Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  He could see the rough hair on his neck and he could smell the perspiration of a man unfit and unused to walking the hills. He edged closer and as they entered the toilets, he pushed him. Gently at first, didn’t want to alarm him too soon.

  They turned away from the washbasins and he stepped forcibly into the man who stumbled towards the wall. He mouthed a protest. A fumbled cry of surprise. He saw that his man had his hands by his fly, ready. He wouldn’t be needing that any longer.

  He made the thrust of the blade deep and deadly, feeling the body dying, until it slumped into him and he pushed it into a cubicle exactly as he’d rehearsed a dozen times in his mind. He dropped the body onto the floor and turned to leave.

  Over his shoulder as he left the building, he heard a scream.

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday 9th June

  Drake followed the same ritual with the sudoku. Always slice and dice to get the easy solutions and then pick out squares individually. The slicing and dicing had proved problematical so he had to concentrate on one square. Just looking at the numbers was comforting, but finally unravelling the puzzle would give him a real feeling of control. A half-eaten biscuit sat on a plate on his desk but the fruit that Sian wanted him to eat was sitting on the kitchen worktop at home.

  He felt a ripple of annoyance when the telephone rang. He pulled the handset to his ear and kept concentrating on the puzzle.

  ‘Roderick Jones has been killed on the top of Snowdon.’

  At first it didn’t register – Drake had been looking for the number four. He’d managed a couple of numbers in the middle box – always the easiest, he found.

  ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  The voice louder now – Price. ‘Call just came in. Found dead in the toilet of the café. It’s bloody mayhem.’

  Immediately Drake thought of the song lyrics and the number four. ‘Is there a message?’

  ‘Nothing. And they’ve been told not to touch the body.’

  ‘How was he—?’

  ‘Helicopter will be here any minute.’

  He stood up, still holding the telephone in his hand, before shouting for Caren who appeared at his door. He grabbed his jacket and they strode briskly, then half ran out of headquarters, hearing the clatter of the Sea King helicopter as it turned to land. They saw Michael Foulds and a CSI running over, eyes peering skyward. The helicopter descended, sending clouds of dust into the air. Drake cursed as he felt the dust travelling down his collar, covering his hands and face. The noise was deafening and Drake shielded his eyes.

  Once safely landed, the door swung open, a crew member waved at them, and they ran towards the helicopter. An outstretched hand helped Caren and then Drake inside. Foulds and the other CSI lifted two forensic bags into the cabin and pulled themselves in.

  The winchman hauled the door closed, spoke into his microphone; the sound of the engine increased and a thundering vibration rocked the cabin as the rotor blades turned. Soon they were airborne and the helicopter rose high above Colwyn Bay. Drake noticed the name Harper stitched onto the service man’s one-piece suit.

  ‘Anybody been winched down before?’ Harper said.

  Foulds nodded – the rest tried to hide their nerves.

  Harper sounded reassuring. ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of,’ he said. He clipped them all into harnesses and told them that once they were on the ground the manager of the summit café would release them.

  ‘And remember, once you’re out of the cabin the wind will knock you sideways.’

  He raised his thumbs and they all nodded back, terrified.

  The helicopter flew directly overland and within minutes, they were hovering above the summit.

  ‘Only way to travel,’ Harper said.

  Nobody had enough saliva to reply.

  He wrenched the door open and it slid back with a thud against the fuselage. There was a rush of air and the roar of the blades exploded into the cabin. The winchman motioned to Foulds.

  ‘Show them how it’s done.’

  With his harness securely fastened, Foulds sat on the edge of the open door before pushing himself out. Harper hung out of the door and stared down as Foulds descended to the small, narrow strip of ground behind the café. Once the second CSI was standing near to Foulds, he winched the harness back into the cabin.

  Drake moved towards the door and as the harness snapped into place, he swallowed hard before swinging his feet out of the helicopter. He peered down at the face of Foulds before pushing himself out.

  Immediately his body was buffeted by the downdraft of the blades and the wind swirling around the summit. Halfway down the line swayed in the air and the blood pounded in his head. Once he stood on firm ground, he waved an encouragement to Caren. Within seconds, she stood by his side, her breathing heavy. The winchman raised his arm and pulled the door closed as the helicopter climbed and then roared away.

  ‘Are you the manager?’ Drake said to the older of the two men who’d helped him from the harness.

  ‘Frank Hughes.’ He nodded.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Hughes led them down a flight of granite steps towards the southerly entrance, stammering an apology that some walkers had already left the summit. Drake grunted a dismissive reply. Teams of officers were waiting to interview everyone coming off the mountain.

  Empty plastic cups and discarded crisp packets littered the entrance. After opening the door of the toilets, the manager nodded and gesticulated inside. Drake and Caren approached the body lying crumpled in a cubicle. They knelt down and looked at the familiar face they had seen countless times.

  Drake turned to Hughes, who was still standing by the door.

  ‘Is there CCTV?’

  ‘In the café.’

  ‘Are the tapes secure?’

  Hughes nodded.

  The blood had pooled on the floor under Roderick Jones, staining his clothes a dark colour. Drake stood up and scanned the toilet. Nothing out of the ordinary – urinals and cubicles and washbasins and soap and hot-air driers. The CSI investigation might turn up something, but he had his doubts.

  ‘Who found the body?’ he said to Hughes.

  ‘Two guys taking a piss.’

  ‘We’ll need to see them.’

  ‘They’re in the main café building. I’ve put his wife in the office,’ Hughes added.

  Drake turned to Caren. ‘Let’s go and see the family first.’

  They followed Hughes through the café, past the tourists whose Saturday outing had pitched them into a murder inquiry. In the kitchen the smell of warm bacon and melting cheese hung in the air. The staff huddled together in one corner, staring at Hughes as he led Drake and Caren to his office.

  The room was stifling, the air dank and stale. Jan Jones sat by the table, her head in her hands; two boys sat by her side, their eyes red and swollen. Her hair looked greasy and a film of perspiration covered her face.

  ‘Mrs Jones. Detective Inspector Drake.’ He held out his hand. Seconds passed before she raised her head. She had pronounced teeth that stuck out as she breathed deeply.

  ‘I am very sorry for your loss.’

  Her eyes looked distant, as though the life had been sucked out of her. She moved her lips but said nothing. Drake saw the tears in her eyes and eyeliner smeared into her crow’s feet. Her world had come crashing down upon her and Drake could sense her struggling to deal with reality.

  ‘Did you see anybody or anything out of the ordinary?’

  Jan Jones replaced her head in her hands.

  ‘It was a family day out … We haven’t been walking for ages. I even bought him a new top …’ Then the tears began again.

  ‘I need to interview the men who found your husband, Mrs Jones. DS Waits will stay with you.’

  She choked on a reply.

  On his way to the main café area, Drake passed piles of pre-baked baguettes and humming fridges. Overhead, he heard the increasing volume of the Sea King returning with Winder and Howick.


  He stared at the two men who had raised the alarm. ‘I want you to tell me exactly what you found.’

  The Sea King almost drowned out the older of the two men but soon Drake had an idea of what they had seen. Baseball cap and grey fleece, grey trousers and a dark beard and a ponytail with a red knot. It had to be a joke. The beard would be fake and the ponytail a distraction.

  Nothing to go on. The bastard’s ahead of me again.

  He glanced at his mobile, half expecting Price to ring. Lots of battery, but no signal. He was noting the names and addresses of the men when Winder and Howick strode towards him.

  ‘Boss. The superintendent wants you to call him. He can’t get through.’

  ‘No signal,’ Drake said, turning the mobile in his hand. ‘I want the names and addresses of everybody.’

  Then he marched over to the toilet door, forced open by a wooden wedge. Foulds was crouched over the body, doubling as a photographer; the look on his face told Drake he was going to be some time.

  Back in the kitchen Drake found Hughes pursing his lips and looking frightened.

  ‘CCTV?’ Drake asked.

  On the wall of another small untidy office were two plastic-coated sheets, one with staff rosters, another a holiday chart. Hughes sat in a plastic chair and replayed the tape. Drake curbed his impatience as Hughes fiddled with the computer, playing and then rewinding the tape, mumbling an apology as he did so.

  ‘It’s ages since I did this.’

  The picture stopped and in the bottom left-hand corner a counter displayed the time and Drake focused, staring at the screen.

  ‘We start the tapes at nine o’clock in the summer.’

  He moved the time on to nine-thirty and then to ten o’clock. Drake saw walkers and visitors milling around the café, holding mugs of steaming drinks in their hands and carrying trays of hot food to tables full of hungry faces. He watched Roderick Jones enter the café at eleven o’clock, followed by Jan and then both boys. He saw Jones shaking hands and smiling at an older couple. Jan moved off towards the counter, her movements exaggerated and jerky. Jones removed his rucksack, dropped it to the floor before sitting down and swinging his legs over the bench and under the table. He appeared to be talking to one of the boys. Jan returned, carrying hot drinks and he watched Roderick Jones sip from his cup. Was that his last sip of anything? When the clock said eleven-thirty, a stream of visitors came into the café.

  ‘Train arrived,’ Hughes said.

  ‘How many people come in on the train?’

  ‘Fifty, usually.’

  ‘Don’t suppose there’s a list?’ The optimism in his voice was more from hope than expectation.

  ‘No. But some of them might have booked with a credit card.’

  It took Drake a millisecond to decide that the killer wouldn’t have used a card to book his ticket. On the screen, Roderick Jones swung his legs back over the bench and stood up. He stretched his arms and, saying something over his shoulder to Jan, began to walk over towards the toilet.

  Then Drake saw him.

  A figure in a baseball cap and grey clothes moved into the line of the camera and followed Jones as if they were attached by an invisible cord. The ponytail seemed to wave at Drake. Taunting him.

  ‘There he is! Stop the tape.’

  The time said eleven thirty-six.

  Drake stared at the figure.

  ‘Got you. You bastard,’ he said, under his breath.

  Drake tapped Hughes on the shoulder and he restarted the tape. He watched as Jones left the café, the killer hard on his heels.

  ‘Any other cameras?’

  Hughes sounded nervous at the aggression in Drake’s voice. ‘No, we only have one.’

  ‘What bloody use is just one CCTV camera? I want that tape kept secure, understood.’

  A startled look lingered in the man’s eyes. Drake closed the door behind him and made his way back into the café. He stared up at the CCTV camera. Moving towards it, he stopped and stood underneath it, exactly where baseball-cap-man would have been watching Jones. He moved his eyes along the café floor towards the door. It would take no more than a few seconds to walk from the table to the door and finally, the toilet.

  To his right he saw the cliffs falling away and the early afternoon sunshine poured through the broad windows. Nervous walkers stared at him, exchanging glances, but he ignored them and looked over at the opposite wall, trying to imagine the right position for a second CCTV camera.

  Caren walked over and stood by his side.

  ‘Anything on the tape?’

  ‘Baseball cap, grey fleece, grey trousers and a ponytail.’

  ‘Just as the eyewitnesses described?’

  ‘He knew exactly what he was doing. Standing under the camera watching Jones all the time; then, when Jones went to the toilet, he followed.’

  Winder and Howick were moving around the visitors in the café, taking names and addresses and contact details. Drake hoped, prayed even, that there might be a better description than a baseball cap and grey clothing. He paced over to the toilet. Mike Foulds stood by the cubicle and motioned towards him. Drake walked over.

  ‘Something here you’d better see,’ Foulds whispered.

  Jones’s body was now lying flat, his eyes closed. The pool of blood around him seemed wider. Foulds cast one eye over his shoulder and lowered his voice.

  ‘I found this under the body as I moved him,’ Foulds said, passing Drake a plastic envelope.

  Printed in bold red ink was the number three.

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday 9th June

  Drake and Caren stared at the screen, a grim determination on their faces, both willing the killer to turn and look at the camera. Winder and Howick stood behind them. Eventually Drake paused the images.

  ‘We’ve got one hundred and twenty people to interview,’ he said. ‘That’s thirty each.’

  Caren winced. ‘This could take all night.’

  ‘Let’s stick to the basics. No more than ten minutes each. Get their personal details. Find out if they saw anything or anybody. Somebody must have seen him.’

  Winder fiddled with a baguette as he spoke. ‘Who do we interview first?’

  ‘Anybody with a medical condition we see first – there can’t be that many. Everybody else we’ll see in turn. And every hour a train can leave.’

  The interviews took longer than Drake expected. Some had wanted to provide detailed descriptions, and extracting information from others was a long and painful process. Will I have to give evidence? Was it a serial killer? An American tourist was astonished when he realised Drake didn’t carry a gun. The smell of sweaty T-shirts and muddy boots disappeared as the café emptied, leaving the floor covered with dirt, the bins overflowing.

  By early evening, a wave of tiredness hit him. A pain tugged at the back of his shoulder and, standing up, he moved his arm in a circular motion, trying, unsuccessfully, to massage it away. He’d eaten nothing since breakfast and an ache gnawed at the edges of his forehead. He took a bottle of water from the chilled counter, and drank half without stopping.

  Faint wisps of cloud hung along the tops of the mountains far away in the distance, and down the valley Drake could see Llanberis and further on towards the green fields of Anglesey. He picked out the occasional tree and isolated farm building on the lower reaches of the mountain. On the final ridge at Clogwyn station, a train was stationary. He moved his head, catching his own reflection in the glass.

  ‘Spectacular view,’ Caren said.

  Drake mumbled a reply.

  ‘He must have been on the mountain when we arrived.’

  ‘I know.’

  He moved closer to the window and imagined the dozens of officers scattered over the paths and fields at the base of Snowdon, stopping everyone coming off the mountain.

  Drake had hiked all of the seven paths to the top of Snowdon but he guessed that the killer would stay well clear of the tourist trails. Then he realised where part
of the answer might be.

  Caren followed him as he headed towards the office.

  ‘Replay the CCTV. Now,’ Drake demanded.

  He became impatient when Hughes again struggled with the computer. ‘Get on with it.’

  Eventually the grainy pictures of Jones and his family appeared. They watched the scene unfolding. Then Jones stood up and after he had taken two steps, the killer stepped into view.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Drake said.

  Frozen on the screen in front of them was the back of the killer.

  ‘There it is,’ Drake said.

  Halfway down the killer’s back was a small rucksack. There were two mesh pockets on either side, each holding a water bottle. A light-coloured band of material curled around the zip of the rucksack and the bulge in the material told them it was full.

  ‘Get a description of the rucksack down the mountain, now,’ he said to Caren.

  He stared at the screen. He could imagine the killer leaving the café, and in one swift movement taking off the false beard and wig and stuffing them into the rucksack. Then, walking down, away from the café, hearing the sounds of the screams diminishing, he would be away, back to safety. Without saying a word, Drake marched out of the office, through the servery and out beyond the toilets, passing the yellow flickering CSI tape. Pushing open the outer door, he stood on the granite slabs. To his left were steep steps up towards the summit and to his right, steps down towards the paths off the mountain. After four steps to his right, he was on the path, fragments of rock and loose shale underfoot. He found a vantage point and looked down towards the wide-open expanse of the lower fields. His heart sank as he realised that once the killer had been safely off the summit and the narrow ridges of Bwlch Main and Llechog he could have traversed any number of fields before finding safety. Drake retraced his steps and went up towards the summit above the café. He looked down over the sheer cliff face and noticed the last solitary hikers walking down the Gladstone path. Back at the café entrance, he hesitated, realising the killer had been at this very spot.