The Anagramist removed the knife, wiped the blade clean, and then pulled the officer’s coat closed over his abdomen to hide the blood. Finally, he pressed the man’s head forward onto the chest to make it appear as if he had nodded off to sleep.
Another surreptitious glance around reassured him that none of the few people milling around the car park had noticed anything untoward. He knelt down, removed the dust-cap from the front, offside wheel, pressed the point of his knife against the valve, and let out the air. When the tyre was sufficiently deflated, he jammed the blade into the tyre wall, and it gave way with a soft ‘phut’. He moved quickly to the near side, and repeated the exercise, and then he moved to the covered entrance of the supermarket, where he waited.
Sam Vaughan came out first, and made her way between the lines of cars, carefully avoiding passing anywhere near the unmarked Ford. The Anagramist followed, choosing another route through the parked vehicles to allay her suspicions. She reached her car, aimed the remote, dropped the keys in her right-hand pocket, and lifted the boot to drop her shopping in.
The Anagramist moved quickly again. He hurried to the car, and as he reached her, she half turned to look at him. His clenched fists clubbed her on the jaw, she began to crumple. He caught her under the armpits, rolled her into the boot, dug into her pockets to remove her car keys, and slammed the boot lid on her.
“Hey.”
He turned to find the second undercover officer bearing down on him. He took his stance, withdrew the knife, gripped it by the point, and waited. Thirty feet, twenty-five, twenty. He let fly the knife. His calculations were – as always – perfect. The knife sank into the detective’s chest, and he began to fold. His cries alerted people nearby. A woman screamed. A security guard rushed out of the supermarket and towards the scene. The Anagramist climbed behind the wheel of Sam’s car, fired the engine, reversed out of the parking slot and felt a bump as he ran over the prone officer. He jammed the transmission into ‘D’, hit the gas, and tore out of the car park.
The security guard would dial 999, but it would take time for the everyday filth to get to the supermarket. They would find the Renault eventually. Such matters did not concern him. There was nothing in the car, and since it was not registered in his name, they could never trace him through it.
Once out on the roads, he kept his speed down so as not to attract attention, skirted the town centre and made for home, revelling in his success. Two more dead cops – three when he dealt with Vaughan – Drake ready to be shuffled from his mortal coil, and a lesson for the Howley police. Don’t try to outmanoeuvre the Anagramist.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The first Drake knew of anything was a phone call from Kirsty Pollack, at four o’clock. Becky’s best friend was blunt and to the point. “He’s got, Sam.”
There was a brief debate, after which Drake jumped into his car and drove at breakneck speed down to the police station, only to be told by Sergeant Rickson that everyone, including Chief Superintendent Lumsden was out at the supermarket.
Racked by the joint stress of concern for Sam, and fury at the Anagramist’s daring, he drove out to the supermarket, and after a brief debate with the constable on sentry duty, stopping traffic entering the car park, he was granted access.
He was not allowed anywhere near the scene of the crime. The officer’s body on the tarmac was covered with a sheet, and the windows and windscreen of the Ford was similarly shrouded.
Kirsty was busy taking statements from staff and customers, Adamson was in conference with Lumsden and a tall, balding man who Drake guessed was the supermarket general manager.
Kirsty got to him first, and gave him a detailed account of what had taken place. His reaction was to vent his fury with a single expletive. “Fuck.”
Kirsty silently agreed, but when he joined them, Lumsden was unstinting in his criticism. “I said all along that I wasn’t happy with this idea. Now it’s cost us three more officers.”
Drake would not hear it. “He yielded to the temptation. We had the right idea. We should have had more bodies looking after her. I should have been with her.”
“You’d be dead.”
Drake responded logically to Kirsty’s objection. “But it would have given your people the chance to take him.”
He backed away, his frantic mind running through potential scenarios. Two officers dead, murdered in public in broad daylight. Sam… dead or captive? He decided it did not matter. Somewhere along the line, the original plan would still come together. The Anagramist would send him a message, challenging him to a one-to-one, and he knew which way he would jump.
But without Sam, what could the Anagramist use as temptation? Drake’s anger? His distress? His grief?
None of those options would drive him to a suicide mission, and with that realisation, he knew that Sam was alive.
He returned to join Lumsden, Adamson, and Kirsty, and told them of his conclusions. “She was our bait, and he took it. Now she’s his bait, and we’ll have no option but to bite.”
Adamson came on strong. “There’s been enough killing. If he’s gonna challenge you, he’ll have to let you know where he is. When he does, I insist that you call us.”
Drake’s lip curled. “And what will you do, Adamson? Take him on yourself?”
“No. We’ve called in an Armed Response Unit and they’re on standby. We’ll negotiate, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll send the fire boys in.”
“Do that and you’ll sign Sam Feyer’s death warrant.”
Lumsden stepped in to avoid the argument heating up. “Unfortunately, Wes, we don’t know she isn’t already dead. Chief Inspector Adamson is right. If and when he contacts you, call us.”
With no reasonable alternative, Drake agreed, climbed into his car, and drove back to Bradford Hill Farm.
They were wrong. He knew they were. She was still alive, and would remain so until he confronted the Anagramist. Letting himself into the house, he powered up his laptop, waited a minute for it to properly activate, and then opened his email package. Nothing. Plenty of emails from the college, messages from other sources, but nothing from the Anagramist. It would come. Sunset was a little after six o’clock, and once the dark descended, his nemesis would be in touch.
Four weeks had passed since the attack upon him, slightly over three weeks since Becky was murdered and Sam’s arrival in Howley. It was eight weeks to the day since he first met her, and in that time, she had progressed from a client to an acquaintance to a friend to a close friend. How much further would they go? On the day of Becky’s funeral, she had been ready to sleep with him, and he would be lying if he said he was not tempted. Only a rush of guilt, a sense of betrayal of everything he and Becky stood for had stopped him. But for that, even his professional ethics, the high standards to which he had always adhered, would not have prevented the inevitable between them.
He would be deceiving himself again if he said he did not find her attractive. She had a single-mindedness about her, the same degree of control and self-control which had been amongst Becky’s finer qualities. A woman who could not and would not be deterred. Drake admired such women. They could not be bullied, they could not be deflected from what had to be done. And with his admiration, respect for such women, he could no more leave her at the mercy of this maniac than he would leave Becky.
Contrast that with his promise to keep the police informed, and it presented a dangerous quandary. In his experience, the police were incapable of turning up en masse without lights and sirens, and the threat of an ARU only made matters worse. The Anagramist had consistently demonstrated total disregard for human life, and if he was threatened, he would have no hesitation in killing Sam first. No matter what assurances he had given the police, Drake could not allow that to happen.
He sat before the machine hour on hour, his mind wandering agonising, terrifying paths; Sam already dead, Sam suffering, Sam slowly bleeding to death, Sam waiting in abject terror for her demise, all the frightening routes Becky a
nd the other victims had travelled.
She was nearby. He knew it. The Anagramist did not live far, but for all information the police had gathered on him, he might as well be on the moon.
With the clock reading ten past eight, the computer beeped once to indicate an incoming message. Drake knew before he even checked that it was from the Anagramist. He opened it and read the verse.
It’s simple enough, Drake.
I have Vaughan.
If you don’t show by midnight, she’s history.
Any sign of the cops, she’s history.
You and you alone.
You’ll find us at you can share.
Clear, concise text. Every line, every word correctly spelled, everything correctly punctuated. No trace of any anagrams except in the final three words. ‘You can share’ was his location.
There was no obvious reference to a thoroughfare; road, street, avenue, mount, close, gardens, terrace, lane; none of them could be extracted from those eleven letters, and Drake could think of no other name for a residential street that might come from them. Logically, then, the three words did not spell out a thoroughfare, but a precise location.
Armed with this information, in seconds he had removed the word ‘house’, which left him with the letters, Y-C-A-N-A-R, and within a few more seconds he had rearranged them to spell ‘Canary. Canary House. Where the hell was Canary House?
He went online, typed in the two words and added Howley, the result appeared in millionths of a second. A semi-derelict house on Harrogate Lane, less than two miles from Drake’s home. Of course! How many times had he passed it when he and Becky made for a Sunday afternoon in Harrogate? Hell, hadn’t he reminded Becky that they had considered buying it when they first got together. It had been empty for years, and there were the usual rumours that it was haunted. He did not believe in ghosts, but the Wrigglesworth family had been murdered there; Maurice Glenn had admitted it. They were Bruno Wrigley’s family, and yet the police had checked the place several times and found it empty. The Anagramist, once again demonstrating his skill at hiding himself.
Forcing calm upon himself, he began to gather his equipment. Mobile phone, car keys, two of the knives he had purchased; one to throw, the other to back up his threat.
He climbed into his car, and ran the engine. For a moment he hesitated. He had promised to send any communication to the police, but if he did, they would get there before him, and they would go in guns and lights blazing. Sam would be dead.
On the other hand…
He put together an email and sent it to Kirsty. It was an exact copy of the Anagramist’s message, to which he added the words; this came in at ten past eight. I’m on my way there now.
And with that, he slid the transmission into ‘D’, knocked the handbrake off, and drove away.
***
“Damn.”
Kirsty’s exclamation drew the attention of Adamson and Lumsden.
“That sly bastard.”
“What is it, Kirsty?” The chief superintendent asked, his face a mask of deep concern.
“Wes Drake. He’s sent us the Anagramist’s message, but he hasn’t translated it.”
Lumsden’s worried features shifted into full-blown anger. “I’ll have him for that. I gave him strict instructions to forward any message.”
“And he has done, sir,” Kirsty insisted. “But you didn’t tell him to crack the anagrams first. He’s on his way to wherever our man is, and if we don’t shift our backsides, Wes or the Anagramist, or both, could be dead.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sam had no idea how long she had been in the boot of her car, but it felt like a long time. It was pitch dark, and she was wearing only a dress watch, which had no inbuilt backlight. When she checked her pockets, her phone was gone, which led her to conclude that the Anagramist had opened the boot at least once since abducting her. Why hadn’t she remembered him doing so?
She was cold, cramped, uncomfortable, and the pain in her jaw where he had hit her told her why she did not remember him searching her pockets.
Beneath her general discomfort was fear. The plan which she and Drake conceived and which the Howley police agreed to, had gone badly wrong. What happened to her two escorts? One of them had followed her into the supermarket, the other had stayed behind in the car, parked immediately behind her where he could see everything. Why hadn’t they come to her assistance?
The greater puzzle was why she was still alive. He may not have stabbed her in the back, but surely he would have cut her throat by now?
Realisation seeped through only slowly. He was waiting for Drake. He would not harm her until he had tempted Wes, brought him to the killing ground. The thought reminded her of Drake’s recent, rigorous training in knife-throwing. Was he good enough? She had no qualms about his courage, no doubts that he would show up, but had serious concerns about his ability to take on the Anagramist. Was he was sufficiently skilled to bring down this man who, to date, had demonstrated unerring accuracy with his weapons?
The boot opened, and he towered above her. He pressed the knife to her neck.
“I’m taking you inside. One shout, and I’ll cut your throat. Any attempt to run for it, and I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Her mouth was dry, and she had to swallow a thin layer of saliva to lubricate her vocal cords. “Yes.”
He grabbed her roughly by the arm, the point of his knife close to her neck, and dragged her from the cramped confines of the boot. As she stood on the uneven drive of his decrepit home, her knees wobbled and almost gave way.
“Careful,” he warned her. “Any silly move like that can end your life.”
She offered no resistance, and as he led her into the house, she glanced at her car. Covered with a tarpaulin, only the boot visible. Even as she noticed it, he gripped the sheet, and dragged it over the car, then returned to guiding her into the house, along a dingy, dimly lit hallway, and into the first room on the left.
It was some kind of study, but most of the furniture had been removed. Deliberate, she guessed. If – when – Wes came in there would be nothing between a shabby desk, upon which was a reading lamp and a coil of rope, two chairs by the window, and the door through which they had entered. No cover, nowhere to hide the from Anagramist’s flying knives.
He forced her to sit on one of the old dining chairs.
“I’m gonna tie you to the chair. Any heroics, and you’re dead meat. Clear?”
“I understand.”
He made an efficient job of it, wrapping the rope many times around her chest, pinning her arms to the side of the chair before tying it off. Then he bound her feet to the chair legs. Eventually, satisfied that she was completely immobilised, he took a case of knives from behind the desk, set it down and opened it, and finally sat facing her, his chubby face barely illuminated in the reading lamp’s low-wattage bulb.
“Well, this is nice, isn’t it Mrs Vaughan?”
Wondering why he had not silenced her with a gag, her lip curled and she winced at the pain from her jaw. “It’s Feyer. I haven’t been Vaughan since I sent that bastard to jail.”
He laughed. “You’ve got a lotta balls for a woman facing a serial killer.”
Now she sneered. “Oh dear. I’m sorry if I’m upsetting you. But hey, what do I have to lose? You’re obviously going to kill me.”
“Yup. But if you behave yourself, you’ll live long enough to see your boyfriend die first.” He cackled. “Did you seriously think I’d fall for such an obvious trick? Putting out a message I never sent?”
“You did fall for it, though, didn’t you? You came after me, and I’ll bet you’ve already sent Wes a message inviting him here.” Sam did not wait for an answer. “He’ll come. And when he gets here, it won’t be me or him dying. It’ll be you. You’ve underestimated him. He’s a damn sight more resourceful than you give him credit for.”
He faked a yawn. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Heard it all before.”
Sam coul
d think of nothing other than keeping him talking. “Tell me what it’s all about. Initially, we thought you just got off on killing, but it’s all to do with your father and Ted Drake, isn’t it?”
The Anagramist dug into his pocket and took out her phone. He checked the time and read half past eight.
“I reckon we’ve about twenty minutes before he shows up. It won’t take him long to crack the one anagram I put in the last message. So, yeah, I’ll tell you. For a start off, my name isn’t Brian Glenn or Brian Glendenning. It’s Bruno Wrigley, and yes, Grand Vizier Mauricio was my father. Trouble was, I was an accident after he raped my mother. I knew nothing about it, and right up to her death, Ma never told me anything. Then, just after he committed suicide, I received a letter… Well, it was addressed to my old queen. In it, he apologised for what he’d done. At the time, he was drinking heavily, and that was all down to Ted Drake. If old man Drake had turned professional with him, they would have been a roaring success, but Drake bottled out, and Maurice Glenn ended up as no better than a support act. He never had two pennies to rub together. If old man Drake had backed him up, he would have been wealthy, and the minute he died, I would have come into his fortune.”
“So that’s why you decided to bump off all these people? Because you’re broke?”
“But I’m not broke. I had a nice little house in Bradford, which I sold a while ago. When I found this place, which, if the filth did their homework properly, they would know belonged to my grandparents in the early seventies, when Glenn murdered them. As far as I’m concerned, the place is mine. As for the other victims, they were all carefully chosen. If I had been allowed to finish the job, their surnames would have read, Kenny, Fellows, Drake, Handley, Maurice, which could reasonably be translated to read, ‘canny fellows, Drake and Maurice’. Course, your man didn’t let me finish the job, did he? He should have been dead four weeks ago, and tonight, his assistant, the Morris woman, would have been dealt with. As it was, I had to snuff his girlfriend, and get her name deliberately wrong in the message I sent him.”
The Anagramist Page 22
