Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

‘There was a breakin at my home a couple of months ago. I was away for the weekend and the thieves broke into a cabinet where I usually kept three crossbows. The one I use regularly wasn’t there but two antique crossbows were taken.’

  ‘So how was this crossbow stolen?’ Drake narrowed his eyes as he gave Walters a hard stare.

  ‘It was stolen from my brother’s place a week or so later.’

  ‘Your brother?’ Drake said, as he realised who he meant.

  ‘Yes. Sam Walters.’

  Drake found himself before the board in the Incident Room, having forgotten why he had left his office. What did the song lyrics have in common? It had to be more than simply 1979. He had woken singing the songs in his sleep. The words had forced their way into his mind when he was driving. He stared at the photographs of Paul Mathews and Danny Farrell, their blank emotionless faces telling him nothing. The photofit was pinned next to an enlarged photograph of the rucksack.

  ‘You were right, boss,’ Drake hadn’t noticed Winder standing by his side.

  Drake turned towards him and Winder continued. ‘We’ve had confirmation from eyewitnesses who saw a walker with a similar bag coming down the south side of Snowdon.’

  It confirmed for Drake that the killer knew his way around the mountain, must have known the paths, which one would be the safest descent.

  ‘Where did the witnesses see the man?’ Drake said, with urgency in his voice.

  ‘One couple were a bit vague. Another couple saw him passing them in a rush on his way down. He went off, away, from the main path – that’s why they remember it …’

  Drake was already marching back to his office as he spoke to Winder, ‘Show me.’

  He opened an ordnance survey sheet over his desk and Winder pinpointed the location where the eyewitnesses had seen the suspect. Drake found a pencil from one of the drawers in his desk and shaded an area south of where Winder had marked.

  ‘Is there anything from the helicopter?’ Drake almost stumbled over his words.

  ‘I’ll double-check.’

  ‘Check this area first.’ Drake pointed to the shading.

  He stared at the map. He tried to think of where the killer would have gone. How did he escape? Where was his car?

  Drake sat huddled with Winder as they stared at the computer screen displaying the recording from the helicopter camera. They watched as ascending walkers were turned back and the mountain emptied of activity.

  The helicopter circled Cwm Tregelan before passing a stream of walkers on the Watkin Path heading towards the waterfalls of the Cwm Llan valley. The helicopter veered south and then west and headed over towards Yr Aran. Drake had scribbled a timeline that he stuck to the edge of the computer screen. He worried that the details were wrong. He shouted over at Caren who double-checked from her records of the interviews on the summit. The clock on the computer screen ticked away and he tried to guess where the killer would have been at the time flickering on the screen in front of him.

  ‘Pause the damn thing.’

  Back in his office, he went through his notes again, trawling his memory. How long would it take a man to walk down the mountain? Two hours? He sat back and noticed Winder standing by the door.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Drake swirled his hand in the air. ‘We know that Roderick Jones was killed at around eleven-thirty.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The new witnesses think they passed the suspect at about twelve-thirty.’

  Winder nodded. ‘But that could be out by fifteen minutes.’

  Drake dragged over the ordnance survey sheet.

  ‘He could have gone down towards the Watkin Path or down towards Rhyd Ddu or he could have cut across and down.’ Drake threw the pencil onto the map. ‘Of course,’ he almost shouted. ‘He avoided the well-known routes and walked down towards Beddgelert.’

  Winder turned on his heels. ‘I’ll check the helicopter coverage from twelve-fifteen onwards.’

  Drake sat down on his chair, his mind heavy with frustration. They were always two steps behind the killer. As soon as they got close, he pulled further away. Drake folded the ordnance survey sheet and tidied his desk. He moved the papers around into neat piles, with Post-it notes identifying what action was needed. Then he turned to the inbox on his computer. He had to have a clear, tidy mind. He adjusted the telephone and then picked up the sudoku from his desk and completed two missing squares that had troubled him all day. A mild sense of achievement filled him; at least he was in control with the puzzle.

  Dr Fabrien smiled at Drake and Caren without opening her mouth as they walked into the conference room. Dr Fabrien drew breath and shuffled the papers on the desk. Drake had spent hours putting the papers together in a neat ring binder with coloured dividers and grimaced when he noticed the ring binder discarded, and the papers in no apparent order.

  ‘Let’s look at the salient features of the murders so far. The killer operates in dramatic locations. And the murders are all premeditated. The two deaths on the Crimea Pass were clearly well planned. And the same could be said for the killing of Roderick Jones on the summit of Snowdon.’

  Drake played with a biro, hoping he could hide his impatience. ‘But the killing of Roderick Jones was opportunistic. The killer could never be certain that he’d have the chance to kill him.’

  Dr Fabrien gave him a fractious look.

  ‘I was coming to that. It’s not about certainty of opportunity. It’s about planning. The baseball cap, the bag, the ponytail – they are all signs of careful planning. And he knew how to limit exposure to the CCTV camera on the summit, which suggests he knew what he was going to do, given the chance.’

  Dr Fabrien moved some of the papers and Drake glanced at Caren who had leant forward, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘As for the modus operandi, there are no similarities in respect of the weapons used. On the Crimea he used a Taser to stun the officers and then a crossbow. It is a quick and effective weapon, but old fashioned. The killer feels comfortable with the crossbow and you can assume that he has used them before. You’ve been working through the archery clubs. You’ll probably find your killer has visited these places.’

  Dr Fabrien made them sound like a sordid nightclub.

  ‘He used a knife on Snowdon. Simple, clean and effective. In that respect it’s very similar to the crossbow.’

  She scanned the papers again before continuing.

  ‘The song lyrics do intrigue me. It suggests a clever killer who wants to tell you something about himself. He wants you to know who he is. He wants you to catch him.’

  Drake moved self-consciously in his chair. ‘No killer wants to be caught.’

  ‘He’s taunting you,’ she added. ‘Telling you he’s out there and what he’s done. He’s challenging you with the song lyrics. Find out what they mean and you’ll be that much closer to finding the killer.’

  ‘What do you think they mean?’

  She averted her eyes and blinked uneasily.

  ‘Well, I’ve read the lyrics – several times – and they don’t suggest anything to me.’

  Caren cleared her throat and made her first contribution. ‘It’s difficult to believe that a killer wants to be caught.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Suddenly Dr Fabrien sounded engaged again. ‘But it’s true. It’s about power. They need to be in charge. By taunting you, he gets complete control. He knows that you’re scratching around for an answer. He probably knows there’s a profiler involved …’

  ‘Come on, Margaret, that’s taking it a bit far. And why did he send those lyrics to my parents?’

  ‘He wants to be in control.’

  ‘He frightened them.’

  Drake rubbed his eyes, fighting the tiredness, thinking about his parents and worrying how helpless he’d been feeling.

  ‘It is bad. For sure.’

  ‘What about the numbers?’

  Her eyes hardened and she looked serious.

  ‘Two more.’

  Drake
stopped fiddling with the biro and sat upright, staring at Fabrien. Caren let out a long sigh.

  ‘Two more deaths,’ she continued. ‘That’s the only explanation – but you didn’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘When?’ Drake said.

  ‘You have three deaths close together. It could be any time, but he’s not a classic serial killer. There’s a link to these murders and he’s telling you how many more to go. It will be soon.’

  Drake had known this was the case, but nobody had dared say it out loud before.

  Soon.

  The word reverberated around the silence of the room. Drake drew his tongue over dry lips, Caren coughed; the room seemed airless. He looked towards the windows but they were open.

  Dr Fabrien continued. ‘The killer is probably mid-thirties to mid-forties. He has a responsible job and lives a perfectly normal life and functions satisfactorily. But the boundaries in his mind are blurred.’

  ‘Blurred!’ Drake spluttered.

  Dr Fabrien lifted her head and looked at him disdainfully.

  ‘Mid-thirties to mid-forties: that puts both of our suspects in the frame.’

  ‘Both have normal lives and function in society,’ she nodded.

  ‘They have a motive.’

  ‘Have you thought about other suspects? Somebody with a grudge against the officers and Roderick Jones …’

  ‘If we can’t place them at the scene of both murders then it would be down to accomplices. Do you think we have a professional assassin on our hands?’

  A surprised look crossed her face. ‘That’s an interesting scenario. It’s not one you’ve canvassed in the reports so far. Either man could have had an accomplice but I think we are more likely to be dealing with a lone killer.’

  Before Drake could reply, the door of the conference room flew open and Lisa tumbled breathlessly into the room.

  ‘Ian, haven’t you had my emails?’

  Chapter 28

  Friday 18th June

  The remains of the overnight rain lay in small puddles on the shimmering tarmac. Drake guessed that with the grey clouds skimming north over the sea and the sky to the east clear, it was likely to be another warm day. The forecasters had become blasé about describing the summer weather as Mediterranean.

  He set the air conditioning of the Alfa to cool and checked his watch. He was early for the meeting with Price so he stopped at a newsagent and bought the local newspaper, dreading seeing the headlines that Lisa had warned him about the day before. They made depressing reading – Police Investigation Falters. The report recycled the information from the press conferences but it wasn’t until the third paragraph that Drake caught his breath. Nobody had released details of the messages. The reporter even had details of all the song lyrics and made reference to the numbers by the bodies. Drake’s heart sank – this could only make matters worse. He turned to the second page and continued reading, until he had finished the article and then read it a second time.

  Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in Price’s office, watching the superintendent reading the same article and uncharacteristically saying nothing. Drake was accustomed to displays of annoyance, anger even, from Price and the more measured response unsettled Drake. He noticed a hardback edition of The Life of Pi on the desk next to a Cross biro. Sian had been pestering him to go with her to see the film of the book recently and he’d been making one excuse after another

  ‘You’re seeing the editor later?’ Price said, without raising his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It must be him.’

  Drake nodded. By late the previous evening Drake was so tired he could barely think straight but the team meeting had concluded that the only explanation for the press reports was that the killer was communicating with the journalist.

  Price raised his head and gazed over at Drake.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you about the investigation.’

  The unsettled feeling returned.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How are you coping?’

  The question hung in the air like a morning mist from which you didn’t quite know what was going to emerge next.

  Price continued. ‘The other night when you were working late, I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed distracted.’

  Drake didn’t know what to say or how he should respond. Price continued before he had time to reply.

  ‘It was late and the team had left but you were on the floor of your office. Sorting papers. And it’s not the first time you’ve been working long hours, is it? It hasn’t gone unnoticed.’

  Drake swallowed now, not wanting to reply, his mind working on the alternatives.

  ‘I now how it must look …’

  Drake knew it was a feeble reply, but it was the best he could manage. He darted a look at his watch – he thought about making an excuse about the appointment with his father – but Price cut in.

  ‘The business with the letter to your parents must have been distressing and I can imagine how they feel. But Ian, I need to know that you’re in charge.’ Price leant forward slightly. ‘In charge of the team and of yourself. We’ll have to bring someone in to assist if you’re not coping.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, sir. I’ve been tired, that’s all,’ Drake knew it sounded lame and Price gave him an unconvinced look.

  ‘You need to relax when you’re off duty. Enjoy your family. Do some reading,’ Price patted the book on the desk. ‘How old are your children now?’

  ‘Seven and five.’

  ‘They grow up so quickly. My daughter lives in Florida; she married a swimming pool engineer. I hardly see her.’

  There was sadness in Price’s voice Drake had never heard before.

  After the meeting Drake stood in the corridor outside Price’s office, wanting to smother the tension gripping his chest. The image of his parents in the small hours of the morning, terrified of possible intruders in the fields, still haunted him. He had to keep them safe, had to cope.

  A sweet, almost acrid smell filled the waiting room and Drake looked for the culprit; there had to be flowers somewhere creating the odour that was clawing at the hairs in his nostrils. He could feel a sneeze gathering so he squeezed his nose tightly with his thumb and forefinger and he breathed out slowly.

  He sat with his father on blue plastic chairs lined up against the wall. By his side in one corner, magazines were laid out carefully on a table, all chosen for their potentially soothing and tranquil qualities. He picked up a Cheshire Life and then Good Housekeeping and flicked through them without any obvious enthusiasm. He recalled the article in the paper and started composing the sort of comments that he might use with the editor later.

  ‘I don’t like that sergeant,’ his father said, breaking the silence. ‘No manners at all.’

  ‘How’s Mam?’

  ‘She’s taken to checking all the windows and doors twice every night. The young officer has promised to call by every day. He was decent enough.’

  His father wore a light grey suit, fashionable thirty years ago and a new shirt, a size too small, judging from the way he kept running his finger round the collar. They had been waiting for ten minutes when the receptionist announced that Mr West was ready. Drake noticed the vase of lilies on a narrow table in the corridor and pinched his nose again.

  Anthony West was a big man with a large hand that he held out to Drake’s father. He nodded to Drake before sitting down. Open on the desk was a file that had his father’s notes and a hand-held dictating machine.

  ‘Let me explain the results of the blood tests,’ West said. ‘They do show positive for cancer.’

  Drake noticed his father swallowing hard. Drake listened to West explaining the intricacies of the treatment available and the side effects and the survival rates. He hoped his father was listening.

  ‘We will need to do some more tests in due course. But we do need to discuss treatment …’

  Drake knew there was going to be a but and he wondered
what the treatment would mean. His father sat impassively by his side, hands clasped on his lap. West hesitated, scanned his notes again and cleared his throat. ‘I want to start treatment as soon as possible.’

  ‘When will that be?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘That soon.’

  ‘I’ve arranged a bed for Tuesday.’

  Drake and his father sat with West for another twenty minutes listening to an explanation of the various treatment alternatives. West was supportive when he explained what the treatments meant and reassuring in telling them how effective they might be. Once West had finalised the arrangements for his father’s admission, they left. Drake’s father offered his debit card to the secretary who gave him an ingratiating smile once he paid the bill.

  The parkland around headquarters seemed greener and Drake caught a glimpse of light glistening on the water droplets on the tall grass underneath the trees. He took the steps up to the entrance two at a time. Caren sat huddled over the computer in the Incident Room. Howick looked up, an energetic look in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve been through the membership lists again, sir.’

  Caren raised her head anticipating some revelation from Howick.

  ‘You’ll never guess who was president of the association a couple of years ago?’

  Winder leant back in his chair, a smug grin on his face, ‘Robin Hood, and William Tell was the vice-president.’

  Howick gave him an angry look, ‘Piss off Gareth.’ He turned to Drake. ‘Aled Walters was the president.’

  Drake curled up his mouth, uncertain whether this really was a step forward.

  ‘I want all the club’s records impounded,’ Drake said. ‘There might be something we’ve missed.’

  ‘Ready?’ he said to Caren, who was reaching for her jacket.

  It was the first day for weeks that he hadn’t been feeling oppressed by the hot weather and for the second time that day he found himself thinking about the family holiday. It would be hot, every morning he would collect fresh bread and pastries, and then they’d go swimming. He would build a barbecue in the evening and grill chicken and sausages. Unless they made a breakthrough soon, he could see the holiday slipping away. And now he had his father to think about.