“Nice to s … see you, guv … what kept you?” She could not disguise the joy and relief in her shaking voice.
“This and that,” Gayther answered, looking across at her crouched down in the shadows. “Had to have my tea first. Obviously.”
She sobbed again. “Anything nice, guv, for your tea?”
She thought he said the word ‘Pot’. Expected him to complete the phrase ‘Pot Noodle’, but, as he finished the word ‘Pot’, two shots rang out.
There was a moment’s silence.
Gayther’s head seemed to shimmer and shake in the moonlight. A haze of brain and bone and he fell forward, dead before he hit the ground.
Carrie screamed and screamed again.
Looked back at the doorway.
And saw The Scribbler standing there holding a gun.
PART FIVETHE OLD BARN
26. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, 11.25PM
Carrie knew she was about to die.
Wanted to say something profound. Or at least think about something important. Could do neither.
She did not seem to be able to say or think or do anything.
She stared through moonlight and shadows as The Scribbler stepped forward and studied Gayther’s corpse laying on the ground in front of him. He pushed at the side of Gayther’s head with his foot. Watched as it tipped slowly to one side. He seemed to think for a moment. Then nodded to himself. Job done. He stepped over Gayther’s body and looked at Carrie. After a while, he spoke.
“Who was he?” he nodded back towards the corpse.
She looked up at him. Struggled to say the words.
“My … g … guvnor,” she stuttered, eventually, close to sobbing.
She knew she was in shock. That she could not function properly. Unable to talk clearly. Nor defend herself. If she struggled up, she would fall down. If she sat back, she would stumble over. So, she just stayed there, crouching. Waiting for him to raise the gun and shoot her in the head. Same as Gayther. Gone in an instant. She tried to compose herself in the long silence.
“A bad man,” he said finally.
Another long silence. She tried to frame the words in her mind before speaking. Was not going to let him see her cry.
“Good man … very good,” she said finally, unable to say more.
He shrugged, as if to say, ‘no matter, he’s dead now anyway, good or bad. It makes no difference.’ She thought, her mind slowly unravelling, that this is what the other brother had said, about bad men. That they were heroes, killing them.
“You’re no hero,” she said suddenly, the words coming to her unexpectedly easily. She felt sudden anger. It seemed to revive her, help her think straight.
“I rid the world of bad men,” he answered. “Men with loving wives and little children. Men who lie and cheat and hurt their families and make the beast with other men … other men … men not women … Men who force themselves on their own children. Make them do things … dirty things. Terrible things.” He thought for a moment. “The world is a better place without them. They are monsters.”
She looked at him now, hearing the emotion in his voice. His justification. His reasoning. His logic. The sick assumption that gay men and paedophiles were one and the same. It somehow gave her courage, to talk, to speak, to answer back. To try to save her life. This was her chance to reason with him. Take control. But the anger was rising almost uncontrolled in her.
“You just shot a good man. Roger. My friend.” Her voice wavered and she paused to try to steady herself.
“His name was Roger Gayther and he loved his wife and his son and he was a good man. A kind man to me. A loving man. He brought bad men, men who kill wives and children, to justice … He was the best of men.
“You just killed him for no good reason. You shot him from behind. You did not even give him a chance. You’re not a hero. You’re a coward, that’s all you are.”
He did not answer her.
His silence encouraged her to go on.
She rose unsteadily, arms and legs still tied, to her feet, her weight pressing against the barn wall.
“Cowards kill from behind. That’s what you are. A coward. And now you’re going to kill me. Tied up. Defenceless. Big man you are. Shooting someone who can’t even defend themselves.”
He did not speak.
She could not see his face clearly in the shadows.
Waited, letting the silence go on and on. Until he finally responded.
“I don’t kill women,” he said quietly. “Not unless—”
“You tried to before,” Carrie interrupted. “In the kitchen. You hit me and knocked me out. What was that then? A big oops?”
“That was …” He stopped speaking, the words tailing away as though he were ashamed of himself and what he had done.
Carrie knew this was the moment. It was in the balance. This was the tipping point. If she said the wrong thing, he would kill her. Regardless of what he had just said. The right thing and she would live. For now, anyway. She didn’t know how she was going to get out of this alive, though. It was only delaying the inevitable.
“Your mum,” Carrie said. “It was your mum who told you to kill me, wasn’t it? Do you always do what your mum says, or do you sometimes do what you think is right?”
He was silent.
She pressed on. “Was it your mum who told you to kill all the men … and Edwin Lodge at the care home … you killed him too, didn’t you? Did Mummy tell you to do that?”
“Shut up,” he said quietly, close to a whisper, almost under his breath.
She needed to do this. “You don’t need to do what Mummy tells you, all the time. She’s a bad person. You’re not. I can tell. You’re a good person. Your mother’s a monster.”
“Shut up about Mother,” he shouted back and stepped forward.
Carrie shut her eyes. Expecting a blow across the face. Striking her into
