor, Cotton tagged along to the … well, Cotton, you say.”

Cotton flicked open his notebook.

“I went along this afternoon with Joe White, he sends his regards, and … Sarah, the new liaison officer … to speak to the mother, Laura Wilding, and her boy, Jacob. They live at …”

“Cut to the chase, Cotton. Is it … is it him, The Scribbler?”

Cotton nodded. “The boy described the man and his height and build … and on that basis, yes, it could be The Scribbler. He didn’t get a clear view of the man’s face, though.”

“Well, that’s The Scribbler’s modus operandi …”

“He couldn’t tell the man’s age but thought he was old by the way he walked. What’s old to a twelve-year-old-boy is pretty subjective … he said the man walked a bit like his grandpa … his mum said he was about sixty.”

“Anything else?” Gayther pressed.

“I showed the boy the old picture we had of The Scribbler and he wasn’t sure. He said yes at first and then said he didn’t think so. I wasn’t allowed to press him on it.”

“No, fair enough. So …” Gayther turned to Carrie. “We’re, what, going to see if we can get some of Dave Green’s team up to check out the location?”

“I don’t know, sir. I don’t think anyone’s really joined up all the dots yet. It’s not been allocated. Probably Monday, I’d say. If someone higher up thinks it’s all a match to The Scribbler … or not … just a man who’s gone off for the weekend and a lad who’s seen a poacher with a muntjac in the woods.”

“So,” Gayther shrugged. “What’s next then, Carrie?”

Carrie pulled out a piece of folded-up paper from the inside pocket of her jacket with the air of a magician about to shout “Ta-Da!”. Opened it. Handed it to Gayther, who looked down at a list of car registrations, names and addresses.

“The boy told us more about the van than the man. White. Medium-sized, he said. We showed him pictures and it looks like it’s a Ford Transit Connect.”

“A lot of them about …”

“Better still, he remembered the first four digits of the plate, AP55, though not the rest, but … hey presto … there are sixteen possible matches across East Anglia … sixteen vans … four of us … two days … before Boss Man gives the case to someone.”

“And not to me, I’d guess,” Gayther said.

Carrie, Thomas and Cotton nodded and agreed.

“Well, we can wait for this to be risk assessed and given a number and actioned … blah, blah, blah … or we can crack on and catch The Scribbler before someone else is killed.”

Carrie, Thomas and Cotton stood waiting.

“First thing in the morning, bright and early, we visit them all one-by-one,” Gayther concluded. 18. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, MORNING

The three of them sat around the kitchen table. The mother. The smart brother.