The Anagramist

by David W Robinson

  Kirsty was concerned. “Was it important? I don’t mind if you answer it.”

  “No. Only Iris Mullins. I’ll ring her back when we’re through.”

  She gaped. “How can anybody say a call from the Deputy Chief Constable isn’t important?”

  “It’s easy. You just put the words together and let them go.” Despite the flood of information coming from Kirsty, Drake could see no way of aligning it to the final line of the verse. “Now let’s concentrate on our problem, not hers. How did she die? Strangled? Beaten? Shot?” He could not imagine where the last idea came from, and attributed it to modern television. He did not watch much, but when he did it was to find a litany of gun-toting criminals and cops, many of them supposedly from Great Britain.

  Kirsty put him right. “Stabbed in the back. Then he cut her throat, right across, like that.” Kirsty drew a slender finger from left to right across her neck. “The doc’s speculating again, but he thinks it was opening her airway which killed her. She was still alive after he stabbed her in the back. Don’t ask me how they know these things.”

  Drake was not fooled. A police officer of Kirsty’s experience was well aware that there were a number of ways in which a pathologist could ascertain the precise cause of death, even before an autopsy. Effusive blood flow was one. Dead bodies did not bleed.

  Kirsty was not through talking. “When I saw the body, it was almost enough to put me off my breakfast. Her throat had literally been opened up, and the wound was gaping. Christ knows what kind of blade he used, but we reckon it was almost surgically sharp. Before you get on the wrong track, it wasn’t a scalpel. The doc said it was a broad blade, and probably quite lengthy.”

  Drake’s lively imagination painted the picture in his mind. “Like a laser sharpened meat knife?”

  “Possibly. Probably. But there was no trace of a serrated edge. It was a smooth blade.” She stared at the sweet items on the refreshment tray. “Like a cake knife, only a hell of a lot sharper.”

  “Okay. So it’s plain murder. To get back to the verse, he’s saying he murdered Shana on Bradford Hill with an …” Drake shrugged. “What? Let’s see what I can get from that.”

  Drake took the hard copy from her, and studied the final line of the verse in an effort to relate it to a bladed weapon. For the moment, he thought he had ‘rapier’, but there was no ‘i’ in the line, and it would hardly fit with the description Kirsty had just given him. Reaching into the desk drawer, he took out a jotter pad, and wrote out the full line, spacing the letters so that he could get a clear insight into what would be left when he began to strike certain letters out.

  Eliminating the word ‘rape’ left him with: A-C-H-T-O-N-E. He showed it to Kirsty, who was able to make no sense of it, and she reminded him that Shana had not been sexually assaulted. The remaining letters, however, prompted him to pick out the word ‘acetone’, a common ingredient in nail polish remover. That left him with four letters, from which the only word he could generate was ‘harp’. Left her with an acetone harp made little sense, and he went back to square one.

  Removing the word ‘chart’ left him with almost enough letters to spell the word ‘apnoea’ but he had one ‘e’ too many, and one ‘a’ too few. It did however lead him to the word ‘open’, which, once eliminated, left the letters, A-R-C-H-T-E-A. Simple enough to disseminate as ‘arch tea’, but it still made no sense. He racked his brain. Open? Open what? Legs? He may not have raped her, but her underwear was on show, and it was possible that as well as her dress riding up, she was found with her legs apart. But that did not fit in with the previous line. With an open legs did not agree numerically, and anyway, he could not get the word ‘legs’ from the remaining letters. The same was true of the word ‘vagina’ and of ‘wound’. All possibilities of the state her body had been left in, but none fitted the anagram.

  And then he saw it. Trachea.

  Shana Kenny with an open trachea.

  He wrote it out, and turned the jotter so Kirsty could read it, and as she did so, her eyes widened.

  “Jesus.” She stared at the solution, at Drake, and then back to the jotter. “The sick prick.” She gulped down more coffee, and a deep frown creased her clear forehead. “Medical man? I mean, most people would say, I left her with an open throat, or even her throat cut.”

  Drake spread his hands briefly in a throwaway gesture. “You’re making assumptions, and you really don’t have enough information. Fine, most people would say ‘I cut her throat’, but the fact that he uses the word trachea means nothing. I reckon if you stop a hundred people in the street and asked them if they understood the word, at least eighty, ninety percent would. And don’t let his method or his weapon fool you. I’ve never tried it, but I’m guessing that slicing open someone’s throat doesn’t take a great deal of surgical skill.”

  He turned his chair and gazed through the open windows, allowing the rural setting of the college to calm his agile mind, letting him bring the logic circuits into play.

  His opinion was valid, but there were other matters to be considered: it was not simply a case of linguistic gymnastics (as Drake often thought of anagrams) or any speculation on the profession of this killer. He had just told Kirsty that the vast majority of randomly selected people could identify the trachea, but he dealt with any number of students who were hard pressed to spell even the simplest of multi-syllable words.

  He did not face Kirsty again, but put his thoughts into words, almost as if he were talking to himself. “He has a good grounding in English. I mean the written language, not just the spoken. He’s put together a series of anagrams. He calls himself the Anagramist. For all we know, he could be a plumber, electrician, even someone who digs holes in the road. No matter what he does for a living, he’s good with words. He knows what he’s doing.” He swung back to focus on her. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but you could do worse than check online for crossword compilers. Better yet, try the print magazines. They accept and pay for freelance submissions. Hell, I submit to some of them. If they’re paying, they need an address, or at the very least a bank account. I also suggested to Adamson that you should get onto the email provider. I’ll forward the original to you. It’ll give you an IP address which you can chase up.”

  “Only to find that it’s in Guatemala City.”

  Drake chuckled. “Even that would tell you something. Hiding your online identity to that degree takes some knowledge of IT, or contacts on the dark web.”

  Kirsty finished her coffee. “Thanks, Wes. At least you’ve given us a start. We’ll have the full SP on the girl by tomorrow.” She made to pick up the hard copy. “Can I take this?”

  He shrugged. “For what it’s worth. The only dabs you’ll find on it are mine… and Charlie Adamson’s. Hey, and don’t forget your forensic people. Did he leave many traces of himself?”

  “Ask me another.” She got to her feet. “I’d better get weaving, Wes. Thanks. And if you hear any more from this nutter, talk to me, not Charlie.”

  “You’ve got it. And, by the same token, if you need any help, Kirsty, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Chapter Six

  Drake was surprised to learn that it was after half past ten when Kirsty left. It never ceased to amaze him how these different episodes ate into his time.

  He picked up his smartphone and returned Iris Mullins’ call. She picked up the phone quickly; so quickly that Drake guessed she had been anxiously waiting for him to ring.

  “I’m sorry about earlier, Iris, but I was in conference. With one of your people, as it happens.”

  Whatever Iris was going to say, she forgot it immediately. “Is it last night’s killing in Howley?”

  “Yes. Not really anything to do with me, but, I received a message from someone who we presume is the killer.”

  This time her voice was edged with concern. “In that case, I don’t know whether I should be nagging you.”

  “It’s no problem,” he assured her. “Ther
e’s nothing I can do to help, other than keep them informed of any more messages. If you give Inspector Pollack time to get back to the station, then speak to Terry Lumsden, I’m sure he’ll bring you up to date.”

  Based in York, Iris had been Deputy Chief Constable for a number of years, and her style of leadership was characterised by her ability to make quick decisions. “I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, I’m on my way to Leeds. I’ll be there in about half an hour. Can you come and see me? ASAP.”

  Visions of a panicky Lionel Quentin flooded his mind and brought a fresh smile to Drake’s lips. “It’s obviously urgent?”

  “Urgent and highly confidential. I don’t have a problem with people knowing you’re coming to see me, but I’m not prepared to tell you anything over the phone.”

  “It’ll take me about an hour to get to you.”

  “That’s soon enough. I’ll ensure the reception sergeant knows you’re expected. And if Lionel Quentin wants to argue, refer him to me.”

  Ten minutes later, he strode out into the icy wind, and climbed into his car for the journey to central Leeds.

  As he anticipated, Quentin baulked at the prospect, but Drake soon put him right.

  “It’s police business, Lionel, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the college takes twenty percent of all income from my work with the police. Iris insists that the matter is not only confidential, but urgent, which probably means someone in need of extensive counselling. The college is likely to make more than my day’s salary from it.”

  “The end of term report, Wesley.” There was a greater urgency about Quentin’s plea than there had been from Iris Mullins. “We’re in the middle of January, and we still haven’t got it.”

  “And mine is the only department behind with the job? Amanda can pick that up, and she can cover my appointments for the day. I have only one class scheduled, and I’m sure you can find someone just to sit in and keep the students occupied.”

  The argument would have gone on had Drake not brought it to an end by insisting he was expected in Leeds before noon.

  Although it was only a journey of twenty miles, the road – designated a major trunk route on most maps – was not good. Roughly following the twists and turns of the River Wharfe, it wound its way through several small towns and villages, until it finally met the Leeds outer ring road not far from Leeds/Bradford airport. From there it was a battle with heavy, city traffic to cover the four miles to the city centre. Even then, he would have to find somewhere to park, and make his way to police headquarters at the lower end of the Headrow. His estimate of an hour would not be far off the mark. And whatever the difficulties involved in getting there, spending a few hours in the city was infinitely preferable to the rest of the day in college, listening to staff and students fretting over the murder of Shana Kenny.

  The drive also allowed him time to think about Iris Mullins. She was one of those contacts he had made on the back of his father’s parliamentary calling. At the time, she had just been promoted to Deputy Chief Constable, and she was eager to bring in private consultants such as himself. Although the fees were costly, they were still more economical than employing such people directly.

  In her mid-fifties, with a dark fringe settled above penetrating eyes, she was short of stature, but with a degree of assurance that more than compensated for her five-foot, four-inch frame. She ruled with an iron hand, but beneath the outer veneer was a caring and concerned police officer.

  The fourth floor office she had commandeered overlooked the dual carriageway of The Headrow, one of the main thoroughfares circling the city centre, and when Drake was shown in, she greeted him with a warm smile and a friendly handshake.

  “It’s good to see you again, Wes. Aside from the killing in Howley, I hope life is treating you well.”

  Waving him to a seat by her desk, she fussed over the coffee pot, and eventually joined him, placing a cup in front of him. The customary round of small talk followed, centred on the perennial British favourite, the weather. She commented on how mild it had been recently, he countered with a dour warning that it was scheduled to break within the next few days, which prompted her to tell him of her forthcoming holiday to the Maldives, and he responded with his plans for a week in Cyprus later in the year.

  Eventually, with the clock coming up to noon, Iris brought the conversation round to the matter at hand.

  “Do you recall the corruption case in Bradford last year?”

  Drake sipped on his coffee, pursed his lips and raked his memory. “Eight officers from an out-of-town, medium-sized station, all found guilty. I seem to remember the ringleader was a detective inspector.”

  Iris nodded. “DI Donald Vaughan. Top man in CID at the station in question. Joined the force over twenty years ago, solid record, one of the best. He and four other detectives, along with three uniformed officers were found to be raking in huge sums of money. Vaughan was also guilty of five murders: an Asian man and his wife and child died when Vaughan set fire to their house, a Polish immigrant with a track record for drug-dealing was stabbed to death, and a fellow police officer, Detective Sergeant Geoffrey Eggleston, was shot. No physical evidence at any of the crimes, but of course, Vaughan eventually confessed.”

  Drake sympathised. “That kind of thing doesn’t do your public image any favours.”

  “Precisely. Do you know who exposed the corruption?”

  Once again, Drake raked his memory, and some of the details came back to him. He had not been personally involved in any of it, even though some of the station’s innocent officers had been stressed by the revelations. His knowledge of the case was superficial, gleaned from press and television reports.

  With a frown which telegraphed his strained memory, he replied, “It was another detective, wasn’t it?”

  “Detective Inspector Samantha… Vaughan.”

  Iris’s deliberate pause between the woman’s Christian and surname was designed to ram home the point, and it had the necessary effect.

  “Vaughan? His… What, sister, wife, mother?”

  “His wife. Sam Vaughan is about seven or eight years younger than Don, and as I understand it, theirs was never a match made in heaven. They’d been married for less than ten years, and Don was one of those men who kept his brain in his underpants. Even so, Sam believed him to be scrupulously honest when it came to the law. Then she learned of the corruption amongst the junior officers, and it started an enquiry. Somewhere along the line, Eggleston exposed Don as the ringleader. Eggleston’s reward was a bullet in the brain. Vaughan is now serving life imprisonment – mandatory for murder – with a minimum tariff of twenty-five years.”

  Iris fell silent, obviously waiting for some kind of comment. Drake could think of nothing to say, and confined himself to bland observation. “Quite the vicious little so-and-so, Mr Vaughan, wasn’t he?”

  “Quite. But he’s not my concern. Samantha is.”

  Iris fell quiet again, and gazed through the windows at the lunchtime traffic. Drake waited patiently. It was the kind of impasse he was familiar with, one he used himself on any number of occasions. It allowed time for the emotions to settle and words to form in the mind.

  She faced him. “From the moment he was arrested, Don Vaughan insisted that he was following orders from Sam. There was absolutely no evidence to corroborate his claim, but Sam was investigated just the same. Let’s face it, given the seriousness of the allegations we had no choice but to put her through the mill. She came away with a clean bill of health. Before Don came to trial, Sam suffered intolerable levels of abuse from some of her colleagues. She was shunned, verbally abused, spat upon and threatened with physical violence. Their attitude was that Don and his corrupt colleagues were only making a little extra cash, and he went a bit too far. Hell, anyone can make a mistake.”

  Iris’s anger began to show through, and she took a moment to calm down.

  “I don’t want you to run away with the idea that this was station-wide. I
t wasn’t. She did have some support, but the problem was sufficiently acute to prompt the station commander to ask if she would like to reconsider her evidence. He’s currently under suspension, along with the other officers she made complaints against. Naturally, we moved her to another station, but things were not much better there. All credit to her, she stuck to her guns, and rode it out, and come the trial, she gave evidence against Don and the other officers. The IOPC are still looking into the mess.”

  Still at a loss for any constructive comment, Drake repeated himself. “As I said, you’re not gonna come out of this smelling of roses.”

  “No. We’re not. However, there was something we didn’t see coming. After the trial, after Vaughan and his pals were sentenced, Sam collapsed: physically dropped to the floor as she was making her way from the court.”

  Realisation dawned on Drake. “Ah. PTSD. Exhaustion. Physical or mental?”

  For the first time in many minutes, Iris smiled. “You keep telling me you’re not medically qualified. You shouldn’t be making a diagnosis.”

  He returned the smile. “I’m not. I’m commenting. Did the medics come up with a different opinion?”

  “Of course not. She’s currently at a convalescent home north of the city. It’s a closely guarded secret. Necessary, I’m sorry to say. We didn’t get all of Vaughan’s people, and there’s always the danger that he’ll arrange for her to be eliminated as an act of revenge. She’s unresponsive, Wes. Not catatonic or anything like that. I mean, she eats normally, she spends some of her time reading – books more than the newspapers – watches a little television, carries out routine daily functions, such as washing, bathing, dressing, quite normally. But she also spends many hours laid on the bed, staring at the walls. She will not engage with the staff, the other patients, or the doctors. She’s surly, and snappy, and the only time she does talk to them is to insist that her name is no longer Vaughan, but Samantha Feyer; her maiden name.”