Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  The fiasco surrounding the Indian restaurant had only made the frustration creeping into the inquiry worse. He scanned down his inbox and read an email from a divisional inspector in Wrexham. Had he heard the rumour about George Tench being promoted to Detective Chief Inspector? The muscles in Drake’s chest tightened and his heartbeat increased. Tench was in the Economic Crime Department and universally disliked, but if the rumour was true, he had made DCI before Drake, even though he was a year younger.

  He scanned through his emails, part of his mind thinking about Tench, and stopped when he saw one headed Important message from Superintendent Price. But every message Price sent had the same heading and it soon lost its impact. Drake deleted a dozen circular emails before returning to Price’s message.

  He picked up the phone.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you to call,’ Hannah said. ‘Have you seen the papers this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Better get a copy and then come over – he wants to see you.’

  Drake replaced the handset and he noticed more dust on the telephone. He would have to talk to the office manager. He typed the name of the local newspaper into a Google search and then clicked on the result. On the first page was a picture of the owner of the Indian restaurant – angry stare, arms folded. The strapline read: Restaurant Raid Fiasco.

  He clicked on the link but nothing happened, and he grimaced with irritation. He picked up the phone and dialled reception only to be told they hadn’t got a copy of the newspaper.

  ‘Don’t we get a copy?’ He raised his voice. ‘Can you—’

  The line went dead.

  Drake’s annoyance was rising and he could feel his mood darkening. The press was having a field day about the Indian takeaway. He would have to find out about Tench. There was dust all over his computer and telephone. Reception didn’t have a copy of the newspaper. And the receptionist had cut him off mid-sentence.

  The telephone rang as soon as he put it down.

  ‘Seen the paper this morning, Ian?’

  It took him a moment to recognise Lisa’s voice.

  ‘Why don’t we get a copy in reception?’ His voice was terse.

  ‘Go on the website,’ she replied.

  ‘I want to see the paper in my hand.’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of the full article.’

  ‘Aren’t they supposed to contact us in advance or something?’

  ‘The editor rang me yesterday – fishing for a quote. Told me they’d been to interview the owner.’

  Drake remembered about his meeting with Price. ‘Look, the super wants to see me.’

  ‘Me too. I’ll see you up there.’

  Drake stepped out into the Incident Room and Winder called out, ‘I found that bag, sir.’ He pointed to the computer screen on his desk.

  Drake watched as a colour picture of a rucksack filled the monitor. It looked exactly the same size and shape as the bag he had seen on the back of the killer.

  ‘I want this checked with everyone interviewed last Wednesday.’

  ‘But that could—’

  ‘Just do it, Gareth.’

  Ten minutes later, Drake sat alongside Lisa in Price’s office. A copy of the newspaper was open on his desk and Lisa had her copy folded on her knees.

  Price immediately started on Lisa. What were the press playing at? Had they spoken to the PR department? Why wasn’t he being kept informed? Does the press know something they’re not telling us?

  ‘Is there no way we can control what the press reports?’

  Drake noticed Lisa raising her eyebrows in astonishment. He guessed what she was thinking – press freedom, civil liberties and human rights.

  ‘My understanding, superintendent,’ her voice was calm, ‘is that the Armed Response Unit overreacted and broke their own standard operational procedures.’

  An exasperated look passed over his face. She continued. ‘And we wouldn’t want that reported in the press, would we, sir?’

  Price glared at her and Lisa blinked, before playing with the folded newspaper on her lap. Price turned to Drake, wanting to know if there were positive developments that might interest the press. Drake mumbled a non-committal reply.

  ‘I think we’re done,’ Price said.

  The morning forecast had been right to predict changeable weather, as a light drizzle had begun to fall on the windows of his office. It matched the mood of the meeting. Drake decided to ask about the promotion of Inspector Tench and waited for Lisa to leave.

  ‘Is it true about George Tench?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The promotion?’

  ‘Yes, the board made a final decision last night. Good man. How well do you know him? Fight your corner, Ian. Do a good job with this … and … well … you might be next.’

  Price gave him a disarming smile. Drake screwed his eyes and gave Price a bewildered look. He worried about his promotion – he’d had better results than Tench. Once he left the senior management suite, he became more bad-tempered. The bad start to the day was getting worse.

  Caren had left headquarters earlier than usual the night before. When she’d arrived home, Alun had pointed to the two pairs of walking boots by the back door and told her the summer evening was too good to waste. She changed into a pair of shorts and pulled on her boots before joining him outside.

  At the top of the field, they clambered over a narrow stile and found the wide bridleway that led up the valley. The path was clear and well trodden and the trees on either side were full of colour. They walked until they were out in the open countryside with the warmth of the sunshine on their faces. After an hour, Caren felt hungry.

  ‘There’s steak in the fridge,’ he said, reading her mind.

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Best Chilean, opened already.’

  She kissed him on the cheek and held his hand as they walked back. Caren rummaged through the fridge assembling a salad from tomatoes and the remains of a lettuce. They sat outside, warmed by the coals of the barbeque. When they were halfway through the second bottle of wine he leant over and kissed her, his hand warm against her leg. She ran her hands over his face and drew him closer. He pulled her out of the chair and folded his arms around the small of her back. They shuffled over towards the door, their tongues intertwined. She tripped over the threshold but he caught her before she fell and then locked the door. In the kitchen, Caren closed the curtains and, turning towards Alun, realised she was overdressed.

  Sipping her second mug of sweet tea, she recalled the sight the night before, of Alun walking naked round the kitchen, and decided that she had to leave work earlier more often. Grinning, she reached for a pencil from the mug crammed with spare pens and biros and ran it along the seal of the large brown envelope lying on her desk. Out of it fell a handwritten note that used her full title, Dear Detective Sergeant Waits and a dozen unopened letters, all addressed to Paul Mathews. Donald Mathews went on to explain that he thought she should have the letters, rather than the solicitors dealing with Paul’s affairs. She made a neat pile of all the envelopes, which she discarded in the bin by her feet. She took another sip of tea and began reading. It was like looking into someone’s grave, knowing there was nothing she could do to shape events. There were two circulars from Sky inviting Mathews to upgrade his membership and a credit card with an enormous automatic limit – it included a concierge service, but Caren doubted that Mathews would have benefited.

  The final piece of correspondence she unfolded from the bottom of the pile carried the emblem of the Australian consulate. She read its contents and another piece of information about the life of Fiona Trick fell into place.

  She read the letter a second time.

  As you will be aware, Miss Trick has made an application to emigrate to Australia and as part of the verification process we need to be satisfied that all the appropriate court orders and consents have been obtained. The application includes both of your children and as such we shall require either your co
nsent or an appropriate court order before we can continue to process the application.

  The realisation struck Caren that without Paul Mathews to object, Fiona Trick no longer needed his consent or an order from the courts. She leant back in her chair and ran through the options in her mind. Was Fiona Trick a realistic suspect in her husband’s murder? And how did Fiona’s boyfriend fit in?

  She had called in favours long overdue to find details about Aled Walters’s personal life, which included a messy divorce a couple of years before. A successful business meant he could spend his time as a county councillor and further his political ambitions with a place on the regional list for a seat in the Welsh Assembly.

  It didn’t strike Caren that he was likely to emigrate.

  A hurried lunch of two pasties and some healthy low-fat coleslaw had only postponed the frustration building in Drake’s mind as he walked to his office. He pushed open the door and noticed the intense expectant glint in the four sets of eyes converging on him. Caren was the first to stand up and attract his attention. He sat down on the corner of a desk and touched the front of his tie with the palm of his hand, sensing the beginning of indigestion.

  ‘Caren, want to start?’ he said, glancing over at her.

  Caren walked up to the board and pinned up a photograph of Fiona Trick and Aled Walters.

  Between mouthfuls of apple, Winder interjected. ‘What’s so special about her and who is this Aled Walters?’

  Caren cleared her throat. ‘After parking outside Fiona’s house on Monday I saw Aled Walters leaving. When I was interviewing her later there was an empty bottle of champagne, two glasses and a box of those expensive Belgian chocolates in the sitting room. She gave me some excuse about a friend celebrating her promotion. Then she lied to me about knowing Mathews had chlamydia.’

  ‘Might have been genuine,’ Howick said.

  Everyone in the Incident Room sniggered.

  ‘Right, let’s move on,’ Drake said, the impatience clear in his voice. ‘So what’s new Caren? We know that Fiona Trick and Aled Walters are an item.’

  ‘Donald Mathews dropped in Paul’s letters this morning. There was one from the Australian consulate. It seems that Fiona wants to emigrate. She would have needed a court order or Paul’s consent—’

  ‘Or Paul Mathews out of the way.’ Howick finished the sentence for her.

  Caren pointed to the face of Aled Walters on the board behind her.

  ‘My guess is that he doesn’t know she wants to emigrate.’

  ‘Come on Caren,’ Drake said. ‘We’re police officers, not gypsies.’

  Caren persisted.

  ‘She lied to us about Paul’s contact with the children, she withheld information about her plans to emigrate and there’s a boyfriend on the scene that she doesn’t admit to. And we shouldn’t forget the small detail of the £300,000 insurance payout.’

  Drake nodded, acknowledging that there was enough to justify their interest in Fiona Trick. ‘Before we get too excited let’s just think about it. How would she have killed Mathews and Farrell?’

  Winder finished his apple and threw it into a nearby bin. ‘Maybe Aled Walters did it.’

  ‘Maybe they were both up on the Crimea,’ Howick suggested.

  ‘Of course, once they saw Fiona, they stayed in the car,’ Winder said.

  ‘Then Aled Walters comes out from behind the car and bang,’ Howick appeared energised the more he constructed the scenario.

  Ryan Kent had been sitting quietly. ‘Always think outside the box. That’s what I say. Anything is possible. Do you remember that scene with Gandalf—’

  Drake’s patience snapped. ‘Spare us the Lord of the Rings crap.’

  Kent looked offended and a nervous, embarrassed mood fell over the meeting, broken only when Foulds pushed open the door into the Incident Room.

  ‘I’ve got the results of the crossbow found in the vans on Monday.’

  ‘Good,’ Drake said. ‘Anything of interest?’

  ‘Lots of partials we can’t trace.’

  He handed Drake the report. ‘Only one partial we can trace. It’s from a guy called Aled Walters.’

  ‘What?’ Drake said.

  Winder whistled under his breath and Caren took the report from Drake’s hand and flicked through the pages. Foulds looked surprised until Caren explained the connection.

  Drake continued. ‘Before we go charging in let’s do some more background checks. I want to know everything there is to know about Aled Walters – family, work, etc. – and Fiona Trick.’

  Drake could feel the anger pinching at his mind. They should have found all this out already. They were supposed to be police officers. They had to be suspicious, dig up everything they could.

  He stood up, hoping it would help to alleviate the heartburn.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Drake hoped that nobody in the room had heard his stomach turning over.

  ‘Harrod, sir.’

  Howick picked up the marker pens on the top of his desk and walked over to the board.

  ‘We know Harrod has done time,’ Howick began. ‘And he wasn’t where his wife thought he was on the night.’

  ‘Motive?’ Drake said.

  ‘Revenge for Farrell’s behaviour towards his wife.’

  Howick sounded unconvinced. Drake raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

  ‘And we know Harrod was banged up on the same wing as Dixon,’ Howick said; a smug, self-satisfied look passed over his face and, having dropped this piece of information into the meeting, he watched his colleagues’ reaction.

  Winder gave another slow whistle and crossed his arms.

  Drake was the first to say anything. ‘Really …?’

  ‘Normally, Harrod would have been sent to a nick near Hull. But for some reason he was sent to HMP Chokes Lane, near Wigan – one of those prisoner movement exercises. And a friend of mine works in admin. So I gave her a call. She sent me a list,’ Howick said, visibly preening himself.

  Drake turned to the board, his mood improving, even the indigestion was subsiding. ‘Dixon is back in the frame. Happy days.’

  Howick shuffled the markers in his hand. ‘Ryan’s been doing some work on the accounts, sir,’ he said.

  Kent launched into an explanation and his strong booming voice grew louder the more he talked – he even managed to only make two references to Lord of the Rings. The analysis of the Harrod group accounts became ever more technical until Drake forced his mind to concentrate. Like rabbits caught in a car’s headlights, they were transfixed by Kent’s voice, unable to function normally. Eventually, Kent relented.

  ‘Harrod hasn’t come onto the radar with us,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘But I’ve checked and we did have a sniff of a bribery complaint a couple of years ago.’

  Winder had a relieved look on his face. ‘Harrod was slipping backhanders?’

  ‘Nothing came of it … but …’, and as Kent drew another large breath, Drake intervened.

  ‘Well I’m sure we’re all grateful to …’ His mind went blank – he thought only of Gandalf and the hobbits and Bilbo Baggins and Frodo.

  ‘Ryan, sir, Ryan Kent,’ Winder said.

  ‘Of course, thank you.’

  Before Kent could say anything further, Drake strode across the Incident Room towards his office, back to the order on his desk. He grimaced as his indigestion returned. He pondered whether he could achieve anything further that afternoon when the telephone rang.

  ‘Drake.’

  ‘There’s another body, sir.’

  Chapter 24

  Tuesday 15th June

  Drake kept the car in a low gear, the engine screaming, until he reached the A55. Then he accelerated hard in the outside lane, blasting the horn at frightened motorists in his path.

  ‘Where is this beach, sir?’ Caren said, fumbling with the folded sheets of a roadmap.

  ‘It’s on the southern side of the island. See that sand-coloured section,’ Drake said pointing to an o
pen part of the map on Caren’s lap.

  ‘Looks remote.’

  ‘Very popular.’

  He pulled down the visor against the sun streaming through the front windscreen, cursing himself for having left his sunglasses at home.

  The call from Area Control had given him just the bare details of where the car had been found. Drake guessed that it would have taken at least half an hour for local officers to arrive at the scene. He crossed the Menai Strait but found his impatience growing as he slowed behind a caravan. He drew the Alfa hard up against the tailgate then pulled out when he thought it safe to do so and flashed the driver who suddenly braked, allowing Drake to overtake.

  Drake accelerated along the narrow country lanes, cursing the drivers that slowed his journey and flashing his lights at the oncoming cars who pulled into the grass verge out of his way. It was the middle of summer and he’d driven this route many times to the beach but today there was an urgency that made the caravans and tractors an irritation. He could feel his annoyance building.

  He had his mobile pushed at an angle into the cradle on the dashboard. He rounded a corner and came to a stop abruptly as a farmer stood in the middle of the road hand raised as a tractor manoeuvred out of a field. The mobile rang as the farmer finished and Drake saw Price’s number.

  ‘Sir,’ Drake said.

  ‘Have you arrived yet?’

  ‘Caught in traffic.’

  ‘It’s a mess. Uniform are doing what they can to preserve the scene and the CSI team are ahead of you.’

  ‘Any more details?’

  ‘It was a young woman officer on the scene first. A member of the public saw the blood. That’s about it really. Call me as soon as.’

  ‘Any messages?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Song lyrics?’

  ‘Not yet. No.’

  They passed two officers standing by a marked police car at the end of the road leading to the beach. Every speed bump slowed their progress down the road through the forest and Drake’s thoughts turned to the killer. There had to be a reason for choosing the locations of his crimes. The Crimea was an isolated mountain pass and he’d killed Mathews and Farrell in the middle of the night, but Roderick Jones had been killed in broad daylight in a café full of people, and now a car with a body in the middle of a forest and a vast open beach. Maybe there was no significance at all.