Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  With the pathologist finished, the serious work could begin. Drake glanced at his watch. If Caren was right about the time of sunrise, then soon it would be first light and the generators could be turned off. The CSIs would have to search the car until every inch had been examined. He knew the painstaking fingertip search of the road would take hours. The first glimmer of morning sunshine climbed over the mountains as the silhouettes of the steep cliffs formed. A photographer adjusted the settings on his camera which was screwed down to the top of a tripod. Price finished his final call and came up to stand next to Drake and Caren.

  ‘This is the most serious crime I have ever dealt with,’ Price said, his voice matching the hard, cold surface of the tarmac. ‘We’ll commit everything we have,’ he continued. ‘Killing police officers is, well …’ He struggled for the right words.

  And he looked Drake straight in the eye.

  ‘It’s an attack on society itself.’

  Drake nodded. Caren stood quite still, hands thrust deep into her pockets, listening to Price.

  They walked round the car, stepping over the kerb, avoiding getting too close.

  ‘This is a desolate place. Why here?’ Drake said, squinting into the darkness, noticing the tips of the mountains streaked orange.

  Drake passed the CSI team photographing the vehicle from every angle, and he walked towards the cones and warning triangles set out for several metres behind the Volvo. The camber of the road banked from the centre and some of the cones had fallen over onto the tarmac.

  The image of the dead officers wouldn’t leave his mind. The bodies appeared staged. His mind tried to process the thought as it developed. He walked past the cones, down the hill before turning to look back at the car. Something was out of place, he knew it. He motioned to Caren.

  ‘Who put these cones out?’

  Caren looked blank.

  He shouted to Foulds, who broke into a jog and joined Drake and Caren.

  ‘Get a photographer here. Now.’

  ‘The Traffic lads wouldn’t have done this,’ Caren said.

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

  Caren upended all the overturned cones as Drake directed the photographer. After a few seconds she stood back and called over to Drake.

  ‘Something you ought to see,’ she said, pointing at the surface of the tarmac.

  Once all the cones and warning triangles were upright, the shape they formed was unmistakable.

  The outline of the number four was clear.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, 1st June

  The early morning sunshine reflected against the windows and rooftops as the car neared Northern Division Headquarters. The image of the number four had dominated Drake’s thoughts – and his conversation with Caren – during the journey from the Crimea.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Caren said again.

  Drake drew a hand over his face; it felt damp and sticky. He turned to look at Caren and he could see the unease in her eyes.

  ‘Does it mean there are going to be more deaths?’

  At that moment, all Drake could really focus on was the need to get clean and tidy. His shirt was dishevelled, his trousers had accumulated grime from the scene, and he was desperate for a shave and a shower.

  ‘It could mean anything,’ he said, without conviction.

  ‘But the number four?’ she persisted.

  ‘A lucky number.’ Drake shrugged. ‘Part of a car registration.’

  He was reminded of the sudoku riddles that had been the focus of his rituals lately. It was as if something inside him had to get a daily fix by defeating the puzzle. It was logic, after all, and that was his job – working things out, detective work. Caren was right to believe it had significance, but he put the possibility that it signalled more deaths to the back of his mind.

  A little after half past seven Drake and Caren entered the Incident Room and the muttered conversations came to an abrupt end. Drake could feel the tension, sense the anger in the room.

  Detective Constables David Howick and Gareth Winder turned to look at him. Howick managed a brief, stern nod and Winder clenched his jaw. Caren sat down at the nearest desk. Drake glanced along the board scattered with photographs of each of the dead officers. One other sheet of paper clung to the board – on it was the number four.

  ‘You all know how much media attention this investigation is going to get,’ he began. ‘But that will be nothing compared to the attention we will give it.’

  He paused; he had never sensed such concentration in an Incident Room before. He had their complete attention.

  ‘It’s our job to find the bastard who did this. We check everything twice, three times. And then we recheck it.’

  He cleared his thoughts, watching the sharp alertness in the eyes of his team.

  ‘I knew Danny Farrell, sir,’ Howick said. ‘I played badminton with him and his wife. She’ll be devastated.’

  Stillness fell on the room. This was more than the murder of colleagues – they were friends, too. Drake broke the tension by allocating tasks. Establishing what cases the dead officers had been working on was the top priority.

  ‘But they were traffic cops …’ Howick began. ‘There could be hundreds of motorists we might never be able to trace. Do we know how they were killed?’

  Drake hesitated. ‘It looks like they were shot in the chest and in the head through one eye.’

  Winder pulled folded arms tight against his chest and Howick put a hand to his mouth; neither had been involved in a double murder before and the Wales Police Service had never lost two of its officers at the same time.

  ‘Mathews was killed in the driver’s seat and Farrell was lying outside the car. The pathologist thinks they were shot by some sort of dart or bolt. We will have to establish if they were moved. And I want to know everything about both men.’

  Caren made her first contribution. ‘How could one man have killed both of them?’

  The room went quiet at the possibility of a vigilante-style killing. Drake drew a hand through his hair and adjusted his footing. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ He tried to sound cautious, catching sight of the intense look on Howick’s face.

  Winder cleared his throat and raised his voice.

  ‘Did the officers make a radio report?’

  ‘That’s your job.’ Drake gave him a stern gaze.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Drake continued to allocate tasks to Winder. ‘Find out where they’d been since they started their shift. And we need to know how long they had worked together.’

  Caren added, ‘And we’ll need details of all the tickets they issued.’

  Drake turned to Howick. ‘Dave. Contact HR for the personnel files.’

  The door swung open and crashed loudly against the wall. Price strode in, his right hand outstretched; the junior officers stood up and stiffened.

  ‘This has just arrived.’

  He slammed a plastic stationery pocket down on the nearest desk. There was a small Polaroid photograph in the bottom.

  ‘It arrived by taxi. The driver’s been called back.’

  Drake picked up the envelope and caught his breath as he looked at the image on the photograph.

  It was a close-up of one of the dead officers.

  He passed it over to Howick, who squinted. ‘What sort of sick bastard …’

  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 Pret
enders.’

  ‘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 la
ter: 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.’

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday, 1st June

  Howick bowled into Drake’s office, his face flushed with excitement.

  His clean, straight parting reminded Drake of his grandfather and, at twenty-seven, Howick looked and acted older than his age. Howick’s promotion to CID, after five years in uniform, had been the most important day of his life, he had said – more important than getting married.

  ‘You’ve got to hear this.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Drake pointed to the chair.

  Howick’s white shirt looked new, the tie a sombre dark blue and Drake wondered whether he had resembled Howick at that age. Twenty-seven seemed a distant memory.

  ‘You won’t believe this.’

  He moved forward in his seat, wide-eyed and unusually garrulous, barely stopping for breath. ‘All the lads in Traffic are talking about it. Mathews tried to arrest a Stevie Dixon on the roadside three years ago but everything turned nasty. Dixon assaulted Mathews but he got the better of Dixon. He kicked the shit out of him.’

  Howick fell over his words in his eagerness to tell Drake about the day of the trial. The prosecuting barrister had made clear his reservations before Mathews had given evidence, but the CPS solicitor had been determined to continue. Drake guessed that much of Howick’s version was apocryphal, but he allowed him to finish – the arrest and trial had clearly become the stuff of legend in the Traffic Department.

  ‘Guess who corroborated Mathews’s version of events?’ Howick said finally.