Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  There were more uniformed officers visible as he approached the car park; groups of tourists milled around cars and camper vans. The Scientific Support Vehicle was parking near a red car – another red car – and he saw Mike Foulds changing into a forensic overall.

  He parked, locked the Alfa, and strode over the sand and shingle to the red car. Drake could tell from the plates that the car was ten years old – probably stolen. They reached the car just as Foulds stood up and stripped off his paper suit.

  ‘Waste of fucking time,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Drake said.

  ‘It’s a dummy.’

  ‘What?’ Drake raised his voice

  ‘It’s a fucking dummy.’

  Drake could hardly believe what Foulds was telling him. He leant down to double-check and looked into the car.

  ‘I moved that hoodie to one side when I checked for a pulse. There’s even a ponytail.’

  Now they were entertainment for the killer. Drake stood up sharply and looked at the people in the car park, the realisation striking him that the killer might be there, gloating at them. There were probably fifty, maybe sixty, people all dressed in shorts and summer T-shirts. There were children with buckets and spades. He felt like shouting out for the killer to come forward.

  ‘What’s wrong, Ian?’ Foulds said.

  ‘He could be here. Now. Today. I want the details of everyone here. Addresses telephone numbers and their contact details.’

  ‘But there are people walking in the forest,’ Caren said.

  Foulds added. ‘And on the beach. You know the beach goes for miles here. He could be anywhere. He may have had an accomplice and they may have had a car. He could be miles away.’

  Drake ignored him and said to Caren. ‘Get as many uniformed officers to stop people coming off the beaches and out of the forest as you can.’

  She nodded and scrolled through her mobile.

  Drake leant down again to look into the car. The bullet wound in the forehead of the life-like face would have been convincing on first glance. The clothes looked clean but old, and Drake recognised the smell as upholstery cleaner. It smelt like the one he used every week on the inside of his car.

  ‘Kept the car clean,’ Foulds said. ‘So it probably means he was clever about not leaving any traces.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Drake said under his breath.

  He got up slowly and stood with Foulds, looking at the life-like dummy with the fake blood and the hoodie and then realised the killer must be laughing at him, enjoying every minute. He kicked a tyre but it didn’t improve his mood.

  On the journey back to headquarters, Caren tuned the radio phone-in and they listened to the introduction of a programme that would address ‘the profound issues raised when police officers are murdered’ and ‘what significance this could have for society’ and what the announcer called ‘society’s perceived decline in moral values’.

  The first guest on the programme was a member of parliament with an accent that Drake knew had come from an expensive English education. The man managed a pessimistic tone as he pondered whether the Wales Police Service was up to the task of finding the killer.

  ‘I wasn’t in favour of criminal justice being devolved from Westminster,’ the politician said. ‘And it’s at a time like this that we really need to consider whether it was the right decision. After all, we are much stronger as nations if the UK is united.’

  Drake gripped the steering wheel and said aloud, ‘What the hell does that have to do with the murder inquiry?’

  ‘Politicians, sir,’ Caren said. ‘He doesn’t want any more devolution so he’s using this as an excuse to make that point.’

  The interviewer then brought in a caller from Scotland, who laid into the politician, accusing the UK government of wanting to interfere in the devolved administrations of Wales and Scotland. When he described the politician as an interfering idiot, the journalist cut across him and finished the call. Another caller from Birmingham visited Wales every year on holiday and thought it was a lovely country, with wonderful scenery but, when asked for his opinion, he wanted to bring back capital punishment.

  Drake and Caren listened in silence as various callers made clear their horror at the killing and hoping the culprit would be caught.

  ‘I never thought I might be killed as a police officer,’ Caren said.

  ‘Nobody does.’

  ‘It only happens in the American films.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’ Drake reminded her.

  Caren nodded. ‘I suppose the politicians are right.’

  ‘Of course they’re right.’

  ‘Why did you become a police officer, sir?’

  ‘Because what we do is important. It matters and when two officers are killed then that’s serious. And the press and the politicians are right to say it’s about the “fabric of society” but in the end we’ve got a killer to catch.’

  Once the programme ended, the headlines of the news were about the latest trade deficit figures. Drake switched off the radio.

  Drake faced the board in the Incident Room: behind him sat the rest of his team and Dr Fabrien. A single sheet of paper with the word ‘dummy’ written on it had been pinned alongside the songs on the board. Caren had earlier circled the location of the murders and the beach on the map pinned to the board.

  ‘Margaret. What do you make of the dummy?’ Drake said

  ‘I think he is playing with you.’

  Nobody responded. There was a silence in the room. Drake turned round and she continued. ‘He likes dramatic scenes. The deaths on the Crimea. The killing on the mountain and now the dummy on a popular beach.’

  ‘What sort of person are we looking for?’

  ‘He’s clever and prepares thoroughly’

  ‘I need something more constructive.’ And less obvious, thought Drake.

  ‘Well, at the moment there is—’

  ‘I need something positive, Margaret. The press are going to go ballistic over this when they get wind of the story. It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow.’

  ‘It might not be the killer, of course. It could be a prankster.’

  Winder made a contribution. ‘That makes sense. Some saddo getting off.’

  Dr Fabrien was nodding her head slowly. ‘I think it is him.’

  ‘We could always tell the press that we have nothing to link it to the killings and that it might well be a hoax or a sick prank. But that we’re treating it with the usual urgency and seriousness.’ It was Howick now.

  Drake heard the telephone ring in his office. He strode over to his desk and, picking up the receiver, recognised the sound of his mother’s voice.

  ‘Ian, so pleased I got through to you straight away.’

  ‘Mam, how are you?’

  Drake could hear her voice shaking.

  ‘It’s your father – he’s got the appointment on Friday. He’s really scared, Ian, though he’s trying not to show it. Promise you’ll go with him?’

  Drake thought of everything he still had to do, but he couldn’t let his parents down. ‘Of course Mam. I’ll be there.’ Whatever happens, he thought.

  Chapter 25

  Wednesday 16th June

  It was a cloudless morning, the sky a clear sapphire colour. Drake heard a dull roaring sound, turned his head upwards, and managed to pick out the approaching plane on its descent into the airport. He walked towards the main building as the BAE Jetstream 31 made its final descent, its wheels squealing as it touched down on the tarmac.

  A group of passengers disembarked and snaked their way towards the small terminal building that stood at the perimeter of the Royal Air Force base. Glancing around the passengers waiting to embark, he recognised two politicians busy reading the broadsheets and a television presenter who was trying to look anonymous.

  Drake found a window seat and smiled at the student who sat by his side but she looked back at him blankly, an iPod thumping in her ears. Once they were a
irborne, Drake looked down and saw the RAF base below. There were training aircraft parked along the runway apron and he thought he recognised a couple of tornadoes. Every fast jet pilot in the RAF trained at the base and the regular passenger shuttle to Cardiff was a minor distraction to the regular training flights.

  Drake drank the complimentary coffee as he watched the fields and roads of Anglesey passing underneath. As they reached the mainland, the aircraft turned southwards. He saw a narrow trail of smoke from a train taking passengers up Snowdon and the reflection of the morning sunshine on the granite and glass of the summit café. It all looked very peaceful, with no sign of the tragedy that had taken place there the previous week.

  He tried to pick out his parents’ farmhouse and then a cold stab of fear struck him – what if the killer really meant to hurt his parents? He knew where they lived, he must know their routine. There was tightness in his chest as anxiety gripped him and he turned his head away from the window and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. He had to stop the killer and he ran through a to-do checklist in his mind before finding the sudoku in the folded newspaper on his lap and focusing on the numbers. Eventually the claustrophobic feeling subsided, replaced by a sense of achievement as he finished four of the squares.

  The journey passed quickly and soon the small aircraft began a smooth descent into Cardiff airport. The young civilian officer waiting for Drake was holding up an A4 sheet with his name on it and Drake introduced himself.

  During the short drive to the headquarters of the Wales Police Service, Drake rang the area sergeant in Caernarfon but the earlier apprehension returned when he heard an automated message. He speed-dialled his mother and she answered after the third ring and he stumbled for the right words.

  ‘We’re fine,’ she said.

  It wasn’t her usual confident voice.

  ‘Have the local lads visited again?’

  ‘They called yesterday. Nothing to worry about.’

  But he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘I’ll ring you later,’ he said, as they pulled into the car park at headquarters. He strode over to the main building, making a mental note to call the area sergeant again.

  The reception staff took Drake to a conference room with a large gleaming desk. The room had a clean feel. He ran his fingers over the edge of the desk – no dust, just the polish residue. A plate with fresh fruit and coffee mugs were already set out, alongside a vase of fresh flowers. Two of the morning newspapers were open on the table.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ the Chief Constable said, offering his hand when he entered. ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Riskin pushed them over towards Drake. The first was a broadsheet – Beach Hoax in North Wales; the second was one of the tabloids – Maniac Strikes Again.

  ‘What does Margaret make of this?’

  Riskin poured some coffee and gestured for Drake to help himself.

  ‘She thinks it’s him.’

  Drake picked up a mug, poured a coffee and, once satisfied with its strength, took his first mouthful.

  ‘Any possible forensics?’

  ‘We’re still waiting, sir.’

  Then the door to the conference room opened and another officer entered.

  ‘Morning, John.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake this is DI John Marco. He’ll be your liaison in southern division.’

  Marco had three days’-worth of stubble and his hair touched the collar of his jacket, which looked way past its sell-by date. The top button of his shirt was open, and the tie, knotted clumsily, had been pulled away from his neck. He slumped in a chair and helped himself to coffee.

  ‘I need you both to realise how important this case has become. Certain people didn’t like the idea of policing being devolved from London to Cardiff. So I don’t want to give our critics any more ammunition. The first minister wants to discuss the investigation with you both. Especially you, Ian.’

  Drake nodded, not having expected a meeting with the first minister that morning. He took another gulp of the coffee. He glanced over at Marco who scratched his stubble and let out a long sigh. ‘When do we start, sir?’

  Drake was expecting a Cardiff accent but there was a colourful inflection to Marco’s voice.

  ‘You’ll need to go through all of Roderick Jones’s papers. I’ve spoken with the first minister. You’ll have everyone’s complete cooperation.’

  Drake had a suspicion that he knew what that meant. Cooperation, but only as far as it suited everyone. The Chief Constable drew back his shirtsleeve and Drake noticed the Rolex.

  ‘You haven’t got much time.’

  The same driver took them into the Bay and as they walked over to the Welsh Assembly Government buildings, Marco pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Only five a day – trying to cut down.’

  Drake frowned and tapped his watch.

  ‘I’m going in or else we’ll be late.’

  He straightened his tie, checked his shirt and entered the building – this was his investigation and he wasn’t going to let Marco’s attitude reflect on his career. Drake found the office of the first minister without difficulty. The signs all around the building made it difficult to miss. He wondered how long it would be until the English language title for the first minister reflected his Welsh title – Prime Minister. Drake had been waiting for about five minutes before Marco walked in and introduced himself to the first minister’s staff. He gave Drake a half smile before sitting down. He smelt the tobacco smoke on Marco’s clothes and turned up his nose.

  A telephone rang. One of the reception staff turned to both men.

  ‘Mae’r prif weinidog yn barod i’ch gweld. The first minister will see you now.’

  Caren looked at the to-do list that Drake had dictated to her the night before. Investigate Aled Walters; more work on Fiona Trick; double-check the analysis of the records from the archery clubs … the list went on, but by lunchtime, she had done very little.

  She decided not to tell Dr Fabrien that she would be out for most of the afternoon at the constituency office of Roderick Jones and when she explained her absence to Winder and Howick, a worried look passed over their faces. She found the office without difficulty, a small terraced property full of old desks and peeling wallpaper. Frances Williams, Jones’s constituency secretary, had a large round face and spectacles that were too small for her eyes, giving her the appearance of squinting.

  ‘I don’t know how I can help you,’ Frances said.

  Caren wasn’t going to give up quite as easily as this woman imagined. ‘I’m sure there must be lots of ways you can help.’

  Frances moved her lips, trying to smile, but failing. Caren continued. ‘For example, have there been any death threats?’

  Frances laughed aloud. ‘What, against Roderick Jones?’

  ‘Well, have there?’

  The secretary’s face took on a serious look again. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Any difficult customers?’

  ‘They’re constituents, actually.’

  ‘Any difficult constituents then?’ Caren said, knowing that Drake would have raised his voice by now, unable to control his irritation.

  The woman pouted and moved awkwardly on a chair. ‘All we ever dealt with were the trivial problems.’

  ‘Did anybody else work for Roderick Jones?’

  ‘All the important ministerial work was done in Cardiff. One of the girls here went with him when he was promoted. She got to do all the interesting stuff.’

  ‘What do you do here?’

  Frances moved her head and pointed towards the filing cabinets lined up against the wall.

  ‘Those cabinets are full of letters of complaints: people who can’t get benefits, people who have lost their jobs and general whingers.’

  Caren got a clear picture that Frances didn’t have a great deal of job satisfaction.

  ‘Wher
e can I start?’

  Frances got up from her chair and took Caren through to Roderick Jones’s office at the rear of the building. She pointed at the computer on the desk.

  ‘Not all the cabinets have Roderick Jones’s stuff,’ Frances said, beginning to relax. ‘Some of the other assembly members work from this office too.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Another bored look passed over Frances’s face as she walked over to the first of the cabinets. She opened a drawer and removed folders suspended against the metal sides.

  ‘Is there a central record of all these constituents?’ Caren said.

  ‘Of course not.’

  It was too much to expect, Caren supposed. All this chaos would get up Drake’s nose. Caren turned her back on Frances and searched through her bag for her mobile. She jabbed one of the speed-dial buttons and pressed the phone to her ear.

  ‘Gareth,’ she began, ‘organise a couple of lads from Uniform, and boxes, and then get down here. We’ve got a lot to do.’

  Robert Stone was finishing a piece on the development of new flood defences after the disastrous flooding the year before. He thought about Sarah from sales and not even the prospect of a repeat of their frantic love-making in the kitchen after work lifted his spirit. The telephone rang and he cleared the papers away from the receiver.

  ‘Stone.’

  ‘I’ve got some information.’

  Once he recognised the voice, he straightened in his chair and flicked to a clean page in his notebook. His mind went back to the press conferences and the look on the face of Detective Inspector Drake when he’d asked about the messages.

  This was the sort of journalism he longed for.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m sure your readers would be interested in the Roderick Jones killing.’

  Robert’s pulse beat a little faster. He could see the headlines. Campaigning journalist exposes police ineptitude. It was the story every journalist wanted and this would be his ticket to a national tabloid.