Winder took the envelope from Howick’s hand. He gave the image a long cold look. ‘For fuck’s sake…’
‘There’s more,’ Price said. ‘Words on the back.’
‘Looks like a kid’s poem,’ Caren said, before handing the envelope back to Drake, who read the words, trying to block out the sound of the voices in the room. He had to concentrate. He read the message several times until he had the answer.
‘It’s a song lyric.’
The room went quiet.
Price turned to him. ‘Do you know the song?’
Drake nodded. ‘It’s ‘Brass in Pocket’ by The Pretenders.’
‘And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?’
Drake looked at the words and he heard the song in his head, with its clear opening chords and memorable hook line. Instinct told him the investigation was going to be difficult when this was all they had, no explanation: just the lyrics.
He turned to Winder. ‘Gareth, I want to know who wrote the song.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want to know when it was published. I want to know what album it was on. I want to know what the reviewers thought at the time. And I want to know if there are explanations out there for the song lyrics. You know, websites, blogs, etc.…’
‘Yes, sir.’
Price cleared his throat noisily. ‘We need to catch this maniac. We can’t have him taunting us with song lyrics from some pop band.’ He curled a fist with both hands. ‘He’s killed two police officers. I want this madman caught.’
He brought both fists down onto the tabletop with a loud crash.
* * *
Rio Hawkins had a series of tattoos lining his neck and a set of stars on the knuckles of each hand. Drake guessed he was ex-forces.
‘When did you get the job?’
Rio rubbed a hand over his chin and glanced at his watch.
‘Are you expected somewhere?’
‘I’ve got a hospital run in twenty minutes. Good money. Can’t miss it.’
‘Well?’
‘Job came in an hour ago. Some man came into the office. I’d just started my shift.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Didn’t see much. He talked to the boss on the desk. I was having a brew.’
‘Did you see his face?’
Rio rolled his eyes. ‘Sort of. He had a baseball cap. And long hair. Yeh, ponytail at the back and thick glasses.’
Drake, hiding his mounting irritation, thought about the photograph albums Rio could spend the next two hours thumbing through, and with an effort controlled himself.
‘And?’
‘He gave the boss the envelope. Told her to deliver it here. Gave her twenty quid.’
Drake moved forward and lowered his voice.
‘Two police officers were killed this morning. The message was from the killer. So it’s important you remember as much as you can.’
He watched the colour drain from Rio’s face.
‘That’s all I saw. Honest.’
The self-important look had disappeared from the face of the taxi driver. Drake got up and snapped his notebook closed.
‘We’ll need your fingerprints.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Just for us to eliminate you from the inquiry.’
* * *
After the interview with Rio, Drake stood in reception at headquarters. His skin felt greasy and he drew a hand across the stubble on his chin, reminding himself he had to clean up. He knew that if he couldn’t wash, and wear clean clothes, the tension would gnaw away at his mind. Within ten minutes, Drake slammed the door of the duty sergeant’s car and stepped into the drive of his home, searching for the front door key in his jacket.
He looked in the mirror before shaving; his eyes looked tired and his stubble was the colour of dirty snow. He set the temperature of the shower to high and let the hot water pour over his face. He towelled himself dry and reached for a navy suit and white shirt. He adjusted the knot on the silk tie with precision before he checked his hair in the mirror. The stubble was gone, his eyes looked healthier, but the bags were still there. He thought about food but his teeth were furry, so he cleaned them for a second time. Then he made a final small adjustment to the towel on the curved radiator – it had to be folded straight and neatly placed on the bottom rung. Sian always moved it and it drove him mad.
He drew the front door closed behind him and stepped onto the drive; the temperature was rising and a batch of white clouds drifted across the sky. On the journey back he stopped at a newsagent and bought a paper, turning at once to the sudoku. He hesitated, knowing he should be at his office, before deciding that he had to spend two minutes on the puzzle.
* * *
Price’s office had large windows overlooking the parkland that surrounded the headquarters. He looked better than he had earlier that morning. His shirt was clean and crisply ironed, and Drake guessed from the faint smell of deodorant and aftershave that he had been using the executive bathroom.
‘The Chief Constable’s on his way from the airport,’ Price said.
‘I noticed some of the TV vans outside.’
‘Fucking vultures. But the people from PR say we can’t do anything about it. They’ve even had a call from a Japanese TV crew.’
Price hesitated, narrowed his eyes.
‘This is an important case, Ian.’
Drake nodded.
‘No stone is to be left unturned.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It will mean twenty-four seven. For the whole team.’
‘Of course.’ Drake knew everything else had to wait.
Before Price could continue, the telephone rang. The call was short.
‘Chief Constable’s arrived,’ Price said.
* * *
The Chief Constable shook Price’s outstretched hand. Price’s secretary followed behind him with a tray, carefully laid out with a plate of sandwiches, a bottle of Ty Nant water and a bowl of fruit – the Chief Constable’s insistence on a healthy diet was common knowledge. The appointment of Commander Riskin of the Metropolitan Police as the first Chief Constable of the Wales Police Service had been unexpected. He was in his late forties but his lean build made him look younger. He looked every inch the ambitious police officer. He probably ran every morning before breakfast, Drake thought, now regretting his own lack of exercise and expanding waistline.
‘Detective Inspector Drake.’ The Chief Constable emphasised each word.
The handshake was firm, the expression determined and clear. They sat round the conference table as Riskin continued.
‘We met last year.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
Drake remembered the pride he had felt when he had been awarded the Chief Constable’s Commendation Medal for an arrest of a prolific burglar.
‘You did very well in that case.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘What’s the Crimea like?’ Riskin asked, before reaching for a sandwich.
‘It’s bleak, sir.’
‘Must have been a difficult scene.’
‘It was unreal. Looking at two dead police officers.’
Drake kept the description of the scene brief, summarising the pathologist’s comments, Riskin nodding without averting his eye contact. Price poured some Ty Nant for Riskin.
‘Press conference at midday,’ Price said, which Drake took to mean the meeting was over. He left, disappointed that he hadn’t been offered a sandwich, realising he was hungry.
* * *
Back at his office, Drake picked a wooden hanger from the coat stand and draped his jacket over it before smoothing out the shoulders carefully. He hated seeing jackets crumpled on the back of office chairs. His desk was a mass of Post-it notes and reminders and immediately he arranged them into neat columns, before adjusting the position of the telephone a few millimetres. Once he had finished, his attention fixed on the two thin files placed in the middle.
He
picked up the file of Danny Farrell and skimmed the various sections, before deciding where to start. The officer’s disciplinary record made for unhappy reading. There were allegations of violence, bullying and a harassment complaint by a woman police officer. It was clear once he picked up the second file that Mathews and Farrell were two of a kind: there were numerous complaints about both officers.
Drake searched unsuccessfully for the appraisals and detailed reports from the investigation, knowing that there should have been more paperwork. An uneasy feeling churned through his mind.
The sun filtered through the blinds on the window, warming Drake’s shoulders. He moved the papers on his desk and fiddled with a biro as he thought about the families he would have to see later: the widow who had lost her husband, and children who wouldn’t see their father again. He knew that family liaison was supporting Danny Farrell’s wife and young children. Another set of officers were with the children and the former wife of Paul Mathews, but his girlfriend couldn’t be found. An image of a family liaison officer in his own home came to him and he wondered how Sian would cope if it had been him. He glanced at his watch; Sian would be in the middle of another demanding surgery and the children busy at school. Until today, he had never thought that policing meant putting his life at risk and presumably had neither Mathews nor Farrell.
The telephone rang. Howick’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘I found something interesting about Mathews.’
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Table of Contents
Stephen Puleston – some personal details
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Also by Stephen Puleston
Speechless Page 31
