The Anagramist

by David W Robinson

  Howley police station was easy to find, and the crowd of reporters readily parted for her to pass through. They did not know her, therefore she was of no interest to them. As far as they were concerned, she could be a lawyer coming to defend a shoplifter, or she could be a woman complaining of harassment or antisocial behaviour.

  The same could be said of Sergeant Rickson, manning the reception desk. If he had ever seen Sam, it was only as a photograph in the press. Consequently, when she presented herself at reception, he looked up with the resigned eyes of a man who was up to here with the world.

  “Yes, madam?”

  She laid her warrant card on the desk. “DCI Feyer. I was ordered to report to Chief Superintendent Lumsden.”

  Rickson frowned, picked up her identity and checked the photograph against the reality. He reached for the telephone. “One moment, ma’am.” He spoke briefly into the receiver, finished with a dutiful, “Yes, sir. Very good, sir,” and replaced the receiver. “I’ll get a constable to show you up to his office, ma’am.”

  Five minutes later, she sat with Lumsden, and refused his offer of tea.

  He made his position clear from the outset. “It’s good to see you, Samantha, but I have to say, we don’t need any more detectives.”

  “Precisely what Iris Mullins said, sir. However, she did tell me that I had to report to you, make you aware of my presence in Howley. But I haven’t come here to help with your investigation. I’m here for Wes Drake.”

  “Ah. I see.” He sat back and clasped his hands across his slim abdomen. “It’s difficult, Sam. He was with us yesterday afternoon when Becky was attacked. Right now, he’s in shock, naturally. Kirsty Pollack, one of our DI’s, is a close friend, and she was with him when they found Becky’s body. According to what she tells me this morning, he’s staying at his father’s place, and he’s speaking to no one. Not even his old man.”

  Sam recalled her first meeting with Drake. “He’ll speak to me. I guarantee it. All I need from you, Terry, is directions to his father’s house.”

  Lumsden was still doubtful. “That won’t get you through the door. Ted Drake is also our MP, and he’s sure to mistake you for a reporter.” He thought about the matter for a moment. “Tell you what, why don’t I get Kirsty Pollack to show you the way? I don’t know what she has planned for today, but she could drive out there in her car, and introduce you to Ted. Of course, whether that will persuade Wes to speak to you is a different matter.”

  “I told you. He’ll speak to me.”

  Lumsden escorted her to the briefing room which, because of the large number of officers drafted in from other areas, had become a second CID area. The chief superintendent introduced her to Adamson and Kirsty, and after a brief word with his head of CID, left them get on with it.

  For the third time that morning, Sam had to run through her reasons for arriving in Howley, stressing that she was not seeking to interfere in the investigation.

  “I’m primarily here to support Wes, but if I should come across anything which might be of use to you, I won’t hesitate to pass it on.”

  “Right now we can use all the help we can get,” Adamson said. “We might be overflowing with detectives, but we’re getting bugger all from it.”

  Sam accepted a cup of tea from Kirsty. “Forensics?”

  Adamson snorted derisively. “Enough to start our own facility, and it all tells us exactly nothing. The only workable lead we have is this showman, Maurice Glenn, but even then it’s a dead end. According to Somerset House, he never married.”

  Sam recalled the little Drake had told her about Maurice Glenn, and her own experience of the ‘mind-reading extravaganza’. “DNA match?”

  “We don’t have a full profile for our man, but naturally, we pulled out Glenn’s profile, and we’re waiting for the lab results. Even if we get a close match, it doesn’t take us much further forward. Any son of his was born out of wedlock, and he won’t have the same name.”

  “And the guy’s snow white,” Kirsty put in. “Nothing on the system comes close to a match.”

  Drinking from her cup, grimacing at the bland tea, Sam shifted the subject. “The scene of yesterday’s killing? Anything there?”

  Kirsty reached into a folder, from which she drew a photograph and a single sheet of A4 paper with a few lines printed on it. She handed Sam the photograph. “That message was scrawled on the wall in Wes’s living room.”

  Sam read it.

  PITHY NAVEL PANE

  She would never pretend to be as skilled with anagrams as Drake, but a wall calendar behind Adamson’s head reminded her of the date, and she translated it right away. “Happy Valentine. Jesus. Talk about rubbing salt into the wound, this is one sick bastard.”

  Kirsty was obviously impressed, and handed over the printed sheet. Once again Sam read the few lines.

  Seek ye drawl cries off

  Sub needed

  Come on down

  Dare crack bee

  PS: it should have been your

  reed he saved

  “Wes allowed us access to his emails, and that arrived about four o’clock yesterday afternoon, an hour or so before we found Becky’s body. Since Wes is out of the loop, we left it with some of our people, and most of it’s been translated. Wesley Drake cries off, substitute needed, come on down – and this is the one line that doesn’t translate correctly – Dare crack bee. PS: it should have been your head severed. Problem is, Sam, ‘Dare crack bee’ doesn’t translate as Rebecca Teale.”

  “No. It says Rebecca Drake.” Sam handed the sheet back. “The Anagramist assumed that Wes and Becky were married.”

  Once more, Kirsty greeted the interpretation with raise eyebrows. “It shows you how good our people were. Bloody obvious when you think about it.” She tucked the photograph and the sheet back in the folder from which they came. “That’s the first mistake he’s made. But I don’t think it gets us far.” She checked her watch. “Getting on for twelve o’clock. You want to jump in your car and follow me out to Ted Drake’s?”

  Sam reluctantly finished the cup of tea, and got to her feet. “Lead on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ted Drake’s place was similar to his son’s, but where Wes lived on the north side of town, Ted preferred the south.

  A large, rambling farmhouse at the top of Bradford Hill Road, not far from where the body of Shana Kenny had been found, it encompassed an acre of land to the sides and rear, surrounded by dry stone walls, all topped with wood and wire fencing. The front was concreted, and outside a double garage to one side stood Ted’s Mercedes saloon alongside Drake’s Audi.

  Kirsty led the way to the front door. “I know the family well. Becky and I have been besties since forever, and when she settled down with Wes, I got to know them all, including Ted. He’s our local MP, but when you talk to him, you wouldn’t think so. No airs and graces about him. He was the same when he was no more than a lawyer. But to get to him, you’ve got to get past Freddie Bolton. He’s Ted’s driver and general dogsbody. His wife, Norma, is the housekeeper.”

  “Ted isn’t married?”

  “Widowed. His wife died when Wes was a boy. About twenty-five years ago.”

  Kirsty rang the bell. There was a brief delay before Freddie Bolton opened it and treated her to a sad smile. “Kirsty. Bit of a surprise. Wes isn’t speaking to anyone.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Freddie. Allow me to introduce DCI Feyer. She’s not officially attached to the investigation, but she’s a friend of Wes’s. She might be able to open him up.”

  Sam felt a little uncomfortable as Freddie looked her up and down. He was a tall, strapping man, with the muscular build of a sergeant major. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing runnels of bare scalp underneath. She felt that the bushy moustache beneath his bulbous nose was capable of sniffing out frauds, and he raked her with something approaching suspicion.

  “The truth is, Mr Bolton, I’m one of Wes’s clients. He mended me, and when
I heard about yesterday’s events, I thought the least I could do was come here to see if I can help him like he helped me.”

  “Whatever. Come on in. I’ll let the old man know you’re here.”

  He led them in and along the short hall, turning into the first room on the left, which proved to be a spacious, lounge dining room. Sam noticed immediately that it was comfortably warm. The secondary glazing attached to the front windows did an efficient job of keeping out the cold and assisting the central heating in raising the temperature. There was no fireplace. Instead, the chimney breast had been blanked off at floor level, and a gas heater hung on the wall. A large screen television was set in the corner by the window, a single armchair facing it. The centre of the room was taken up with a highly polished, mahogany dining table, at which Ted Drake sat, scanning the day’s newspapers.

  He looked up and rose to greet Kirsty with a wan smile and familiar peck on the cheek. She introduced Sam, and the two shook hands.

  “I don’t know what you think you can do, lass. He’s upstairs in his room, won’t speak to anyone. Understandable given the circumstances, I suppose, and I reckon it’ll take him a good few days to snap out of it.”

  “As I’ve said so many times today, Mr Drake—”

  “Ted, please. We don’t stand on ceremony in this house.”

  “Very well. And I’m Sam. As I’ve said so many times today, Ted, he will speak to me. I guarantee it. Has he locked himself in?”

  “Oh, good God, no. The doors in this house don’t lock… except the lavatory, of course. But when Freddie went in this morning, Wes told him to bugger off and leave him alone.”

  Sam involuntarily recalled the first time Drake had visited her, and the way she tried to dismiss him. “Do you mind if I try?”

  “Course not. Freddie, shown this young woman to Wes’s room. I’ll get Norma to make some tea for when you get back down.”

  Sam followed Freddie out of the room and back towards the front door where he doubled back and climbed a flight of stone steps to the upper floor. She found herself on a landing, punctuated either side by doors.

  “Most of the rooms are empty,” Freddie explained. “Me and the missus have the end room, Ted is opposite, and the rest are all empty. Every room has its own facilities, and Wes is in this one.” He strode across the landing, knocked once, and opened the door.

  “Go away and leave me alone.”

  “There’s a young lass here to see you, Wes.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone. Leave me be.”

  “You’ll want to see me.” Sam deliberately recalled his words to her on that first meeting and echoed them. “I’m young, fit, incredibly attractive, and very successful.”

  Drake lay in a double bed set alongside the only window in the room. He was on his right side, his left arm wrapped in the sling. On hearing her voice, he turned his head to look in their direction.

  “Sam? What the hell are you doing here?”

  She smiled pleasantly at Freddie. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

  Freddie left, closing the door behind him, and Sam walked around the bed, picked up an old wooden, dining room chair, which she placed alongside him, and sat down.

  “A friend of mine is in need of help. A friend who worked wonders for me. I’m not promising I can do the same, but I’m here.”

  He frowned. “But… Peace Garden…”

  “Sod Peace Garden.”

  “You… You’re not ready.”

  She disagreed. “I wasn’t ready until I saw the news this morning. Now I am.” She hesitated, mentally rehearsing her next words. Sycophantic sympathy would not work, but she felt compelled to express her sadness. “I’m so sorry, Wes. I…”

  She trailed off. Nothing she could say would adequately sum up her feelings. As it happened, it did not matter. His eyes filled with tears, and without warning, he broke down and began to cry. He reached out with his good arm, and Sam came close to him. He wrapped his arm around her, and wept into her blouse.

  She recalled the way he held her when she went through the same trauma, and she placed her hands on his shoulders. She applied no pressure, just allowed him to feel the security of her light embrace. She remembered the way he had said nothing, and she realised that in such a shocking situation, words were indeed, inadequate.

  They remained in that position for many minutes until eventually his emotions began to subside. She made no attempt to push him away. He would decide when contact should be broken, and eventually, he did so, relaxing his arm around her waist, withdrawing it, and pulling back from her.

  “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

  “Which is precisely the reason I’m here. You’re in a dark and terrible place, Wes, and for once I know about your suffering. I lost a man I love, too. All right, the circumstances were different, and I’m sure my pain wasn’t half as bad as yours, but I understand, and that’s why I’m here. And I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

  He took a couple of tissues from a box, and wiped his eyes. “I’m not ungrateful, but you’re not ready for this.”

  “Wrong again. This morning, when I heard the news, when I was driving from Leeds to Howley, I suddenly remembered why I’m a detective, and as if I needed any more reminders, seeing you like this reinforces it. Even if I don’t understand the pain of victims of crime, I can at least bring them some degree of closure by putting the perpetrators behind bars. I’m ready, Wes. And before you ask, I’ll be speaking to Iris in the next few days. I’m taking the job in Landshaven. But that’s two months away. In the meantime, I’m here for you. Now, why don’t you get out of bed and come with me downstairs. Kirsty’s here. We can have a cup of tea with her and your father.”

  His emotions were threatening to get the better of him again. “It’s the sympathy, you see. I know they mean well, but all it does is remind me… remind me of what I’ve lost.”

  “I met your father for the first time about ten minutes ago, I don’t think there’s much danger of him showering you with sympathy. Now come on. Get yourself dressed.”

  He was about to throw back the duvet and Sam was at once embarrassed. He noticed, and reassured her. “It’s all right. I don’t sleep au naturelle. I’m wearing shorts.”

  He threw the duvet off and struggled to a sitting position, his injured arm reminding him that it was still not ready for sudden movement.

  “I need to get to the hospital.”

  She was at once alarmed. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. The wound. It needs… Becky did it for me. But now… It needs cleaning and dressing.”

  The practical police officer came to the fore. “I’ll do it. Oh, don’t look so surprised. We’re all trained first aiders, you know.”

  He shrugged and winced again. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he turned his back to her, and pointed at a dresser across the room. “Saline solution, cotton wool pads, and clean dressings are over there.”

  Sam crossed the room and retrieved them, and as she made her way back, it occurred to her that this was the first time she had seen Drake in anything less than a business suit and overcoat. Moving behind him, picking gently at the dressing in place, she allowed her mind to wander over his impressive physique. There was nothing macho about him. He would never make an Adonis, but he had finely defined muscles, a flat, taut abdomen, and his thighs and calves were those of a professional athlete or footballer. She purposely kept her eyes away from that area between his thigh and navel. Sex was something which belonged to her past, and this was neither the time nor the place.

  He kept up a string of soft complaints and curses as she peeled away the dressing, and examined the wound beneath.

  “This looks as if it’s healing well. Your immune system must be top-notch.”

  “Healthy living. You can’t help it in Howley. No matter which direction you travel, it’s uphill.”

  That was more like the old Wes, but still his voice was edged with the sadness and
shock of violent bereavement.

  She snipped open a saline bag and poured the contents into a ceramic bowl, dipped in cotton wool, and warned, “This might feel a little cold.”

  He jumped at the first touch of the pad to his injury, then forced himself to keep still, while Sam finished the job off. She applied the fresh dressing, and pressed it lightly into place.

  “There you go. Wound dressed for another day. Now don’t you think you should follow suit.”

  “I need to wash and shave first.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  He gave a little laugh, a distant echo of his normal, cheerful self. “I’m not sure you’re ready for the sight of a full frontal Wes Drake. I’ll manage.”

  He dug into the wardrobe, took out fresh clothing, into the dresser for clean underwear, and then disappeared into the bathroom. While he was gone, Sam took the opportunity to look over the view from his window.

  It was more inspiring than hers at Peace Garden. From the window, he could look out over half an acre of well-tended garden, and beyond that mile upon mile of open moorland, dotted only here and there with farmhouses. She knew that beyond the horizon, the city of Bradford nestled in the next valley, and further west was the woollen town of Keighley, but from here it was as if she were looking into an infinite universe populated only by grassland and a few grazing sheep.

  When he came out of the bathroom, wearing a pair of denim jeans and brand-name trainers, he reached for a T-shirt.

  “Don’t you need the sling?”

  “No. The hospital said to keep it on for about a week. It’s been four, five days, and it’s time I was using the muscles again. I’ll try without it.”

  Even so, getting into the T-shirt was hard and painful work, Sam had to assist getting his injured arm through the appropriate sleeve. Once he was suitably dressed, he ushered her from the room and down the stairs.