“Becky, if I have to, I’ll sign myself out. Our man made a mistake last night. He opened his mouth before he realised that he was dealing with someone who was more than a match for him. “He’s threatened…” He glanced at Kirsty, reminded himself of the secrecy surrounding Sam Feyer’s identity and location. “He’s threatened one of my most important clients. Hence the call to Iris. I don’t have time to hang about in hospital, and whatever damage he’s done, I’m sure I’ll cope with it.”
Watching the exchange, Kirsty asked for the second time, “Who is this client, Wes?”
“I said, I can’t tell you. Not that I don’t want to, but I can’t. Her identity and location are subject to high levels of secrecy.”
Kirsty pursed her lips and nodded her understanding. “Gangland witness, probably. All right, let’s forget that for the moment, and tell us what happened last night.”
The nurse brought him a welcome cup of tea, and furnished the two women with similar, and while he drank, allowing the hot, sweetened brew to infuse him with fresh energy, he gave them a detailed account of the previous night’s attack. On occasion, Kirsty stopped him to ask pertinent questions, which he answered to the best of his ability, stressing that most of his ideas on the Anagramist’s approach, were no better than intelligent guesswork.
“The one thing I’m absolutely sure of, the one thing you may be able to look into, is his method. If you remember, I couldn’t understand how he was able to sneak up on his victims without alerting them. He’s a knife-thrower. Worse than that, he’s an expert. He’s throwing from fifteen, maybe twenty feet, but his aim was bang on target, and if I hadn’t seen his reflection, if I hadn’t begun to turn, I would have been victim number three.”
Shock registered on Becky’s face. Busily making notes, Kirsty was a little more sceptical. “Are you sure about this, Wes? I mean, you were under attack, and the mind—”
Not for the first time he interrupted. “How do you think he got close enough to me? If he’d been running at me, I would have heard him, I would have seen his reflection. He threw the knife. I don’t know whether it helps, but you should check into known knife-throwers.”
She made an effort to placate him. “Okay, okay. I’ll look into it when I get back to the station. Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“His car. It’s an old Renault Clio.”
“Registration?”
Drake shook his head sadly. “I wasn’t taking enough notice. I was more concerned with his whereabouts when I was backing into the drive. I can tell you it’s on a 53 plate and the first two letters of the registration are either, BA or SA.”
Kirsty made more notes. “Birmingham or Glasgow. I’ll check with the DVLA, see if we can track any down in this area. Anything else?”
“Yes. One more thing. It seems he’s motivated by something my father did against his. I’ll get in touch with the old man a little later this morning.”
“No point,” Becky interjected. “I rang him first thing, and he’s on his way back from London. He’ll be here about two this afternoon.”
“In that case, I’ll go see him. Now do me a favour, and get me some clothing and a doctor. I’m out of here.”
As if demonstrating his determination, he removed the sensor from his finger. The machine bleeped for attention, and a moment later the nurse returned.
“Mr Drake—”
“I don’t want you to think I’m unappreciative of your work, but I don’t have time to laze around here. If you could remove this plumbing—” He indicated the cannula in the back of his hand. “—and then get me the necessary forms, I’ll discharge myself.”
A few minutes later, he was confronted with a doctor, who gave him a routine examination, and then frowned on his insistence upon signing himself out. He appeared no older than some of the college students, but Drake was only too aware that appearances could be deceptive. He was probably thirty years of age.
“We really need to keep you here, Mr Drake, for at least another night. Just to make sure there are no serious after-effects.”
Drake would not hear it. “How much damage has he done?”
“When they brought you in, the knife was still in place. We removed it, and the police have it.” The doctor nodded at Kirsty. “It was a deep wound. Hacked into the trapezius, deltoid and infraspinatus muscles. They’re grouped around your shoulder, and facilitate its general movements. Whoever jammed the knife in missed the major veins and arteries slightly higher up, so from that point of view you were lucky. We’ve stitched up the muscles and closed the wound. The internal stitches will dissolve naturally, but you’ll need to see your GP in about a week, maybe two, to have the exterior stitches removed. The wound will need cleaning and the dressing will need to be changed at least once a day. You can come here if you wish, but it’s just as easy to get your partner to do it for you. Finally, you’ll need to keep that arm immobilised until everything settles down. The nurse will put you in a sling in a few minutes, and you’ll have to use that for maybe a week. Other than that, painkillers like ibuprofen or co-codamol if you prefer, should help ease your pain. But really, you should stay with us, at least for one more night. Shock, you know. It can do strange things to you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but seriously, I don’t have time. Could you please finish whatever you need to do, and get me my clothing?”
The doctor shrugged. “On your head be it. You’ll have to sign a waiver.”
“I’ll sign a cheque if it’ll help get me out of here.”
With the nurse’s assistance, he creaked into a sitting position, and she applied a sling before he dressed. His shirt was covered in blood, ruined, and while there was less on his jacket, it too was cut, and would need throwing away. He struggled to get one arm into his jacket, and Becky fastened the buttons, leaving the other arm on the outside. And while this was going on, she admonished him for refusing to stay under observation for another night.
“I don’t think this is wise, Wes.”
He would not admit that every movement was agony. “Wisdom comes with age. I’m not old enough to be wise yet. Right now, we have to get on our friend’s trail, and I have to make arrangements to secure the life of one of my clients.”
Chapter Nineteen
It would be one of the most painful and uncomfortable days Drake could ever remember.
Riding in the passenger seat of Becky’s compact Citroen, he felt every bump and pothole in the road, despite his partner’s best efforts to avoid them. Every twist and turn on Moor Heights Lane shot fresh spears through his tired, aching body, and each stab was magnified untold times in the area of the wound. By the time they got home, where a CSI team were busy at the front of the house, he was all but exhausted; the minimal effort required to get out of the hospital and into the car, had sapped what little energy he had left.
Once in the house, Becky followed him up the stairs (purely to ensure that it did not faint and fall back down) and saw him into bed, and in a matter of minutes, he had drifted into much-needed sleep.
It was almost two o’clock when he woke, and once again the wound made its presence felt.
Determined to ignore it, he washed and shaved, dressed as best he could, and made his way downstairs to find Becky in the kitchen, along with Chief Superintendent Lumsden, DCI Adamson, and Kirsty.
There was some fuss from them, asking after his well-being. He returned their platitudes with reassurance, Becky furnished him with a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee, and as he ate, Lumsden explained their presence.
“Primarily, Wes, we need a formal statement from you, and I felt it was better for us to come here than drag you to the station. Above and beyond that, Iris rang me at nine o’clock this morning, and brought me up to speed on your work with Samantha Vaughan. She authorised me to bring Charlie and Kirsty into our confidence, and also gave me the all clear to let Becky chauffeur you to Leeds tomorrow. Apparently, she’s already spoken to Sam and explained the situation
, and Sam has agreed to rescheduling your appointment.”
Drake pushed the cereal bowl to one side, and with some difficulty broke two ibuprofen tablets from a bubble pack. He swallowed them with a large gulp of coffee, and in the light of these difficulties, he allowed Becky to put the sling in place.
“Sam is in a very delicate condition. She’s finely balanced between progress and regression, and I don’t want too many high-flying detectives swamping her. All the same, we need to look into the possibility of her husband employing the Anagramist to do his dirty work.”
The announcement, extreme as it was, produced a predictable round of complaints, the most vociferous from Adamson. Drake, struggling to maintain his grip on the discussion whilst combating his body’s protests, waited for it to die down.
“You’re detectives, I’m not. You know the score better than I do, and you’re the people who know not to leave any stone unturned. The initial question we have to ask is, how the hell did the Anagramist know about her? There are several possibilities, the most likely of which is that he followed me to Leeds. But even so, he can’t have got access to Peace Garden. So how did he know I was dealing with Sam?”
“It doesn’t take a lot of working out, Wes,” Kirsty said. “There are plenty of people there, and most of them have psychological as well as physical problems.”
Drake would not hear it. “He specifically said ‘that crazy bitch’. He knew I was seeing a woman. How? Again, at least two possible answers. Security procedures at Peace Garden were compromised. Don’t ask me how. You people know about these things. Alternatively, there’s a leak in Iris Mullins’ office. Iris assured me that Sam’s location is subject to unprecedented levels of secrecy.”
Again it was Kirsty who pointed out the obvious. “He didn’t name her, Wes. Are we sure—”
“I’m seeing only one female client who could possibly be described as ‘crazy’. As it happens, she doesn’t have any psychiatric or deep psychological problems. As matters stand, we don’t know if he knows her name, but it’s a risk we cannot take.”
Adamson’s lack of contribution to the debate had not gone unnoticed. As if he was suddenly aware of it, he commented now. “Don Vaughan is in a high security prison.”
Drake sighed. “I know that. But his money isn’t, and according to what I’ve been told, at least two million remains unaccounted for. How difficult do you think it would be for him to get a message to the people who work for him?”
Fatigue began to wash over him again, his body demanding more rest. Silently cursing his lack of anticipation the previous night, his stupidity and turning his back when he knew someone was in the vicinity, he shook the malaise off.
“I’m not saying I have this right. I’m saying that there is a potential threat to Sam Feyer, and we have to take that threat seriously.”
Becky, also contributing to the debate for the first time, picked up on a minor point. “Sam who?”
Once more, Drake mentally admonished himself for his error. “I’m sorry. You obviously don’t know. She’s abandoned her married name, and reverted to her maiden name. If anyone uses the name Vaughan when referring to her, she can be quite short with them. To get back to what I was saying, we have to take this threat seriously. I’ll speak to Sam tomorrow, and take her views on board.”
The detective in Adamson came to the fore. “Putting all that aside, the Anagramist has miscalculated, hasn’t he?”
Drake agreed. “Badly. He was cocksure. Certain that I was a dead man, which is why he opened his mouth, and in doing so, he’s given us information which we might not otherwise have had. We know that he’s a knife-thrower, and a skilled one at that. We know that he has more targets in mind. Although he mentioned no names, Sam’s not his only target. Again I quote, ‘I’ll kill them all’.”
“And your father’s involved somewhere along the line.”
Drake felt his features darken. “I need to speak to Dad.” He took in their bland looks of disapproval. “He’s an MP, and with the best will in the world, you people might be more intimidated by him than I am. When we’re through, I’ll get Becky to run me to his place, and see what he might be able to tell us. In the meantime, you should start looking at people skilled in the art of throwing a knife.”
“We’re already on with that,” Kirsty assured him. “Not many in this area… at least, not many with a record.”
Drake hastened to put her right. “Knife throwing isn’t restricted to the bad boys. It’s also a sport and a form of entertainment. Please, don’t ignore any possible avenue of investigation.”
The debate came to an end. Weakness, general debilitation gradually overtaking him, Drake gave a formal statement, concentrating only on the facts, which Kirsty wrote out, and asked him to sign. After which, he excused himself, and made his way back into bed.
***
A couple of miles away, the Anagramist applied more topical ointment to the bruises on the left side of his face, and fumed at the local news on TV.
The police had made much of the attack on Drake, and especially the manner in which he had survived. It sent the Anagramist’s already fragile temper to new heights and it took a lot of effort to bring it back under control.
In doing so, he recalled the advice he had read in a renowned SAS officer’s biography. “The secret to planning is maintaining self-control. Losing your cool runs the risk of losing sight of your objective.”
Well, his objective was vengeance, plain and simple.
Drake was lucky. Only after the event did the Anagramist realised the inadvisability of both location and timing. In his single-minded determination to take Drake out, he had forgotten the power of those security lights, and the blurred mirror effect of those frosted panes in the front door. It was a mistake he would not repeat.
Well, Drake would still pay, and that desire for icy revenge would be satisfied.
Chapter Twenty
Drake had been asleep less than an hour when Becky disturbed him. “Your dad’s here. Want me to bring him up or will you see him downstairs?”
He creaked into a sitting position, winced and made an effort to rotate his shoulder. It was still too early. The pain was almost intolerable. “I’ll come down. Give me a minute or two.”
Compelled to sleep on his right side, he had not removed the sling. With it in place, undressing was simple, but dressing was a different proposition, one that was almost impossible.
He put on a pair of jogging pants, slipped his feet into a pair of carpet slippers, but putting on a T-shirt proved one step too far, and in the end, he carried it downstairs, where Becky helped him under the watchful eye of his father.
Age 66, Ted Drake still cut an impressive figure. Almost as tall as his youngest son, his healthy head of dark hair had begun to grey at the sideburns and temples, but that aside, the eyes still shone with the innate intelligence of a career solicitor and politician.
The incumbent MP for Howley, he had held both the constituency and the respect of his electorate for almost twelve years, and had been re-elected several times. The last election had seen him returned with an increased majority – a factor of the opposition’s dithering on Brexit – and not for the first time he had been offered a junior ministerial post, but as he had done in the past, he refused.
Notwithstanding his professional education and standing, he still spoke with a basic, broad Yorkshire accent, and he did not mince words.
“What the hell kind of mess have you got yourself into, lad?”
Drake had said earlier that the police might find themselves intimidated by Ted. His youngest son was not, and responded with similar candour. “Not one of my making, Dad. In fact, if the Anagramist is telling it like it is, it’s one of your making.”
Becky place cups of coffee before the two men, and sat alongside her partner. “There’s no need for that, Wes.”
“Unfortunately, Becky, you’re wrong. There is a need for it.” Aware that his irritation had as much to do with h
is pain as anything the Anagramist had said, he turned on his father. “According to our friendly neighbourhood psychopath, he’s on a trail of revenge for something you did to his father.”
With all the skill of a lifetime confronting antagonists, both legal and political, Ted brushed aside his son’s annoyance. “Without knowing his name, how am I supposed to know who we’re talking about. Listen, lad, I’m a lawyer, I’m an MP. I make friends and enemies like that.” He clicked his fingers. “You need to narrow it down a bit.”
Drake sucked in his breath, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Expanding his lungs moved his left shoulder, and pain sliced through the stitched wound like a scimitar. He cursed softly and allowed the pain to settle.
“I didn’t come here to get into an argument with you. I came to see how you're getting on, and if you’re not up to this, say so. We can do it later.”
Drake shook his head. “We don’t have time. Lives are at stake. Listen, Dad, have you ever come across anyone, upset anyone who might have been skilled in knife-throwing? Or had a son who could throw knives?”
There was a moment of complete silence before the old man began to chuckle softly to himself. “Well, well, well. Maurice Glenn. I don’t believe it.”
Drake and Becky exchanged blank stares.
Ted brought himself together. “I haven’t always been a stuffed shirt, you know. I sowed my share of wild oats when I was a lad.” He concentrated on Becky. “My dad was an Oxford man. I never cut the mustard. A bit like Robert and Wes.” He nodded at his son. “Hannah made it, but she was always brighter than me or either of her brothers.”
Drake sighed again. “Is this going anywhere, Dad, or are we just having a wander down the Drake family memory lane?”
“I’ll get there. Trust me. Anyway, I did my university time in Newcastle. Tyneside. And in my fresher year, I met a young fella, Maurice Glenn. He was from somewhere the other side of the Pennines. Liverpool or Blackpool or Southport or somewhere like that. Maurice and I got together and formed a comedy double act.”
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