Gayther ran back down towards the window, tugged it open wider, and pulled himself through into the corridor where most of the dementia patients had their bedrooms. He stumbled and fell and, as he got to his feet, he noted soil on the floor and guessed it must have come from the gardener – a minute or two ago. That was the giveaway – why would an innocent man scramble through a window to run away?
Somewhere, on these two floors of bedrooms, The Scribbler was hiding.
Gayther knew he had to be quick, act fast, before he got away.
There was no time to go and get Carrie. He had to do this himself, find this man and bring him in. They’d not be able to put him out to pasture then.
* * *
Gayther stood in the corridor, on the ground floor of the main building. Breathing heavily, he knew he would struggle to apprehend The Scribbler. He was too old, too out of condition. And the medication he was on didn’t help.
But he had to try. He wouldn’t be intimidated. He’d fight if he had to. He’d had his fair share of violent encounters over the years and had won most of them.
This was his chance. To make the capture, show that he wasn’t the has-been everyone believed he was.
Behind him were the doors, identical to the ones he’d come through with Carrie and Mrs Coombes on the floor above. He pushed at the doors with his hands, but they were locked and needed a key card to get through rather than the 6921 code used upstairs. He thought it unlikely a gardener would have a key card to enable him to escape that way.
At the far end of the corridor was another pair of doors, again needing a key card to open them. Beyond the doors, Gayther imagined there was the lift and the gated staircase to the upper floor. Again, the gardener would not have a key card to escape that way.
So, he must be on this floor then. The Scribbler. Hiding, skulking in the corner of an old woman’s room. Like a bloody coward.
Gayther wished he had his mobile phone on him, had not left it in the side of the car with the file of notes, so he could call Carrie for back-up.
He looked along at twelve or so closed doors. Each, he assumed, had an elderly resident suffering from dementia in it. And one, he was sure, also had The Scribbler inside. So be it. He was ready to take him on.
He moved to the first door, paused, checking the carpet for any tell-tale signs of soil or grass. Nothing. He put his ear to the door. All silent. He hesitated for a moment. An empty room maybe. Or The Scribbler inside ready to attack?
Gayther pushed the door open ever-so-slowly, pushing it right back so he could see across the whole room. And to be certain The Scribbler wasn’t hiding behind the door, knife in hand.
He looked in. An old woman, at least he thought it was a woman, lay propped up in the bed in front of him. Her head was little more than a skull. Wisps of white hair covered some of the pink-white scalp. Eyes stared vacantly into space. The jaw hung open. She, he – whatever – had no teeth, just a desiccated, lifeless tongue lolling there. The stuff of nightmares, thought Gayther, that we might all come to this at the end.
He watched as, hearing the door open, the woman tilted her head, slowly, almost painfully, to the side, listening. Her hands, clasped together in front of her on the bed, moved slightly. Signs of life, of a sort. He saw her mouth move, trying to form words, a sound, anything.
He looked around. A wardrobe, too small for a grown man to hide in. The bed, too low for anyone to slide beneath. Windows, with curtains pulled to, hanging lower than the windowsill but not as far as the floor. No one there.
He stepped back, pulled the door closed behind him.
Moved into the corridor.
Open each door, one by one, that’s all he had to do, until he found the room with The Scribbler in it.
Gayther moved to the next door. He checked the floor outside for fresh grass or mud stains. Nothing. Leaned in, his right ear close to the door, his hand upon it. Heard voices, two women’s, one raised, the other calm and measured.
“Bitch,” said the woman with the raised voice. “The bitch comes in my room.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t, Moira,” replied the woman with the calm voice. “Debbie doesn’t work here any more.”
Gayther heard a buzzing, angry noise coming, he thought, from the woman with the raised voice. It grew into a roar and then the woman shouted at the top of her voice. “She comes into my room … when I am asleep … and she moves my things around.”
He moved to the next door. The third of twelve. Could be this one. The odds were shortening. He felt his body tense.
Put his ear to it again. Silence.
This is it, he thought. The moment of truth. In here. The Scribbler. With a knife. I have to be bold and attack. Hard and fast.
As he stood there, hesitating, he heard a door opening, four or five away, further along the corridor. He turned, not sure what to expect. A young care assistant: a big, Eastern European-looking boy of twenty to twenty-five stood there, staring back at him.
“Can I help you?” the boy asked, his voice rising, “Who are you visiting, please?”
Gayther put a finger to his lips and made a hushing sound before pointing to the door.
“What? … What?” the boy said, taking a step towards Gayther. “Wait a minute … who are you? … How did you get in?”
Gayther turned and pushed the door of the room open. Stepped inside quickly, ready to attack.
He saw the
