The Anagramist

by David W Robinson

  Her comment brought him back from his thoughts on Maurice Glenn and the patients of Peace Garden. “I think I’m lucky to have her. She keeps my feet on the ground, and as you probably guessed, she calls a spade a spade. She doesn’t pussyfoot around issues.”

  “Do you think that’s important to a relationship, Wes?”

  “Vital. Especially when you’re dealing with someone like me, or someone like my old man. An MP. Was it like that with Don?”

  Her face fell and she grunted. “Hell, no. I let him get away with everything short of murder. He was unfaithful to me more times than you can shake a stick at, and I let him off the hook every time. They say there’s a dominant and a submissive in every relationship. You’re the expert, you tell me.”

  “The terms of reference are a little strong, but yes, there tends to be a leader and a follower. Even in ours, I tend to lead, and Becky tends to follow, but to an outsider, you probably wouldn’t notice because we are quite balanced.”

  “Well, between us, Don was the leader, and I followed. I loved him, Wes. I’m sure you understand that. Even through the times when he let me down, went out shagging some tart, I forgave him, and blamed myself. Not paying enough attention in bed. And when the truth about him finally came out…”

  She trailed off, and when he looked at her, the tears were welling in her eyes yet again.

  He took her hand. “Remember, Sam. I’m your earth connection. Ground yourself through me. I’m your anchor in reality. You’re not the first woman this has happened to, you won’t be the last. It pains me to say this, but by and large, men tend to be unreliable. Anything up to sixty percent of men admit to being unfaithful, and I suspect that even more keep dark secrets from their wives and partners. I don’t know Don Vaughan, but from the way you describe him, he’s not dumb. You learned about his infidelities, and that may very well have distracted you from his darker side, his criminal side.” He fixed her gaze with his. “You are not to blame.”

  The threat of tears receded. “I’m a trained police officer. I’m supposed to be able to see these things.”

  He smiled encouragement upon her. “Have you ever noticed how the closer you get to something, the less of it you see?”

  Sam did not get around to answering. Drake looked up and away from her, and spotted Becky waving to him from the building.

  “What’s up now?”

  They picked up the pace and hurried back to the front entrance, where Becky led them inside.

  “CCTV from late January,” she declared. “During one of your visits, there was a Renault Clio parked outside the main gates.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  HM Prison Durham appeared like a little army base set on the outskirts of the city, a pleasant enclave cut off from the mainstream, but part of the ambient environment surrounding it, and as she reversed into a space in the visitor car park, Kirsty had to forcibly remind herself that this place held some of the most dangerous men in Great Britain.

  But if she needed a reminder, it soon became clear when they passed through the extreme caution of the reception procedures. Anything and everything which could conceivably be taken and used as a weapon, had to be handed in, including mobile phones, and even then they had to pass through an airport style scanner before being led along to a small interview room where Don Vaughan was already waiting for them, guarded by two beefy prison officers.

  He looked older than his forty-four years. His hair, which Kirsty remembered as a sleek, dark mane neatly combed into place above and around his head, had begun to shed, and the sideburns were turning a delicate shade of grey. He had lost weight, but the prison uniform, a plain, light grey sweatshirt, and black trousers, was sufficiently loose upon him to bury any clue to his physical fitness. As a serving officer, he had been in if not the actual peak of physical condition, then very near to it, and old habits died hard. She suspected that he would have kept up his gym regime.

  She sat opposite him, Jo Walsh alongside her, and the DC placed a pocket recorder, the one item they had been allowed to bring in with them after they had insisted. Kirsty placed a pack of cigarettes in the centre of the table, and left a disposable lighter on top of the pack. The briefest nod of her head, her eyes darting from Vaughan to the pack, she invited him to help himself.

  He did so, lighting up with a steady hand, and she noticed the fingers, nails impeccably trimmed and scrubbed, the skin stained brown with nicotine.

  It had been a tiring two-hour journey to Durham, a tussle with high winds, occasional showers, and the ever present high levels of traffic clogging the lanes of the A1. For Jo Walsh, it made a pleasant change from events in Howley, but at the back of Kirsty’s mind was the urgent need to track down the Anagramist.

  “We’ll be recording the interview,” she told Vaughan. “You’re not under caution… yet, but you do have the right to legal counsel. You’ve declined.”

  Vaughan took a deep drag on the cigarette, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “I’ve reserved the right. But I’ll tell you now, I’ll say nothing while these two are here.” He gestured languidly at the two prison officers, and Kirsty took the hint.

  “Will you leave us, please?”

  “Your pardon, ma’am, but the governor—”

  Kirsty cut him off. “This is a formal, police interview. I don’t care what your governor says. Wait outside. You have the room covered with CCTV. If he tries anything, you can come back in.” She gave Vaughan a meaningful glance. “You’ll need to come back in to save him from me.”

  Vaughan laughed. The two officers exchanged confused glances, and then left the room, closing the door behind them.

  It occurred to Kirsty that Vaughan had just scored a minor victory over the prison authorities, and life inside meant that such small, infrequent triumphs were to be savoured. No doubt, he would brag about it to his fellow inmates later on.

  He laid a level gaze on her and took another drag on the cigarette. “How come I never met you when I was on the force?”

  “Because I don’t work with or for crooks.”

  At a signal nod from her, Walsh started the recorder and took out a notebook and pen. She dictated the details into the recorder, and then handed over to Kirsty who concentrated on Vaughan.

  “You’ve heard of the Anagramist killings?”

  “I’ve read about them, and I’ve seen bits and pieces on telly. You want me out there to help you nick him?”

  “Nope. I’m gonna be honest about this, Vaughan. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, never mind call you in to help.”

  “I like you.” Vaughan crushed out the first cigarette, and took another one. After lighting up, he smiled at her again. “I always liked women with a bit of fight in them.”

  “Didn’t do you any favours with Sam, did it?” Before he could respond, Kirsty pressed on. “And talking of Sam, we’ve received information that the Anagramist’s real target is her. That leads us to speculate that you might have put a contract on her.”

  He laughed long and loud this time. “You’ve been watching too much television. Where do you think you are? Chicago?”

  “You deny the allegation?”

  He leaned across the table, and for a moment Kirsty tensed her muscles, ready to defend herself if he chose to go for her.

  He did not. “Where would I get the money?”

  She relaxed. “We’re not stupid, Vaughan. We know that we didn’t get all your scum friends, or recover most of the money you made. And you did threaten to waste her before you were led out of court.”

  Holding up his left hand, fingers extended and closer to the thumb, he repeatedly opened and closed them in a gesture that said, ‘yap, yap, yap’. “I was mouthing off. Now listen to me, Pollack. I don’t know who this Anagramist is. He’s obviously a nutter. I’ll tell you something else. The only one who’ll waste Samantha Vaughan, will be me when I get out of this shithole.”

  Kirsty dismissed the arrogance. “By the time you get out, you’ll be too ol
d, and I wouldn’t fancy your chances against Sam. By the way, her name now is Feyer. She changed it after she was granted the divorce. And quite honestly, I don’t blame her.” She nodded at Walsh to stop the recording, and while her colleague dictated as much to the recorder, Kirsty got to her feet. “As far as I’m concerned, Vaughan, you’re the best candidate for post-natal abortion it’s ever been my misfortune to meet.”

  She made to collect her cigarettes. Vaughan took a third one, and slipped it in his pocket.

  “I’ll save it for later. Post-natal abortion? A euphemism for euthanasia? I’ll remember you said that, Pollack, and when I do get out of here, I might just come looking for you, too.”

  February 13

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The knife shot through the air and embedded itself in a large, capital letter A. The volunteer nodded, and the audience applauded the entertainer’s skill.

  Drake sat towards the front of the police briefing room, watching the old video recording projected onto a blank wall. Kirsty sat to his right, Adamson beyond her, and Lumsden next to the chief inspector.

  Becky was noticeable by her absence. The chief superintendent had granted her compassionate leave until the end of the week, still one day away. Drake’s need for constant attention, especially cleaning and dressing his wound, coupled to the previous day’s journey to Leeds and her need to report back to her chief, had left her drained and in need of rest. At his suggestion, rather than have her drive him to the station, Kirsty was happy to collect him.

  The DCC had sent in a Major Investigation Team, and there were perhaps thirty detectives in the room, but because of his familiarity with the area and the previous attacks, they were reporting to Adamson, and all needed to be properly briefed before they could set about their specialist duties. Prior to the briefing, the efforts of the Howley CID team had uncovered this footage of Grand Vizier Mauricio performing before an audience at a theatre in Torquay.

  Although the amateur video was taken some time in the late 1980s, it had been secured and used in his trial. At the time of the recording, Drake guessed Glenn to be in his mid-30s. Aside from his appearance, the assumption was based upon Ted Drake’s age. For the two men to have met at university, they must have been about the same age, which, were he still alive, would make Glenn sixty-six years old now.

  He sported a full head of shoulder-length, dark hair, matched by a thin beard and drooping moustache. A good-looking man dressed in what could be described as a Middle Eastern top which bared most of his muscular chest, and his arms, the muscles rippling with health and vitality, were uncovered.

  No one knew better than Drake how appearance on television could be deceptive, and Glenn looked a good deal taller than his father had described him. It was only when the angle cut to a full body mid-shot that he noticed a pair of built-up heels on the man’s feet. His volunteer was a dark haired woman, perhaps a few years younger than Glenn, clad in fashionable, dun coloured, matching pants and top, the trousers flared in a style more redolent of the 70s than the 80s.

  His target was a large, wooden board at least ten feet across, six feet high, upon which were printed or pinned (the quality of the recording was so poor that Drake could not tell which) the letters of the alphabet and the numbers zero to nine.

  He had begun by selecting her from her seat number, drawn apparently at random from a tombola drum. Drake had no doubt that her name was already known to him in advance, probably from the ticket office, and regardless of the number he drew from the drum, a little sleight of hand would produce the necessary result. She was initially reluctant to join him on stage, but her friends, two women and one man, encouraged her, and when she stood alongside Glenn, he promised that he would read her mind and deduce her Christian name, followed by her age, and he would pick out the relevant letters and numbers with a set of professional throwing knives.

  To give a level of verisimilitude to his act, he pressed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to his forehead, and placed the flat of his right hand to hers. With his eyes tightly closed, he spent a moment ‘reading her mind’ and then backed off to the table where his knives had been laid out by a glamorous assistant. Then, one by one, he began to throw the knives.

  His aim was unerring. A-N-G-E-L-A. And having spelled out her name, he picked out two numbers with his seventh and eighth knives. 2-6.

  Her eyes were wide, obviously impressed with his performance. He took a microphone from his assistant, turned to face the audience, and drew the woman to him, slipping a friendly arm around her slender shoulders.

  “So, according to my mind reading, you are Angela, and you’re either a pretty, twenty-six years of age, or a well preserved sixty-two.”

  The absurd joke, entirely keeping with the tale of weak comedy Ted Drake had related, drew a burst of laughter from the audience, and the volunteer laughed along with them.

  “So, Angela, where did I go wrong?”

  He held the microphone to her, and she confirmed, “You didn’t.”

  Her response drew a round of generous applause from the audience, and Glenn gave his volunteer a peck on the cheek, but as he did so, Drake’s thoughts hovered around his father’s tale, and he noticed that Glenn’s hand, his arm still around Angela’s shoulders, rested within millimetres of her left breast.

  From there, the show progressed with comedy magic, some of it clearly ‘borrowed’ from well-known performers like Tommy Cooper and Paul Daniels. Now and again, the assistance of a member of the audience was required, and in each case, it was always a young, attractive woman, and Drake took particular notice of Glenn’s behaviour. He was quite tactile with these volunteers, frequently touching their bottom and/or coming close to fondling their breasts. Most of the women did not seem to notice, a factor, Drake felt, of their hyped nervousness at standing before an audience, and the only one who did seem to notice, made no comment on it but shrank away from him.

  Try as he might, Drake found it impossible to watch the video dispassionately. He could not get away from his father’s opinion that Glenn was a man who considered women to be there purely for his pleasure, and had he been aware of the man earlier, the prosecution for rape would have been no surprise.

  The recording ended, Lumsden asked for the lights to be turned up, and he and Adamson stood front and centre before their enhanced crew.

  While they waited for the chief superintendent to begin, Kirsty whispered to Drake. “I can see how he might get her name from the ticket office, but how did he know her age?”

  Drake drew on his own experience of television. “Ten to one she was in the bar before the show began, and one of the stage assistants got into conversation with her. It’s not difficult when you think about it, Kirsty.”

  “Suppose he didn’t know her age?”

  “Then he wouldn’t have offered to spell it out.”

  The chief superintendent opened the briefing by welcoming the MIT from Divisional HQ, then ran into an overview of the current situation, and the efforts of the Howley police so far, before handing over to Adamson who introduced himself as the SIO (Senior Investigating Officer). He also introduced Kirsty as his 2IC.

  He then went into a detailed account of the two individual killings, identifying the victims, specifying their age, occupation (where applicable) the locations where they were killed, and the proximity of the location to their home addresses. He spelled out their family situation and stressed that in both cases, parents, siblings, partners had all been eliminated from enquiries.

  Beyond that he drew the detectives’ attention to the similarities between the methods of killing, and the pathologist’s opinion that in each case the same weapon was used; a broad-bladed, razor-sharp knife. At every stage of this process, images were projected onto the wall behind him, some of them (in Drake’s opinion) grotesque and unnecessary.

  From there, Adamson turned his attention to the attack on Drake, and the information gleaned from it.

  “We were lucky that Mr D
rake survived this attack, and gave us information which has brought us to our present situation. Thanks to Mr Drake we learned that the Anagramist is a skilled knife thrower. Coupled to further information from Mr Drake’s father, this led us to Maurice Glenn, and our researches into the man uncovered that video recording which was used during his prosecution two years ago. Glenn is dead. That’s before we start wandering down dark alleys. Like most sex offenders, he got a good kicking in Leeds, and a few days later, he hanged himself in his cell. We’re waiting for the prison authorities to send us copies of any letters he sent or received during his time in prison. However, his history with Ted Drake, and the threat against Wesley Drake opens up the possibility of Glenn’s son taking revenge for what happened to his father. We don’t know this for certain. We’re led to understand that Glenn never married, and we’re trying to trace any marital history with Somerset House. So for the moment, although that lead is not confirmed, it’s the only one we have. But bear this in mind. When he was convicted, all Glenn’s theatrical props, including his knives were confiscated, and they’re now in the Black Museum in London. Our man – if he is Glenn’s son – had to buy new. So that’s our start point. Get round the suppliers; the cutlers, the martial arts merchants.”

  He allowed the assembled officers to take in this information, and dealt with a few routine questions before nodding to an assistant officer, who switched on the projector again, and the wall behind Adamson lit up with an image of a shambling, old house.

  “Canary House. An isolated farm on the outskirts of North Howley. This was the property of the Wrigglesworth family. A man, his wife, and two daughters. The entire family disappeared in the seventies. They were recluses. They didn’t have much to do with anyone, and they certainly never farmed the land even though they owned the house. At the time, we assumed that they simply moved out and disappeared. Ownership of the house is still registered to the family. During his interrogation, Glenn confessed to murdering them, but – and this is important – he insisted he killed only the father, mother and one of the daughters. He raped one of the girls at knifepoint, but he never made it clear whether she was one of the victims he killed or whether she was the daughter who remains unaccounted for. We’re currently trying to track that daughter down.”