His father greeted him with a grimace, and Kirsty squeezed his hand as he passed. He and Sam took their seats at the table and while Freddie brought them fresh tea, the old man was determined to have his say first.
“I’ll not ask how you feel, lad. I remember when your mother died, and hers wasn’t through the actions of a lunatic.”
Drake grunted in response. Sam guessed that it was all he felt able to do.
“We’re all with you, Wes,” Kirsty said.
“I know, and I’m grateful, but it doesn’t do much to lessen the pain and nothing at all to alleviate my anger. Have you made any progress?”
“None. We did find an email on your system, but it was a bit of a puzzle, and Sam solved it for us. The same with the writing on the living room wall.” Kirsty dug into her briefcase, retrieved the same photograph and sheet she had shown Sam earlier in the day, and passed it across the table to Drake.
It took him less than a second to translate the photograph. “Happy Valentine? You’d better hope I never get my hands on him.” He slid the photograph to one side and picked up the sheet. A few seconds later, he declared, “He got her name wrong. Rebecca Drake. It should have been Teale.”
“He probably didn’t realise you weren’t married.”
“Bullshit. Everybody in this town knows we were not married. It was deliberate. I should have been his third victim, remember. This is his way of rubbing that in.”
Kirsty gave up the unequal task. “Okay. If we come up with anything, we’ll be in touch. In the meantime, you take it easy.”
She got to her feet, preparing to leave, and Sam did likewise. “I’m here for you as long as you need me, Wes, but right now, I need to find a hotel. Can you recommend—”
Ted Drake cut her off. “I won’t hear of it. We have plenty of room here.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose on you, Mr Drake.”
“Ted. Please. It’s not an imposition, lass. I have to be back in London first thing Monday morning. Brexit, you know. A pain in the buttock, but we’re debating the potential effects on British agriculture, and mine is an agricultural constituency. Like I say, we have plenty of room, and while I’m not here, you can keep an eye on laddo.”
Sam appeared ill at ease, but Drake reassured her. “When the old man makes up his mind, he won’t change it. Freddie will sort out a room for you, and I’m sure we can afford to feed you. Beyond that, I’m pleased to have you here as long as you’re happy to be here.”
February 24
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The persistent, violent weather did not trouble the Anagramist. He had spent much of the last month, ever since following Drake on his last visit to Peace Garden, researching the female patient. It had taken some time, but when he finally uncovered her identity, he began to understand Drake’s contact with her.
Samantha Vaughan was a legend in the police force. In the run-up to the Bradford corruption trial (held at Newcastle Crown Court to avoid potential public bias, and minimise possible intimidation of jurors) she had been hailed throughout the media as the shining star of the British police. Her photograph adorned the pages of tabloid webpages so many times, that she almost replaced the standard fodder of celebrities and politicians.
Dogged, courageous, incorruptible; just a few of the superlatives applied to her. One Sunday newspaper had run an unofficial two-page spread on her, carrying the banner headline, ABOVE & BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY, and readers could be forgiven if they got the impression that the newspaper in question had interviewed her. In fact, in a short paragraph at the end of the article, printed in a smaller typeface, the editor confessed that, DI Vaughan was unavailable for interview, and the information herein was gathered from her many admirers and colleagues in the Police Service.
At the time, he had never followed the tale, and after the trial, she dropped out of sight. It took the Anagramist some time to learn why, but when he read of her complete collapse after the trial, everything became clear to him.
In many respects the police were no different to any other company or organisation. They thrived on their reputation, and the crimes of Donald Vaughan and his confederates gave that standing a kick where it most hurt. They needed their glory girl, Samantha Vaughan, back onside, but the trial, and possibly the crimes of her criminal husband had knocked the stuffing out of her. Drake was the man to put that stuffing back in, pick her up, get her back on the horse.
It was strange though, the Anagramist thought. The trial was back in September. He had been patternising Drake’s activities – along with those of his other targets – since December, and Drake went nowhere near Peace Garden until early January, the day after Shana Kenny’s murder. Why had the police waited so long before calling him in?
He never found out why, but it was irrelevant to his activities.
What did come right out of nowhere was DCI Vaughan’s arrival in Howley. It was the day after he dispensed with Rebecca Teale, but when he realised she was staying at Ted Drake’s place, he understood. Drake had counselled and supported her, she was here to repay the compliment. On that basis, the Anagramist added her to his list of targets.
In the six weeks since they found the body of Shana Kenny, the persistent, town-wide state of high alert had increased, and in addition to the MIT, extra police had been called in from all over Yorkshire. He had expected it, and as long as he was careful, it would get them no closer to him. He was clean as a whistle. He had never been in trouble with the law anywhere in the world. His fingerprints were not on any file, and neither was his DNA. They could carry on looking for him forever and a day but it would get them no nearer.
If he had one disappointment, it was that Ted Drake, MP, undoubtedly hurting after the death of Rebecca Teale, was not yet suffering enough. He should be going through the agony of losing his most rebellious son, in the same way that the Anagramist had lost his father without ever getting to know him. Wes Drake was going through the worst agony, and with the knowledge that Samantha Vaughan was in town, there was more to come for the youngest son.
The original plan had called for two more killings after Drake, but that was in tatters. Wes was too resourceful for the Anagramist. He needed an angle before he dare confront the man again. Fortunately, the arrival of the Vaughan woman might possibly give him the lever he needed. For now, it was time to shuffle the original plan, and pay a visit to the reclusive Ophelia Handley.
With the clock reading 5:30 a.m., he climbed into his Renault, and started the engine, his thoughts concentrating on Ophelia.
From a cryptic point of view, her surname was the important aspect, just like all the others, but during the few days he had spent researching her, he learned that she had been named Ophelia for no other reason than her parents, who spent most of her younger life protecting her from the evil of men, were fanatical about Shakespeare, particularly Hamlet. She had grown up wrapped in a cocoon of parental smothering which eventually left her lonely, friendless, and lacking the ability to form relationships. For all the Anagramist knew, she could still be a virgin, even though she was almost forty years old. He had never attended any of her classes, and he did wonder how on earth she coped with her students.
But her reclusiveness was to his advantage.
He arrived at Cardinal Square, a compact estate of council housing about five minutes from Howley centre, at a quarter to six, and parked a few doors down from her ground-floor flat. With any enterprise of this nature, there were unknowns, variables which he could not possibly take into account. Neighbours setting off for work, paperboys on their rounds, even milkmen, although it wasn’t often they could be seen in this day and age. There was also the possibility that she might be up, out of bed, getting ready for a day at the college, and if she looked through the window and saw his Renault…
Better to park a few doors away and arrive as the friendly, neighbourhood policeman.
The lights were out. Not only Handley’s but most of the neighbours, too. It was as he antic
ipated. He had made three visits at this hour of the morning to assess the danger of witnesses, and he was unconcerned.
As he strode up the short drive, he glanced at the front garden, a scrub of lawn surrounded by a short hedgerow and moribund borders. With the idle thought that Ophelia Handley would not see any blooms this year, he reached the door, and pressed the bell.
There was a sizeable delay; several minutes at least, before the hall light blazed through the frosted, decorated pane in the centre of the door’s upper panel.
He could see her moving behind it, and he guessed her eye was pressed to the viewer. There came the rattle of a chain, then the click of the lock. The door opened a couple of inches, and her blonde hair and brown eyes peered round. “Who is it?”
“Police, madam. Is it Ms Handley?”
“Yes.”
“May I come in, madam? We’ve had a report concerning your safety.”
It worked exactly as he had anticipated, and he shook his head sadly at the gullibility of these people. Why did it not occur to her that when delivering bad news to a woman, the police would more than likely send a female officer?
She slipped off the chain and opened the door. “Close the door behind you, please.”
She turned away and walked back towards the kitchen. She was wearing a flimsy robe over her nightdress. A pale, sort of turquoise colour. The blood would soon show through that.
As she stepped away from him, he drew the knife, pulled his arm back and threw it.
He moved quickly, following it as she hit the floor and tried to cry out. He put a hand over her mouth, yanked the knife from her back, and leaned close to her ear.
“Just relax, Ms Handley. This won’t take a moment.”
And with that, he sliced through the left-hand side of her neck. No spurt. He’d hit the jugular, just as he intended. He wiped the blood from his gloved hands, and cleaned the knife blade on her robe, then dropped the weapon back its sheath, the ruler pocket of his jeans, then made his way into the bedroom.
He did not have long. No telling when some nosy so-and-so might poke their head in through the door and spot her. But this would only take a minute.
The bed was dishevelled, the duvet thrown back, as he might expect. He’d just got her out of bed. Her outfit for the day a sombre black skirt and top, hung on the handle of the wardrobe door. The Anagramist thought she would have looked good in that. Professional. She was in her late 30s, and held a responsible job. There was none of this brash, skimpy clothing such as the youngsters like Shana Kenny wore.
The stunt with the lipstick at Drake’s place, had been fun, and he had considered doing the same again, but time was pressing. Simpler to leave the white envelope, addressed to Wes Drake, and let the cops find it.
Stepping back out into the street, he congratulated himself. Four down, two to go if he counted Drake… No. Three to go. He’d forgotten Samantha Vaughan.
February 25
Chapter Twenty-Eight
News of Ophelia Handley’s murder broke on Monday evening, and Kirsty visited Drake first thing on Tuesday morning, carrying with her the printed sheet the Anagramist had left behind.
“We’ve already solved it,” she reported. “It didn’t take much working out.”
Holy Daphne Leia
Ran squalid care
All juiced rugs
“Ophelia Handley, Cardinal Square, sliced jugular.” Drake was not interested in how impressed they were with his interpretive skills. “When did she die?”
“According to the pathologist, she’d been dead about twelve hours when he got there. A neighbour coming home from work noticed that her door was slightly ajar, opened it, and saw her dead in the hall. Had a screaming fit and then called us out. We found the note on Ophelia’s dressing table. Did you know her?”
Drake nodded. “Not well. No one did. She was a bit of a recluse. Something to do with her upbringing. Over-protective parents.”
“Exactly what the neighbours told us. Ophelia didn’t socialise. In fact, the neighbour said she doesn’t ever remember having a conversation with her. If it wasn’t for the door being opened, she wouldn’t have bothered.”
Drake’s temper looked set to explode. “How many more?”
Sam took his hand. “Take it easy, Wes. They’ll get there in the end.” She concentrated on Kirsty. “Any other developments?”
“Yes, but nothing conclusive.” Kirsty opened her briefcase, took out a folder from which she retrieved a single sheet of photocopied paper, and handed it to Sam. “We asked the prison service for Glenn’s letters a couple of weeks back. They don’t like letting this stuff go, so we pushed Iris Mullins and she had a word with a contact at the Home Office.”
Sam read through it and passed it to Drake, who scanned the handwritten letter with little interest.
My dear Yvonne.
I read your letter, and I feel now is the time to atone for my sins. No one is more tortured by my vile actions against you all those years ago. I have already confessed to the killing of your mother, father and sister. I do not have the temerity to beg your forgiveness, nor any clemency for the way I pressed myself upon you.
The news that our brief interlude, unpleasant as it was for you, produced a son, gladdens my heart. I truly hope that he grew up to be a fine, upstanding member of the community, not cursed with the violence inherent in my personality.
Nothing I can say offers any mitigation for my inexcusable behaviour. But I remain convinced that had Ted Drake, my comedy partner during our university years, been at my side when I turned professional, I may have become a different man. His refusal to do so was, with hindsight, the correct decision for him, but notwithstanding my talents, it left me as nothing better than a journeyman entertainer, never destined to hit the heights I believe he and I could have aspired to, and therein, lies the root cause of my disgraceful behaviour; pure frustration at the way my life turned out.
Once again, please accept my deepest, heartfelt apologies.
And now, it is time for me to pay due penance.
Yours sincerely
Maurice Glenn
(Grand Vizier Mauricio)
Drake passed the letter back. “The way he wrote it, anyone would think he was going to the gallows.”
“He was in a sense,” Kirsty replied. “The prison authorities were a bit reluctant to let this go to the woman, but when they checked up, they found that he really had confessed to the murders of the Wrigglesworth family back in the early seventies, so they allowed it. Two days after this letter was dated, Glenn was found hanging in his cell. He was dead by the time the warders got to him.”
Drake was already beginning to lose interest, so Sam pressed. “And what have you done about it?”
Kirsty shrugged. “The usual, but it’s led us nowhere. She had a son. Logically, he’s the man we’re interested in, but judging from the letter, he never knew Maurice Glenn—”
“His mother could have told him,” Drake interrupted.
“Possibly. Probably. But we can’t find him. We tried the address Glenn sent a letter to, and learned that the place was owned by Yvonne Wrigley, who had a son named Bruno.”
Sam’s eyes lit up. “Ah. False name. And Bruno Wrigley?”
“Yvonne died a year ago. Only about sixty years old. Anyway, the house came to Bruno, and there was about £20,000 worth of equity in it. He sold the house, banked the money, and after giving due notice, drew it all out… in cash.” Kirsty shrugged. “Not illegal. After that, he disappeared.”
“And of course, you don’t know what he looks like?” Drake’s temper was bubbling just under the surface yet again.
“No. Obviously, we checked up. He never owned a passport – legally, at least. And even his driving licence is a paper one.”
This time Drake almost exploded. “I thought they’d been phased out.”
It was Sam who answered. “Not so. If you held a paper licence, there was never any obligation to surrender it for a photoc
ard licence, unless you had penalty points or new groups to add or you turned seventy years of age, in which case Swansea would want a photograph, and they’d send a photocard licence back. He’s obviously never broken the rules. Or, to be more accurate, he’s never been caught breaking the rules.”
Drake was barely in control of himself. “And I suppose when you checked the address, there was nothing, no trace of him and his mother?”
“Spot on,” Kirsty confirmed. “The man is a ghost. Even his GP could tell us very little about him. He’s one of those lucky sods who never gets ill. We checked Canary House where the Wrigglesworths lived, but it’s the same, derelict dump it always has been. No one’ s been anywhere near it for years. His employers, an insurance company in the middle of Bradford, couldn’t tell us much more. They have no photographic record of him. When he started working for them, shortly after leaving school, which was about twenty-five years ago, such policies were not common. They gave us a description, sure, and even spoke to one of our e-fit artists, but it’s vague.”
“And you haven’t gone public on it yet?”
Kirsty responded to Sam’s question with a shake of the head. “Any day now. At the moment, he’s officially a person of interest. Off the record, he is the only suspect we’ve got.”
Drake leapt to his feet. “No. He’s here. In Howley. And he’s the Anagramist. I’ll stake my life on it.”
“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir, but like everything else in this case, he’s covering his tracks fairly well.”
“People scream about the age of big brother, but he seems to have dropped under the radar without too many problems.”
Sam made an attempt to placate Drake. “Curiously enough, with all the advances in computer technology, documents and identities are not difficult to fake, and it’s probably easier to disappear now than it was say, forty years ago.”
The Anagramist Page 18
