“And what did he have to say, the vicar?”
“He came forward some time later. Just after the fourth victim – fourth known victim anyway – was murdered. Wracked with guilt. Clutching the cross of Jesus and all of that. Much the same story as before … That’s where we’re off to now.”
“What, to go over his statement with him again … after all this time?”
“We’re off to a care home on the road to Dunwich. Edwin Lodge, eighty-something, lived there these past two and a half years. Completely alone. No family. No visitors, at least not lately. Abandoned by his flock.”
“Lived? Past tense. So where is he now?”
“He was the vicar of … one of these old rural churches in the middle of nowhere. Then lived quietly near Dunwich in his retirement. Went into this care home to be looked after, became increasingly demented … sorry, not the PC phrase I know … he suffered from dementia and it got gradually worse.”
“Okay, so are we going to get much sense out of him?”
“He suddenly started rambling about The Scribbler and what happened. The staff couldn’t make much sense of it, most of them are either too young to remember what happened or are from overseas … Eastern Europe, the Philippines … and don’t always understand the language too well. Especially the biblical stuff, the lord shall smite thee … all of that. One of them managed to understand some of what he was saying … that The Scribbler had come back and was going to kill him.”
“So, okay if he’s experiencing dementia – and the related hallucinations and paranoia that can go with it – are we going to get any more out of him now than they did thirty-odd years ago?”
“We’re not going to get anything out of him, we’re going to meet the doctor who’s there this morning. Edwin Lodge died six or seven weeks ago. The coroner ruled death by misadventure. It seems Edwin, when alone in his room, and in the later stages of dementia, got himself out of bed unaided, used a frame to walk across to the window, undid the locks and bolts and then climbed up and onto the ledge and threw himself head-first onto the concrete path below. As you do…”
“So you think …”
“I’d think it an unlikely scenario. But what came out from the coroner’s report – and what Ray Wilson, one of our ex-DCs working as a civilian investigator, picked up on and passed to cold cases – was that, before he died … or possibly after … a face was etched into his stomach and then scratched out.”
Gayther paused for a second, gathering his thoughts, before going on. “No one seemed to give it a second thought. It’s not unknown for dementia patients to self-harm apparently, but … the talk of The Scribbler … and the serial killer’s motif on the deceased’s body in the same location as the other victims … well, two plus two makes four in my book…”
* * *
“You don’t have a mobile phone do you, guvnor? You could put it on the dashboard if you did. Use it as a sat-nav.”
“Not a fan, Carrie, although I have one here.” He gestured towards the side door. “But it needs charging. I forget sometimes … old age … creeping senility, I’m afraid.”
“You can get a lead these days to plug into the cigarette lighter. Charges it for you from the battery. Clever, eh?”
He smiled. “Something to think about, Carrie, but it’s all a bit hit and miss out here anyway. Reception. In the sticks.”
They drove along in companionable silence.
Carrie took out her phone and fiddled with it.
Gayther ignored her and carried on driving.
“I’ve got reception,” Carrie said suddenly. “What’s the postcode?”
“No idea,” Gayther answered. “Google ‘Kings Court Care Home, Dunwich’ and see what that brings up. It’s about two miles off the A12, we turn right at the pub in Westleton.”
“You were saying, guv … there were three suspects. How far did they get?” she asked, tapping away at her phone. “Go on,” she added, “I’m still listening.”
“Good of you … Three suspects were questioned. Ray Challis was a plumber who frequented at least three of the city-centre pubs where The Scribbler met his victims. He was named several times by viewers calling in after a TV appeal. He had alibis for three or four of the murders. Forensics on his van and at his home didn’t turn up anything.”
“Did we have DNA in those days? Before my time,” she said, looking up from her phone. “Sorry.”
“Early days and The Scribbler was very, very careful. He wore a cap at all times, either as a disguise or to make sure his hair didn’t get onto the victims’ clothes. There’s some speculation he may have been bald, which would have been unusual in a man of that age. They did one or two appeals with different images but without success. Or possibly he was having chemo – that was another line of enquiry that was followed up without success.”
She nodded.
“And each of the victims … the ones who escaped … said he wore gloves. Ladies’ cotton gloves. Supposedly for eczema, according to Wade, although Wilkerson said they were rubber gloves, which would be odd. The latex might have been an issue if he had eczema, so it’s likely that The Scribbler was just being careful. I imagine he’d have burned those and his clothes later on.”
She asked, “Blood, what about blood? He’d have been covered, wouldn’t he?”
“Some,” he replied. “From them. Onto him. He stabbed them repeatedly from behind so there would have been something, but if he took off his outer layers of clothes … who knows … he may have been painstakingly careful or just very lucky … or both … either way, it was thirty-odd years ago and things were more hit and miss then.”
“Turn up here, for Kings Court. Here …”
“Yes,
