Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Haven’t you got enough to do?’ Drake began.

  ‘You might like to see this, sir,’ Winder said.

  Foulds left his chair and motioned for Drake to sit down.

  The computer screen flickered with a clip from YouTube. Winder clicked the ‘play’ button and the screen came to life with the scene of a man shot with a Taser, his body recoiling and then falling flat, incapacitated, as he screamed in pain.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve seen these videos before.’ Drake sounded impatient.

  It had been a couple of years since a superintendent in Western Division had subjected himself to a Taser attack, as part of a publicity stunt, that ended up on YouTube.

  ‘But you haven’t seen this before, sir,’ Winder added, flicking back to the Google search.

  In just a couple of clicks the screen came to life again. The video title said How To Build Your Own Taser. Drake sat and watched the instructions played out on the screen with growing interest. It looked simple and straightforward – the presenter even said it was ‘child’s play’. All the parts were assembled on the table and the voice gave a running commentary on how helpful a Taser could be. They all watched in silence, guessing that the killer must have watched the same clip.

  ‘It’s about the only explanation we’ve got, Mike,’ Drake said. ‘There’s no other way he could have killed Mathews in the car.’

  ‘The killer must have used a Taser on Mathews. That would have given him enough time to reload the crossbow. Jesus, this guy was really well prepared.’

  Drake’s thoughts were back at the mortuary. Back watching the pathologists cutting and slicing dead bodies. He shivered.

  ‘Thanks Mike. I’ll get the pathologist’s report to you as soon as. Gareth, we need to find the car and Dave, my office now for an update on Dixon.’

  Howick’s optimism that Dixon would provide a breakthrough had disappeared. There was a reflective matter-of-fact tone to his voice.

  ‘The alibi checks out – at least with his wife, sir.’

  ‘Details, please.’

  ‘Dixon’s wife was quite clear. She gave a specific account of all his movements that afternoon and early evening and through the night. He hadn’t gone to the gym that afternoon – she seemed to know all about his girlfriend. Anyway, he picked up his grandchildren from school at the end of the afternoon. Took them for a milkshake. Later that night there was a family party at one of the pubs nearby.’

  ‘And there are lots of family members who will confirm he was there.’ Drake sighed, frustrated.

  ‘That’s about it, sir.’

  ‘But get them all checked. Just in case.’

  Howick looked please with himself as he turned to Drake, ‘And I’ve found a contact for you in the North Wales Archery Association.’

  Drake and Caren followed the sat-nav directions and found themselves in an industrial estate that had old pallets and rusting second-hand cars piled into a fenced enclosure with a sign warning about dogs on the loose. Drake cursed before starting a ten-point turn.

  At the main road, Drake parked and Caren darted into a local newsagent before emerging seconds later looking pleased with herself and pointing across the road at a narrow lane leading down past the side of a launderette, towards what looked like a disused railway yard. Drake noticed a dark blue Volvo, which seemed familiar, parked on the opposite side of the road as he drove down the lane. At one end was a flat-roofed building, its white paint fading badly. Drake pushed open the door and heard the sound of a radio from the far corner. A man standing by the side of the bar waved them over.

  ‘Mr Drake? Matt Tudor,’ he said, hand outstretched.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Waits.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Tudor took them into the small office behind the bar, stacked high with boxes. He squeezed into a chair behind the desk and motioned for Drake and Caren to sit down.

  ‘The North Wales Archery Association,’ Drake said.

  ‘Yes. I’m the secretary.’

  Howick had explained that Tudor had complained bitterly about the intrusion into his daily routine. Tudor had eyes that looked like a map of the world and a paunch that was straining the buttons of his shirt to breaking point. Drake imagined that the only competitive sport in which Tudor participated would have been the yard-of-ale.

  ‘Do you have a list of members?’

  ‘Yeh. Somewhere.’

  ‘We need lists for the last three years. Did you know Paul Mathews?’

  ‘Yeh. He was really popular. A real ladies’ man.’

  Tudor booted up his computer. Caren moved nearer the desk and tilted her head. ‘What does the Archery Association do?’

  Tudor rolled his eyes. ‘Archery. Bows and arrows.’

  Drake began to fidget with his hands. Caren persevered. ‘Where do they meet?’

  ‘Here, of course.’

  ‘But they don’t do the archery here?’ Drake said, the irritation clear in his voice.

  ‘Of course not. This is where they come to socialise.’ He emphasised the last word, as though he were sharing a secret of grave importance.

  ‘You mean …?’ Drake said, not really certain what Tudor meant.

  ‘Exactly that. Socialise, make new friends.’ Tudor winked at Drake.

  ‘So there wasn’t much actual archery?’ Caren asked.

  ‘Every Monday night in the summer, down on the sports field and then everyone piles back here. Big ball every summer. Prize-giving and all that.’

  Tudor began to mop his brow with a dirty handkerchief. The screen began to glow, and a couple of clicks later Tudor smiled. He stuffed a narrow data stick into the computer and clicked again. Drake was vaguely impressed with Tudor’s efficiency.

  ‘Do they shoot crossbows?’

  ‘A few of the members have them. Maybe a dozen. The more serious members.’ Another half smile.

  Tudor remained in his chair and tugged at the data stick which he handed to Drake.

  ‘You should talk to Sam Walters. He and his brother do a lot with crossbows.’

  Chapter 10

  Saturday 5th June

  Drake found himself on the promenade at Colwyn Bay before realising that he had driven past the turning for headquarters. His thoughts had been dominated by guilt – he’d forgotten Sian’s plans for the afternoon with Megan and Helen; he’d promised to see his parents and he’d been lecturing himself that he really had to change. Not even the sound of Springsteen’s voice on ‘Thunder Road’ had distracted him. Drake parked and watched the water lapping against the edge of the concrete. Gradually, his mood improved as he thought about their impending family holiday. He powered down the window and smelt the salt in the breeze. Tomorrow, he determined, they would do something as a family: maybe the beach or the zoo.

  In his office Drake fought with the catch on the window before it reluctantly gave way and fresh air streamed into his room. The weather forecast promised high temperatures and Drake saw the faintest whisper of a cloud. After ten minutes on a sudoku – labelled hard – from one of the books in his desk he knew his mind would focus more clearly.

  He logged on to his computer and scrolled through his emails. He had to open every one, just to check, convincing himself that he had to read them all. There were three from the press office, all saying the same thing. The press wanted more details, asking when the next press conference was going to be, and the woman from PR wanted to know when she could tell them something. There was a pleading tone to her final email. He deleted all but one. He replied, telling her he had nothing further she could give the press. An urgent email from a CPS lawyer reminded him about an imminent court case. Drake left the email in the inbox, hoping he wouldn’t forget.

  Drake was pleased with the interruption when the telephone rang.

  ‘Someone in reception for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Says she has information about the Mathews case.’

  ‘I sent t
hem death threats.’

  Geraldine Evans hadn’t slept for days by the look on her face. The bags were black and she had the burnt-out look common in drug addicts. Drake glanced over at Caren who was giving the woman a wary stare. There were always time-wasters in every case and Drake wondered if this was just another.

  ‘What threats do you mean?’ Drake knew the details weren’t public knowledge and worried that information might have been leaked.

  ‘The one I sent to Paul Mathews.’

  ‘Why did you send them?’

  ‘Because he was a bastard and he …’

  ‘And he what?’

  ‘I only meant to frighten him.’

  ‘Why?’ Drake asked again.

  ‘Because he was a bastard and—’

  ‘Geraldine, why was Mathews a bastard?’

  ‘He promised me everything. Said I was the one …’ She started crying and, fumbling for a handkerchief, blew her nose.

  ‘When did you meet Paul Mathews?’

  ‘It was at the Archery Club. You know – that social club. I’d just finished with my boyfriend. And we’d lost a baby and I didn’t know what to do. I went with my friend. Said I should get out and meet people. I wanted to get back with my boyfriend but I met Paul and he told me I was the only woman he’d ever loved. And we had sex all the time. Even in his patrol car.’

  ‘What happened?’

  She began sobbing. ‘And then I found out he’d been with my friend.’

  Caren had her brow knotted now and her arms crossed.

  ‘Tell me about the threats?’ Drake said.

  Geraldine recounted how she’d torn pieces of newspaper and arranged them in a message she’d sent to the police with Mathews’s name written on the envelope. She’d even been careful to buy a self-adhesive envelope. Caren was nodding as she made notes while Geraldine was talking.

  Drake realised that Geraldine seemed far too sad to be the killer.

  ‘Why come forward now?’

  ‘He’s dead and I never wanted him dead. I just wanted …’

  She stopped crying when Drake formally arrested her, telling her they’d need to interview her again. He let Caren process her in the custody suite and returned to his office, already thinking about the middle square of the sudoku.

  Superintendent Price had developed a stripped-down and economical approach to writing emails. No pleasantries or the customary Hi and Regards – just a simple one line.

  ‘Con call with CC – 13.00.’

  Glancing at the time, Drake saw he had over an hour to prepare. He took off his watch and propped it up on his desk. He reached for his notebook, reviewing his to-do lists. His thoughts were dominated by the need for order, precision and he turned to look at the desk. It was still chaotic. He had to cope, had to make sense of things. He needed coffee. In the kitchen he found the cafetière and alongside it a tin of ground coffee. Once the kettle had boiled, he counted a minute in his head before pouring the water. He pushed back the cuffs of his shirt – a powder-blue button-down, standard sleeve, worn with a striped tie – and set the time. The coffee had to brew for two and a half minutes. Any less and it would taste weak, any more and it would be tacky. Comforted by his routine, he returned to the office where he turned his attention to the human resources files of Mathews and Farrell. They were heavier than the versions he had seen before.

  The files read like a manual of how-to-be-a-shit-policeman and Drake felt a growing sense of resentment that they had remained in the force. It was officers like Mathews and Farrell that made his work that much harder. There were regular complaints from the public, all dismissed with the minimum of inquiry, despite assurances that a thorough investigation had taken place. Mathews had nine lives and Farrell had done everything to equal him – they must have had a guardian angel, thought Drake.

  Farrell had transgressed with another officer and that made it worse. Drake read the complaint about his conduct. He guessed how the bitterness could build up as Farrell’s behaviour worsened and each successive complaint was ignored. A pattern was clear: in every transgression of Farrell’s, Mathews accompanied him, but Mathews needed no company for wrongdoing, until Traffic had the good sense to ensure he was always partnered. Satisfied that the files were complete, he placed them on the edge of his desk before refastening his watch and heading out to the bathroom.

  Drake stood before the mirror and washed his hands, then drew a comb through his hair before checking his tie. His only concession to the informality of working on a Saturday was to wear a jacket rather than a suit. Content with his appearance, he made his way over to the senior management suite.

  Drake was early, so he talked to Hannah, Price’s secretary, exchanging small talk about the investigation.

  ‘There are so many rumours going around,’ she said.

  Drake mumbled a reply, thinking about the rumours about her and Price. The door to Price’s office opened and he greeted Drake warmly before he marched over to the video conference room.

  ‘Did you watch that programme on TV last night?’ Price asked, pausing outside the door.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Drake, said recalling the documentary he had watched when he eventually got home. It had contained various commentators and politicians reassuring the viewers about the WPS’s ability to find the killer.

  ‘They’re right of course,’ Price said. ‘Killing police officers strikes at the heart of our society. It’ll reopen calls for the death penalty and there’ll be more talk about arming the police.’

  Drake nodded. The newspapers had been full of the details and he knew there would already be journalists all over North Wales digging into the story.

  Inside, the large monitor was already glowing when they entered. Price fiddled with some controls and Riskin’s face appeared on the screen. By the time they’d finished Drake had heard the words political dimension and high profile a dozen times. No pressure then, he concluded as he walked back through headquarters, realising he was hungry.

  The canteen was quiet; a couple of civilian support staff chatted loudly before ordering a pizza and joked about all the overtime they were earning for working on a Saturday. He picked up a tired-looking tuna sandwich and a bottle of water. Once he’d paid, he scanned the room, looking for a table and saw John Moxon, who raised an eyebrow and motioned to the empty chair at his table.

  ‘All right, Ian?’

  Drake smiled at his friend and sat down. He broke open the sandwich.

  ‘Another Saturday away from the family?’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Drake replied. ‘How’s life in operational support?’

  ‘Same shit – different day. You know how it is,’ Moxon said, tearing open the Cellophane of a flapjack. ‘How are you coping?’

  Moxon was five years older than Drake, but they had joined the force on the same day. Somehow, Drake always knew that Moxon wouldn’t aspire to the promotion that he himself wanted and because of that they became friends. Moxon had been the one person that Drake had confided in when the rituals and worries became so severe that one night he had been at his desk until midnight staring at a pile of papers. Moxon had sat with him until he had finally managed to go home.

  ‘Sian says I’m getting obsessed again.’

  Drake crunched on a piece of cucumber and then swallowed a bite of tuna sandwich. ‘Are you?’

  Drake raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Sian wants me to have counselling.’

  ‘Does Price know?’

  ‘I was in the office late one night last week when he came into the Incident Room.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Told me to go home.’

  ‘Fat chance of getting the WPS to be supportive.’

  Drake shrugged, recalling the incident when Moxon had talked to a man perched on a ledge of the Britannia Bridge for an hour before he threw himself to his death. The man’s final words – I don’t know how you’ll live with yourself – had haunted Moxon for months until the pain seemed to subsi
de. Drake had persuaded Moxon to ask for counselling but the chairman of the police authority rejected the request on the grounds of costs-saving. Eventually Moxon got shunted into operational support, pushing paper around, his prospects of promotion extinguished.

  A flattened piece of white bread had as usual stuck limpet-like to the top of Drake’s mouth. He raised a hand to his lips and stuck a finger into the middle of the sticky mass.

  ‘Family well?’ Moxon continued.

  ‘Yes. Busy. Sian complained like hell last week when I didn’t get home until after midnight two nights running.’

  ‘She knows what it’s like.’

  ‘I couldn’t remember why I was in the office. I left at eleven but I had to go back just to check the paperwork.’

  Moxon nodded. Drake finished the water, dislodging the final scraps of the bread with his tongue. Moxon finished the last of his tea and they stood outside the canteen.

  ‘Thanks for the chat,’ Drake said.

  It was the nearest he got to thanking Moxon properly, and as he walked back to his office he felt the burden of his worries rested, somehow, even if the darkest corner of his mind knew it might only be temporary.

  Drake had spotted the blue Volvo when it turned off at the same exit as him. It might have been a coincidence but he took a different route from usual and then parked, feigning a call on his mobile and watching as the Volvo passed him. He noted down the registration number before resuming his journey.

  A mixture of nostalgia and apprehension dominated his mind that afternoon as he slowed the car and then turned down into the drive to his parents’ smallholding. He appreciated the views over Caernarfon Bay more now as an adult than he ever did as a boy. The sea shimmered and Drake could see small craft out in the bay enjoying the summer sunshine. The haze over the land made him think of the expressions his grandfather had about predicting the weather – passed down through the generations of farmers who had to know when it might rain or when the winds from the north would cut through the warmest clothes and chill people to the bone. And then in the spring they had to know when the temperatures would rise. The older Drake got the more he thought about his grandfather, the more he recognised the familiar affectations in his father’s expressions, the more he realised how much he missed his grandfather.