Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

‘I’d guess he was local. Didn’t sound English to me.’

  She folded her arms, now, as though she was ready to leave.

  Drake turned into the small track leading to Caren’s farmhouse, and when one of the tyres found a pothole the car lurched to one side. After years of working with a sergeant who had more interest in Liverpool Football Club than policing, it had taken Drake time to find the right approach to working with Caren. She could be annoying and untidy but when he pushed a suspect too far she could be there to pull things back. A part of him didn’t want to admit that he had become accustomed to her and that he was beginning to rely on her.

  He pulled the car into the gravelled area by the back door and saw Alun walking down through the fields behind the house. His T-shirt had a picture of a large red tongue against a black background that had faded badly. Alun raised a hand and Drake nodded.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ Alun said, as he approached Drake.

  Alun was the odd half of the couple and Drake failed to see the attraction for Caren. The beard was a limp attempt, with wispy bits of red-coloured hair below his chin, and when he got closer Drake could smell sweat and manure and the rich loamy smell of animal feed. There were bits of alpaca wool on his T-shirt and for a moment Drake worried that Caren would bring some onto the car’s clean leather upholstery.

  ‘Hope you catch the killer,’ Alun said, standing by Drake.

  ‘Me too,’ Drake said.

  Caren appeared from the back door and crunched over the gravel. Then Drake noticed her shoes – they were scuffed and untidy and he could imagine the dirt that they might leave in his car. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to agree to collect her. Drake gave her a furtive look as she climbed into the car, flaring his nostrils, hoping there wouldn’t be a smell, but relaxing when he couldn’t see any alpaca wool or detect the odour of the farm.

  Drake powered the Alfa down the Conwy valley, retracing their first journey to the crime scene. Caren took the opportunity to tell him how hard Alun was working with the alpacas and that she had plans to redecorate over the summer.

  They reached the top of the Crimea Pass and pulled into a lay-by. In daylight, Drake could see how the road had been forced through the rugged terrain. He noticed old tracks made by slate workings scarring the side of the mountain. One side of the valley rose off the road to a narrow plateau leading away towards a summit in the distance. Drake knew all the mountains would have names. He reckoned that everywhere in Wales had a name; his grandfather had had names for all the fields on his farm.

  The sun was bright but there was still a chill in the air. Drake scrambled to a vantage point, Caren struggling behind him. Drake saw the steep sides of the mountains and the smoke trails from chimneys in Blaenau Ffestiniog. Even in early summer it was barren and windswept. He built an image in his mind of the scene on Monday night. The patrol car would have stopped. A routine RTA – no problem. The killer must have been waiting for them: sitting in his car – or was he hiding by the side of the road? Drake looked down – there was nowhere to hide. The killer had walked over to them, greeted the officers, and then shot them.

  ‘Why here?’ he said.

  Caren sounded breathless as she stood by his side before launching into an in-depth analysis. Drake had learnt to curb his annoyance at her enthusiasm. He turned in a complete circle trying to picture the killer. Why had the killer chosen the Crimea? What made the pass special? There had to be something and he had to find it. His eyes followed the contours of the mountains, searching for inspiration.

  They returned to the car and continued towards Blaenau Ffestiniog. They were early for their appointment with the engineer who had found the bodies, so Caren suggested lunch. The massive tips of slate-waste cast a gloominess over the town, making the atmosphere feel dark and oppressive. They walked along the high street, passing shops converted into homes or boarded-up altogether, and Drake remembered the anger in his father’s voice whenever their conversations turned to history or politics. ‘Years of exploitation, Ian. Makes my blood boil,’ he would say.

  In a cold, almost empty café, Drake stared at the sandwich on his plate and at the dirty yellow liquid passing for coffee in a chipped mug. The bread was like plastic cotton wool and stuck to the roof of his mouth as he chewed. Caren was enjoying a pasty that she had covered with brown sauce. She ate mouthfuls between noisy slurps of tea.

  ‘Anna’s going back to work tomorrow,’ she said.

  Drake looked at the crumbs Caren had left on the plate, trying to imagine how she could have enjoyed the food.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit soon?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to sit around getting depressed.’

  ‘Is she still staying with her mother?’

  Caren slurped her tea, before stirring a third teaspoon of sugar into the mug.

  ‘Yes. When she moved in with Mathews she gave up her flat.’

  Drake nodded. ‘Did she help at all?’

  ‘She knew about his reputation. But she was single – younger than him. She has her own career. And she never made any demands of him.’

  Another noisy mouthful of tea.

  ‘No help at all then,’ Drake cut across her. He moved his plate further away and tugged at the cuffs on his shirt, before checking his trousers for spills and food crumbs.

  ‘She did say something about the children. Mathews had regular contact – once a month.’

  ‘Really?’ Drake thought about Fiona – he couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘So Fiona’s comment doesn’t add up.’

  Drake had seen the hatred in Fiona Trick’s eyes and guessed that time had not healed her wounds.

  ‘And he had chlamydia.’

  Drake raised his eyebrows.

  Caren finished her mug of tea but Drake left half of the weak coffee, before paying their bill and leaving. The power plant was well signposted from the middle of the town, the road narrowing to a single-track road as they reached the main building. Leaving the car, Drake turned to look down towards the town, at the uniformity of the terraces and the drabness of the houses. Behind him Caren was shaking hands with a man who had emerged from the offices.

  ‘Malcolm Naton,’ the man said, holding out his hand to Drake.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’

  Naton led them inside. The flickering bank of dials and computer screens was in marked contrast to the old and ageing faces that had passed the window of the café where Drake and Caren had just eaten their lunch.

  Drake immediately noticed the trace of bleach in the air of Naton’s office and, apart from a pile of bound reports in one corner of the desk, the office was clean and spotless.

  ‘I was the duty manager,’ Naton said, when Drake asked why he had been out in the small hours.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If there’s an emergency then I could be called at any time. A little after midnight a problem arose with one of the generators. A telephone call couldn’t resolve it.’

  ‘Do you always turn out for a problem?’

  ‘No, we try to resolve it on the telephone. Once the engineer couldn’t solve the problem, he rang back. I knew then I’d have to turn out.’

  ‘Describe your journey.’

  ‘I gave most of the details to the officer on the night.’

  ‘Well, tell it to me again. Even the merest scrap of information might be relevant, just some recollection from your journey. Take me through it step-by-step.’

  Naton gave Drake an irritated glance.

  ‘I left the house about half past one, quarter to two. I can’t be certain of the time. It’s a forty-minute drive from where I live. I know the route very well. When I got to the top of the Crimea it was about two-fifteen. First thing I noticed was the headlights of the car. They seemed to be on full beam. Then I noticed the passenger side door was open. At first I didn’t think there was anything wrong.’

  ‘What, a car with its passenger side door open and lights on full beam? That must have told you something
was wrong.’

  Naton made a non-committal reply, looking hurt, before he continued. ‘I slowed down and passed the car. As I did, I saw the man in the driver’s seat. I rang the emergency services.’

  ‘Do you remember anything unusual on your journey?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’.

  Drake wanted to know everything Naton could remember. He pressed the engineer – getting him to search all his memories. ‘Do you pass much traffic that time of night?’

  ‘No, hardly any.’

  ‘If you had noticed a car travelling towards you, it would have been unusual?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would.’

  ‘Try and remember. Did you pass another vehicle coming down the pass?’

  Naton hesitated. ‘I’ve already told the other officers.’

  ‘Well, tell me.’ Drake persisted. ‘If the killer was travelling by car he’s likely to have passed you.’

  A frightened look crossed Naton’s face. ‘The only thing I can remember is near the Waterloo Bridge. I noticed this car with its full headlights on. I was slowing down for the junction onto the main road and the car turned left over the bridge. It seemed to be travelling very fast. I can’t say whether it’d come off the pass.’

  ‘What type of car was it?’

  Naton hesitated. ‘I can’t be certain … I think it was a Ford Mondeo.’

  ‘And the colour?’

  ‘Red, definitely red.’

  ‘Did you get a look at the driver?’

  ‘Man, I think. Don’t ask me anything else about him.’

  ‘Registration number?’

  ‘You must be joking. It was the middle of the night.’

  After finishing with Naton, they walked back to the car. Looking out over the town Drake noticed a thin plume of smoke climbing into the afternoon sunshine behind houses with pristine slate roofs and then he heard the sound of the narrow gauge engine rattling over points as it approached the town.

  ‘Did you check Naton out?’ Drake said.

  ‘Nothing known, sir. He had a warning for possession of cannabis when he was at university.’

  ‘That’s almost an essential requirement for a CV these days.’ Drake sighed. ‘At least we have something.’

  Approaching the car, he retrieved his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialled Winder’s number.

  ‘Gareth, suspect may have been using a red Ford Mondeo. Concentrate everything to see if you can identify a car like that on the CCTV footage.’

  Chapter 9

  Friday 4th June

  It had to be same routine every time, move the phone a couple of millimetres, check the paperwork was in neat piles, close the blinds, ensure the bin was in its proper place and then switch off the lights. Luckily nobody ever noticed the ritual at work, but if Drake had to leave the office in a hurry he could feel the anxiety rising like a mist at dawn. Once he was finished he dragged on his jacket and stuffed his mobile into a pocket. Caren joined him and they walked down to the car park.

  It took them half an hour through traffic chocked with caravans and trailers to reach the hospital mortuary. A man in a dirty white coat sat slumped before a computer screen playing patience. He gave Drake and Caren a blank stare but once Drake had flashed his warrant card the man let out a tired sigh, got up and led them into the mortuary. The smell of formaldehyde hit them. Drake looked at Lee Kings, who turned to his colleague.

  ‘Detective Inspector Ian Drake. This is Dr Nicholas Crewe.’

  Drake held out a hand; Caren did the same.

  ‘How do you do?’ Crewe was a tall man with short-cropped hair, a clipped public school accent and a brisk handshake.

  The mortuary assistant wheeled the first of the bodies to the centre of the floor. Both doctors began to look excited. Drake had always thought that being a pathologist required a certain macabre approach to medicine. Rather than the job of treating the living, mending the sick, and looking after children with running noses and sticky ears, the pathologist’s task was gruesome. It seemed so mechanical, without risk, cutting up a dead body, moving the bits around like a pass-the-parcel game. It often struck Drake that after years of academic training it took a particular breed of person to spend their professional careers with dead people.

  Crewe started removing Mathews’s clothes, then cleared his throat and began dictating his report. He held the scissors in one hand and expertly cut the shirt and laid the fabric carefully into receptacles.

  Crewe peered into the bloodied mess in the middle of Mathews’s chest. ‘There’s a bolt of some sort. Interesting.’ Kings nodded slowly.

  Crewe straightened and looked at Drake.

  ‘The only weapon I know of that uses bolts like this is a crossbow.’

  Crewe continued with his examination, until he leant down and carefully tugged at the projectile, eventually pulling it clear.

  ‘The bolt entered the body at an angle. Approximately forty-five degrees, I’d say. It would suggest that he was shot while sitting in the car.’

  The bolt made a dull clanking sound in the receptacle. Kings had a curious look on his face as he lowered his head and scanned the greying flesh. Crewe had moved his attention to Mathews’s left shoulder and then moved his latex-covered hands further down the torso. He asked Kings for a second opinion and stood back for a moment as the junior pathologist repeated the examination.

  ‘Interesting, don’t you think?’ Crewe announced.

  Kings murmured in approval.

  ‘What do you make of them?’

  ‘Can’t be certain.’

  ‘Are you thinking the same as me?’

  Kings moved away and began a more detailed examination of the clothes removed from Mathews’s body.

  There was an edge of sarcasm to Drake’s voice when he spoke. ‘Sorry to interrupt gentlemen. But do you have something to share with us?’

  Crewe raised his right hand and gave a wave, inviting them towards the table.

  ‘There are two puncture wounds on this man’s body. Quite high up, just above the shoulder blade. There is a distance of approximately fifteen inches between both wounds. As you can see, the wounds are tiny. Once we have completed a more detailed examination we can tell how far these wounds penetrate the flesh.’

  His manner was cold, emotionless.

  ‘The wounds suggest a Taser weapon was used.’

  ‘Can you be certain?’ Drake asked, inching nearer the table.

  ‘That’s why Dr Kings is examining the victim’s clothing,’ Crewe said. ‘As you know, Inspector, every Taser or, I should say, every lawful Taser, discharges tell-tale dots that enable the weapon to be traced.’

  Kings laid out all the clothes Mathews had been wearing and was picking through each one, examining every fold and crease. The look on his face made it clear he wasn’t finding anything.

  ‘Nothing. No sign of any dots.’

  Crewe continued. ‘A conundrum for you, therefore, Inspector Drake. Evidence of a Taser weapon on the body but no remnants of any dots on the clothes. Did the crime scene investigators find anything in the car?’

  Drake thought about the CSI report and knew there had been no suggestion of the discharge of a Taser. Drake ran through the alternatives in his mind – the dots might have been discharged outside the car, far enough away not to contaminate the officers’ clothes. He dismissed any possibility of the killer having cleaned away the dots.

  Before he had time to reply, Crewe continued. ‘A Taser fires two projectiles that hit the body up to twenty-five inches apart. It depends, of course, on the distance between the person discharging the Taser and the target. The projectile can pierce clothing and penetrates the skin to about half an inch.’

  It meant an urgent call to Foulds once they had finished, Drake concluded. The sound of a rattling saw blade brought his attention back to the post mortem table. Drake had never been good with the sight of blood and seeing the drills and saws splattered red on the various tables made his stomach turn. Crewe continued di
ctating into the microphone, occasionally seeking a second opinion from Kings. Eventually Crewe finished and placed various body parts back into the gaping hole in the rib cage. Once he was done, the body was sewn up and then removed. The mortuary assistant returned, wheeling in Danny Farrell.

  Crewe announced with obvious enthusiasm, ‘Well, let’s see if we can find some Taser dots on this gentleman.’

  The look of learnt curiosity had returned to the faces of both pathologists as they removed Farrell’s clothing.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ Crewe announced to no one in particular.

  Irrational, perhaps, but Drake was taking a dislike to Crewe, with his lengthy vowels and condescending manner – maybe he was too English, maybe too upper-class: the accent was definitely a relic and nobody said How do you do any more. He glanced at Caren and noticed a strained look on her face, as though she was concentrating too hard.

  ‘As I understand it,’ Crewe continued, ‘this officer was found outside the car. The bolt has entered further, suggesting the crossbow was fired at point-blank range. Death would have been instantaneous.’

  ‘And the Taser?’ asked Drake.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m coming to that.’

  The pathologist hesitated, adjusted his footing and inspected more of Farrell’s flesh.

  ‘I can’t see any evidence at present which suggests a Taser projectile.’

  ‘So it’s clear then,’ Drake added. ‘Both killed with a crossbow: only one shot with a Taser. Thanks, Doctor. We have a killer to catch.’

  Drake found himself hurrying out of the mortuary with Caren. He pushed open the doors and strode into the car park, where the air tasted fresh and clean. An ambulance was arriving at A&E, its lights dying as it slowed. High above, thick white clouds were floating in the summer sky. They walked quickly to the car.

  ‘I hate post mortems,’ Caren said between deep breaths.

  ‘We’ll need to talk to Mike,’ Drake said, reaching for his mobile.

  Back at headquarters, Drake pushed open the door to the Incident Room and saw his junior officers crowded round a computer, surfing the internet. Winder sat alongside Foulds; standing behind them was Howick, the stitches evident on his broken nose, the flesh around his eye turning dark brown. After standing in the mortuary for hours, Drake’s clothes stank of reeking flesh and now he could barely conceal his annoyance.