Sam shook her head sadly. “You’re a lunatic. You know that?”
“Aren’t we all once we get mad? I’m not mentally unsound, Mrs Vaughan. I’m just bloody furious that my birth-right was taken away from me by your boyfriend’s father.”
“For the record, he isn’t my boyfriend. I’ve just been supporting him since you murdered his partner. We haven’t even fucked.”
The sound of movement outside the room reached their ears. The doorknob rattled and the Anagramist grinned. “Doesn’t look like you’re ever going to do either. Shout to him.”
“So that’s why you didn’t gag me.”
He held the knife to her throat. “Shout him.”
With a sense of rising dread Sam realised that her life was over within the next few minutes. Not only hers. If Wes Drake stepped through the door, he too, would be dead. There was no avoiding her death, but there was still time to save him. She had never pretended to be a hero, but if she was to die, then let her death have some meaning.
She took a deep breath and glared defiance at the Anagramist. “Wes, get the hell out of here and send the guns in.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The house stood in complete isolation, in much the same way as did Drake’s. With no close neighbours and no street lighting, it was in almost total darkness. Thick blinds were drawn across every window on the ground and upper floors, but through the front-facing pane of the stone bay was the tiniest chink of light.
An invitation to join the Anagramist. Without night-vision lenses, Wrigley (if that was his name) would not be able to see him, and Drake would be carrying a torch which would risk closing down those same night-vision lenses. Instead, his adversary had left a thin light, a guiding star to bring the quarry in and target him.
He checked the large car parked on the crumbling drive, lifted the sheet from the rear, and recognised Sam’s registration. On opening the boot he found a few bags of shopping from the supermarket, but no trace of her.
Approaching the house cautiously, it came as no surprise to find the front door slightly ajar. Another invitation; his ticket to enter the theatre of combat.
He pushed the door wide open. It made no sound. In a house this old, left in such a dilapidated condition, he might have expected the hinges to protest, but Wrigley had obviously taken care of such minor annoyances. He would have other ways of detecting Drake’s entry, and a creaking door would put Drake on full alert, never mind the Anagramist.
He switched on the torch facility of his smartphone, and as he stepped over the threshold, his breathing came fast, drawn in through pursed lips, expelled with a sibilant snort from flared nostrils. In the silence, his heartbeat pounded in his ears, and the blood surged through his veins. The fight or flight response was taking over, pouring adrenaline and feeding much-needed oxygen to his muscles, making him ready to tackle whatever waited for him in the room, or turn and run away.
On his right, a rickety staircase ran to the upper floors, and along the narrow hall, a single door set into the end of the staircase. A cellar, Drake guessed. At the far end, faint nightlight hinted at the kitchen, but between the front door and that entrance was one more room. On the left of the hall, the door was closed. Opening it would be the signal Wrigley was waiting for.
He crept stealthily along the hall, keeping to the right, hugging the panelling beneath the staircase. Underfoot the carpet felt threadbare, and throughout there was a pervasive air of damp and decay, a fusty odour assaulting his nostrils.
He stopped across the hall facing the closed door. He tried to imagine the scene inside, but he had never set foot in this place before. He had no idea of the furnishings, or the layout. Even so, logic dictated certain factors.
The doorknob was on the right, hinges on the left. The door would open in the direction of the front of the house. Three feet separated the door from the kitchen entrance, and Drake guessed that once inside, the party wall between the two would be recessed a couple of feet from the door. Wrigley could conceivably be waiting there, knife raised, ready to strike the moment Drake entered.
But he doubted it. Drake had demonstrated his readiness to fight, even with a knife in his shoulder, the night Wrigley attacked him. This time, he had no doubts, Wrigley would go for the kill, but it would be from a distance. That meant he would be on the opposite side of the room, close to the bay window.
He was an expert knife-thrower. He would not miss. When Drake stepped into the room, he would have less than a second, less than the time it took the deadly blade to cross the room, to avoid it.
He gauged the distance between the room door and the threshold of the open front door at about twenty feet. His researches had revealed that a knife travelled at slightly over twenty mph when thrown; thirty-three feet per second. He would have slightly under two-thirds of a second in which to avoid it.
Sam had reminded him that Wrigley would have more than one knife at his disposal. Suppose he had more than one in his hand? How quickly could he follow-up? Much faster than Drake could cross the room, for sure, but how good would Wrigley be against a target moving low down and dodging erratically? How far would he duck with Drake’s knife coming towards him?
There were too many imponderables, too many ifs, buts, and maybes for him to prejudge the outcome. He had no option but to take his life in his hands and confront this evil man. On the other side of the door was Sam, still, he was certain, alive but in terror of her life, and unless he went in, she would soon be dead.
He unlocked the smartphone, composed a text message which translated the single anagram in Wrigley’s final message, telling the police exactly where to find the killer. He sent it off to Kirsty, killed the phone’s torch, and dropped the instrument in his pocket. If he failed, if he and Sam were destined for eternity, at least the police would have their man.
He pulled in a deep breath to steady himself, took a pace across the hall, reached out with a shaking hand and took hold of the doorknob.
He passed another moment to calm himself down, taking deep breaths; in through the mouth, count one, one thousand, two, one thousand, out through the nose, count one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand, four, one thousand. He repeated the exercise twice more until the excess of oxygen began to make him feel lightheaded. He allowed his breathing to resume a normal rate. It was now or not at all. He felt a strong temptation to call Kirsty directly, let the police deal with the situation, but he knew them; they would turn up with sirens screaming, blue lights cutting through the night, before they could get into this room, Sam would be dead. It was up to him, and it had to be now or not at all.
Then came the sound of Sam’s voice. “Wes, get the hell out of here and send the guns in.”
Fresh determination overcame him. He turned the knob, thrust the door open, and without further hesitation stepped into the room.
The place was unfurnished aside from a large desk and a couple of wooden dining chairs in the bay of the window. Sam was bound hand and foot to a chair, but she was not gagged. How could she be when she had just shouted him? If he had the time to think about it, Drake would guess that she had been left free purely to call to him if he should have encountered difficulties finding her.
On the other chair were four, gleaming blades, picked out by the light of a tiny lantern on the desk, the same lamp which had signalled to Drake from outside the house.
A fifth knife had been left in the body of Sam’s bodyguard, and the sixth was in Wrigley’s hand. He stood a few feet from Sam, his right arm raised with the knife held by its point, and Drake presented a square target to him. Wrigley unleashed his weapon, the knife whizzed through the air, aimed precisely at Drake’s chest. He half turned, and leaned back, narrowing the target area. Less than a tenth of a second later, the blade rocketed past him, and hit the wall to his right before dropping to the floor.
Just as quickly, Drake squared up and unleashed his knife.
Wrigley was turning, reaching to a chair to col
lect a second blade when he became aware of Drake’s weapon hurtling towards him. He sank to his knees, and scrabbled at the weapons on the chair. Drake’s knife flew over his head, and Wrigley was already standing up a second time.
Drake, fully aware that at the side of Wrigley, he was a learner, picked up the Anagramist’s first knife, turned and hurled it back. Wrigley was facing him, and drawing his arm back when Drake’s shot took him in the right shoulder. The blade embedded itself in Wrigley’s flesh, and the Anagramist screamed in agony.
He dropped his second knife, and sank to his knees, his left hand clutching the hilt of the blade buried in his right shoulder. Drake rushed across the unfurnished room, and swept the back of his hand across Wrigley’s wailing, frightened features. The Anagramist fell on his back. Drake lashed out with his foot, crashing into Wrigley’s ribs. Once again, his enemy screamed. Drake delivered a second kick, and then reached across his opponent, picked up one of the remaining knives, and sank to his knees, straddling the terrified, defenceless Wrigley, and raised the blade.
Wrigley cried, begged, pleaded for mercy. All Drake could see was Becky’s head, staring obscenely from the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace.
“Wes. No.”
He barely heard Sam’s plea. The bloodlust blinded him. Looking down at the hapless, helpless Wrigley, the faces of his victims ran through his mind’s eye: Shana Kenny, Gary Fellows, Ophelia Handley, two police officers, and Rebecca Teale… especially Rebecca Teale. He could see the terror in their eyes as Wrigley’s blade came to their throats, he could feel the searing agony of the first knife embedded in their backs, he could see Becky’s head once again, left like some ghastly trophy, an exhibit in the Anagramist’s chamber of horrors. A police officer behind the wheel of his car, his abdomen torn open, his partner, a knife embedded in his chest, tyre marks on his back, a crushed and crumpled wreck on the tarmac of a supermarket car park. Becky’s coffin lowered into the ground, the torture of the knife sinking into his shoulder muscles, the gloating hiss of the Anagramist’s voice telling him how he would kill them all, including that crazy bitch Drake had been seeing.
One image morphed into another like a rapid series of surreal camera shots running over and over again at high speed, drifting, undulating, melding one into another, and amongst them, the greedy features of this evil man, revelling in the terror he unleashed upon those innocent souls.
And with the images came random sounds echoing around his head: the victims pleading for mercy, Becky crying for him to come and save her, Wrigley assuring each victim that there was no mercy, no saviour, that this was the end of their existence, that he was God, a vengeful God, a God only too ready to wield his power of life and death.
Now it’s your turn, you vicious little bastard. Now I have the power of life and death over you, and I am just as vengeful, just as unmerciful as you. Now you die, now you face eternity now you suffer the same dread as your victims. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand… life for lives.
“Wes… Wes, please listen to me. Don’t hurt him.”
Sam’s pleading began to penetrate the raging bloodlust. With the knife still poised over Wrigley, blade aimed at his black heart, Drake turned manic eyes on her. “He’s an animal.”
“I know. For God’s sake put the knife down, Wes, and call the police.”
“It’s all he deserves.”
“I know that too.” Sam’s voice softened. “But you don’t deserve the life sentence that goes with it.”
In that moment, the absolute sense of her words drilled into his consciousness, and most of his fury evaporated. He glared down at the terrified man beneath him, and summoning every ounce of his strength, he brought the knife down with a roar of anger and frustration. Wrigley screamed… and then turned frightened eyes to his left where Drake had driven the blade into the bare floorboards.
Drake stood up, and glowered down at his defeated enemy. “If you make one move, I’ll kick you to death. Nod your head if you understand.”
Wrigley frantically nodded, and Drake turned his attention to Sam. Using another of the spare blades, he cut away at the ropes binding her, and when she was free, he handed over his phone.
“Kirsty Pollack’s number is in the directory. She should be on the way here, but give her a call just to make sure. This place is listed as Canary House, and she should know where it is. If not, tell her it’s on Harrogate Lane. If she’s struggling, she can get a GPS track on my phone. And tell her we don’t need the firepower now.” He cast a contemptuous glance at Wrigley. “I’ll sit and watch him bleed to death.”
Sam shook her head. “No you won’t. We need medics to deal with him, but in the meantime, find something to stem the blood flow. We need him alive.”
March 10
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The headlights of Drake’s car picked out Bradford Hill Farm as he swung into the drive, nosed up to the garage door, and cut the engine. In the passenger seat, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.
The time was coming up to midnight, the Anagramist had been taken to A & E to have his wounds repaired, and from there he would be moved to the dungeon, the subterranean holding cells of Howley police station. Tomorrow, he would face hours of interrogation, and inevitably – so Adamson assured them – he would be charged with multiple counts of murder and attempted murder.
In the aftermath of the evening’s events, neither Sam nor Drake had much time to dwell upon what had happened. Kirsty took statements from them, and Drake was candid about his intention to kill the Anagramist, and unstinting in his praise for Sam’s calm persuasion which stopped him. Forensic officers took mouth swabs and fingerprints for DNA elimination, and then they faced the wrath of Chief Superintendent Lumsden.
“You were ordered, Mr Drake, to forward any messages you received from him.”
Drake remained calm. He’d had plenty of time to rehearse his arguments. “I did. I received an email at ten past eight, I forwarded it to you a few minutes later.”
“You didn’t translate the anagram.”
“You never asked me to.”
Unknown to Drake, it was the same argument Kirsty had put to Lumsden, but it did nothing to assuage the chief superintendent’s anger. “You do realise you could face charges. Withholding evidence to begin with. Putting the life of a police officer – Ms Feyer – at risk.”
Drake would not hear it. “I told you on that supermarket car park that Sam was alive. You listened to Charlie Adamson instead of me. If I’d told you where to find him, she wouldn’t be sat here. She would be dead, and if you don’t believe me, read her statement. Glendenning, Wrigglesworth, Wrigley, whatever he wants to call himself, made it clear that when he killed me, she would be next. By withholding your so-called evidence, Lumsden, I saved her life.”
The chief superintendent appeared uncertain how to react, but Sam made her position clear.
“I knew the risk when I volunteered, and Wes is right. He saved my life. If you insist on charging him, sir, I will go public on the issue.”
Lumsden’s eyes popped. “That would be professional suicide; the end of your career.”
“You’re mistaking me for someone who gives a damn. Charge him, and I’ll let the world know.”
Lumsden had not reached a decision by the time they were allowed to leave, but Sam knew what would happen next and explained it during the drive back to Bradford Hill Farm.
“He’ll speak to Iris Mullins tomorrow, and you might get a boot up the backside from her, but she’s as paranoid as everyone else about bad publicity. You won’t hear any more of it, Wes.”
“To echo your sentiments, you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a toss.”
And now, it was over. They climbed out of the car, and as Drake let them into the house, and the day’s stress finally got to her. She removed her coat, joined Drake in the kitchen, and he placed a cup of much-needed coffee in front of her, and as she drank, she broke.
When Drake returne
d to the table, he found her sobbing uncontrollably. He drew up a chair alongside her, reached to her, took her in his arms and hugged her tightly, as if he never wanted to let go.
He remembered holding her in the grounds of Peace Garden. That had been a gesture of support. This time, it was more. Since the day after Becky’s death, she had been his constant companion, always at his side, ready to take his part, ready to challenge her senior colleagues on his behalf, whether he needed it or not, prepared to fight with him. Tonight, faced with imminent death, she disregarded her safety in an effort to warn him away, and in the final analysis, when he had been ready to commit murder, she had gently, softly persuaded him to back away. He knew many other police officers who would have turned a blind eye, Charlie Adamson and Kirsty Pollack, to name but two. Sam maintained her professionalism even though she, like them, would probably prefer to see the Anagramist permanently silenced. She was something special. A special police officer, a special woman, special to Drake.
As her cries began to subdue, she pulled back, and looked into his eyes. What he saw there was more than friendship, more than comradeship, more than two people thrown together by the insane actions of one man. She reached up with her lips, and he bent his head to meet her.
Soon, they were half naked on the kitchen floor, Sam responding eagerly, urgently to his powerful thrusts, until orgasm tore through her, followed soon after by his overpowering climax.
From there, they moved to his room, his bed, and allowed the mutual passions to take them where they wished to go, until, with the time coming up to two in the morning, locked in each other’s arms, they fell into blissful sleep…
Dawn broke, tempestuous clouds rushed across the sky, driven by fierce winds, bringing more rain with them.
Sam’s eyes flickered open, and her first reaction was to check the time on Drake’s bedside clock. A few minutes after nine a.m.
The Anagramist Page 23
