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

He knew what he had to do. He had to reassure Carrie’s mother and son. That he’d get on to it straightaway, saying he’d visit the station, check if anything had happened, follow up on everything. He then had to get them to go back home and wait. Do what they’d normally do. Have their tea, watch television, read a story, go to bed. He’d take her mobile phone number, give her his number, too. Promise to text her just as soon as he had some news. Good news, he’d stress. She just had to be patient.

He then had to go to this farm, this out-of-the-way place that Carrie had last visited. He could not believe that Carrie would have blundered in. Stumbled naively into The Scribbler’s lair. And was now … it didn’t bear thinking about. He hoped that it was as simple as he had suggested. That her car had broken down and she’d been walking ever since back through the forest. It could be so, he thought. Unlikely. But possible. He had to cling to that hope.

He thought, no, he knew, that he should go to the station and pass this upwards. Do it officially. But he realised where that would lead. The inevitable over-the-top response. Cars galore. Gung-ho coppers. Police marksmen. An unpredictable outcome. If he texted Thomas and Cotton as a heads-up, just in case something goes wrong and you don’t hear back from me in half an hour, call in the cavalry, he could check it out alone more quickly. Quietly, sensibly, ready to call for reinforcements as necessary, he could maybe come out of this okay.

With Carrie.

And The Scribbler. Brought to justice.

He had to act fast. 24. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, MID-EVENING

The man with the latex gloves walked slowly through the forest. Exhausted now, but close to home.

He had left the car deep among the trees and bushes. Four or five miles away was what he’d intended.

But he had been walking for hours now. Six, seven, eight miles, maybe more, and getting ever slower with every mile.

He had been lucky. Had turned left and driven along the side road. Waiting, any second, for the police car to come up behind him, flashing lights, siren wailing, the officers gesturing furiously at him to pull over and stop. He’d tug the gun from his pocket. A last, desperate act to escape. To get back to the farm.

But the police car did not appear. As he turned left again, a mile or so down the road, he glanced back once more. There was nothing to be seen. And he found himself breathing again. Great big gulps of air. Had not realised he had been holding his breath for so long.

He had buried the car down a slope in a saucer-shaped dip full of bushes surrounded by trees. Thought, if he were lucky, that it might not be discovered for years, maybe never. Had wiped it all clean, wheel, seat, floor, door handle, and then scouted round, making sure it could not be seen from the path, even from within the circle of trees. Maybe from above, a police helicopter, but he could do little about that.

And then he started walking home. Through trees, row upon row of trees, going on forever.

Feeling sick, not knowing what to expect when he arrived back.

And tense, worried that he could not get there faster, help in some way with whatever was happening.

He had thought of running off. Just taking the policewoman’s car and driving away. But he did not know where to go. He had no passport. No credit card. Nothing but the cash in his pocket. No change of clothes. No place to go. No idea how to disappear into thin air. No family or friends to help him. He was not of this world. This modern, unfamiliar world. He did not understand how it all worked.

And he knew he could not leave his brother. Nor his mother. Could not desert them to deal with the police, who would come knocking some time soon, perhaps were there already, wanting to know where the policewoman was.

Had she come to the farm, they’d ask. Have you seen her? Mother would shake her head, say no. But his slow brother would shuffle from one foot to the other. Head down. Shame-faced. Guilty. May we have a look around, they’d ask. Just to check. And they’d go into the outhouse and the barns and wherever she’d been hidden. And then. And then he needed to be there for that moment.

He hurried on, as best he could.

Not far now.

A mile or two, maybe a little more.

Whatever was happening at the farm when he returned, he had to deal with it. If the policewoman were still alive, he would have to dispose of her. He had thought things through. There was no other way. They could not keep her prisoner forever. He would do it cleanly and quickly. As soon as he saw her. Then they must sit and wait and see if or when the police came. Hold tight. Keep their nerve.

If they came when he was there, he would keep his brother and his mother hidden away beyond the kitchen. Say no, he’d not seen anyone. Now please leave, my mother is seriously ill. She needs peace and quiet. He knew how to do that. Would then watch them leave. Breathe a sigh of relief.

If they were there already, the police, he’d have to decide what to do when he arrived. One policeman or woman, just following up, looking around, opening doors to barns, and he would deal with them. He felt the gun in his pocket. Was ready to use it.

More police? Swarming all over the farm with dogs and marksmen. He could not run away, leaving his brother and mother behind. He would fight his way through somehow. Get to them. End their lives together. How it should be. For a mother and her loving sons.

The man