Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘What?’ Drake said.

  Caren replied, ‘Mike and the CSI team will have to go through everything.’

  ‘What do you …?’

  Foulds came to stand by the table.

  ‘All the rooms could have traces of the killer. He’s been into the bedrooms, so it’s likely he was in every room.’

  Every room.

  Drawing his hand over their furniture, fingering the clothes in their cupboards, admiring their possessions. Now Drake knew what it was like to be the victim of burglary. But nothing had been taken: just five plastic bottles placed carefully, with messages they couldn’t decipher.

  Drake nodded. ‘I’ll talk to Sian.’

  Foulds was finishing a call requesting a full CSI team when Drake returned to the kitchen having watched Sian, Megan and Helen leave for her mother’s house. He slumped down onto one of the chairs and rubbed both temples with his forefingers, regretting how much wine he had drunk last night and worrying that his breath must reek.

  ‘We’ll have to get Dr Fabrien back,’ Price said.

  He had an intense look on his face and the muscles below his ear lobe were twitching as he clenched his jaw. He had a half-finished mug of tea on the table.

  ‘We have to do everything to stop this maniac.’

  The last person Drake wanted to think about was Margaret Fabrien. He gave Price a troubled look. He half listened to Price, but his thoughts turned to Fabrien’s voice telling him about the killer.

  She had scoffed when he suggested a personal link. Don’t think he has an interest in you inspector. He’s got another agenda. Well, she had been wrong and now the killer was right into his life. He had walked through the house.

  Message in a bottle.

  He had placed the bottles in the cupboards and drawers. Then he had left. Perhaps he had turned his head to look at the house, smiling to himself, and imagined what would happen once the bottles had been found. Drake suppressed an urge to run outside – perhaps the killer was sitting in his car, revelling in all the attention, but he dismissed the notion. Where was he now? He thought about Fabrien again: he has a responsible job and lives a perfectly normal life and functions satisfactorily. Drake pictured him in a park with his children playing on swings, kicking a football and buying ice cream. How normal could he be and still kill people? He would make a mistake and they would find him.

  ‘Margaret?’

  Drake heard Price’s voice and looked over.

  ‘There’s been another message. We’ll need you back.’

  Price was holding his mobile between his thumb and forefinger and Drake sat up a little straighter on his chair.

  ‘I’ll arrange a car to collect you.’

  Price rang off and turned to Drake.

  ‘She’ll be on the first train from London on Monday. And she’s finalised a report.’

  Drake remembered the conversations from the night before and his mind turned to James Harrod. It had to be him. The bastard.

  ‘James Harrod,’ he said.

  Price looked interested. Drake continued. ‘Apparently he’s got everything riding on the planning application that was being dealt with by Roderick Jones.’

  Price raised his eyebrows. ‘That would give him a huge motive for killing Jones, but why kill Mathews and Farrell, and West?’

  Drake’s head sagged – it was the part of the jigsaw that didn’t fit. All the evidence was pointing at the same killer committing all the murders.

  Price looked at his watch.

  ‘We’ll discuss this again later, once we’ve had some forensics done,’ he announced before getting up.

  Drake walked with Price to the front door and out into the warm morning sunshine. He thought he saw anxious faces in windows along the estate and he caught the movement of net curtains in a bedroom. He wondered what his neighbours would feel when it became common knowledge that the killer had been in their house. He could see the headlines.

  Serial killer on the loose.

  He watched Price holding his mobile close to his ear as he sat in the car, before the Jaguar powered away.

  Drake sat in the Alfa and Chrissie Hynde’s voice came into his mind, singing the chorus from ‘Brass in Pocket’. He turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine hard until the song disappeared and he drove down towards the A55. He swung the car into the entrance of headquarters and cursed as the words of the other songs over and over in his head.

  On his way to the Incident Room, he detoured into one of the toilets. He stared into the mirror, pulled at the bags under his eyes and ran his fingers over the patch of grey stubble he’d missed when shaving. He filled a bowl with hot water and washed his face again, rubbing his hands over his cheeks. He thought about the message printed on the paper he’d held that morning. He had to clean away any trace of the killer so he scrubbed harder until another officer came into the toilets, and, noticing the odd expression on the other man’s face, Drake finished and left.

  Caren looked up from her desk and gave him a reassuring warm smile. Howick stood up straight, a sharp look on his face.

  ‘I’ve just heard, sir,’ Howick said. ‘It’s terrible.’

  Drake sat down and looked at the papers on his desk. Caren was standing by the door and behind her, he saw Winder arrive – bag of cakes in his hand – looking flustered.

  ‘Is it true about the bottles?’ he heard Winder ask Howick.

  Caren gave Drake a half smile.

  Drake stood up and walked past Caren until he was standing in front of the board. He scanned the details of the information displayed. His eyes moved from one photograph to another: he read the opening lines of each song lyric.

  ‘Family all right, sir?’ Howick was the first to break the silence.

  ‘They’re pretty shaken up,’ Drake replied.

  He turned to look at the team.

  ‘Did he choose the songs first?’ Drake asked.

  Caren screwed her face up. ‘Sorry. What do you mean?’

  ‘Are we looking for significance in the songs where none exists? Or is there some relevance to the individual bands? Or is it 1979?’

  Winder put down a jam doughnut and announced through a mouthful lined with icing sugar, ‘If there is no significance to the songs, why choose them?’

  ‘Because he’s a dick,’ Howick said.

  Caren nodded. ‘He’s probably getting off somewhere merely thinking that we’re looking for significance in these songs.’

  Drake paced up and down. ‘So we’re agreed there is no significance in the songs. Let’s assume I agree. Is there any significance about the individual bands? Why send the messages if there’s no reason? All the bands so far are well known. Only The Pretenders are still playing but that’s because of Chrissie Hynde. Pink Floyd have broken up, Queen are not the same without Freddie Mercury and The Police split up acrimoniously.’

  Winder had finished eating the doughnut. ‘None of them wanted to say anything particular with the songs – except Pink Floyd, I guess.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Drake said, arms crossed tightly. ‘Pink Floyd may have been trying to say something but where does that take us? We could read any significance into these lyrics. They could fit any scenario. Then I keep hearing Freddie Mercury. I’m looking for some meaning in the words. But there isn’t any.’

  ‘It’s a love song,’ Howick said. ‘Maybe he’s telling us that he’s in love.’

  ‘Or was,’ Drake continued. ‘Maybe she’s dead.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s just a nutter.’

  Winder licked his fingers before adding. ‘Gets my vote – pulling our chain. Getting a hard-on from the excitement it gives him, knowing he’s sending us these messages.’

  ‘I don’t know that it’s that simple,’ Drake said. ‘Our profiler believed there was significance to the tunes. It must be the year. 1979 must have been special for this guy. Something happened. A death, a marriage, or a celebration. Or something.’

  ‘What about the number? Is t
here some significance to the number? One thousand nine hundred and seventy-nine.’ Caren emphasised each word.

  Drake cleared his throat and pulled himself up, straightening his posture. They needed to stop going round in circles.

  ‘Gareth, Dave. We want to know everything about James Harrod – revenue, customs, special branch, bank accounts, etc. Get Kent to help. Any problems, let me know. This has priority over everything. If it means buggering up the weekend, so be it. Any problems, I want to be told.’

  By the end of the afternoon Drake’s eyes were burning. The songs kept returning to his mind, destroying any lateral thinking he was capable of maintaining. He started a mind map, trying to make sense of the messages, the songs and the bands. He thought they had to be missing something. It was there for them. They just couldn’t see it. He tried doodling with a red biro. He set about tidying his room, rearranging the papers, stacking folders, emptying the bin.

  He realised that he had achieved nothing throughout the afternoon. He nodded to Caren as he left the Incident Room. She gave him a worried look. Neither Winder nor Howick looked up from their computers.

  When he pulled into the drive at the home of his parents-in-law he couldn’t remember the journey. Had it been raining? Was the traffic heavy? Did he go through a red light? He pushed the doorbell and heard the approaching footsteps. Then his mother-in-law opened the door, forcing a narrow smile.

  ‘Sian’s in the small sitting room.’

  Sian looked tired; he could hear the sound of the girls laughing as they watched television in the living room. She raised her head and smiled.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked

  The smile waned.

  ‘I’m taking the girls to stay with my sister for a couple of days.’

  Chapter 35

  Sunday 26th June

  Drake felt something tugging at his shoulder and woke in a panic.

  He was lying diagonally across the bed, the duvet wrapped round his neck and as he moved, it pulled against his shoulder. He wriggled free and ran a hand over the perspiration on his skin. The atmosphere in the bedroom was musty and stale.

  Then he heard a banging on the front door and the chimes from the bell. He made his way downstairs, opened the front door and squinted at the face of Moxon, who looked worried.

  ‘Ian, is everything all right? I heard what happened.’

  ‘Ah, yes …’ Drake had forgotten his invitation to his friend.

  ‘Yes, sorry. Come in.’ Drake closed the door after Moxon.

  ‘It must have been stressful yesterday.’

  ‘Coffee?’ Drake asked, before walking through into the kitchen and flicking on the kettle.

  ‘I tried your mobile,’ Moxon continued. ‘How’s Sian?’

  ‘Had the stuffing knocked out of her.’

  Drake found two mugs in the cupboard and heaped instant into both.

  ‘And Megan and Helen?’

  ‘They think it’s a bit of an adventure.’ He filled the mugs and pushed one over the worktop at Moxon. ‘Profiler’s coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘I suppose you need all the help you can get.’

  Drake cradled his coffee mug in both hands. They walked through into the sitting room and Drake stood by the window as Moxon sat back on the sofa. Drake thought about Megan and Helen as he noticed some children playing in the road.

  ‘Do you remember the case of that undertaker years ago where they got a profiler in? Waste of time,’ Moxon continued.

  Drake still stared out of the window, half listening to what his friend was saying. ‘The answer must be simple,’ Drake said, turning back to look at his friend.

  ‘How are your parents?’

  ‘My father started treatment for his cancer this week. He’s still very weak.’

  Before Moxon could reply, the telephone rang and Drake looked for the handset. He lost his temper and swore under his breath as he moved scatter cushions, searching for the muffled ring tone. The caller rang off as soon as he found it. He looked at the screen and read his sister’s number. He raised an eyebrow in surprise; she rarely called.

  ‘My sister,’ Drake said.

  Moxon finished the last of his coffee.

  ‘You should call her,’ Moxon said as he left. ‘You take care.’

  Drake sat by the kitchen table contemplating a conversation with his sister. He tried to remember when he had last spoken to her. Their conversations always felt stilted, as though she wanted to lash out at him verbally. He knew he ought to call her more frequently, get on the offensive and take the initiative. Then he thought about his mother and how she must have felt, knowing that brother and sister rarely spoke. He glanced at his watch and wondered if he should return her call. Perhaps it was lunchtime and she would be busy. He put his reservations to one side and pressed Susan’s number.

  ‘Mam told me what happened.’ Susan sounded concerned. ‘How’s Sian?’

  ‘She’s gone to stay with her sister for a couple of days. Back on Tuesday – ready for work on Wednesday.’

  ‘Mam is very worried about Dad.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Not much. But I can tell.’

  Drake felt like asking how she could tell when she barely saw her mother.

  ‘How often do you go to see them, Ian?’

  Drake heard the implied criticism in her voice. More often than you. He sensed the barriers rising in his mind and tried to deflect the conversation. He asked about David. He was very busy – lots of new projects at work. The children were doing well at school and they were off to Italy in three weeks time.

  ‘Are you going to see Mam and Dad over the summer holiday?’ he asked.

  She hesitated. ‘Things are very busy. When we get back, David has got so much work on and the children have their commitments. It’s going to be very difficult.’

  When the call ended, Drake was pleased that the conversation had finished, but irritated with his sister. She had a cheek to chastise him about their mother when he was the one that visited.

  ‘How the hell did he get all this credit?’

  ‘Friends in high places?’ Drake suggested.

  ‘The borrowing secured on these assets is phenomenal,’ Kent continued. ‘It’s not loan-to-value ratio but value-to-loan ratio.’ He smiled and leant back in his chair.

  Drake was sitting with Kent in front of a computer screen filled with bank statements and tax returns. Kent folded his arms behind his head. ‘There is a technical name for this.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s fucked.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘No, seriously. There is nothing to suggest that Harrod could survive if the planning application was turned down.’

  Drake turned his attention away from the bank statements and tax returns and thought about the outline of an interview with Harrod.

  ‘Anything else we need?’

  Kent looked amused. ‘The man’s companies are debt laden and it doesn’t seem he has the cash flow needed to fight his way out of it. He’d need a miracle to survive.’

  ‘How would the planning permission help?’ Caren asked.

  Kent sounded serious. ‘The value of the land goes up ten fold. He options the property to one of the major developers and, hey presto, he goes cap in hand to the bank with a property worth vastly more than the debt. Harrod happy – bank happy. Easy.’

  Drake returned to his office; the tiredness of the day before had left him and he was concentrating again. They had notes to assemble, strategies to consider. He drew a notepad from a drawer and made a list of the questions for Harrod. Caren sat down opposite.

  ‘We need to coordinate an arrest of Dixon at the same time,’ Caren said.

  Drake doodled on the pad and grunted an acknowledgment.

  ‘I think we should establish his whereabouts first,’ she continued.

  Drake nodded.

  ‘Do we need to discuss the case with Thorsen?’

  Drake stopped the doo
dling and looked up, considering her question. He didn’t want to. He wanted to get on with it – they had enough for an interview.

  ‘I’ll run it past him,’ he said

  ‘And what about West?’

  Drake buried his head in his hands and then looked at Caren.

  ‘We’ve got nothing to link Harrod to West. No motive. Nothing. That will have to wait until we’ve been through West’s life. We can’t afford to wait. We’ve got to prevent the final death.’

  There was something obvious they were missing and must find it. He cast a surreptitious glance at the sudoku in the newspaper folded on his desk. Later, he decided, knowing that slicing and dicing the puzzle would help him focus.

  ‘We were never going to stop West being killed,’ he said eventually, a sad tone to his voice.

  Caren looked baffled.

  ‘I can see it now,’ Drake continued. ‘The crossbows in the car and the van they all pointed to Walters. Someone wanted to throw enough suspicion onto Walters to distract us. And the killer must have known that Walters would be elevated to the Welsh Assembly when Jones died. And that bogged us down for hours and days. How many man hours have we spent on Walters’s background.’

  ‘I know that Finance are having a fit over the overtime.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Drake said as he developed his train of thought. ‘I’ve already had a memo telling me we’re over budget on the investigation. And then the Indian restaurant fiasco and the dummy in the car.’

  Drake could feel the anger building as the scenario developed in his mind. He brought the palm of his hand down sharply onto the desk and stood up.

  ‘We’ve been running around to his tune all this time.’

  Drake stood by the window, closed his eyes and then tilted his head towards the sky, letting the sun warm his face.

  ‘So this business with the bottles at my house is another wild-goose chase and we’ll spend hours achieving nothing.’

  Caren moved in her seat.

  ‘There must be something about the songs and the lyrics and the numbers: One. Nine. Seven. Nine.’

  It sounded different somehow when Caren said each number in this way.

  He looked at his Tag Heuer and decided he should eat. Being a creature of habit, he felt disjointed not having had breakfast and lunch at the correct times. The sandwich he bought in the servery was stale – when were they actually fresh? – and after he had eaten it, without any enjoyment, he chomped his way through an apple. It was Sunday, so he had a chocolate bar as well.