Once again, Adamson fielded routine questions before turning his attention this time to Howley College, and spelling out the two victims’ and Drake’s links to that establishment.
Finally, after a tedious twenty minutes, he began to wrap up his briefing, bringing everyone up to date.
He fielded more questions, one of them a protest from a detective sergeant based, if Drake heard him right, in South Leeds, who didn’t know how they were supposed to follow-up on victims and targets without knowing the identity of same. Adamson’s response was to remind the detectives of discipline.
When the queries dried up, he concluded the briefing with an open-handed gesture at Drake. “This gentleman is Wesley Drake, the same person who was attacked on Monday night. He’s head of a department at Howley College, but from our point of view, he’s integral to this enquiry. Ever since the murder of Shana Kenny, the Anagramist has been emailing Mr Drake with confusing messages, which were found to identify the victims, the location, and the methods in which they died. Mr Drake was, of course, also the third target. I want to make this clear to you. Mr Drake is not a police officer. He’s acting as a civilian consultant. If you find anything you think he may need to know about, you report to myself or Inspector Pollack.” He gave Drake yet another contemptuous stare, and invited him forward.
Drake, already fuming at Adamson’s minimising of his role, took a moment to calm down.
He could see the same level of disdain on some of the faces before him. Police officers firmly convinced that this kind of investigation was their exclusive province, and people like Drake had no place in the briefing room. Adamson had told them that he was responsible for most of, if not all the information at their disposal, but Drake knew it would make no difference. He was an outsider, an interloper, a glorified teacher in a glorified school, probably a left wing do-gooder who would insist that all this maniac needed was a pat on the head and told to go away and not to be so naughty in future.
Facing the crew, he took a deep breath before addressing them. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. There’s not much I can add to what Chief Inspector Adamson has told you. But he didn’t make my position quite clear. Yes, I was a potential target, and the Anagramist failed in his attack on me. I’m a specialist in motivation and self-motivation, usually teaching in the business management field. I’m also employed as a staff and student counsellor at the college, and beyond that I’m an expert in wordplay. Words, puzzles involving words, are my bag. With additional information from your colleagues here in Howley, I unravelled these messages, useless as they may be. What I have to say now won’t make me popular, but I don’t court popularity. If you come across anything which you think might need my attention, don’t hesitate to call me directly. Of course you must report to Mr Adamson or Ms Pollack, but ring me. I don’t want to sit around with my thumb up my arse waiting for the message to reach me six hours later. Get it to me as quickly as you can.”
The announcement had the necessary effect on Adamson, and satisfied that he had kicked back, Drake went on.
“Remember also, I am a counsellor. You people are detectives. You’re hardened to this kind of crime, but when dealing with a particularly vicious and callous killer like this, if you find that the things you’re dealing with are getting to you, then speak to me. Anything you say will be in absolute confidence, and if you need any reference as to my bona fides, most of my work with the police is at the request of Chief Superintendent Lumsden and Deputy Chief Constable Mullins.”
The namedropping, he knew, would make at least some of the newcomers think twice about their superficial opinions.
He backed off and Adamson was about to take the stage again, when Lumsden intervened.
“Right, ladies and gentlemen. I think that’s it for the time being. Report to your team leaders for your individual assignments. Thank you.”
The crowd of detectives began to filter out of the room, Lumsden glowered first at Drake, then at Adamson.
He kept his voice down but his meaning clear. “I’ve never come across crimes as bad as this, and this childish game of one-upmanship you two are playing, doesn’t help. For Christ’s sake, knock it off the both of you, and concentrate on what we need to do.”
Lumsden marched stiffly from the room, Adamson glared again and followed him, and Drake was left alone with Kirsty.
She took him to task. “I didn’t hear what the boss said, Wes, but you should grow up.”
“So should Adamson.”
“We know. But that doesn’t mean you have to meet his cock of the walk shit with some of your own.” Kirsty checked her watch. “It’s getting dark. Let’s get you home.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was daring. Broad daylight. The first time he’d risked it before nightfall.
Naturally, he had taken all the necessary steps to minimise that risk. Her partner was out, and it would be getting dark before he got back. Of that there was no doubt. She was alone. He was certain of that, too. The biggest risk was her reaction. She was a professional. Given the chance, she would fight. It was up to him to ensure that she could not fight.
The dry stone wall hid all but the top couple of inches of his car. After Monday’s fiasco, almost every Renault owner in Howley had been questioned, except him. Fortunately, he kept the vehicle covered except when he was using it, and anyway, the reports he’d read both online and in the local press had given out the first two (possible) letters and numbers of the registration he’d used, but it was false. It bore no resemblance to the car’s real identity. His big worry was her ability to recognise the vehicle, even from the tiny bit which showed above the dry stone wall. If she did, it was almost certain the police would be on their way before she answered the door. Indeed, if she was suspicious, she would not answer the door.
The upper part of the uniform was almost perfect. A police tunic and cap, rented from a fancy dress place in the suburbs of Bradford, and which would never be returned, and a bright lemon, Day-glo, high-visibility vest. If she checked through the window, aside from his shabby, black jeans, he would look like a police officer. The fact that she would not recognise him would mean nothing to her. Once again, the local media had reported an MIT drafted in from the nearby cities.
And his observation of the police station told him that a full briefing would be under way any time now. With the number of officers brought in, it would take a minimum two to three hours, and he knew for certain that he was there. He’d seen him arrive with that blonde detective.
With a knife tucked into the ruler pocket of his jeans, he strode boldly up the path. Confidence, whether he felt it or not, was vital, and every ounce of his body language spelled out a man who had no qualms in knocking on the door.
Metaphorically knocking on the door, that is. He pressed the bell, and through the frosted glass panes in the upper half of the door, the same glass which had given away his presence on Monday evening, he could see her moving, like a silhouette coming towards him. He drew the knife, flipped it, and held it by the point.
She would recognise him as a fake. He was certain of that. It would take perhaps half a second for her to realise what was happening. Then she would either rush towards him or turn and run away. As far as he was concerned, the only difference would be where his blade landed: in her back, like all the others, or between those proud bubs. Either would be enough to put her down.
Tension gripped him as she neared the door. He forced himself to relax.
She turned the lock and opened the door wide. Perfect. His calculations were correct. It took less than a second for her to realise exactly what was happening, but by then it was too late. His arm was already coming back, swinging forward, and the knife shot across the minimal space between them, sinking perfectly into her abdomen beneath her breasts.
She stared down, eyes wide with disbelief. Then she looked up at him, and folded to her knees. From there, she flopped forward, and her weight forced the blade in deeper.
; He stepped over the threshold and around her, grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her away from the door. Then he closed and locked it, before slipping his hands under her armpits, plucking her from the floor and dragging her into the living room.
She was not quite dead when he removed the knife from her upper abdomen. True, she was unconscious, robbing him of his usual habit of speaking to his victims. It was a trivial irritation. What was to come would be messy, vomit-inducing in those of a weak disposition. As far as he was concerned, it was no more than hard work.
The newspapers and the web were rife with speculation on his motives. Sex was high amongst the uninformed opinions. And it irritated him. True, there was an element of revenge which could be attributed to his work, but it had nothing to do with any lack of success with women. He could legitimately be classed as asexual. It was the hunt which drove him. Much like the big-game hunters of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. When they took down a charging rhino or elephant, it wasn’t to give them a storming hard on. It was to prove themselves champions in the battle between Man and animal. And so it was with him. He killed purely to underline his skill and superiority as a hunter. Unlike those big-game hunters, he took no trophies (driving the police crazy was prize enough) and by virtue of superior intelligence, his opponents were far more dangerous than any wild animal.
Twenty minutes later, he was finished, and he left the physical evidence on the mantelpiece. With a quick check on the outside to ensure there was no one about, he walked through to the kitchen, washed the blood from his hands, and then looked around for something, anything which would permit him to leave his message.
He found a scarlet lipstick to one side of the fridge-freezer. Wondering what kind of slovenly woman would leave something like that in a kitchen where they had to prepare food, he removed the top, returned to the living room, and began to write on the pale, floral wallpaper. Several minutes later, he tossed the lipstick to the carpet, alongside her body, and satisfied that his work was done, he let himself out, climbed into his car and drove away.
Success. He silently congratulated himself as he reversed into the drive and turned the car around, heading back down Moor Heights Lane into Howley. He would need a shower, his clothing would need putting in the washing machine, but he had achieved his objective yet again.
And Drake had no one to blame but himself. If he had died as he should have done on Monday evening, his girlfriend, Sergeant Rebecca Teale would still be alive, and her head would still be attached to her body.
***
When Kirsty’s car pulled into the drive, there was no indication of anything amiss. Drake’s Audi was parked there, alongside Becky’s Citroen. The house was in darkness, but that could easily be explained. The sun had only just set, night was creeping in, and Becky could well be napping on the settee.
He invited Kirsty in for coffee, and she agreed. When he tried the front door, however, it was locked, and that generated the first hint of something not quite right. Given the uselessness of his left arm, Becky would not lock the door.
Kirsty fumbled the key from his pocket, turned the lock, pushed open the door, and with the familiarity of an old family friend, switched on the hall lights.
She took a pace forward and Drake followed. Almost immediately her foot slipped on a patch of gooey, congealing blood. She looked down, and alarm spread across her face. She rushed into the living room, and while Drake, his fears rising, stepped carefully around the blood, she came back out, her face white, eyes rolling.
Her shock telegraphed the worst possible news. He hurried past her.
“Wes. No. Don’t…”
He stared in abject horror at the carnage before him. Becky lay on her back, a large spread of blood around her breasts and upper abdomen. More blood pooled above her neck where her head had been severed. And as if that were not horrifying enough, her head, the eyes open, staring vacantly at him, stood on the mantelpiece.
To the right, a message was roughly scrawled on the walls in Becky’s garish, scarlet lipstick.
PITHY NAVAL PANE.
Drake’s whole body began to shake. A maelstrom of emotions overwhelmed him; a swelling of loss, grief, horror, and fury gathered together and exploded in an impotent roar loud enough to be heard across the valley.
February 14
Chapter Twenty-Five
The one-armed officer, reached to the windowsill grabbed the remote control, and turned up the TV volume.
“In Howley, the so-called Anagramist has claimed his third victim.”
The cameras, concentrated on reporter Vanessa James, were outside Drake’s home.
“The body of Sergeant Rebecca Teale was discovered yesterday evening by her partner, arriving home after attending a briefing at Howley police station. Early indications, as yet unconfirmed, are that she was decapitated.”
Unlike the previous incident reported on the local TV news, Sam had no need to tell her fellow patients to leave the channel as it was. The crowded dining room, where everyone was gathered for breakfast, was completely silent. Each and every patient was a serving or former police officer, and they felt the death of a colleague, whether in Leeds, Bradford, Howley, anywhere, almost as keenly as the victim’s family.
“Sergeant Teale’s murder follows an attempt on her partner’s life three days ago, and although the police have not yet released full details, they are linking the two attempts. They believe that the Anagramist, Howley’s as yet unidentified serial killer, having failed in his attempt on the life of Ms Teale’s partner, targeted her instead. Chief Superintendent Terence Lumsden had this to say earlier.”
Another cut, this time to the steps of the Howley police station, and Lumsden, grim-faced, in front of the cameras.
“Rebecca Teale was an experienced colleague, a long-serving police officer who gave most of her working life in the service of this community. She was on compassionate leave, caring for her partner, Mr Wesley Drake, who suffered serious injuries in Monday evening’s attack. Our sympathies, naturally, go out to Mr Drake, and Rebecca’s family, but every man and woman in this station feels the pain of losing a valued friend. I say to this man now, whoever you are, please come forward, give yourself up before you put anyone else through this terrible agony.”
Stock bullshit and claptrap. That was Sam’s private opinion. She pushed her breakfast plate to one side, and left the dining room.
Reception was unattended. She hammered on the bell, and presently Dr Southam presented herself. “Yes, Samantha?”
“I need my purse, car keys, and other personal possessions from the safe. I’ll be speaking to Iris Mullins in a few minutes, and as soon as I’ve packed my bags, I’ll be leaving.”
Dr Southam delivered an indulgent smile. “I don’t think that’s wise, Samantha.”
“I don’t care what you think.”
“I’ll have to speak to DCC Mullins—”
Sam interrupted as rudely as she could. “Are you listening to me? I don’t give a toss who you speak to. I will be leaving as soon as I can get a taxi to take me to the police pound. Now kindly hand over my possessions. Or do I have to come round there and take them?”
Southam capitulated, and after checking and signing for them, Sam made her way up to her room, and began throwing clothing into a suitcase.
When her phone bleated, she was not in the least surprised to learn that it was Iris Mullins. She was equally unsurprised to learn that the DCC was already in her office. The murder of a police officer was always calculated to have the hierarchy on early alert for media announcements.
“Dr Southam rang me,” Iris reported. “Where do you think you’re going, Sam?”
“Howley.”
“The last thing Howley CID needs is another detective.”
“I didn’t say Howley CID. I said I’m going to Howley. Listen to me, Iris, the most important person in my life just recently has been Wes Drake. He has done nothing but support me ever since he first visited me. He’s
never shouted at me, he’s never lost his temper, he’s never tried to persuade me to do anything I didn’t want to do. All he ever did was listen and encourage me. Right now, I know what he’s going through, and he needs support. I want to be there to give it. I’ll be leaving Peace Garden as soon as I can get a taxi here. All I need you to do is ring the pound, and ask them to have my car ready.”
Like Dr Southam, Iris caved in. “Very well. I’ll make sure it’s ready for you. One thing, Sam. When you get to Howley, report to Terry Lumsden. We’ve sent an MIT in, and if nothing else, he has the right to know of another detective in town.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you, and I know Wes Drake better than I know you. He won’t leave this alone, and if you’re supporting him, somewhere along the line, you will end up dragged into the inquiry. Acting as a police officer, I could stop you, but acting as a private citizen, I can’t, so make sure Terry knows you’re in town.”
Sam agreed, and made her way down to reception. She was compelled to sign a waiver, indemnifying Peace Garden against any complications arising from her departure against their advice. From there, another hour passed getting to Leeds, checking over and signing for her Vauxhall saloon, before she climbed behind the wheel and drove out of Leeds towards Howley.
She had no idea what she was going to do, how she was going to help. She was driven by an internal image of Wes Drake suffering unbearable emotional torture alongside the physical pain of his wounds.
And emerging from her emotional upheaval, a memory bounced around her head. A memory of herself crying, burying her face in his shirt while she wept in self-pity. He had not complained, he made no effort to push her away, he never wagged a disapproving finger at her. Instead he allowed her emotions to flood. Now the situation was reversed, and the least she could do was be there for him.
The Anagramist Page 16
