Drake smiled grimly at the thought. Less respectful, Becky laughed out loud. “I’m sorry, Ted, but the thought of you on stage as one half of a comedy act is a bit, er, mind-boggling.”
Ted took the comment in his stride. “I’m talking in the years before alternative comedy. We were more Morecambe and Wise than French and Saunders. And we were quite successful.” He laughed again. “We used to do this skit. I was taller than Maurice, so I played the stern schoolmaster, and he was the naughty boy. And I’d say, ‘what is the definition of polygamist’, and he’d reply, ‘a parrot lost in the fog, sir’, and then I’d look down my nose at him and say, ‘for your ignorance, take five hundred lines. A polygamist is a man with many wives’, and he’d say, ‘I thought that was a glutton for punishment, sir’.”
Ted dissolved into hearty laughter, Becky laughed along with him, and even Drake was compelled to smile.
“Very funny. What does this have to do with the Anagramist, Dad?”
“Nothing. You asked about knife throwers. Fact is, Maurice and I were very popular. We put turns on in the student union, and we did our share of gigs in the local social and working men’s clubs. We didn’t make a lot of money, but what we did make helped supplement our grants. Maurice was on some kind of a performing arts course, and as we came up to finals, he wanted us to turn professional, but I turned him down. I was never destined to be anything but a lawyer and a politician. He was quite, er, pissed off with me – excuse my French, Becky – and after finals, I never saw or heard from him again, until a few years ago. About five, ten years ago, he was accused of rape. He got away with it. The woman was drunk at the time. He wouldn’t get away with it now, of course, but back then, he escaped by the skin of his teeth. A year or two later, another woman accused him, and this time he was charged, tried, and found guilty. He got life, and committed suicide while he was inside. That’d be, oh, two or three years ago.”
“Life?” Becky’s eyebrows shot up. “For rape?”
“While he was under interrogation, he confessed to the murder of a Howley family back in the early seventies. Never told anyone where the bodies were. He said he’d buried them out on the moors. Again, it was a case of rape, but it was at knifepoint. The police knew nothing about it. Oh, they knew the family had disappeared, but there was nothing to indicate that they’d been murdered. They lived in an old house on Harrogate Lane.” Ted shrugged. “As far as I’m aware, it’s been empty ever since. You know what people are like. They say it’s haunted.”
Drake’s frown was a signal that he was engaging his memory. “I think I know the place. Canary House, isn’t it? Don’t you remember, Becky? We looked at it when we were looking for a house, but we decided against it. It needed too much work to bring it up to spec.”
Becky nodded. “I remember. I also remember the police checking the place out after Maurice Glenn’s confession. I don’t think it was as far back as you said, Ted. Less than a year, in fact. We didn’t find anything there. No one’s been inside the place for years, and the council keep talking about a compulsory purchase order so they can demolish it.”
“Complicated,” Ted said. “You have to establish who owns it, and as far as I’m aware, the only surviving member of the family couldn’t be traced.”
“All this is very interesting,” Drake pointed out, “but was this Maurice Glenn a knife thrower by any chance?”
The old man responded to his son’s question. “As a matter of fact, he was. After Newcastle, he turned professional. I know that for a fact. I mean, he never contacted me again, but I remember an interview with him in one of the Sunday tabloids in which he blamed an unnamed fellow student for his lack of success. You see, he wasn’t stupid. If he’d named me, I’d have sued. He was never outstanding, and he did a lot of work in small theatres, seaside resorts and what have you. He called himself – let me see if I get this right – Grand Vizier Mauricio.” Ted laughed again. “He dressed like something out of One Thousand And One Nights. You know. Flouncy shirt and trousers, curled up slippers, all complete with a silly bloody turban. Anyway, a part of his act was mind reading, and he’d guess someone’s name. There are any number of tricks these showmen use to get the name of an audience member. But, here’s the rub. He didn’t write the name down. He had a board with all the letters of the alphabet on it, and he’d throw knives at the board, spelling out the name.”
Astonishment registered on the faces of his two listeners.
“But he wasn’t very successful?” Becky observed.
“He managed to go through life without making a serious dent on the nation’s consciousness. He appeared on TV a time or two, but most people – and you’d know more about this than anyone, Wes – most people couldn’t stand him personally. He always came on too heavy with the women. If he bought a lass a drink, he’d expect her knickers in his pocket five minutes later. He was the same at university, and it got him into no end of trouble, but most of the time that amounted to a girl slapping him across the face. And, you know, the men in some of those working men’s clubs were serious hard cases. Maurice got us into some serious scrapes in those places. Aside from the call of the law and the general insecurity of the entertainment industry, that was one of the reasons why I’d never consider a professional partnership with him. He really believed he was God’s gift to women, and that getting his legover wasn’t a matter of choice but his right. When I read about his conviction, it was no surprise to me.”
“You were never called as a witness in his trial?”
In response to Becky’s question, Ted shook his head. “I couldn’t have been a witness for the defence, because I’d have been compelled to tell the truth, and the truth would sink him. I could have been called for the prosecution, but no one ever contacted me. Like I say, I followed it in the papers.”
Drake had switched off from the debate ever since his father’s description of Maurice Glenn’s mind reading act. Now he picked up on it. “You say he’s dead?”
“Topped himself while he was in Leeds prison.”
“And this is a couple of years ago?”
Ted reply was vague. “Becky says different.” He concentrated on her. “If you check with police records, you’ll pin the date down precisely.” He swung back to his son. “He’s not your Anagramist, and to my knowledge he never married, but I could be wrong about that.”
“If he had a son, it would explain an awful lot.” Drake was speaking almost to himself. “A son who was trained to throw knives, someone who grew up under the shadow of his father’s resentment for you. It makes sense.” He, too, concentrated on Becky. “Would it be difficult to track down?”
“Probably. Not impossible. We really need to speak to Charlie Adamson or Kirsty.”
Ted advised caution. “I think you’re whistling in the wind. I don’t know what this silly bugger, the Anagramist’s playing at, but it’s not likely to be anything to do with Maurice Glenn. Look into it, by all means, but I think your CID people are better off trusting their usual procedures.” Once again, he focused on his son. “And you should be taking it easy. All right, I know you think you’re a tough cookie, but by all accounts that’s a nasty wound you’ve got there, and you need to rest up, let it heal properly. Nicking serial killers like this nutter is a job for the cops, not you.”
Drake was not unappreciative of his father’s concerns, but as he pointed out, he had more to worry about. “You know me, Dad. I can’t sit idly by while other people are under threat. Ignoring last night, he’s killed two people, neither of whom, I’m willing to bet, have anything to do with the tale you’ve just told us. How many more will he kill while I’m feeling sorry for myself? No, I can’t leave it to the cops. Judging by what you’ve just said, and taking into account last night’s business, this is personal.” His grim features darkened even further. “And he’d better hope the police get to him before I do or there won’t be much left for them to prosecute.”
February 12
Chapter Twenty-On
e
Sam could not help a display of concern when Drake, his left arm in the sling, the empty sleeve of his overcoat into his pocket, walked into her room at eleven o’clock the following morning.
“I saw it on the television yesterday, and of course, Iris rang to tell me most of what had happened. Are you all right?”
Drake was grateful for her concern, but at the same time dismissive of it. “As right as a one-armed man can be. Ask the machete-challenging patient here. I’m sure he’ll tell you what it’s like.”
It was a calculated comment, designed to remind her of the infirmities suffered by her fellow patient, the one she so cynically regarded.
She did not respond, and he pressed on. “The game’s changed, Sam. Our man made a mistake coming for me, but he was so sure of himself that he shot his mouth off. He made a veiled threat against someone who could be you.”
Light dawned in her eyes. “Ah. So that’s what Iris was talking about when she said she had to let the Howley police know of my whereabouts.”
“Correct.” Drake flapped his useless arm. “I had to be chauffeured here. My partner’s been given a few days compassionate leave. Just until I get rid of the sling. She’s downstairs now and she needs to speak to you.”
The effect on her was instant and not entirely unexpected. “Forget it. I told you when we first started—”
Drake cut her off. “Up to press I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I haven’t hassled you, I haven’t pressured you, I haven’t argued, I haven’t tried to kick your backside. Instead, I’ve gone along with you, all the way to agreeing that if you need to tell Iris to go to hell, I’ll hold your hand while you do it. But things have changed, Sam. There is a threat, albeit unconfirmed, on your life. Becky is officially off duty, but right now she’s speaking to the management here, trying to ascertain how the Anagramist could have learned who and where you are. Becky will not be involved in your counselling. That will go ahead without her. But she has questions she needs to put to you. She’s not working for Iris Mullins, she’s not going to try to persuade you to Landshaven. I wouldn’t allow that. But she needs answers to these questions, and only you can provide them.”
She took a long time coming to a decision. For a moment Drake thought that she might have retreated within herself, but eventually she spoke up. “I have your guarantees on all of that?”
“You do.”
She drew in a breath. “Very well. I’ll speak to her. But if she strays off the point, I’ll hold you responsible.”
Drake ignored the threat, reached into the wardrobe and took out her coat. “It’s cold. You’ll need this for when we wander round the grounds.”
During the time he had spent with Sam, Becky had already spoken to the senior staff all of whom denied that there had been any attempt by unauthorised persons to either gain access or seek the identities of their patients. When Drake joined her, he insisted that they check the CCTV footage from the front entrance for the days he had visited Sam, and while they set about getting it together, he, Sam and Becky retired to the dining room, took the window table, and Drake had to persuade the staff to bring tea for them, pleading his inability to carry the tray thanks to his injured arm.
While they waited, Becky spoke briefly with the uncommunicative Sam, reiterating what Drake had said.
“Our concern, Sam – you don’t mind if I call you Sam, do you – is that this unconfirmed threat is aimed at you, and I need the answer to a few questions. That’s all. The rest of the session will be down to Wes and yourself, and it’s no concern of mine.”
With Drake there to support the both of them, Sam opened up a little bit. “As long as your questions don’t go too far off line, Sergeant.”
“Becky, please. If I live to be forty, I’ll never understand why I went for the stripes. I hate being called Sarge.” Sipping from her teacup, she consulted her notes. “Over the past few weeks, during the time you’ve been consulting with Wes, say, have you had any unsolicited calls or letters or emails, any communication with anyone you didn’t know?”
“No. In fact, the only calls I’ve had and the only calls I’ve made are to and from Iris, and Wes.”
Becky made a note. “You may or may not be able to answer this next question, but we do have to take it into account. There is a remote chance that your husband—”
“Ex-husband.”
Becky acquiesced. “I beg your pardon. There is a remote chance that your ex-husband may have offered money to anyone willing to eliminate you.”
Sam’s reaction surprised even Drake. She laughed aloud. Over the past four weeks, he had seen her smile, chuckle, giggle, but never laugh so harshly or loudly.
“Nonstarter.”
Becky frowned. “You sound very certain.”
Taking a sip of tea, Sam leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “How well do you know Wes?”
Uncertain where the question was leading, Becky’s reply was slightly hesitant. “Better than anyone else, I think. Better than his own father knows him. We’ve been together for six, seven years now.”
“Then credit me with the same knowledge of my husband. He and I were married for eight years. There’s nothing I don’t know about him, from the size of his dick to the size of his shoes. He was a good detective and an excellent manager. He knew how to delegate. But there was one area where he would never rely on anyone else. Revenge.”
Becky was about to respond, but a silent signal from Drake told her to keep quiet.
He was proven right when Sam pressed on. “When someone crossed him, he took it personally, and dealt with it. When it came to his criminal activities, the Asian family he burned to death, threatened to grass him up, and he dealt with it personally. The East European who tried to short-change him, finished up with a knife in the back. Don dealt with it personally. And I assume you’re aware of what happened to Geoff Eggleston. We had him bang to rights, and in order to save his skin, he told us everything. He was the one who fingered Don, and the team in charge of the investigation made the mistake of releasing Eggleston on police bail. Don met with him one night and put a bullet in his head. Trust me on this, Becky. If Don Vaughan wants me dead, he’ll come after me in person. But he can’t, can he? He’s in Durham for the next twenty-five years, and by the time he gets out, I’ll be too old to worry about it.”
Becky hurried to make the necessary notes, and eventually closed her notebook. “As far as I know, Kirsty Pollack is on her way to Durham to speak with Don.”
Sam pursed her lips. “Wasting her time, but obviously, if there is a suspicion, she needs to interview him. It won’t get her anywhere.”
“And that’s all I need from you, Sam. Except to say, if you do get any unsolicited calls or emails, please let us know.”
“I will. Now, tell me about Wes. Is he really as self-centred as he tries to make me believe?”
Becky laughed, Sam smiled, and Drake allowed the patter between the two women. To his knowledge, Becky was the only other person she had spoken to at length since her arrival at Peace Garden, and while it was not really his place to encourage it, neither would he put a stop to it.
When they had finished their tea, he asked Becky to wait either in reception or in the car while he walked the grounds with Sam.
As he promised, the day was cold, the sky overcast, threatening rain. With the sling’s support, his arm and shoulder felt more comfortable than they had the previous day, and as they walked, listening to Sam’s account of the last few days, during which she had gone slightly downhill, he suddenly felt very relaxed. Half listening to her, he examined his own internalised motivation. He was as comfortable in her company as she was in his, and the exchange with Becky had eased some of his concerns regarding her safety. The Anagramist’s threat was still there, but as long as it had no links to organised crime, then it could only be a result of his opponent having followed him, and then either taken a lucky guess or researched Sam, and there was only one way he could have done
that. He had to have been sat outside the main entrance taking photographs while he and Sam left the building.
While they ambled around the gardens, where the first snowdrops had begun to sprout, she switched her attention from her problems to ask about the Anagramist, and (as long as he was prepared to talk about it) the attack upon him forty-eight hours previously.
Without going into too great detail, he told her of the progress or lack of it so far, and gave her an overview of his tussle with the killer outside his front door. He then detailed his father’s account of Maurice Glenn.
Her response surprised him. “I remember him. I saw him in, I think, Great Yarmouth. Must be, oh, fifteen years ago. Something like that. I was on holiday with a boyfriend, and we went along to see some boy band tribute act – can’t remember which – and Maurice Glenn was one of the supporting acts. I remember his silly, mind reading act, and the way he threw knives at the letters on the board.”
“He must have been good for you to remember it.”
“Not especially. I’d forgotten all about it until you just mentioned his name. I’ll tell you what I did notice. He was very free with his hands when he had a female volunteer on stage. I remember saying to my boyfriend if he tried that on me I’d kick him where he wouldn’t want to show his mum.”
“Which confirms what my father told me about him. Apparently, he was convicted of rape and murder, and committed suicide in prison.”
“Can’t say I remember that, but if it wasn’t on our patch, why would I?”
They walked on, passing a group of men and women on a bench. Drake was uncertain whether it was the same men and women he had seen on his second visit, but he nodded a polite greeting to them, and received vague smiles and nods in return. Sam, as she always did, ignored them completely.
“She’s a good woman, Becky.”
The Anagramist Page 14
