Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  Drake had an uneasy feeling that he knew the answer. ‘Don’t tell me it was Farrell.’

  Howick nodded, a frustrated look on his face. ‘The other traffic officers thought Farrell and Mathews were lucky to get away with it. Everybody knew that Mathews had a violent temper. Dixon got sent down for four years and after that Mathews seemed to think he was invincible.’

  Howick paused for effect. ‘But that’s not the end of it. Within a week, the death threats began.’

  Drake’s attention focused and the adrenaline pumped again, defeating his lingering tiredness. Howick began another detailed explanation.

  ‘Highlights please, Dave,’ Drake snapped.

  ‘Anonymous letters. No DNA: all the usual checks were made. Neither of the officers took any of the death threats seriously.’

  Drake focused his mind. All the letters would have to be rechecked. Forensics would have to convince him that they had done every test known to science.

  ‘Any link to the court case?’ Drake said.

  ‘None that could be proved.’

  ‘So why is this so important?’

  ‘Stevie Dixon was released on parole a month ago. Quite the model prisoner. Glowing reports from the prison officers and probation. But his pre-cons read like a Who’s Who of how to hate police officers.’

  Howick sat on the edge of the chair, a serious and expectant look on his face. Drake shouted through the half-open door for Winder, who appeared in his office moments later.

  ‘Gareth, you and Dave have to interview a possible suspect.’

  As soon as Howick and Winder left, Drake reluctantly turned his attention to his emails. There was a press release from the PR department, in advance of the press conference, which he scanned quickly, knowing the reporters would have questions that they couldn’t answer because they had so little to go on.

  Glancing at his watch, he knew he had some time to spare. His hands felt greasy, his neck sweaty. He fished around in the drawers of his desk and found a toothbrush and toothpaste. In the nearest bathroom, he removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and he stared into the mirror. He knew he should be at his desk, moving the investigation forward, motivating his officers, leading the team, but he had to be clean, had to feel fresh. He thought about Sian and her latest comments about his compulsive behaviour. He knew he washed his hands too often, but it helped and he had to be presentable. He leant forward, staring at his reflection.

  He worried about the Post-it notes on his desk. He would have to bring order to his paperwork, file everything away, and make extra copies, just in case. He stared at the face in the mirror and pushed at the receding hairline at each temple. He pulled in his waist and straightened his shoulders. Then he washed his hands and face with hot, soapy water.

  The effort was worth it; he felt invigorated and almost clean again. He re-knotted his tie, checked his teeth in the mirror and drew a comb through his hair. Now he was ready for the press conference.

  Price was sitting at the end of the oval conference table with neat piles of papers in front of him. The Chief Constable sat next to him, both senior officers in full uniform, their caps in the middle of the table. Drake vaguely recognised the woman from public relations and managed to remember that her name was Lisa. He groaned when he saw that Andy Thorsen was the duty Crown prosecutor. The lawyer nodded at him without saying a word. Drake had worked on many cases with the prosecutor, who was a good lawyer but had all the personality of a dead fish.

  Price took charge of the meeting and ran through the draft press release, inviting comments. He reminded everyone there wasn’t a great deal they could tell the press. Lisa stressed how inundated her office had been with requests for details.

  ‘And S4C will expect a Welsh language interview. DI Drake?’ she asked.

  Drake agreed. This was familiar territory and it wasn’t the first time his ability to speak Welsh would get his face on the television news.

  The Chief Constable reminded everyone, unnecessarily, that they were dealing with the deaths of two police officers. So no matter what reservations they had about the press, they had little choice but to involve them.

  ‘At this stage we don’t make any reference to how they were killed.’ It was Drake’s first contribution. ‘Let’s stick to the basic facts. Appeal for witnesses. And we don’t mention the message.’

  Price turned to Thorsen.

  ‘Andy, any thoughts?’

  The lawyer was restless in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. He drew a breath, rolled his eyes and replied. ‘That’s an operational matter.’

  Drake screwed his eyes at Thorsen; he could have contributed something more constructive. Typical bloody lawyer – always hedging his bets. He glanced at the Chief Constable and thought he saw a look of irritation in his eyes. Price and Riskin scooped up their caps and led the others downstairs.

  Drake glanced through a glass door and saw the expectant faces of the press sitting in rows. He heard the chatter amongst the journalists and spotted some faces he knew from the television – he had never seen a press conference so well attended.

  When they entered the room he heard the clicks and whirls of the television cameras, and the light bulbs fizzed into life, bathing the room in artificial light. There were folded cards with the names of each officer placed on the table and Drake found his seat at the far end. Drake shifted uncomfortably in his chair, aware of all the eyes on him. He kept his gaze fixed to the desk in front of him, as the expected questions from the journalists and the standard evasive answers from Price echoed round the room. He looked up when he heard his own name mentioned.

  ‘Inspector Drake,’ said a young reporter, ‘Is it true that there’s been a message from the killer?’

  Drake thought about looking over at the Chief Constable but, hiding his surprise at the question, looked at his notes and composed a reply.

  ‘We are pursuing several lines of inquiry, although it would be inappropriate to comment on specifics. What I can say is to underline what has been said already. We will do everything to catch the killer.’

  The Chief Constable finished the press conference and as they left the room staff from the public relations department distributed copies of the press release. Price stormed through headquarters, flushed a scarlet colour, unable to contain his annoyance.

  ‘How the fuck did he know about the message?’

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, 1st June

  Drake tried to control the anger welling up inside him, that somebody on his team had leaked information to the press. He couldn’t think of a more serious breach of trust. Back in his office, he slammed the door and kicked a bin, sending it flying across the floor. He worried about the mess and looked at the rubbish strewn across the carpet tiles, before wondering what the price of a police officer’s indiscretion was these days. No more than a few pints and a curry, probably.

  He had to get his team together, right now.

  He strode out of his office into the Incident Room and stood in the middle. Caren raised her head and Howick and Winder glanced at each other, seeing that something was on his mind. Drake folded his arms and drew breath slowly.

  ‘I never want that to happen again. You don’t talk to anybody about the case. Understood?’

  Howick chewed his lips and Winder blinked rapidly, but Caren gave him a neutral gaze.

  Drake raised his voice.

  ‘We can’t afford for anybody to talk to the press. Any leak, and I mean any leak, could damage this investigation. We’ve got two dead officers for Christ’s sake!’

  He unfolded his arms and walked back to his office but hesitated as he reached the door. He turned to face the room again. ‘We’ve got work to do. So let’s get on with it.’

  The catharsis of venting his anger soon waned. Drake realised that the leak could have come from anywhere. They had to be ahead of the killer: he would make certain of it. He stared down at the crumpled notes and shreds of torn paper that littered
the floor, and his pulse raced and his chest tightened. He knelt down and started to collect the discarded rubbish. Once he had finished, he slumped into his leather chair, trying to get a clear perspective. He moved the piles of unfinished reports, arranging them out of mind in the middle of a bookcase. He opened his notebook and set about the task of creating a to-do list, rearranging the priorities he had set various officers. The simple act of restructuring his records enabled him to clear his mind and refocus his attention.

  A worry crossed his mind that perhaps it had been unwise to be so aggressive earlier. After all, he had no proof that anyone in his team had been responsible. He heard Caren’s muffled voice on the telephone in the adjacent Incident Room. Drake guessed things weren’t going well. He opened the door and heard her lecturing somebody about house-to-house inquiry techniques. There was an exasperated look on her face when Drake walked over to her desk. She finished the call and began a tirade about the ineffectual training of junior officers.

  ‘Better bring me up to date,’ Drake said.

  ‘There’s still a mass of TV crews outside,’ Caren said as they walked into Drake’s office.

  Drake noticed her clothes – the jeans were too baggy and the blouse hung loosely around her hips, and the trainers were shabby and worn. At least her hair had been brushed into a knot behind her head, instead of a tangled mass falling over her shoulders. He liked to do things properly and working with Caren reminded him how sloppy the attitude of more junior officers had become.

  ‘I don’t know if the house-to-house inquiries will help,’ Caren said.

  ‘Any results yet?’

  The furrows on her brow deepened and Drake sensed her irritation. Caren knew the inquiries were needed – essential even – but it still didn’t stop her frustration.

  ‘Look, Caren, I know how you feel. But we’ve got to do it. Tick all the boxes.’

  ‘I know. But—’

  ‘No buts about it. We’ve got to follow procedure.’

  ‘It’s pointless—’

  Drake raised a hand and she stopped mid-breath.

  ‘The politicians and the public expect us to do the house-to-house. Think about the reaction if we didn’t.’

  As a young recruit Drake had wanted to make a difference – to improve the lives of ordinary people, lock up the bad guys and help make society safer, but the more paperwork he had to complete the more he felt estranged from his idealism. He could see Caren was beginning to feel the same way.

  Caren nodded slowly and he continued. ‘I know it’s a pain in the backside. Results so far?’

  ‘Nothing yet, sir. I’ve got two teams working. One in Blaenau Ffestiniog itself and the other on the Dolwyddelan side of the pass. They could take days to finish the work. So many of the houses are isolated farms and smallholdings. Everybody was in bed at two o’clock in the morning.’

  Drake had to concentrate but his eyes burnt with tiredness, and they still had to visit Danny Farrell’s widow and Paul Mathews’s ex-wife: something he was dreading.

  ‘It’s time to go and see the families,’ Drake said. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park.’

  The front gardens at Trem-y-Mor were neat but anonymous. Vertical blinds and net curtains hung at front windows and lazier occupants had left wheelie bins on their front drives. There were three cars parked in a row outside the house so Drake parked two doors away. Before they left the car, Caren cleared her throat.

  ‘Do you think somebody in the team spoke to the journalist?’

  Drake darted a glance at her but she avoided eye contact.

  ‘He must have got his information from somewhere.’

  Caren nodded slowly.

  ‘I don’t think it was either Dave or Gareth.’

  ‘We have to be careful,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation, when he realised what she meant. ‘And two officers. Well …’ Drake found the words drying up. ‘The pressure will be intense for a result here,’ he continued.

  ‘You can depend on the team, sir.’

  He nodded but said nothing. They left the car and walked down to the bungalow, Drake mulling over Caren’s comments. She was right and yet, while he blanked out his own worries, the horror of the crimes struck him afresh; he hoped that he could cope with the investigation and that the obsessions that drove his rituals would subside.

  The paths around the house were dirty, the flags uneven and lush with weeds. Danny Farrell hadn’t exactly been the domestic type.

  One of the family liaison officers opened the door. Standing behind her was an older woman with an expectant, worried look on her face, her hair unkempt, and her face drawn and tired.

  ‘Paula’s in the lounge,’ the officer said.

  Drake and Caren followed her into a room where a woman in her late thirties sat on one of the sofas. Paula Farrell had deep shadows under her bloodshot eyes. Drake felt bad for disturbing her but knew that his presence couldn’t make matters any worse. The older woman left the room when they sat down, announcing that she would make tea.

  Drake looked around the lounge. At one corner a section of wallpaper was peeling away. A glass-fronted bookcase had photographs of a boy and a girl in school uniform – Drake remembered that Danny Farrell had children of school age. Underneath the television, a games console lay on top of a pile of DVD cases. Although it was June, the room felt cold.

  Drake never found expressing condolences easy and despite having faced grieving partners, widows and widowers many times, he always stumbled to find the right words or the right emotion. With Paula Farrell it was doubly hard.

  ‘Look, I know this is a bad time but I need to ask you a couple of questions.’

  Paula Farrell nodded, her eyes dull.

  ‘Tell me about Danny.’

  ‘Danny was just an ordinary bloke,’ she said. ‘He loved being in the police. Always looked forward to going to work.’

  ‘Did he enjoy working with Paul Mathews?’

  Paula hesitated.

  ‘Was there a problem with Mathews?’

  ‘No problem for Danny. I just didn’t like the man.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  Paula screwed up her eyes and gave Drake a sideways look.

  ‘I knew he was trouble.’ She shook her head before brushing away a tear. ‘From the things Danny said about him. About the way he could be. And he tried to come on to me one night. It was at a party. I told Danny but he laughed it off. Told me I got it all wrong – must have drunk too much.’

  Her energy to talk about Paul Mathews seemed to peter out.

  ‘Do you remember a case about two years ago that went to court? An allegation that Mathews had assaulted a civilian?’

  She nodded and looked down at the carpet. Drake paused.

  ‘Did Danny talk about it?’

  ‘Just that Paul was in the shit,’ she said. ‘I don’t really remember the details, but Danny didn’t go to court very often, so it stuck in my mind.’

  Drake shifted to the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Do you remember anything at all?’

  ‘Just that Danny was worried.’

  Paula’s mother arrived with the tea.

  ‘Thanks, Mam.’ As her mother left the room, Paula added, ‘I couldn’t cope without her.’

  Drake sipped the sweet tea, listening with increasing irritation to Caren slurping the hot liquid. Paula didn’t seem to notice. Drake continued with his questions, but without uncovering any useful information. Danny was a good man, kind to the kids, took them to football and the scouts. Their marriage wasn’t perfect of course, but what marriage is? And no, she had no idea if there was anybody that wanted him dead.

  After an hour Paula had slumped back in her chair and raised a hand to her mouth, stifling a yawn.

  Caren leant forward. ‘You’ve got some lovely photos of your children,’ she said. ‘How old are they?’

  Paula smiled wanly.

  ‘Delyth’s ten and Jack’s thirteen.’

  ‘How are they coping?’


  Paula turned to look at her. ‘I don’t know what to say to them.’

  Paula stood by the front door as they left the bungalow and in the evening light, her complexion appeared even paler. She pulled her arms round her body against an imaginary chill.

  They drove down towards the A55 that skirted the edge of the village. The sea looked calm, the sky a crystal blue. Soon the tranquil scene gave way to the traffic rushing along the main road.

  They travelled on, in silence, eventually finding a parking space outside the home of Paul Mathews’s ex-wife. When Fiona Mathews opened the door she stood for a moment staring – then the faintest hint of a smile twitched her lips. Her clothes were expensive and the perfume sweet and cloying. It smelt too young for her – Drake guessed she was forty, maybe even forty-five.

  ‘Inspector Drake,’ he began. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Waits.’

  Fiona stood to one side as though she had expected them. She motioned briefly with her head towards the inside of the house. The hallway was long and immaculately tidy – Drake noticed immediately that nothing felt out of place; there was no sense of grief or loss. Fiona’s world seemed unaffected by the death of her former husband. She sat down on a sofa, piled with perfectly positioned scatter cushions, crossed her legs, drew back her thin blond hair from her face and gave Drake a formal smile.

  ‘You’ve come about Paul.’

  ‘Mrs Mathews, I know—’

  ‘Trick, please.’

  Drake hesitated.

  ‘I’ve reverted to my maiden name. Trick.’

  ‘Of course,’ Drake sensed Caren staring at her.

  It was clear that condolences weren’t needed: no sympathetic body language required. He adjusted his position on the chair opposite Fiona.

  ‘When did you last see Paul, Mrs – Ms – Trick?’

  Fiona folded one hand inside another. ‘We’ve been divorced for three years and frankly not a day goes by that I’m not deeply grateful about the divorce. I dreaded seeing the man.’

  The conversation continued, with Fiona making it clearer with every word that she hated Mathews. Drake heard the floorboards groan upstairs, then the sound of a television, and a toilet flushing, and he remembered the family.