The Anagramist

by David W Robinson

  She remained silent, and he reached into his wallet, retrieved a business card, which he handed to her.

  “Call me any day or night.”

  ***

  When Drake pulled into Peace Garden, the Anagramist had no choice but to stop and park in the lane outside. The high, iron gates were open, but the entrance to the house was decked with CCTV security cameras, and they would cover every angle of the gateway and the short drive. If he drove in, aside from the risk of Drake noticing him, his car would be caught on those cameras, and it was almost certain, that he would too.

  Why was Drake here? It was obviously some kind of semi-secure establishment, but what did it have to do with Howley College? Was he dealing with in-placement assessments?

  It was all a bit of a puzzle, and for a moment the Anagramist believed that following Drake was a waste of time and petrol.

  He left the engine of his Renault Clio running. Anything to keep out the January cold. He was about to put the car in gear, drive off and make his way back to Howley, when he paused, took out his smartphone, accessed the web and called up information on Peace Garden, Leeds.

  A broad smile crossed his lips. A convalescent home for physically and psychologically damaged cops. That explained so much. All he had to do now was find out who Drake was visiting, and, man or woman, add the name to his target list.

  Chapter Eight

  Unlike her partner, who could be haphazard about the times he signed in at the college, Becky was never late for work, but even by her standards, getting to the station for half past one when she was not due until two, was extraordinary.

  She had been seething ever since his call earlier in the day. It was common knowledge throughout the station that Adamson had no time for Wes Drake, but the underlying reason was not so well-known. Everyone assumed that it was Adamson’s gung-ho approach to policing, an attitude that said crime was the exclusive province of the police, and professionals from other non-related disciplines had no business shoving their oars in. Becky was happy to let people think that. It was preferable to the truth, which would do her reputation no favours, nor Adamson’s.

  She and the overbearing chief inspector had indulged in a brief fling some years previously, when she was considering a move to CID. Adamson, at that time merely an inspector, but still the most senior officer in Howley CID, was happy to recommend her, and the station commander was considering her application when the affair began. It did not last long. Over the previous year or so, Adamson had led everyone to believe that he and his wife were divorced. Becky learned that he was still married and living with her. Like many such cases, it was an accidental discovery. While he took a shower after one of their meetings at an out-of-town hotel his phone buzzed to indicate an incoming text message. Thinking it might be urgent, she checked it, and discovered a message from his wife asking him to pick up a few groceries from the supermarket on his way home.

  The affair came to a bitter end there and then, but in deference to his pleading, she kept the information to herself. In truth, she was more concerned for the embarrassment she might suffer than she was for him. Within a week, she withdrew her application for CID, and instead took the sergeant’s exam, determined to stay in uniform. In the intervening eight or so years, an icy distance had developed between them. She purposely had as little to do with him as she could, and staying in uniform helped.

  Drake, naturally, knew about the affair, in much the same way as she knew about his past dalliances. He was sufficiently well-adjusted to dismiss it as none of his business, and he helped maintain the pretence that Adamson’s dislike of him was personal and professional, not related to his relationship with Becky.

  “For all we know, it could be the truth,” he had often said when they talked about it, and at those times when she considered the matter, Becky agreed, with the reservation that her brief affair with the chief inspector was, nevertheless, a factor.

  When it came to Adamson all but accusing Drake of involvement in the previous night’s events, it was time to put aside her reluctance to speak with the chief inspector, and make the position clear to him.

  She found him in his office, a tiny enclave off the main, first floor corridor. He was busy with timesheets, skimming through them, circling anything he felt needed querying, signing off those he was happy with. When Becky entered, he tossed his pen to one side and leaned back in his chair.

  “By the look on your face, I’d guess Mr Wonderful has been complaining about this morning.”

  “Wrong. He has more to do than whine about you. But he did mention it, and that’s why I’m here. Where do you get off accusing him of killing that girl?”

  Her ire did not ruffle Adamson’s calm exterior. “I don’t think I did. I just asked him where he was between two and four this morning. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Eliminating a possible suspect.”

  “He’s no more a suspect than I am. He came to you in good faith, and all you did was tell him where to stick it.”

  The chief inspector sat forward and jabbed his finger into the desktop. “He came to me with a load of twaddle, which, for all I know, he dreamed up himself. After all, he’s the prime puzzler, isn’t he? I know. He told me so. I’ve more important things on my plate, like a dead girl.”

  In an effort to control her temper, Becky pulled in a shaky breath and let it out with a hiss. “If you wanna know where he was, I’ll tell you. In bed. With me. Just back off, Adamson, or I’ll go to the chief.”

  “And you’d better back off, before I put you on report. Remember, I’m a chief inspector, not a frigging constable.”

  “An arsehole is what you are. Just because—”

  Adamson got to his feet and cut her off. “I’m not gonna stand here and listen to you badmouthing me. Do like I told your boyfriend, and piss off.”

  “Then keep your hair-brained opinions to yourself, you prick.”

  Their voices were raised, and at that point, Chief Superintendent Terence Lumsden stepped into the room, bringing an abrupt end to the argument, and silence to the room.

  The fifty-year-old station commander had been raised in Howley, and had come to his present rank by the old-fashioned route, signing on as a constable and working his way steadily through the ranks. Popular with most of the people under his command, he was not especially hard line, but there were those times when he would clamp down, and both Becky and Adamson realised that this was one such occasion.

  “You do realise that you can be heard all over top floor?”

  “Sorry, sir.” Becky said.

  “It’s a personal matter, sir,” Adamson confirmed.

  “You’re supposed to be professional police officers. Personal matters have no place in the station when you’re on duty. Charlie, I’ll speak to you later. Rebecca, my office please.”

  Feeling like a schoolgirl summoned before an angry headmaster, Becky followed Lumsden meekly along the corridor, into his corner office, where she stood before his desk, hands clasped lightly behind her back.

  She always had the feeling that this office was larger than the CID room, but it was probably the lack of personnel and furnishings which gave that impression. Overlooking the rear car park and the banks of the river behind, it was neatly and ergonomically arranged, with everything the chief superintendent needed immediately to hand.

  As station commander, it was incumbent upon him to be wary of potential flashpoints between officers, many of which stemmed from personal, often clandestine relationships. As a result, Lumsden was one of the few who knew of the brief affair between her and the chief inspector.

  “A personal matter, Rebecca? Is it the matter I’m thinking of?”

  “No, sir. Not exactly.”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to explain what.”

  “I’d rather not, sir.”

  “And I must insist.” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, and clasped his hands in front of him. “We’re a team, Rebecca, and both you and Charlie are excellent examples o
f what a police officer should be. We can’t have this kind of falling out in public. Now what is the problem?”

  Rebecca made an instant decision. One way or another, Lumsden would hear about the root cause of the argument, and it was as well to get her account in first. “Wes received what I suspected was a malicious communication in the early hours of this morning. As it turned out, it named the young woman who was murdered on Bradford Hill. And it not only named her, but gave the location of her murder. Wes came in with it first thing, and Adamson—”

  “Chief Inspector Adamson.”

  The lesson was not lost on Becky. “I beg your pardon. Chief Inspector Adamson told him to clear off. More than that, he practically accused Wes of involvement, if not in the girl’s death, then the construction of the email. According to what Wes told me, Adamson believes he’s trying to reinvent himself. I put Adamson right, and he lost the plot.”

  “For the second time, it’s Chief Inspector Adamson. I expect you to show due respect to a fellow officer’s rank. Very well. I’ll speak to Charlie.”

  “With all due respect, sir, you might be better speaking to Inspector Pollack. She collared Wes at the college a little later in the morning, after Chief Inspector Adamson told her what went on.” Becky purposely laid stress upon the words ‘chief inspector’.

  “In that case, I’ll speak to Kirsty before I have a word with Charlie. I won’t take this matter any further, but I’m asking you, please tone down your anger in the station. If there’s any repetition, one or both of you could find yourself in trouble. You can go.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  ***

  When the door closed behind Becky, Lumsden reached for the phone and invited Kirsty Pollack to join him.

  He knew that the two women were close friends. Although Becky was a year or two older than Kirsty, they had joined the police at about the same time, and had things been a little different, he had no doubt that Becky would have been Kirsty’s superior, but the sniping between Adamson and the sergeant had seen her prefer uniformed to CID. Notwithstanding that, he knew that Kirsty, an ambitious woman with one eye on her next promotion, would not pick sides, and he could expect nothing but the bald truth from her.

  She arrived a few minutes later, and at his invitation, sat opposite. He spent a few moments outlining the scenes he had witnessed and heard in Adamson’s office, and related the tale Becky had told him.

  “You spoke to Drake, apparently, so I’d like to hear your story.”

  “You might not like it, sir, but Becky has a point. According to Sergeant Rickson, Wes turned up just after nine o’clock, and Charlie gave him short shrift. I was at the college at the time, speaking with the staff, and Charlie rang, asking me to put Drake right on what does and doesn’t constitute evidence in a murder investigation. I figured he guessed that I’d get through where he couldn’t, and to be frank, Charlie’s attitude was that Drake was wasting police time.” She paused just long enough for Lumsden to grasp the significance of her next announcement. “He was wrong.”

  The ploy worked. “Adamson was wrong?”

  “Yes, sir. I spent half an hour or more with Wes while he went through his analysis of this email. It clearly spelled out Shana Kenny’s name, and the location of her body, which, as it happens, is also where she was killed. Not only that, while I was sat with Drake, he cracked the final line which told us how she had died; open trachea. The only person who could have sent the email to Wes in the early hours of this morning, is the killer, or an accomplice. I spoke to forensics a while ago, and the early results indicate that the killer was working alone, so it had to be him.”

  “Bloody hell.” Lumsden’s descent into a mild vernacular which few people ever heard him use in the station, highlighted his astonishment. “Was there anything else in this email that might lead us to the sender?”

  “No, sir. Wes forwarded a copy to me, and I have the IT people looking into it, tracking down the IP address. I don’t think it’ll do us any good. The sender used a webmail company. One of those where anyone can register an address, and even though you have to supply a name and a physical address, it’s not as how these companies run exhaustive checks.” Kirsty paused, obviously hesitant to go on, but quickly made up her mind. “With all due respect, sir, Charlie has a downer on Wes Drake, and we both know why. Even beyond the business with him and Becky, he doesn’t approve of other agencies poking their noses into police business. We’re forever asking the public to help as much as they can, and fair enough, Charlie accepts help, but not when it comes from people like Wes.”

  “Have you discussed this matter with Charlie?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. I’ll talk to him about it after debrief at the end of the day, but I need to speak to him in private. He is the senior CID officer, and I don’t want to make him look a total prat in front of the crew.”

  “Good. That’s the way to handle it. What about Drake? Has Charlie’s attitude put him off?”

  Kirsty laughed good-naturedly. “I’ll tell you something, sir. Wes Drake is tougher than a dozen Charlie Adamsons. He’s agreed to keep me posted if he gets any more messages. I don’t think this will help us find the killer because, as Wes said, if he was going to identify himself, why hide behind a ridiculous name like the Anagramist. But if he’s taunting Wes Drake, somewhere along the line, he’s bound to make a mistake, and it might just be the angle we need.”

  “I totally agree. Do us all a favour, Kirsty, and keep Drake sweet, but make sure you keep Charlie in the loop.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You don’t have to risk your job for me. I told you, I can handle Charlie Adamson, no sweat.”

  Drake and Becky sat facing each other by the fireside. The hearth comprised the original stone fireplace and chimney breast, into which a mahogany mantle shelf was set above a coal-effect, gas convector heater. It was rare that they used the appliance, preferring the less direct, more ambient heating of the radiators.

  The shelf was decorated with several ornamental pieces: a china ballerina and a similar piece decorated as a 1920s/30s debutante. Photographs stood either end of the shelf, one of Becky’s family, mother, father, brother, two sisters, the other of Drake’s father and his late mother. In the centre was an intricate, battery driven, pendulum clock, which read quarter past eleven.

  Outside the wind battered the stone walls and agitated the bare branches of the apple and cherry trees which grew in the back garden. Thanks to a high pressure zone sitting over Scandinavia and Northern Britain, there had been little rain and no snow, but fierce winds shrank the air temperature from plus three or four degrees to something sub-zero.

  After a quiet shift, Becky had arrived home at ten twenty-five, and was glad to lock the doors and get inside, into the warmth, keep out the weather and the world at large. Over a light meal of cheese on toast, she gave him a broad account of her day’s work, and then dropped the bombshell on him; her argument with Adamson.

  At that point, he delivered his verdict.

  She fought back. “It’s not about fighting your battles for you, Wes. It’s about him slagging you off. And we all know why, don’t we?”

  Comfortably cradling a beaker of tea, Drake had to agree. “By the time I got back to the college, he’d already rung Kirsty. She was waiting for me.”

  Becky capitalised on the information. “There you are then. How many more people listened to him running you down? I won’t have it. Just because I chose you instead of him? Christ, it was no competition.”

  He aimed a warning finger at her. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but just the same, don’t push your luck. Didn’t I tell you on the phone that he’d threatened to speak to you? Leave Charlie Adamson to me. I’ll tie him in so many knots, he’ll have to turn to the east so he can look west.”

  Becky let the argument go, and turned to other matters. “Where did you get to this afternoon? I rang you a couple of times, but your phone was off, and you never said anything about client
appointments.”

  “The phone wasn’t on. It was in flight mode. What did you want anyway?”

  “Nothing in particular. I was due for a break at six, and I thought you might fancy a pie and a pint in the Riverside.” She chuckled. “I ended up spending half an hour with Jo Walsh in the canteen. Boring? For a DC all that woman ever talks about is her job and Benidorm.”

  Becky often acted as a sounding board for him, especially with female clients, and she understood the value of confidentiality in his work. Nevertheless, he stressed the need to keep the client’s name and location to herself, and told her of the call from Iris Mullins and the time he spent in the company of Sam Feyer. Becky listened with intense interest, and responded in a voice filled with awe.

  “The Bradford corruption case. Wow. They really treated her like dog-doo, you know. Personally, I think she deserved a medal.”

  “That’s not the impression she gave me. Listening to her, it’s as if this business has ended her career.”

  The comment puzzled Becky. “But she was promoted. Ahead of schedule, too.”

  “Promoted, yes. Held up as a shining example of what a police officer is all about. But she’s ostracised, and changing stations didn’t help. She’s so far down that even the temptation of a plum job on the coast can’t bring her back.”

  “And can you?”

  He did not answer immediately. The problem had bounced around his head all the way from Leeds back to Howley, through the darkening afternoon, battling with heavy traffic, and by the time he got to the college, where he spent a further hour working on the report Quentin so urgently wanted, he had reached no firm conclusions.