The Anagramist

by David W Robinson

  She lifted her head, her eyes raised to meet his, and in a voice which could be heard clear across the gardens, she cried, “I didn’t know.”

  She gripped his coat lapels, buried her face in his shirt, and began to weep, her body racked with uncontrollable sobs.

  In the enclosed environment of his private consulting room at the college, Drake would have been wary of such contact. It was too open to misinterpretation, and when it was necessary, when the client needed slight physical contact for reassurance, he always ensured that he was stood up, visible to those passing in the corridors.

  Out here in the open area, with other witnesses close by, he had no qualms. While her free-flowing tears soaked into his shirt, he placed gentle hands upon her shoulder, and pulled her closer.

  The crisis was here; soon it would be over, soon she would be in no-man’s land, but having left the trenches into which she had buried herself, would she be ready to advance, take the high ground? For now, she needed a friend; one who had no axe to grind, one who had no preconceived agenda other than to listen.

  Her crying began to subside, but she made no effort to move away from him. She began to moan, the words almost unintelligible. It sounded like, ‘I didn’t know’, repeated over and over again. Drake said nothing. He did not need to, and in any event, if he did say something, she would be unlikely to hear it, and if she did, she would dismiss it out of hand as blandishment, the equivalent of a parent hugging and patting a child, while delivering meaningless platitudes, like, ‘there, there, there. Daddy will make it all right’.

  A rapid glance around the gardens told him that they were the centre of attention. No one moved towards them, but everyone stared as if they were some kind of entertainment. Some counsellors might have found it embarrassing, and make the attempt to get Sam back to the house as quickly as possible. Drake was of a different mettle. In the grand scheme of things, these people did not matter. Let them stare, let them take this little drama and cling to it as a topic of conversation, something they could yatter about in the day lounge when the theoretical delights of television paled.

  “Crying like a baby, she was.”

  “She’s a nutter, you know.”

  “God knows how she made inspector.”

  “He’ll recommend pensioning her off.”

  “Not before time, either.”

  “Maybe he fancies his chances with her.”

  “He kept his hands where everyone could see them.”

  “She’d be worth it if she weren’t such a miserable bag.”

  While Sam clung to him, he allowed his mind to ramble along the absurd path. By the time the tale got back to Iris Mullins, he would be ready for whisking Sam off to a love nest somewhere in the tropics. Either that or he would be making a fortune for confirming what the powers that be already suspected.

  Control returned to her only slowly. She pressed her hands against his chest to back off, and Drake removed his hands from her shoulders. She stared at his damp shirt, and patted it.

  “I’ve made a mess of your shirt.”

  “It’ll wash.”

  He deliberately made no comment on her distress. Others might have fallen into the trap of asking, “Feeling better now?” or something along those lines. To do so would involve many possible responses. Better to leave it to her to take matters forward.

  She shuddered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve nothing to apologise for.”

  “I made a total fool of myself.”

  Drake disagreed. “Nothing of the kind. You’ve come to a realisation, Sam. Something you’ve probably been aware of since the trial.” His eyes blazed into hers. “You’re human, with all the frailties that are part and parcel of the label.” He suddenly felt the chill. “Come on. Let’s get back inside. We both need a cup of tea.”

  Sam’s initial response was a snort, which could have been humour or cynicism. “You’ve no chance. Coming up to lunch, they won’t make as tea.”

  His smiling exuded confidence. “Wanna bet?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Without Drake’s self-assurance and absolute control, Sam may have been proved right, but he called the shots. Leaving the threat of ringing Iris Mullins to remind them of his authority, he demanded tea, and he got it.

  “Are you normally so aggressive?” Sam demanded when he joined her at a window table in the dining room.

  “When I have to be.”

  The staff drew the line at delivering, so Drake collected it and placed a tray in the centre of the table. Sam poured while he settled into his seat.

  “I had a good teacher. My old man’s an MP, and ignoring that, he’s been a solicitor all his working life. Lawyers have to know when to come on strong, and the lesson rubbed off on me. The staff may not like it, but right now you need something to calm you down, and tea is as good as anything.”

  He dropped a single sachet of sugar into his cup, added milk, and stirred. It was another one of those hiatuses, designed to give him time to decide where to go next. Sam was delicately balanced between fully opening up and retreating even further, and the wrong word right now could send her into a downward spiral from which she may never recover.

  “You promised to tell me about the Anagramist.”

  He was secretly glad that she had reminded him. If nothing else, it let him off the hook, allowed her to lead the conversation, and because her query was related to police work, it would surely give him the opportunity to dig further into her troubles.

  “There’s not a great deal to tell. The Howley police suspect he’s a serial killer just starting out. I don’t know enough about the psychology of such men – or women – to offer an opinion, but his actions lead me to agree. He’s killed twice; one female, one male. There are two thin links between them. They both attended Howley College. Shana Kenny was a student, Gary Fellows was a tutor. The only other link is her attendance at one or two of his classes. On both occasions, the Anagramist has emailed me. Those emails each contain three separate anagrams: the victim’s name, the location of the bodies, and the method in which they died. Both were stabbed in the back. Shana’s throat was cut right across the trachea. Gary’s neck was sliced open, rupturing the carotid artery.” He spread his hands in a gesture of finality. “That’s it. That’s all we know.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see these emails?”

  Drake hesitated. The principle of confidentiality, prevalent throughout his work, had been rammed home to him by Kirsty. He really should not be discussing details of the case with anyone, and he certainly should not be allowing others to see the messages. On the other hand, Sam was still, technically, a serving police officer, albeit one who was on long-term sick leave, and if she were back at work, it was entirely possible that DC Mullins would call on her to assist with the investigation.

  “One condition. You keep it to yourself. I’m not actually certain that you should be allowed to see them.”

  “You’re forgetting, I don’t talk to anyone.”

  He had, indeed, forgotten it, but he took her reminder in good part, excused himself, and made his way outside to his car, where he picked up his briefcase, and returned to the dining room. Flipping up the lid, he took out his copies of the emails, and passed them across the table to her.

  In both cases, he had disassembled the anagrams and written the solutions alongside them. Sam took her time reading through the original messages and his analyses before passing the sheets back.

  She sipped from her cup. “Has it occurred to you that ‘the Anagramist’ might be an anagram of his real name?”

  Drake struggled to hide his surprise. “No. Quite frankly, it hadn’t. Do you have any experience of things like this?”

  “Plenty of killers write to newspapers, TV channels, and such, but as far as I’m aware, no one’s ever written to the police in such a bizarre manner.” She took back one of the sheets, and pointed to the printed signature, the Anagramist. “See here, I’m not as clever as you wi
th anagrams, but right away I could see the names Martin and Gareth. I don’t know whether that will get you any further, but…” She trailed off and shrugged. “Just an idea.”

  Drake took back the sheets, dropped them in his briefcase, closed the lid and removed it from the table, placing it at his feet.

  As he was about to speak, Sam pressed on. “You’re sure they’re from the perpetrator, not an accomplice?”

  “According to forensics, the only person present at both incidents is the killer. I don’t know how they know this.”

  “Doctor Edmond Locard established the take and leave principle. It is impossible for a criminal not to take something from the scene of crime, and leave something behind. If forensics say there was only one person present, then you can guarantee there was only one person present, and if you receive these emails after the event, then they’re from the killer.”

  The brief interlude gave Drake exactly the opening that he was seeking. Wary of the need to handle her gently, he brought the subject back to her.

  “We’re not here to talk about the Anagramist, but you know what’s just occurred to me? You are an excellent detective.”

  She smiled, and for the first time, Drake realised how pleasant and attractive she was. A vibrant woman, full of life, radiating warmth, compassion, and modesty.

  “What I’ve just pointed out to you is criminal investigation 101. You’re the expert with words – so you tell me – and I’m surprised you didn’t think of him hiding his real name in his pseudonym. No matter how unlikely, no stone should be left unturned at the beginning of an investigation.”

  He returned the smile. “Which only leads me to conclude that you should be in charge of the Anagramist inquiry, not Charlie Adamson.”

  Her features darkened again and she shook her head. “Charlie’s a good detective. He was promoted on merit. I know he’s a pain in the posterior, but don’t underestimate his skills.”

  He held up his hands, palms open facing her. “I promise. Now, let’s think about Sam, eh? Observation on your skill as a detective isn’t the only thing I’ve picked up. Why haven’t you told Iris Mullins you won’t take the job in Landshaven?”

  Sam was still thinking about the question when Drake continued to press.

  “You see, it occurs to me that you don’t want police work. They can stick it. Your very words to me first time we met. Looking at the bigger picture, you don’t have to stay here, Sam.” This time he waved at the room indicating Peace Garden as a whole rather than the dining room. “You’re not a prisoner. You’re not mentally unstable. You don’t have any physical injuries. You’ve been diagnosed as depressed. There is nothing to stop you saying to Iris, ‘shove it’, packing your cases and walking out of here. So why haven’t you?”

  She took the question well. He had anticipated that she might sink once more into bitterness, but she did not. Instead, she equivocated. “That’s something I have asked myself time and time again. I’m not happy here.”

  “Would you be happier at home?”

  She was less definite this time. “I have no home. It’s up for sale. I couldn’t stand the thought of living there any longer.”

  “You’re avoiding the question, Sam. Would you be happier in a hotel, or flat? Plenty of places to rent in the city.”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t know. Probably not. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “No. I’m here to help you come to terms with whatever is troubling you, and we got close to the root of the problem outside. Let me be clear on this, Sam. I’m not here to rubberstamp Iris Mullins’ ideas. She wants you in Landshaven. I don’t. I want you where you want to be. If, at the end of our journey, I don’t consider you suitable for Landshaven, or any other post, I will tell you first, and Iris afterwards.”

  “Fair enough. I don’t suppose I could ask for more.”

  Drake checked his watch. The other patients would be filing in for lunch very soon. “I don’t think that. In fact, I agree with Iris. I think you would be brilliant in Landshaven, but unlike her, I’ll tell you why. I’ve just said, you are an excellent detective. She’s offering you a plum job – from your point of view, that is. She told me you love Landshaven, you’re promoted to chief inspector, you will be the head of CID. What more could you ask for? On the other hand, you don’t need to become head of CID in Landshaven in order to move there. You have no home. You’ve just said as much. What’s wrong with packing your bags, shifting to Landshaven, renting a flat, and then having a word with Sainsbury’s?”

  “Again, I can see what you’re saying.”

  “The only problem, Sam, is you. If you don’t take Iris’s offer, you’ll regret it. Maybe sooner, maybe later. And why? Because you are an excellent detective, but more than that you empathise with the suspects and victims alike, so much so, that it’s driven you to the point you’re at now. Tearing yourself apart because while you understood the torment of these people, you didn’t know it. And now, thanks to your ex-husband, you do know it, and you’re castigating yourself because you believe you made light of it with these poor people.”

  He reached across the table and placed his hands on her, clasping them lightly. There was no intimacy in the move, just simple, friendly contact, like an extended handshake. And Sam made no effort to withdraw.

  “I have news for you,” he went on. “We’re all in that position. Each and every one of us.” For the second time he waved a loose arm at the dining room. “The doctors, nurses, ancillary workers here, they treat you with respect, with patience, make an effort to motivate you, but for all you know, they could be thinking, ‘Why do I have to deal with this miserable cow?’ You see? They don’t know what you’re going through. They think they understand your pain, but they don’t know it. At the back of their mind is a shopping list, groceries to be collected on the way home, meeting their boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, wives, for a drink after work. They emphasise, they sympathise, but they don’t know.”

  He let go of her hands, stood up and collected his briefcase.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to leave. You may or may not want to see me again.”

  “I’ve already decided.”

  Her voice was so flat and unemotional, that Drake read the obvious into it. “Okay. If you do need support, get onto Iris. I’m sure she’ll find someone else.”

  “Why? Don’t you want to deal with me any longer?”

  “It’s not that. I thought—”

  “Don’t think. Listen. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you have opened me up. I don’t yet know whether to be angry or grateful for that, but I would like to see you again.”

  This time she actually giggled, and Drake chalked up a point for himself. If nothing else, he had restored part of her sense of humour.

  “That sounds as if we’ve been on a date,” she said. “I don’t know when it’s convenient for you.”

  “Tuesdays are good. How about eleven o’clock next Tuesday morning?”

  She nodded, and left it to Drake to terminate the session.

  “Eleven o’clock next Tuesday. I’ll be here. In the meantime, Sam, if there’s anything troubling you, don’t ring Iris. You have my number. Ring me instead.”

  ***

  After mingling with the reporters outside the police station, and following Drake to Peace Garden for the second time, the Anagramist came better prepared. This time, he had a camera with him.

  All attempts to track down the identity of the man or woman Drake was visiting had run into a brick wall. There were hundreds of potential candidates, many of them physically disabled, just as many suffering psychological problems, and it was on the latter that he concentrated his efforts, but no amount of searching would lead him to any firm conclusions.

  He knew next to nothing about counselling or psychotherapy, but it was a fine, sunny, if cold day, and he guessed (rightly as it turned out) that Drake would encourage his patient – if that was the right word for a discipline as vague as counselling
– to take a walk with him around the grounds, and that was exactly what Drake did. Predictable? As easy as predicting the destination of a train running on a single track line.

  When Drake and the fair-haired, mystery woman stepped out of the building, they automatically turned towards the gardens, away from the Anagramist’s position on the lane outside the gates, but by then it was too late. The Anagramist already had four, clear photographs of the woman. A little research now, and her identity… and her life… would be his.

  February 10

  Chapter Seventeen

  Coming from the college at a few minutes after half past nine, Drake was not in the best of moods.

  Storms had battered much of the UK over the weekend, and the aftermath had seen the river levels rise to the point where the Wharfe was threatening to burst its banks. The winds had abated through Sunday night/Monday morning but to add to the town’s woes they brought flurries of light snow, creating more havoc for drivers and pedestrians alike, and when he left the college after a compulsory evening shift, the air temperature hovered just above zero, bringing the ever present threat of ice above the thin covering of snow.

  It had been a tedious day. Two classes, both of them sparsely attended by the kind of students who would always be there come hell or high water, a single session with a member of staff in need of counselling on her husband’s gambling addiction, and a lengthy, dreary management meeting in the afternoon during which he managed to get into several arguments with his colleagues, and particularly Principal Quentin.

  In such circumstances, Becky would usually provide the safety valve, but the police were still on maximum alert and she was on late shift. It was two weeks since the last Anagramist attack, which had taken place two weeks after the first, and they were anticipating the killer, working to a regular routine, striking again. In Becky’s case it meant that she and her uniformed colleagues would be called to every tiny incident, no matter how apparently irrelevant, to ensure that it was not the build-up to another murder. When he spoke to her at eight o’clock, she was as irritated as him, having already dealt with four separate calls, two of them domestics, one a case of shoplifting, and the final one an argument in a pub.