Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  A small plume of smoke was rising from the chimney of the engine waiting to take their train down to Llanberis. Drake and Caren sat on one side of the small compartment, Winder and Howick squeezed in opposite them. A cool breeze blew through the carriage from the open windows and Drake looked down into Cwm Clogwyn and the glistening water on the surface of Llyn y Nadroedd. The sun descended towards the horizon; he held a hand up to his forehead to shade his eyes. He made out the route of the Snowdon Ranger path as it left the Llanberis track. It had been his grandfather’s favourite route: a slow, comfortable climb. He thought about whether the killer might have used the same route. He might have stopped at the same places as his grandfather, sat on the same rocks, pushed open the same gates, stood looking at the same views.

  Caren sat by his side and her head sagged as she fell asleep. Gradually, her head leant on to his shoulder. The clatter and bumping of the carriages as they crossed the rails approaching Llanberis station woke her. She straightened her head and moved in her seat, her face flushed with embarrassment as she looked at Drake.

  ‘How long have I been sleeping?’

  Winder and Howick grinned at her.

  As the train slowed to a halt, Drake saw Price standing on the platform – full uniform, a wide stance and hands on hips. A guard unlocked the door and Foulds and the CSI officer were the first to leave. Drake ducked his head and stepped out onto the platform. Price walked up to him and pointed to the Jaguar idling in the car park.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Price said.

  They hurried past several patrol vehicles and uniformed motorcycle officers milling around the station concourse. Sirens screeched as two outriders led them out of Llanberis.

  ‘Diabolical. We’ve got to do everything to catch this crazy bastard,’ Price said.

  ‘Did Uniform pick up anything?’ Drake said.

  ‘They stopped over three hundred people.’

  Drake whistled in surprise.

  ‘Somebody should have seen something,’ Price said. ‘From your description we should be able to build a better photofit and then make a public appeal. The description matches the man in the taxi office.’

  ‘A disguise, of course,’ Drake said.

  Price nodded slowly.

  ‘We’ll get a photo fit for a man without a wig or a beard.’

  Drake knew how difficult that would be. The killer must have known that people notice ponytails and thick beards, before a person’s height or hair colour or cheekbones. Soon they joined the A55 and the driver accelerated eastward.

  With the outriders clearing the traffic, it took them twenty minutes to reach headquarters. In Price’s office, Drake fell into one of the chairs by the conference table, the tiredness burning his eyes.

  ‘There’s something you should see, sir,’ Drake began, before turning to Foulds.

  From his bag Foulds took out a plastic folder with the A4 paper slotted inside. He pushed it over the desk. Price picked up the folder and clenched his jaw so hard his ears changed shape.

  ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘The three of us, so far,’ Drake said.

  Price placed the folder back on the table and stared at the red number three, shimmering beneath the plastic.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday 10th June

  Drake’s request to see the reports from the teams of uniformed officers who had interviewed walkers descending the mountain had produced a pile of paperwork. The Llanberis path had been the busiest and he scanned through dozens of reports. He knew he could have got Winder or Howick to do this mundane exercise, but something told him he had to do it himself.

  A second team had stopped walkers coming down the Pyg and Miners track. The reports recorded names, addresses and contact details. There was a group from France, a couple from Spain and two Americans, but nobody had seen a man with a ponytail and baseball cap and beard.

  He moved a half-finished coffee to one side and opened a map of Snowdonia, unfolding the various parts until it covered his desk. He could see the green dotted lines of the paths towards the summit and the close contour lines of the deep sides of the Cwms. He scanned the area surrounding Snowdon and realised how easy it would have been for a killer to make good his escape. He refolded the map and read the reports for the Rhyd Ddu path, his determination heightened, his focus more acute, believing that the killer had taken this route off the mountain. He read each report more carefully but the results were the same – nothing. He finished the last dregs of his coffee and turned to the reports from the Snowdon Ranger path. Not even the caffeine was going to help, as he realised the reports were drawing a blank.

  At least they had the names and addresses of three hundred possible witnesses. He sat and thought about everything. He heard the office partitions creak and the muffled sound of a footfall somewhere in the building. Before long, the sound of the first officers arriving broke the silence.

  Drake yanked open the door from his office into the Incident Room and, suppressing a yawn, stretched his back and arms before walking over to Caren’s desk. She looked surprised.

  ‘You’re in early, sir.’ It was a combination of statement and question.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  Then Drake saw the pile of newspapers on Howick’s desk. Cop killer strikes again and Serial Killer Murders Prominent Politician were two of the headlines. He flicked through the various papers and scanned the reports, groaning with annoyance. The investigation wasn’t out of control. The press had no right to suggest a serial killer was on the loose. He was still reading when Lisa, the public relations officer, stalked into the room.

  ‘It’s a nightmare, Ian. An absolute nightmare,’ she began.

  ‘I’ve just started reading the papers.’

  ‘That’s not the half of it.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The TV companies are having a collective orgasm. Best story they’ve had in years. And all they want to do is put the blame on us.’

  Drake, trying to read the papers, was deep in thought and not listening.

  Lisa continued. ‘And the press have booked all the best hotel rooms from here to Chester. There are literally hundreds of them hunting for the story. Cardiff want to organise a press conference tomorrow. The head of corporate relations has been on the phone – he got me out of bed at seven-thirty. Then the TV journalists rang. How they fuck they got my home number I. Do. Not. Know.’

  He turned the pages of the newspaper absently, as he thought about the CCTV images on the screen from the summit.

  ‘Ian?’ She raised her voice.

  He turned to her slowly.

  ‘You’re not listening.’

  He ignored her and carried on reading. His fingertips were black – he would have to wash them as soon as he was finished. There were awkward glances around the room and Lisa let out an impatient groan and left. Once he’d finished, he walked to the kitchen and washed his hands, watching the dirty water flushing down the sink. Back in his office, he found a copy of the paper with the number left on the body of Roderick Jones, strode out into the Incident Room, and pinned it to the board with a flourish. He sensed the eyes of the team on his back.

  ‘This was the message left on Roderick Jones’s body.’

  There was a squeaking sound as Winder straightened his chair and Caren cleared her throat. Nobody else moved and Drake could sense the tension in the room.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Winder asked.

  ‘He’s off his fucking head,’ Howick snorted.

  ‘We don’t know what it means,’ Drake said. ‘We’ll assume the worst: that there are going to be two more killings.’

  ‘How does it fit in with Farrell and Mathews? After all, there were two of them and only one number.’ Caren asked the question Drake had been posing to himself all morning.

  Drake looked up at the board, folded his arms, and then turned to Winder.

  ‘See if you can find the rucksack,
’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The one the killer was wearing.’

  Winder looked as though a heavy weight had been dropped on his shoulders. Drake was certain there was something in the investigation that would tell them who the killer was. They had to catch him before he killed again.

  It was going to be another long day.

  Drake nodded to the waitress and she came over to the table with the menu. Dr Fabrien gave the girl the briefest of smiles and read the daily lunch specials pinned to the folded plastic menu. The Queen’s Head was quiet; a retired couple sat by the door and a man in a bold pinstripe with a broad smile sat in a corner opposite a thin blond girl half his age.

  ‘What do you recommend, Ian?’ Dr Fabrien said.

  Drake scanned the menu. ‘Smokies are good.’

  Dr Fabrien turned up her nose.

  ‘Scottish recipe,’ she added, as though it were contagious.

  The waitress appeared by their table, ‘Good morning, Mr Drake,’ she said before giving Dr Fabrien a curious look. Drake ordered a fish and chips – he liked the beer batter – and Dr Fabrien chose a salad, checking that she could get fresh bread rolls.

  ‘I miss French bread,’ she sighed.

  ‘Of course,’ Drake agreed.

  ‘Your bread tastes of nothing. Just plastic.’

  Drake nodded. Dr Fabrien sipped on a glass of lime juice with sparkling water: no ice – she had been very insistent.

  ‘Do you come from a family of policemen?’

  It was an odd thing to ask, thought Drake – nobody had ever asked him that before. He could remember the look of disappointment on his father’s face when he’d announced his intention to join the WPS. A look that said the police service wasn’t quite the right career path. His mother had looked flustered. But his grandfather would have understood.

  ‘I’ve met so many policemen who come from families of police officers. Like doctors and lawyers. It can run in the family. You seem to be dedicated to your job.’ She opened her eyes wide and Drake noticed, for the first time, their clear blue colour.

  Drake didn’t want to talk about himself with Dr Fabrien and he became alarmed at the prospect of the lunch turning into a counselling session. The arrival of their meals gave him the opportunity to move on politely. Dr Fabrien looked around the table as though she had lost something; when the waitress returned with the bread, she looked relieved.

  ‘Some olive oil and balsamic,’ she said.

  Drake diverted the conversation by asking about her hotel, which was apparently quite comfortable even though the water was only lukewarm in the morning. Her complaints to the Polish staff on duty had been met with blank stares. Eventually he ran out of small talk and returned to the case.

  ‘So what do you make of everything?’

  ‘There is a lot of unhelpful publicity.’

  ‘Two policemen and a politician are dead,’ Drake shrugged.

  Dr Fabrien scooped up a mouthful of red salad leaves and a piece of shredded radish. ‘For sure. It is very bad.’

  ‘What do make of the song lyrics?’

  She looked on in disgust as Drake dusted the chips on his plate with salt and then added tomato ketchup.

  ‘It is too early to say. I have a lot of work to do. I shall have to listen to the songs. Perhaps there’s a message.’

  ‘What could the killer be trying to tell us?’

  ‘He certainly likes rock music,’ she said, without a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  Drake pierced the batter, and then dragged a piece of the flesh to one side of the plate as the steam escaped.

  ‘Did you recognise the song?’ she continued.

  Drake mumbled an acknowledgment through a mouthful of cod. The look of revulsion on Dr Fabrien’s face had persuaded him to leave the dollop of tomato sauce on the edge of his plate untouched.

  ‘I’m more worried about the numbers,’ Drake said.

  ‘Ah. Yes, the numbers. Maybe he has an obsession. What do you think?’

  Drake hesitated and the possibility that she knew about him flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed as an impossibility. She’d only just arrived. How could she know about his rituals?

  ‘Are there going to be two more?’

  ‘It is impossible to say. I shall need more time.’

  How much time do you need?

  Dr Fabrien pushed her food around the plate, before stabbing her fork into a piece of tomato and some thinly sliced fennel. Drake hid a spasm of irritation by spearing two chips and then prodding them into the tomato sauce.

  ‘We’ve got very little at the moment. We’ve interviewed a woman police officer who was harassed by Farrell and she …’

  Dr Fabrien shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think you’re looking for a woman.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too brutal. Too macabre.’

  Drake wanted to tell her about a case where a woman had tied a man to a bed and watched as he was gang raped and then left him to bleed to death.

  ‘Women can be brutal too,’ he suggested.

  ‘It has the hallmarks of a man.’

  She added more balsamic vinegar to her salad and watched Drake eating a couple of mouthfuls of fish.

  ‘Then we have the widow of Mathews. She hated the ground he walked on. Made no attempt to hide that.’ Drake tried to sound defiant.

  Another shaking of the head, this time slower, as if she was exasperated.

  ‘Revenge. The oldest emotion. But why would she kill another officer and Jones? No motive. There is always a motive, Ian.’

  It occurred to him to remind her that he was the Detective Inspector, but the circumstances persuaded him not to overreact. They spent the rest of the lunch discussing the possible profile of the killer – age, family, education and personality – and by the end Drake wasn’t certain if it had helped.

  Dr Fabrien drew the final remains of her bread roll carefully round the salad plate, picking up the rest of the diced spring onion and the final traces of balsamic vinegar and olive oil.

  ‘Killing two police officers was bad enough but then killing Jones raised the stakes. It’s difficult to imagine a more direct attack on society and democracy,’ Drake said, pleased that he’d found the right words.

  She gave him a look that suggested she was going to impart a wisdom and knowledge only a profiler with her vast experience could have acquired.

  ‘Politicians are probably the most unpopular class of person in the country. Maybe in the world.’

  She was right of course, but the prospect of having to work through all of Roderick Jones’s papers filled him with dread. It was going to take days, maybe weeks and it was time they did not have. The press would be writing stories that wouldn’t help and Price would breathe down his neck, demanding results. And now he had Dr Fabrien to contend with. For a moment he thought about the comfort that working on a sudoku puzzle would give him – at least he was in control when he was slicing and dicing the riddle.

  It was a relief when his mobile hummed and he read the text from Caren telling him Jan Jones had arrived at headquarters.

  His annoyance at Dr Fabrien’s attitude began to dominate his mind as he drove back, and he worried that the investigation itself would soon be out of his hands. He felt damp patches gathering in his armpits, soiling the clean shirt. Inside headquarters, he headed straight for the nearest toilet, locked a cubicle door and unravelled lengths of toilet tissue, which he rubbed into his armpits and pressed onto the shirt, trying to dry the perspiration.

  There was an expectant look on Caren’s face as he entered the Incident Room. She called out to him.

  ‘The train driver has just left.’

  ‘Who?’ Drake said, before he remembered the statement from the driver on the summit of Snowdon. ‘Helpful?’

  ‘He noticed the ponytail.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Couldn’t help. But the description about the man’s height and weight was better than
Mildred’s.’

  ‘Let’s hope Jan Jones will be more helpful. She’s our only real eyewitness to date.’

  He nodded an acknowledgment with a weak smile.

  Standing by his desk, he tried to compose his thoughts. What did he need for the interview with Jan Jones? Notebook – CCTV footage – but his mind wandered. Dr Fabrien was looking over his shoulder – somebody else to cock up the inquiry. Then Caren stood by the desk.

  ‘Jan Jones is in the VIP suite, sir,’ she said.

  Drake picked up his papers and they headed downstairs. He knew Caren was talking to him and he heard what she was saying about the questions she wanted to ask Jan Jones but he wasn’t listening.

  Jan Jones sat upright in one of the stiff conference chairs, her face gaunt, dark bags under her eyes.

  ‘We need to ask you about yesterday,’ he said, sitting down opposite her.

  Jan Jones waited for him to continue.

  ‘Did you notice a man with a baseball cap and a ponytail at any point during the morning?’

  Caren began taking notes.

  ‘No, I can’t say I did, Inspector.’

  ‘But he was standing right behind you.’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  Caren put her biro down and interrupted. ‘Why don’t we play the CCTV coverage?’

  She opened the laptop on the table and clicked until the screen filled with images from the summit. Jan Jones blinked several times and chewed her lips as they watched Roderick Jones move away from the table, the killer behind him, walking in his shadow, preparing to strike.

  ‘He must have been standing right by you,’ Drake continued.

  ‘I didn’t notice him.’

  ‘Nothing about his facial features? You must have seen his face.’

  Caren interrupted, her voice soft and calming. ‘It must have been difficult with so many people in the café.’.

  Drake ignored her and carried on.

  ‘We believe this man has killed two police officers and your description of his face could be crucial.’

  ‘I wasn’t paying attention to the faces of the other visitors.’

  ‘But there can’t have been many with ponytails, a beard and a baseball cap. Nobody wears a baseball cap on the top of Snowdon.’ Drake didn’t hide his exasperation.