They were in a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Drake had been here many times, most frequently to counsel distressed officers. At the far end, a flight of steps ran down to the custody cells, known throughout the station as the dungeon. There were interview rooms at frequent intervals along the corridor, and immediately to their right, was the staircase which would lead to the upper two floors. Mill Street did not enjoy the luxury of lifts.
Adamson pushed his way into the first interview room, Drake followed, and they sat on opposite sides of the table.
“All right. I’m listening.”
Drake placed his briefcase on the table, flipped up the lid, and retrieved his printed copy of the morning’s email. “According to the timestamp, this came in at about half past three this morning.”
He pushed it across the table. Adamson picked it up, read through it once, and a frown crossed his forehead. He went through it again, and then threw it back at Drake. “It’s bollocks.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought until Lionel Quentin told me who the girl was, and where she was found dead.” He turned the sheet of paper to face the irritated chief inspector. “Bear in mind that I’m considered good with anagrams.” As he continued to speak, he pointed out the relevant words in the verse. “On hard brill fod – on Bradford Hill, shake nanny with an – Shana Kenny with an… I haven’t yet worked out what arch tone pea means. According to Quentin, you found Shana Kenny dead – murdered on Bradford Hill.”
The vexed eyes narrowed, a signal easily interpreted as little short of hatred. “Are you taking the piss, or what?”
“I’m bringing in a communication which as far as I’m concerned, hints at this girl’s death.”
“And how do I know you didn’t send this to yourself?”
As always Drake found it easier to read the moods of others. He found it difficult to assess the level of his own disbelief. “Why would I?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re looking to re-invent your glory days. You certainly solved it pretty quickly, didn’t you?”
Drake sucked in his breath and mentally counted to three. “That’s because I’m an expert, Adamson, and unlike you people, experts don’t grope in the dark. They take in the available information, and interpret it… Whether rightly or wrongly, remains to be seen, but in this case, I insist that I’m right. Someone sent me this email at half past three this morning, and even though I don’t know all the ins and outs of the girl’s death, it’s pretty safe to assume that the individual who sent it is her killer.”
Stung by Drake’s insinuation that he and the CID colleagues were groping in the dark, Adamson retaliated. “And where were you at half past three this morning? Better yet, where were you between quarter to two, when we know she left Benny’s, and four o’clock, by which time, our doc reckons she was dead?”
Drake remained unimpressed. Adamson knew what the answer would be. The chief inspector was simply trying to rile him. “I was at home in bed, with my partner, one of your colleagues, Becky Teale. Remember her?”
“I’ll speak to her later. In the meantime, take that arsewipe and—”
Drake cut him off. “For Christ’s sake, man, have you listened to a word I’ve said? This is nothing to do with me. It’s from her killer, or at least, someone who knows something about her death.”
“And what am I supposed to do with it?”
“I don’t know.” Drake was close to losing his temper. “Track the IP address. You have people who can do that, don’t you?”
Adamson was quiet for a moment, obviously working out which way he should move next. Eventually, he replied, “If this is what you say it is, what makes you think this guy will have used his real email address? Or if he has, he will have given the ISP a false name and address. Now do us all a favour, Drake, and clear off. We’re busy enough without people like you giving us earache.”
Drake collected his sheet of paper, dropped it back in his briefcase and closed the lid. He got to his feet and prepared to leave. “Remind me not to vote for you as detective of the year, Adamson. You know where to find me when you realise I’m right.”
Drake left the police station, anger bubbling away just beneath the surface. The newspapers, social media, television, constantly urged the public to assist the police in any way they could, and he could not recall any time when he had been able to pass on any information which may help an inquiry. Now, the first time he was in such a situation, he had been given short shrift from a man who, in his opinion, wasn’t fit to lead an investigation into bicycle thefts.
By the time he climbed back into his car, he had calmed down, and rationalised Adamson’s reactions as a symptom of the antipathy between them which had developed over the years, conveniently blamed upon Drake’s work with stressed officers. It wasn’t strictly accurate, but there was no doubting Adamson’s narrow view that a policeman’s lot was a policeman’s lot (the chief inspector’s gender bias) and they had no business suffering from stress. They should be able to handle whatever came their way.
Sitting in the car, engine running, heater on full to combat the winter chill, he rang home, and when Becky sleepily answered, he apologised for disturbing her. “I didn’t get you up, did I?”
“Nope. I was napping on the settee. I didn’t go back to bed.” Becky yawned. “Is that all you wanted? Can I go back to sleep now?”
He laughed. “In a minute. And get plenty of rest. You may need your energy for tonight.”
“Two chances, Wes Drake. Slim and none. You had your fun last night.” She chuckled. “So what did you want?”
He quickly told her what had happened at the police station, and her reply was pragmatic.
“I already know about the murder. I caught the story on the local news about an hour ago. I rang the station, and asked if they wanted me in early, but they said no. Right now, it’s a CID job, and they’re only putting PC’s out for fingertip searches and house-to-house on Bradford Hill. They need me manning the late shift.” She yawned again. “I’ll have a word with Charlie when I sign on. Give him a kick up the jacksey.”
“Don’t get yourself into trouble on my account. The day I can’t deal with the likes of Charlie Adamson is the day I draw my pension. I only rang to forewarn you. He did say he’d collar you later.”
He cut the connection, started the engine, and drove slowly from the police station car park, out into the mid-morning traffic. He was in no rush. There was nothing particularly attractive about a January day’s tedium at Howley College.
There were times when he felt like giving it up. He had enough private clients to ensure a good income, and as if that were not enough, he had plenty of money and investments to cover his back. He had no need to work if he so wished. But the salary was good, and notwithstanding the humdrum days of compiling reports in the run up to the end of term and beyond, the college gave him somewhere to go between nine and five (or nine in the morning and nine thirty in the evening, when he was on compulsory late shift). It gave him a reason to get out of bed, get out of the house, meet and mix with other people, and even without the level of responsibility he had to accept, that in itself, was sufficient to keep him there.
The college car park was still awash with police vehicles and uniformed officers could be seen going here and there inside the glass building. They would be taking general statements from Shana’s friends and tutors, he guessed.
But when he drew into his reserved parking spot, he was surprised to find Kirsty Pollack sitting in her car. He had not noticed her when he left for the police station, and he would probably not have registered her presence now, but as he climbed out of his Audi, she tooted her horn to attract his attention.
He crossed the parking area to her, and she patted the passenger seat of her Vauxhall saloon. He climbed obediently into it and settled back.
She was smoking a cigarette, a habit of which he disapproved, and upon which he had lectured her many times over the years. She took his diatribes against tobacco with
good grace, but she never made any effort to stop.
Her determination to go her own way, regardless of what others may think or say, was one of the things he found attractive about her, and many times he had daydreamed what might have developed between them if he was not tied to Becky. An affair was out of the question. During his television years, he’d had a number of ‘flings’ but since he settled down with Becky, he had never taken another woman to dinner, let alone slept with any. But it was fun to speculate, and he always imagined that were Becky not part of the equation, he and Kirsty might be high on the list of life’s potential couplings.
She greeted him with news that was hardly news. “Charlie rang. He was grumbling about you.”
“They told me you hadn’t gone back to the station.”
Kirsty laughed, a throaty cackle that was at once filled with humour and lust for life. “He called me about twenty minutes ago. You must have dawdled along on your way back, as if you had all day.”
Drake gestured up at the college. “If you worked here, so would you. What do you want, Kirsty? Are you going to arrest me for murdering Shana Kenny?”
“Am I hell as like.”
“Adamson all but accused me of killing her.”
She laughed once more. “Charlie’s a good detective, but he’s also a prat. And he doesn’t like you. He never did. That business with Becky before you came on the scene and swept her into your bed.”
Now Drake laughed at the deliberately suggestive imagery in her announcement. “Him and Becky? I still can’t believe it. I’m surprised she didn’t leave him walking on crutches.” He brought the exchange full circle. “Okay. What do you want?”
“The email he says you received. I need you to explain it to me, not him, and I’d like a copy of it.” She must have read the doubt cross his face. She hurried on to reassure him. “When it comes to investigation, Charlie has a closed mind. He believes in the old-fashioned way. Plod, plod, plod. House-to-house, forensics…” Kirsty waved at the building. “… Question friends and family, kick a few arses, knock a few lags about until you get answers. I can’t remember the last time we had a murder like this in Howley, but Charlie’s way will take too long. We need to get this lunatic under lock and key ASAP.”
It was Drake’s turn to reassure her. “I’m not concerned for me, Kirsty, but you. like I just told Becky, I can deal with Charlie Adamson, but I don’t want you getting into trouble going behind his back.”
“Get real, Wes. I’m an inspector, not a beat-plod. I can make my own decisions.” A sly smile crossed her lips. “Besides, if I can get to the scroat before Charlie, it might give my promotion prospects a bit of a boost.”
“All right.” Drake nodded towards the building. “Come on. We need to do this in my office.”
Kirsty cackled again. “Ooh. We’re gonna do it in your office.”
He chuckled. “If you don’t tell Becky, I won’t.”
Chapter Five
Drake’s office was situated on the first floor at the rear of the main building. A compact, busy environment, the desk was well-organised, with the few files in need of attention stacked in two trays. Despite the later twentieth century push for the paperless office, the walls were nevertheless lined with shelves, all of them packed with box files, covering the fifteen years since the college first opened.
Confidential information, relating to examination results or counselling records for staff and students, was stored under lock and key in two filing cabinets. There were only three keys to each cabinet; Drake and his senior assistant, Amanda Morris, held one each, and the third was kept in the main security office, and only authorised personnel – Drake, Amanda, the principal, and certain other senior members of staff – were permitted access to them. Even then, each would need a good reason for signing out the keys.
The room’s single window overlooked the rear lawns of the college, but fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the time of year, it faced broadly southwest, which in turn meant that during the summer, the heat of the sun made the interior almost intolerably hot. In addition, the window would not open any further than six inches; a health and safety demand designed to prevent potential suicides. Drake had always been at a loss to understand it. The drop to the ground outside was less than 15 feet, and immediately below his window was soft grass. Anyone contemplating suicide would surely pick a higher location, and one with hard ground at the bottom of the drop.
He drew the single visitor chair alongside his desk, invited Kirsty to take it, and opening his briefcase, passed her the hard copy. While she settled down to read it, he rang the catering department and asked for refreshments to be brought to his office and the cost to be added to his account.
“It’s gobbledygook.”
An echo of Adamson’s assessment and after the trying interval with her boss, Kirsty’s announcement did little to boost his patience. He went into the same explanation as he had with her chief and the difference soon became apparent. Where Adamson had been cynically dismissive, Kirsty listened intently, and made a point of tracking his interpretation as he spelled out the anagrams.
When he was through, she pointed out the obvious. “You haven’t cracked ‘arch tone pea’.”
“I need some frame of reference, and I don’t have one. You have a location, you have the victim’s identity. What else would you need to know… aside from the killer’s name and address, that is?”
“And his name is not gonna be an anagram of arch tone pea, is it?”
They both fell silent as an attendant for the catering department came in with a tray of tea and coffee things, and sandwiches, cakes and biscuits. Drake signed for the food and drink, thanked the young man, who left them to it, and while they helped themselves, he replied to her last observation.
“Unlikely. Why would he sign himself the Anagramist if he’s hiding his name in one of the anagrams? He sent it to me because he knows how good I am with puzzles. If that was his name, I’d have it cracked by this afternoon, and he wouldn’t want that.” He sipped from a cup of tea, and pursed his lips in approval. “Better than the drain cleaner which passes for tea at the police station.” He focused on the immediate discussion. “You have to take the words of the verse in context. ‘Shake nanny with an…’ We’ve already translated shake nanny as Shana Kenny. Take the final two words literally, and there are not many things it can mean. He’s murdered – I’m assuming it was a man—”
Kirsty cut him off. “We’re assuming it, too.”
The admission brought Drake to an abrupt halt. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was planning to say, it evaporated. “You mean you don’t know?”
“Nope.”
Kirsty slurped from a cup of coffee, and helped herself to a small, iced fancy. As she chewed and swallowed it, Drake wondered idly how she managed to keep her slim figure. Becky had a similar sweet tooth, and she waged a constant battle between satisfying her craving and keeping her weight under control.
“These are so good.” She swallowed the remains of the fancy and revelled a moment in the indulgence. “We don’t know whether it’s a man or a woman. There are indicators, but that’s all.”
“He’s sending me anagrams, and we’re talking in riddles.” Drake sighed and put his cup down. “Do me a favour, Kirsty, tell me everything you know.”
She hesitated for a moment, obviously deciding between agreeing and maintaining the necessary investigative confidentiality. Eventually, she made up her mind. “All right. A lot of what I’m gonna tell you is top drawer hush-hush, so I’d appreciate it if you keep it to yourself. With this kind of crime, we get any number of bananas ringing in to confess, so we hold back certain facts. If they can’t confirm them, or they get them wrong, we know we’re dealing with a time-wasting nutter. But I’ll fill you in on what we know, and bear in mind that it’s early days. A lot could change.”
“I’ve read this script before.”
She cleared her throat, creating a pause allowing her to g
ather her thoughts.
“Shana’s body was left on an open area off Bradford Hill. It’s a sort of open scrub where the grass grows wild, and the locals know it as Back Field. Kids play there during the day, especially in the summer, and once it’s dark, there are plenty of people who hide in the long grass for a bit of how’s your father. A young kid walking to work at half past five this morning found her. He takes a short cut across Back Field, and down the hill to the petrol station where he works. SOCOs were there by six, the doc got there at half past, and I turned up at seven. She wasn’t robbed, and we found a student card in her bag. By half past seven, we were talking to her parents, and they told us she was at Benny’s last night. Some of our guys knocked Benny’s security bods out of bed, and as we speak, they’re pulling the CCTV for us from last night. But our people did manage to talk to one of her friends, and she said that neither of them had any money when they came out of the place just before two this morning. Shana wouldn’t get her dad up that time of night, so she was walking home. Taking all that into account, we know she was murdered sometime between two and, say, four this morning. The pathologist said closer to two than four, but it’s no better than an educated guess. Here’s the thing, Wes. She wasn’t killed where she was found. She was murdered across the street, outside the houses on the corner of Bradford Hill Close. The killer carried or dragged her across the street and left her in Back Field. She wasn’t wearing much. A coat, thick jacket, obviously, thin dress and underwear. The dress had ridden up and her knickers were on show, but she wasn’t assaulted.”
Drake took in the information and sifted it into different compartments of his mind, most of them as yet without labels. “Not even a grope?”
“Doesn’t look like it, but again, the doc’ll confirm it one way or the other when he does the post mortem.”
His smartphone warbled for attention. He took it from his pocket, checked the menu window and read, Iris Mullins. He swept his finger to the left, and cut the call off.
The Anagramist Page 3
