Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘How often did he see the children?’

  ‘He couldn’t be bothered.’ Fiona’s eyes hardened. ‘He was more interested in his computer games and his young girlfriend.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?’

  She snorted.

  ‘Did he mention a case a couple of years ago when he had to go to court?’

  She shook her head.

  Drake gave up the questioning, thanked her and left. They returned to the car and once Drake had fired the engine into life, headed for Mathews’s flat. Talking to Fiona Trick had been a gloomy reminder of how emotions can change from love to hatred. It made Drake feel despondent that she would not be able to grieve with her children, if only for their sake.

  Mathews lived in a self-contained flat in a small purpose-built block on the outskirts of Colwyn Bay. After fumbling for the right key, Caren opened the front door and, once inside, closed it quietly behind them. The laminate flooring and minimalist decoration made the flat feel clinical and antiseptic. An enormous flatscreen television dominated one corner of the lounge, speakers of the surround-sound theatre system standing in each corner. A large bookcase was stacked to the brim with DVDs and games for the computer. No book in sight, not even a Stieg Larsson.

  ‘Typical bachelor pad,’ Caren said.

  An unfinished mug of coffee stood on the draining board alongside a half-empty packet of cereal, poignant reminders of Mathews’s domestic routine.

  Caren went into the bedroom. ‘Has anyone spoken to the girlfriend yet?’ she called out, as she looked at the women’s clothes hanging in the main wardrobe.

  Before Drake could reply, he heard the scratching sound of a key in the front door. He called out to Caren and they both stood in the narrow landing as the door opened.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ The young woman stood rigid by the door. ‘I’m going to call the police.’

  Strands of long auburn hair brushed her shoulders, her make-up millimetre-perfect. The high heels and narrow skirt made her look slimmer than she actually was. Drake and Caren flashed their warrant cards.

  ‘Anna, we’ve come about Paul,’ he said.

  ‘What’s happened?’ The colour drained from her cheeks.

  They went into the kitchen and she sat on one of the chairs by the table.

  ‘Paul was killed this morning. He was on duty with Danny Farrell. They were both killed in their patrol car on the top of the Crimea Pass. We’ve been trying to contact you all day.’

  She began to cry, harsh tearing sobs. The tears scarred her make-up, the mascara mixing with blusher as they rolled down her cheeks. She explained, between gasps for breath, that she had been away on a training course. Caren fetched a glass of water and asked whether there was someone she could stay with for the night.

  ‘My mother lives near Rhyl,’ she said to Caren, in between sips.

  Caren agreed to stay with Anna until her mother arrived. The girl seemed relieved at the offer of help. Drake left the flat and returned to headquarters.

  The building was quiet and only the night staff remained. He could hear the vacuum cleaners in the corridors and the smell of cleaning fluids and he knew that he should be at home with his family. But when he thought about leaving, his mind kept telling him he had to stay, that he might miss something, a vital snippet of information, the clue that would crack the case wide open. Now his mind started replaying the song lyrics again, over and over, until he could think of nothing else.

  Tomorrow he had to make progress. He had to know what the lyrics meant.

  Sitting by his desk, he turned on the light. His arms felt wooden. He eyes burnt. He turned over in his mind the events of the day. He had to have time to think.

  He wondered why he had returned to the office. Then he remembered he had wanted to organise his papers again and check that the cleaners had emptied the bin and hoovered the floor. He looked down at the pristine carpet tiles and checked the bin once more, cursing himself for letting his obsessions get in the way.

  He knew he would have to go home soon.

  He reached to switch off the light when his mobile rang. It was Winder.

  ‘Boss, Dave’s been assaulted. He’s in hospital.’

  Chapter 6

  Wednesday 2nd June

  ‘Crucify the bastard who did this.’ Chief Inspector Prewer clenched his jaw and gave every word a hard, steely edge. ‘Are you in charge of the investigation, Ian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dealing with the Traffic Department would be difficult, so better to start with the right tone, Drake decided. He fidgeted with the files on his lap, gathering his thoughts. ‘I need a complete picture of Mathews and Farrell.’

  ‘They were effective officers,’ Prewer replied.

  Drake wanted the truth, not a justification of the dead officers, so he ignored the comment and moved on. ‘I’ve read the files you sent over yesterday—’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I don’t seem to have the appraisals and all the reports I would have expected.’

  ‘Everything you need to know is in there.’

  ‘Are there more papers, sir?’ Drake struck a balance between interrogation and polite request. ‘I’ll need all the papers. Everything.’

  Prewer narrowed his eyes. ‘The appraisals are part of the personnel file. These officers are dead. What possible use could they be?’

  ‘I need to know everything about both men. The two aren’t exactly model police officers, are they?’

  Prewer stuck out his chin. ‘Let’s say they had some disciplinary issues.’

  Issues. Drake wanted to remind Prewer that a dozen complaints against Farrell and more than that against Mathews was more than just issues.

  ‘Did they always work together?’

  ‘No. We tried to keep them apart,’ Prewer said, ‘but last week they were rostered on the same shift. We were short. Look, they got on well and they were good and effective traffic officers.’

  Prewer moved his gaze away from Drake.

  ‘What happened in the case of Stevie Dixon?’

  He could see the shutters coming down in Prewer’s mind. Through gritted teeth Prewer spat out a reply.

  ‘Dixon is a toe-rag. The worst sort. Lies through his teeth. And anyway, he’s in prison.’

  ‘No. He was released last month.’

  Drake could see the surprise mixed with a flash of apprehension on Prewer’s face.

  ‘I’ll need all the files,’ Drake said.

  Prewer nodded slowly, ‘Of course.’

  Drake continued, ‘There was a sexual harassment claim against Farrell. What happened?’

  ‘It was withdrawn.’

  ‘Any reason?’

  ‘It was pointed out to the WPC at the time that her promotion prospects might be damaged if she allowed such a complaint to proceed.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She left the force.’

  Drake nodded. He didn’t like it, but that was how things worked. The service would look after itself, protect its reputation, and avoid self-inflicted embarrassing headlines.

  ‘Either up for promotion?’

  Prewer had crossed his arms and self-consciously looked at his watch; Drake could see him preparing another unhelpful reply.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sergeants’ exams?’ Drake suggested, offering Prewer the opportunity to fill out his reply.

  ‘Mathews. Failed them.’

  ‘I’m going to send over one of the DCs. We need to have access to everything about Mathews and Farrell, including all of the HR files.’

  Prewer gave Drake a narrow smile. It wouldn’t be easy, another officer digging though the department’s files, exposing any awkward cases to the harsh and unforgiving wisdom of hindsight. Drake would need Price’s help to cut through any obstacles. He left Prewer pondering and threaded his way back to his office, exchanging greetings and the occasional disjointed conversation. He could sense that the raw tension
of the day before had dissipated.

  His office was unchanged from the night before; all the Post-it notes and papers were in the same neat order but the room smelt stale and musty. He pulled at the catch of the window until it gave way and he felt the cool air stream into the room. He stared out over the landscaped grounds. Why choose the Crimea? What was special about the pass? Why the message and what did the number four mean? He found neither satisfactory answers nor inspiration.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Winder standing by the door, an expectant look on his face. Drake motioned to the officer, who came into the room and sat down.

  ‘What time did you get back last night?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Three in the morning.’

  Despite only a few hours’ sleep, Winder looked alert and Drake could see he wanted to share the details of the night before. The sergeant at the local police station had warned them about Dixon and insisted on sending two uniformed officers to accompany them.

  ‘“Just in case lads”. That’s what he said, boss. Now I know what he meant’

  Howick believed it was an open-and-shut case, and talked about nothing else on the journey to Merseyside, but things had turned nasty, right from the start.

  ‘Dave was wound up, boss,’ Winder explained. ‘He was convinced Stevie Dixon was our man.’

  Drake could imagine how Howick felt. He had seen the anger in the faces of the officers at their first meeting, shared their outrage at what had happened and wanted a result as much as they all did.

  ‘Finding Dixon was easy enough,’ Winder continued. ‘First we went to his house. Only person there was his wife and she told us he was in the gym. But there was no sign of him. After asking around somebody told us he was at his girlfriend’s house.’

  ‘How old is this guy?’

  ‘Mid-fifties, but very fit,’ Winder said. ‘He was outside, gardening. Dave got straight to the point. Asked him where he had been the night before last. Didn’t give Dixon a chance to reply. You could see Dixon was getting defensive. Then he squared up to Dave.’

  Winder leant forward and paused.

  ‘Then Dave put his hand on Dixon’s shoulder, told him he was being arrested. And bang, before I knew what was happening Dixon had head-butted him. Blood everywhere, boss. Dave was holding his nose, shouting and cursing. The whole thing went tits-up. It was a complete mess.’

  Drake groaned. It was the last thing they needed.

  ‘It took three of us to hold Dixon down.’

  ‘Did Dave caution him?’ Drake began to think of the legalities.

  ‘It all happened so fast I can’t remember.’

  ‘Well you’d better try. It needs to be in your statement.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And where is Dixon now?’

  ‘Birkenhead nick. I’m going to collect him with a couple of uniforms later. The custody sergeant insisted the bastard have eight hours’ uninterrupted rest – regulations, sir.’

  Drake nodded. He had once been a custody sergeant and knew the rules well enough. An interview with Dixon could start later that afternoon.

  ‘Gareth, don’t take any chances with this guy,’ he said seriously. ‘I want everything done by the book.’

  Winder nodded and left.

  Drake spent an hour scanning the numerous emails in his inbox. He relegated most to the bottom of his to-do list and prioritised those from Price and the press office. Drake had learnt that Price liked to impress his junior officers by sending emails wherever possible, and that he expected prompt replies. Price wanted a progress report on Howick. He composed a reply, suggesting a meeting later that morning. Before he had finished reading the email from the press office, Price had replied.

  Meeting. My office. One hour.

  Drake watched Winder pinning photocopies of the death threats to the board in the Incident Room. Caren was reading the pages of the printed versions circulated in plastic stationery pockets and Howick had his arms crossed severely.

  Drake strode over to read the messages. All four had been assembled from newspaper cuttings but the sentences had the same poor grammar, threatening to dismember Mathews and Farrell.

  ‘What did the SIO at the time think?’

  ‘Laughed them off as far as I can tell,’ Winder said.

  Howick stared at the board. ‘They look serious enough to me.’

  Drake took a step back, in line with Caren. ‘They must have thought it was a joke.’

  ‘But Dixon had just been sent down. They must have thought it was related,’ Caren said.

  ‘Someone might have had a grudge against Mathews and used the aftermath of the court case as an excuse to send these messages,’ Winder suggested.

  Howick wasn’t convinced. ‘And what would that achieve?’

  Winder persevered. ‘He was getting off on the thrill. Knowing that Mathews and Farrell would be shit-scared.’

  Drake was still staring at the messages. ‘I want to see all the DNA tests done last time and then I want them all done again. We’ll send them to a different lab. Tell them we want the results yesterday.’

  Price moved an expensive chrome biro through his fingers as he listened to Drake. Through the open windows, Drake heard the clatter of a train slowing and detected the hint of salt in the air.

  ‘I’ve been to see Paula Farrell and Mathews’s ex-wife. Caren and I were at his flat when his girlfriend arrived. We broke the news to her.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Paula Farrell looked like death but Mathews’s ex-wife seemed almost pleased.’

  Price looked surprised, ‘What about the children?’

  ‘We didn’t see them, but family liaison are with both families.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, still tapping the biro on the desk.

  ‘I’ll be interviewing Stevie Dixon later this afternoon.’

  ‘Have you made any sense of the message?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. However, there has to be a link somewhere.’ Drake tried to sound optimistic.

  ‘There’s a lot of pressure in this case, Ian,’ said Price. ‘We’ll need to get a profiler in as soon as possible.’

  ‘But the investigation’s only just started,’ Drake protested.

  Price appeared torn; he opened his mouth before hesitating, trying to find the right words.

  ‘Can’t have the country turning into some sort of banana republic. We’ll have to use all the resources at our disposal.’

  Drake knew the Chief Constable and politicians in Cardiff would want a result soon.

  ‘I gather you’ve been to see Prewer,’ Price continued.

  Drake looked at Price, trying to guess what Prewer might have said, ‘Like it or not, we’ve got to dig into their past.’

  Price stopped fiddling with the biro and raised his hand.

  ‘I know, Ian. Just take it easy.’

  Drake tightened his grip on the biro in his own hand. ‘I don’t want the investigation compromised to protect the reputation of the Traffic Department. Neither Mathews nor Farrell were paragons of virtue.’

  ‘That may be, Inspector, but we’re not having our dirty linen displayed in public. This is an important investigation. You must appreciate the sort of pressures we’re under. Just look at the headlines. Imagine what the politicians are thinking.’

  Drake didn’t respond. Price continued.

  ‘Until we get a clear motive we’re going to have all this wild speculation from the press. We all need to work together, Ian. Whatever help you need, we’ll make the resources available.’

  ‘I want to get a result here as much as anybody.’

  ‘Politics, Ian – politics.’

  Drake left the meeting feeling annoyed. He knew Mathews and Farrell were a disgrace. Why couldn’t Price see that too? He closed the door of his office, trying to isolate his irritation from his ability to think, separating himself from the conversations and activity in the Incident Room beyond his door.

  He sat down as his mobile b
leeped; Sian’s text reminded him to call his mother, who had sounded subdued on the phone the day before. When he dialled, it rang out for far longer than normal before she answered.

  ‘Ian.’ She sounded relieved. ‘I’m so glad you’ve called.’

  Drake could tell she was worried about something. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s your father. He’s not well. He’s very down these days. Nothing I can do seems to help. Can you come and see him?’

  ‘I’m right in the middle of this investigation.’

  ‘Yes, I know. We both saw the news last night. You looked tired.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mam.’

  ‘Just call some time. Please, Ian.’

  ‘Saturday. I’ll call Saturday.’

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday 2nd June

  Drake opened the chilled cabinet at the supermarket and pulled out a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich that he paired up with a packet of crisps and a Coke. He walked through the stationery section, scanning the aisle until he found a book of sudoku puzzles to add to his collection. Back in the car, he reached for the antiseptic wipes and cleaned his hands twice, before breaking open the sandwich. Then he turned to the paper and the sudoku he’d started that morning. He’d struggled with the first few numbers but he enjoyed the achievement of completing two squares.

  He powered down the window, allowing the summer breeze to fill the car while he drove to the Area Operational Centre for the interview with Stevie Dixon.

  Drake had been at the custody suite many times, but the CCTV cameras that watched and recorded every movement still caught his attention. The custody sergeant sat behind a heavy Perspex screen, a flickering computer monitor in front of him, talking to Caren. The air stank: a combination of cold chips, urine and vomit hung in the air. Drake remembered the stench from his days as a custody sergeant; it clung to the inside of his nostrils and even long showers couldn’t eradicate the smell.

  The sergeant smiled at him. ‘Inspector Drake. Your man’s brief has just arrived.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Better be careful. He’s one of those fucking hot-shots from Liverpool. Thinks we’re all plebs in the country.’