Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

‘Can he do that?’ Drake said.

  ‘Yes, but it could be challenged in the courts.’

  ‘So, Jones takes the risk.’

  ‘Politicians, what else do you expect?’ Thorsen said, trying to sound world-weary.

  Once they were finished, Thorsen promised to keep him informed and Drake returned to his office. He wondered what his father was doing that morning. He wanted to be able to think that his father was working in the fields every morning, now that he was retired and that he would go on forever. He often thought that he didn’t want things to change. He slumped onto the chair, hoping the latest development with James Harrod was the breakthrough he needed. It occurred to him he might tell Price but decided to wait, hoping for more news, something to reassure the super he was still in charge. He thought about the telephone conversation with his father the night before, after he’d returned from the first day of treatment. He had to reassure himself so he picked up the telephone and rang his mother.

  ‘Your father’s still asleep.’

  ‘I’ll call later.’

  By mid-morning it felt like grit was swimming around in his eyes and, deciding that coffee would be the only suitable medication, made his way to the kitchen. Howick came in as Drake was halfway through the carefully timed routine and gave him a puzzled look. Then Drake worried what Howick might think.

  Howick was waiting for him as he returned to his office. Drake sat listening to Howick telling him about the results of the photofit images released to the press. Three sightings matched the approximate date and times of the CCTV images of the red car, and Howick’s enthusiasm for the task impressed Drake. It was what police work was all about – grind and more grind, until the hard work produced a nugget of intelligence.

  He had a brief respite after finishing with Howick, before Caren appeared at his door.

  ‘We’ve found Mrs Walters,’ she said. ‘And we’ve had a breakthrough with Dixon.’

  He waved her into his room.

  ‘She lives in Alnwick.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Alnwick, Northumberland. Where they filmed Harry Potter.’

  Drake mumbled a reply.

  ‘She works for the National Trust – some sort of manager. Moved there after her marriage broke down. No kids, lives on her own. I’m going to interview her tomorrow.’

  ‘And Dixon?’ he said.

  ‘CID in Birkenhead were checking his alibi. Somebody saw him leave the party early.’

  For a moment, Drake thought they were making progress. ‘Better check the pre-cons: you know what these Scousers are like.’

  He looked up at Caren.

  ‘Does Mrs Walters like rock music?’

  Caren gave him a strange look. They were going round in circles again. ‘We’re still working on her family and friends,’ she said.

  Drake finished the dregs of the coffee and returned to the reports with little enthusiasm.

  ‘Good. How’re Alun and the alpacas?’ he asked.

  She gave him a half smile, trying to make out if he was serious.

  ‘Alun’s fine. The alpacas are better. We had quite a scare with them a couple of weeks ago. He’s building a new enclosure and he’s helping a neighbour with his smallholding.’

  Drake looked out of the window at the trees by the road. Caren stopped for a moment.

  ‘Would Megan and Helen like to come and see the alpacas?’

  Drake heard the names of his daughters.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Megan and Helen – would they like to come and see the animals?

  He smiled. ‘Yes, that would be lovely. I’m sure they would enjoy it.’

  Caren cleared her throat, but before she could say anything, Drake continued.

  ‘We’re not making any progress.’

  Caren nodded slowly.

  ‘I know we need to talk to Mrs Walters, but I get the feeling we’re going further and further away from the killer,’ Drake said.

  ‘Walters and Harrod are the only suspects we’ve got.’

  ‘I know, but we’ve got all those lists. Members of the Archery Club. Officers who worked with Mathews and Farrell. And their cases. All of Roderick Jones’s constituents.’

  ‘Walters and Harrod have both got motives.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Drake said. ‘But where are we going with it?’

  He stood up and adjusted the waistband of his trousers – the shirt was sitting uncomfortably and he smoothed his tie.

  ‘Look, let’s go back to the beginning.’ He walked out into the Incident Room and looked at the board. Another dark cloud descended in his mind, as he peered towards the faces. Roderick Jones was the strident politician, simultaneously smiling and looking important. The faces of Paul Mathews and Danny Farrell were humourless and blank – standard personnel photographs. The song lyrics were still pinned alongside each other and along the top of the board were two plain pieces of paper with the numbers four and three, printed in large fonts.

  ‘What have we got?’ Drake forced out the words. ‘Two police officers on the Crimea. It was staged. Killer uses a Taser and then a crossbow to kill them.’

  The images of both men in the car came back to his mind. He shuddered. ‘The guy stalked them all night. He was behind them. There all the time, waiting. He must have known where they were going. He’d been planning this for weeks.’

  Caren moved from one foot to another before adding.

  ‘And the song lyrics. Does he know you like rock music?’

  ‘Don’t be insane. Lots of people like rock music.’

  ‘But why send them as messages if they don’t mean anything? So there must be a meaning to the lyrics.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose.’

  ‘What, then?’

  Drake stared at the lyrics of each song. The opening chords of ‘Brass in Pocket’ played in his head and then images from the Pink Floyd and Queen videos appeared. His eyes moved across the board to the faces of Harrod and Walters. Someone had moved the image of Stevie Dixon to the bottom of the board. He had to stop and think, but with more deaths coming, they had to stop the killer before he struck again.

  ‘Maybe 1979 was special to this guy. Maybe we should try and find out if that year had any significance for Harrod or Walters,’ Drake said.

  ‘And the numbers, sir?’

  Drake let his shoulders sag. ‘That’s what makes it depressing. We know there’s going to be two more deaths and unless we find this guy, there’s nothing we can do.’

  Drake spent a miserable lunch break eating a tired ham salad in the canteen, while Caren talked incessantly about alpacas. He filled a glass from the plastic bottle of sparkling water and tried to look interested in Caren’s conversation. She explained how valuable alpaca wool had become and he tried to concentrate on what she was saying, failing to block out the sound of Chrissie Hynde’s voice and then the chorus from ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ playing over in his mind.

  Chapter 31

  Thursday 24th June

  He watched as the tall man in a designer suit walked over to the silver Mercedes. It was an expensive model and it had all the usual extras. He’d checked the Mercedes website and read all about the E Class and the various versions available. They had leather seats and air conditioning. He knew that the car would have been ordered with all the upgrades for the sound system, and the headlights and the satellite navigation would be the best, too.

  The man took off his jacket and folded it neatly before resting it on the back seat. He had to be ready, so he turned the ignition and fired up the engine. The Mercedes drove away and he pressed the accelerator and followed the car away from the hospital and down towards the A55. A simple call that afternoon had confirmed everything he needed to know.

  At the clinic he saw the Mercedes parked in its reserved slot and he smiled to himself. He parked under the trees and waited. Occasionally, he sipped a bottle of water. Soon his patience would be rewarded. A plastic picnic container full of sandwiches wrapped in silve
r foil sat on the passenger seat. She had taught him that the bread for sandwiches had to be thinly sliced and the ham cut fine, and the mustard had to be English. She always used butter – never margarine – softened in the microwave.

  He had all the time in the world and now it was time to see things right. Reset the balance. He watched the patients arrive for their appointments and then leave, some with worried despondent faces, others relieved. Inside this private clinic was the man who had taken her away from him.

  In the car park, he sat and ate the sandwiches. Next time, he would add mayonnaise. She didn’t like mayo – watching her weight, she had said. Until it was too late.

  They had no idea. They simply had no idea: he was convinced of it. It was so funny watching them scratching around. That press conference had been the funniest thing he had seen in years.

  He thought about leaving for a couple of hours, but then he worried how his plans might be affected if he missed him. He decided to wait. He turned his head to one side whenever someone looked towards the car and he moved its position twice. There wasn’t any security – he had checked. Definitely no CCTV cameras.

  Ideal.

  He felt the pressure on his bladder. He reached for an empty bottle and removing the cap relieved himself. He could leave nothing to chance. His buttocks ached as the afternoon dragged and he repeatedly adjusted his legs, trying to find a comfortable position.

  When he saw him leaving, he straightened, then immediately clipped the seat belt into place. The aching disappeared replaced by his escalating pulse and the buzz of expectation. He followed him to the golf club.

  Then, he waited.

  Chapter 32

  Friday 25th June

  Drake arrived at headquarters early having slept badly but found it difficult to focus as he kept thinking about his parents. He opened the folder with the results of the forensic tests – on the photograph posted to the farmhouse – hoping that he’d missed something. The cold technical language of the report just confirmed what he knew – the killer didn’t make mistakes: no prints, no traces, nothing to help him. The image of the area sergeant tramping off into the darkness of the empty fields at his parents’ farm came to his mind. Drake doubted that the killer had been there but the effect on his mother made him want to scream.

  The area sergeant had sounded bored when he’d reported back to Drake. He’d sent a couple of young officers back in daylight and they’d walked the fields for a couple of hours but turned up nothing of value. Drake had spoken to his mother the night before and the relief in her voice was clear as she repeated the assurances the officers had given her about regular patrols calling past the house.

  Progress. He had to have progress before the pressures from Price meant that the case would be out of his hands. He could imagine the meeting. Operational imperatives. Public anxiety. It was only a matter of time before Price brought in another officer to review the case – pick holes in his work, point the finger of blame. And then he’d be invited to another meeting when the case would be formally reassigned.

  He was still ruminating when, at a little after eight, the telephone rang.

  The message was short and simple and he found his grip tightening. His lips dried and his pulse quickened before he got the message repeated. He was standing by the time the call finished and then strode towards the door and out through the Incident Room, calling to Caren as he left.

  He had hammered the Alfa along the A55 towards the private clinic, driving too quickly into the private car park and braking hard, just missing a brand-new Audi. He nodded to a young uniformed officer standing by the front door who lifted the yellow crime scene tape. He hesitated – it was exactly a week since his visit with his father. He could still smell the lilies but there was a pile of unopened mail strewn on the desk in reception, and the sound of activity from the room where they’d seen Dr West. He walked past the table that had the same magazines neatly set out and turned towards the oncologist’s room.

  West’s body was slumped over the desk, his head on one side and his arms lying neatly on each side. The room was hot and stuffy. The smell of a body beginning its slow process of decay hung in the air. The pathologist was already at work.

  ‘Time of death?’ Drake stared at the body as he spoke to Dr Kings. The pathologist removed a pair of latex gloves and snapped closed his bag.

  ‘Hard to say. A few hours at least. I’ll know more once I’ve done the post mortem.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes. Very well.’

  Kings sounded unnervingly matter-of-fact. Drake sensed no emotion in his voice.

  The CSIs straightened the body against the chair and then Drake saw the thin plastic needle protruding at an angle from the doctor’s neck.

  Then he saw the message.

  A small luggage tag had been tied to the knitting needle with thin green string. It hung limply and one of the CSI officers reached over and closed a hand around it before turning it to show Drake. He peered down and saw clearly what was written.

  No 2.

  Last but one.

  Drake scanned the office of Anthony West. The walls, papered in a light pink pattern, were covered in prints of famous golf courses. It was odd that he hadn’t noticed them the previous week. He flicked through various files and papers but nothing caught his eye. He went through to talk to Vera Frost, West’s secretary, who had deep red furrows running down her cheeks and her eyes burnt into her face.

  ‘What time did you find the body?’

  She began to sob before reaching for a lace-edged handkerchief from a bag by her feet.

  ‘What time did you arrive at work?’

  ‘About eight.’

  Vera was in her mid-fifties, with greying hair and a pronounced double chin. The carefully applied make-up and the clothes matched the image of the private consulting rooms.

  ‘Was Dr West here last night?’

  ‘Mr West,’ she corrected him. ‘He was a surgeon.’

  ‘Last night?’ Drake asked again.

  ‘He had private patients all afternoon until five o’clock and then he went to play golf.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  Vera breathed heavily again before blowing her nose.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might want to kill him?’

  ‘No,’ she snorted, offended by the mere suggestion.

  ‘Can we have a list of all his patients in the last three years?’

  Vera nodded.

  Drake left the CSIs hard at work and walked outside with Caren. The car park was full of Audis and Mercedes, all under a year old, most with concertina-designed sunshades inside the windows, and in one of the reserved parking spaces two investigators were working on West’s E Class.

  ‘We need to find this maniac. And soon.’

  He stood for a moment, feeling the sun on his face.

  ‘This means one more,’ Caren said.

  He managed a cold wintry look and nodded slowly.

  Drake had spent a fruitless afternoon working through the papers, reporting the events to Price (in a fractious meeting attended by Thorsen, who still managed to say little of any value), and avoiding Lisa, who wanted to organise yet another press conference. By the time Winder and Howick were standing by his desk his patience was paper thin, and massaging his forehead wasn’t having any effect on the developing headache.

  ‘Well?’ Drake glared at them.

  Winder started, ‘Yes, sir. The pathologist said death was caused by the knitting needle piercing the brain. Not exactly unexpected.’

  ‘Get forensics in here.’

  Winder trooped off to find Foulds, and Drake returned to the board.

  ‘What about the golf club?’ he asked, remembering where Howick had been.

  ‘It’s taken me three hours to track down West’s playing partner. West had a good round. Not a care in the world. When you can afford a Mercedes like that you shouldn’t have, I guess.’

  ‘We’re missing
something.’ Drake ignored Howick and looked back at the board. ‘Numbers. I keep thinking about numbers all the bloody time.’

  ‘It’s the year, sir. 1979.’

  ‘Numbers – one thousand nine hundred and seventy-nine.’

  Caren came into the Incident Room and threw her bag onto her desk. ‘I’ve just spent all afternoon with a load of completely clueless CSIs. West has one of those luxury flats overlooking Llandudno. Concierge looked like a boxer.’

  ‘And, anything?’ Drake squeezed his eyes closed against his incipient headache.

  ‘Great view,’ she shrugged, as she slumped into the chair before continuing. ‘But Mrs Walters was more helpful.’

  Drake stopped and looked over at her having forgotten her trip to Northumberland the day before. Caren continued.

  ‘She knew Mathews. They met in the Archery Club and guess what? They had an affair. Then Aled Walters found out and—’

  ‘Did she contract …?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Winder was the first to break the silence. ‘Mathews is one serious player.’

  Drake’s mind was already drafting his first questions for Aled Walters. If Drake noticed the harassed look on Foulds’s face when the CSI manager entered, he paid it no attention.

  Drake’s voice was raised a decibel louder than normal, ‘Tell me you have something?’

  ‘The lads haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Preliminary, then.’

  ‘He wasn’t killed in the office. My guess is he was killed in his car. There were signs of a struggle.’

  ‘So he moved the body into the office.’

  ‘And he must have used a wheelchair. We picked up scratches on some of the furniture that match a wheelchair we found in the foyer of the clinic.’

  Drake saw the prospect of evidence. ‘Any prints?’

  ‘Lots, but …’

  Drake knew the answer.

  ‘I’ll have a full report tomorrow morning,’ Foulds said.

  Drake went into his office and sank into the chair. There was little further he could achieve until the morning. Clearer thinking was needed, he concluded, and more focus. He glanced at his watch. He wasn’t going to be late home. Then he straightened the telephone on the desk, adjusted the papers, lined up his Post-it notes, took the coffee mug to the kitchen and then double-checked everything again.