The Anagramist

by David W Robinson

  “And in the meantime, how many more men and women will die?” Drake stormed from the kitchen, out into the rear garden.

  Kirsty concentrated on Sam. “Not getting there yet?”

  Sam shook her head, and gazed glumly into a cup of coffee.

  In the two weeks since the attack on Drake, his injury had all but healed. The stitches had been removed, and his GP declared him fit to live without the sling and get on with rebuilding the shoulder muscles.

  He had been given permission to return to his home, but in a rare moment of openness, he confessed to Sam that he couldn’t face it. “I’ll be putting the house up for sale, eventually. I can never live there again. I wouldn’t be able to walk into the front room without seeing her head on the…”

  Becky’s death had hit him much harder than anyone suspected, even though the overriding love in their relationship was well-known. He was withdrawn, ill-tempered, and when he did speak, it was usually in curt tones of complete disinterest. He was slightly better with Sam than he was with Freddie and Norma Bolton, but even so she had not managed to open him up very much.

  He had not (as far as she was aware) shed any more tears for Becky, and that was as big a worry as anything else. Was he simply being strong? Or was he keeping it all inside? Either way, Sam knew that he needed to release it.

  There had been regular callers from the police and the college, and Lionel Quentin had made two visits, assuring Drake that he could take all the time he needed to get over his problems. Drake responded courteously but without conviction or enthusiasm.

  Prior to the removal of the stitches, he had busied himself with making funeral arrangements for the coming Friday, and he spent a lot of time online. Sam never asked what he was doing, but several times, she had seen him studying pages on knife-throwing. Given the all clear from his GP, he had taken to constructing… something in his father’s back garden. To press he had secured lengths of 4x4 into the ground by the dry stone wall, and as he left her with Kirsty, he returned to the task, and appeared to be nailing a large sheet of wood, four feet wide by six feet high to the twin frames he had set up.

  Kirsty felt compelled to ask. “What is he doing?”

  Sam shrugged. “He won’t say. When you ask, you get told to mind your own business. Freddie threatened to tell Ted about it, and Drake told him to go ahead. He doesn’t give a toss. As to what it is…” Kirsty shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but I can tell you this. You guys had better get to the Anagramist before him. Otherwise, Wes will end up spending the rest of his life in prison for murder.”

  Kirsty chewed her lip, every bit as worried as Sam. “I’ve known them years, you know. Becky and I joined the police at about the same time. I’ve never seen him like this. According to Becky, he was never moody. Always willing to fight his corner, obviously, but not given to this kind of anger. He’s bottling it up, isn’t he?”

  “The same way I did. But he found the key to unlocking my problems. I can’t do that with him. I don’t know him well enough.”

  “Have you tried shagging him?”

  Kirsty asked the question with a broad smile on her face, and Sam realised it was meant to lighten the mood. She returned a thin smile. “Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. But it’s much too early for him.”

  “Sorry. I was just—”

  “Yes. I know what you were trying to do. But for God’s sake, don’t say it to him. I’m not sure he would find it amusing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Kirsty left, and whatever Drake was doing out back, the job appeared to be complete, and he came back into the house. “I have to go to Leeds. I’ll need a shower and change of clothes. Would you like to come with me?”

  “Tell me where we’re going.”

  “Shopping.”

  With that he left the room, and she could hear him clumping up the stairs. She would go with him. She had no choice. Dark suspicions concerning his motives and plans clouded her thinking and she dare not leave him to his own devices.

  Consequently, less than half an hour later, they climbed into his Audi for the three-quarter hour drive to Leeds.

  The storms of the last couple of weeks had subsided, but even with the end of the month approaching, there was still no sign of spring. The sky remained leaden grey, heavy showers were frequent, often with snow flurries, and the winds varied from fresh to strong and blustery.

  The journey was conducted in near silence. Sam passed occasional comments on their surroundings, Drake concentrated on his driving and replied in monosyllables or grunts. At eleven o’clock, he pulled into a narrow street opposite the Grand Theatre, in the northern quarter of the city centre, and parked outside a shop carrying the legend, Utterridge Theatrical Supplies.

  He killed the engine and climbed out. Sam looked down at the cobbled street and double yellow lines painted on the kerbside.

  “We should have used my car. I could identify it as a police vehicle.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave you to deal with any wardens.”

  Drake led the way into the shop, and as they entered, Sam stared around. There were glass cases, displaying everything from prosthetic hands, usually found in horror productions, a range of sparkling pendants and medallions with designs she had never seen before, false heads, and what she would describe as decorative body furniture: spectacles, monocles, rings, and other paste jewellery. Other displays concerned the necessary minutiae of theatrical productions: make up, small items of costume, even fake decanters and glasses which appeared half full of spirits.

  At the counter, where Drake stood, there was an arrangement of weapons, all of them, Sam assumed, fake. Mainly handguns and swords, they were theatrical props not designed to be deployed for their apparent purpose.

  An assistant emerged from the background. A small, withered man, a thick gilet hanging from his shoulders, covering a loose, bagging jumper. His bald pate and jowly cheeks suggested his age at anywhere from fifty onwards, a supposition enhanced by his gnarled, veined hands.

  “Morning, boss, missus. What can I do you for?” His accent was a crisp, West Yorkshire, and he was only short of rubbing his hands at the prospect of taking money, to suggest a modern day Fagin.

  “You’re Mr Utterridge?” Drake’s tones were snappy, business-like.

  “The same. My regulars call me Vic.”

  “You stock theatrical throwing knives?”

  “Interesting. Not many people do them these days, you know. You can get them at sports shops, people dealing martial arts and stuff, but aside from me, there’s only two or three theatrical suppliers in the entire North of England.”

  Drake confirmed it. “You, one in Sheffield, one in Manchester, and another in Liverpool.”

  The purpose of his recent researches became apparent to Sam, and she interjected. “What is the difference between theatrical throwing knives, and those sold by other outlets?

  Utterridge was in his element. “Points are sharpened on theatricals, but the blades aren’t. If you’re a knife-thrower, you want the point to stick, but you don’t need the blade sharpened, because you’re not gonna cut anything with it.” He concentrated on Drake. “You’re a knife-thrower, are you, gaffer?”

  “Just starting out. What have you got?”

  Utterridge disappeared into the rear room, and returned a moment later with a single knife. He laid it on the top of his glass counter and invited Drake to pick it up, examine it. Made entirely of steel (including the handle) painted black, the overall length was about twelve inches, the blade making up a little over half of it.

  “Ten ounces,” Utterridge was saying. “Carbon steel, baked on, protective black coating, blunt blade, point sharp enough to penetrate any wooden target.”

  Drake raised his eyebrows. “How much?”

  “Thirty nicker.”

  “I’ll take six. Can you supply a presentation case?”

  “No problem. Six knives, one-eighty, case, forty, all up, two-twenty. If you�
�re paying cash, I’ll do you them for two hundred.”

  “Sorry. Plastic.”

  “Two-twenty it is then, guv. And I’ll need your name and address.”

  Sam’s ears pricked up. “Why? It’s not a legal requirement.”

  “And you’d know that, would you, missus?”

  She dug into her pocket and came out with her warrant card.

  Utterridge blanched. “Oops. Sorry, luv. Right, well, I know it’s not the law, but I am entitled to make sure the buyer is over eighteen. Right?”

  “And you think I’m too young?” Drake demanded.

  “I’m making sure.”

  With an insight into Drake’s motives, Sam’s suspicions darkened. “Mr Utterridge, when did you last sell knives like these?”

  Utterridge fell silent, his eyes roaming the shop as he raked his memory. “Just after Christmas. Bloke came in and took half a dozen, just like you.”

  “And do you have his name and address?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got it somewhere.”

  “I’m going to need it.”

  “I’ll have to dig it out.”

  She smiled mock-sweetly. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  Frustration began to get the better of Utterridge. He gestured with open hands at the knife. “One thing at a time. Are you taking the knives and case, or what?”

  Drake nodded, and took out his wallet, from which he retrieved his driver’s licence. “I think you’ll find that satisfactory.”

  Utterridge took a photocopy of the licence, and handed it back. “Right. I’ll have to get your knives together, and it’ll take me a few minutes to track this guy’s details.” He pointed up at a security camera above and behind him. “Just in case you’re taking the piss and you’ve got any ideas of helping yourselves, you’re on candid camera.”

  He disappeared into the back room and Sam confronted Drake. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  Studying a fake head of Frankenstein’s creature, Drake denied it. “No. I made an educated guess.”

  “Then educate me.”

  He returned to the counter. “The briefing I attended the day Becky was… the day she… Anyway, Adamson made a point of stressing that when The Grand Vizier Mauricio was convicted, all stage props belonging to him were confiscated. Remember, he’d raped the Wrigglesworth woman at knifepoint. All his knives, about two dozen of them, are in the police black museum. So, if we’re working on the assumption that the Anagramist is Bruno Wriggleworth, Wrigley, whatever he wants to call himself, Glenn’s illegitimate son, he would need to get his hands on throwing knives. There are plenty of suppliers all over the North of England, but as our friend Utterridge said, most of them specialise in sports or martial arts, and I didn’t think our man would go to them. I don’t know what kind of questions they ask, but it’s likely to be more than a trader like Utterridge. I also figured he’d be unlikely to travel as far as Sheffield, Manchester or Liverpool. Why should he when he has a place almost on his doorstep? Like I said, an educated guess. I didn’t expect it to pay off.”

  “Even so, I don’t imagine he used his real name. Utterridge has just taken your driving licence. It’ll be interesting to see what proof of identity he had from this guy.”

  Utterridge returned, passed a photocopied sheet to Sam, and placed a polished, walnut case on the counter. He opened it for Drake’s inspection, Drake declared himself satisfied, and handed over his credit card.

  While Utterridge went into the process of making the transaction, Sam pushed the photocopy across to Drake. “Brian Glendenning. An address in Bradford supported by his gas bill.”

  Drake studied the sheet and noticed a faint, tell-tale dark line around the address block. “Fake. Produced on a scanner and computer. “

  Utterridge looked up sharply. “Here, I hope you’re not suggesting—”

  Sam hastened to reassure him. “No one’s accusing you of anything, Mr Utterridge.” She pointed up at the CCTV camera. “Your security system’s active?”

  “You’d never believe the amount of stuff that gets nicked. One person talking to you, distracting your attention, and a partner filling his pockets.”

  Drake punched in his PIN. “How long do you keep the recordings?”

  Utterridge shrugged and handed the card back. “Until the hard drive gets full. Generally about a year. If I catch someone shoplifting, there’s a prosecution. Then I have to make a copy for the police.”

  Sam drew his attention. “Okay, Mr Utterridge, let me explain the situation. I’m not with the Leeds police. For me to get a warrant would be time-consuming to say the least, and I don’t really have the authority. When Mr Drake and I leave, I’ll be calling at the local station, and before the day’s out, they’ll send a couple of officers, and they’ll want a copy of the security footage relevant to the person who bought those knives from you before Christmas.” She tapped the photocopied sheet. “This Brian Glendenning.”

  Utterridge frowned. “What is all this?”

  “You’ve heard of the serial killer in Howley?”

  “Well… Yeah, I’ve caught bits on the telly, and read bits and pieces in the Yorkshire Post.” The colour drained from his face as her hint sank in. “You don’t think… Oh, Christ.”

  “We can’t be certain,” Sam admitted. “This man’s address is in Bradford, but even if it was Leeds, he would be close enough to Howley to be our man. No matter, like everything else, it needs investigating, and I’m surprised the local police haven’t been to see you already.”

  “I suppose they’ll get to me eventually, when they’re through talking to the cutlers, sport shops and martial arts wallahs.” He passed the case of knives across the Drake. “I’ll dig out the recording for when the local plod turn up.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Sam knew Detective Superintendent Harry Jessop slightly, but Jessop, a fifty-two-year-old with an impressive and distinguished record, was at a loss to place her.

  “I get the feeling that we’ve met, but I can’t place you.”

  “You’re more likely to remember me as Samantha Vaughan.”

  Realisation dawned on the large, moon face, and the heavy cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Don Vaughan’s wife. The Bradford corruption case. Oh hell, I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “No worries, Harry. When Don went down, I divorced him, and Hell will freeze over before I’ll take his surname again.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Jessop turned his large, blue eyes on Drake. “And you, Mr Drake. I get the feeling again that I should know you.”

  “I’m an accredited counsellor to the police. I work mainly to Iris Mullins’ instructions.”

  Once again, the penny dropped. “Of course. You were a target for the Anagramist, weren’t you? He missed you, and hit your partner, Sergeant Rebecca Teale.” Jessop’s malleable features shifted to a mask of sorrow. “Please accept my sincere condolences, Mr Drake. It’s probably small consolation to you, but every man and woman in the police nationwide, suffers some of your pain. Not the same magnitude, granted, but when one of ours is killed, we all take it personally.”

  “Thank you. However, this is not getting us any further forward.”

  Jessop switched his attention back to Sam. “So, what can I do for you?”

  Over the course of the next few minutes, she detailed information she had received at Utterridge’s, and showed him the relevant identification Brian Glendenning had shown when he bought a set of throwing knives.

  “A gas bill with an address in Bradford.”

  “Easy to fake for anyone who has even basic skills with a computer,” Drake added.

  Sam augmented the assurance. “Utterridge assured us he has the man on CCTV. I managed to persuade him to give me a copy of the fake gas bill, but I have no jurisdiction in Leeds, I couldn’t demand the CCTV. But if you could get people over there, he’ll hand it over. Terry Lumsden and Charlie Adamson in Howley could use it.”

  Jessop pursed his lips. “I’ll bet. Not making
much progress, are they? Nor the MIT.”

  “None,” Drake confirmed. “But that’s not their fault, Superintendent. This man is clever, careful. He may leave plenty of forensic evidence, but it leads nowhere. Six weeks now, since he first struck, and Howley have only the one suspect, and he’s well-hidden. This—” He gestured at the photocopied gas bill. “—might just be the first break they’ve had. I’m not saying he’s the man, but right now Howley don’t have anything else. They need that security footage.”

  “No problem. We know Utterridge. We’ve had occasion to call at his place a time or two, usually when someone’s been nicking from him. I’ll get a couple of DC’s over there. Once we get the footage, I’ll email a copy to Terry Lumsden, then burn it onto CD and send it to Howley by courier. With a bit of luck, it’ll be there by five this afternoon. If not, it’ll be first thing in the morning.”

  Sam stood up and shook hands. “That’s great, Harry. Thanks for your help.”

  They stepped out of the police station into a bright, sunny but cold afternoon. Drake unlocked the car, opened the passenger door for Sam, and then settled behind the wheel.

  “Back to Howley, I think.”

  She agreed. “And now that you’re more talkative, we can have a little natter on the way.”

  He let the handbrake off and pulled out of the police station car park, joining the throng of early afternoon traffic.

  Once they were moving towards the western outlets of the city, Sam pressed him further. “Throwing knives?”

  “Ask no questions, get no lies told.”

  He drifted off the inner ring road, following the signs for the airport, and Skipton, and as they drove through the university quarter, the white clock tower of the Tomlinson building, one of the best-known landmarks in the city, ahead of them, she tried again.

  “When you first came to see me, I told you to eff off. You ignored me. You persevered. What makes you think you can tell me to mind my own business and I’m going to?”

  They crossed the open parkland of Woodhouse Moor, and ran into a brief hold-up where the dual carriageway funnelled down to a single lane in either direction. As the traffic picked up again, Drake eyed the parades of shops on both sides of the road as if he was seeking something. A quarter of a mile further on, he pulled into the kerb and killed the engine.