Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  It was a short drive to the offices of the local newspaper and Drake sat tapping his fingers on the file lying on his lap and staring out of the window. The more he had thought about the consequences of the article the angrier he became. If there were more deaths then he might be to blame. And what then? An investigation, then recriminations and he would never see the promotion he wanted. He lifted the file and banged it down on his knees.

  ‘Damn the bloody papers.’

  Caren slowed the car at traffic lights. ‘We need their help.’

  ‘It should never have been printed. They’ll have to stop.’

  Caren raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘We want their cooperation, sir.’

  She accelerated away from the lights and overtook a stream of children on bicycles.

  ‘Go easy, sir,’ she said, not looking at him, as she turned left off the main road into an industrial estate.

  The newspaper office was a small, ugly building and the young girl at reception gave them a wide-eyed, curious look, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘I’m here to see the editor,’ Drake said.

  She picked up the telephone and mumbled into the receiver. She pointed in the direction of leather sofas. He snorted back at her. ‘We’ll stand. We won’t be waiting long.’

  Soon enough the receptionist led them through the corridors, past inquisitive staring eyes.

  The conference room was small, with two narrow windows from floor to ceiling that looked out over a courtyard filled with planters. Both men around the table had defiant, determined looks on their faces. The older man stuck out his hand.

  ‘Brian Johnson. Editor. This is Robert Stone,’ he added, introducing the younger man.

  ‘We want to talk to you about this,’ Drake flung the newspaper across the desk.

  ‘How can we help, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Inspector, actually.’

  ‘This investigation is complex,’ Drake said. ‘We are dealing with a psychopath who will not stop at killing police officers. All my men are at risk from this man and you have the temerity to say the investigation is faltering.’

  ‘Well, have you arrested anyone?’ Johnson said.

  The meeting hadn’t started well. Drake was on the defensive and Brian Johnson had the upper hand.

  ‘This conversation is, of course, entirely off the record. So you can stop your scribbling,’ Drake said to Stone, who was busy making notes. ‘We want to know how you came by some of the facts in your report. It may be hampering our inquiry.’

  ‘You know we cannot divulge our sources,’ Johnson said.

  ‘You’ve printed details that were not released by us and—’

  ‘And we are journalists. We investigate stories.’

  ‘Even when it puts lives at risk.’

  ‘Come off it, Inspector. You can’t try that angle with me.’

  ‘You could be assisting the killer. That could well be an offence.’

  Stone rearranged the papers on the desk before looking first at the editor and then over at Drake.

  ‘I’ve been working on the story since last Thursday morning. A source made contact quite early and told us about the number found on the body of Roderick Jones. The same source rang before the press conference. And we checked—’

  ‘Did you say on Thursday morning?’ Caren interrupted.

  ‘Yes, early – before eight o’clock.’

  Caren turned to Drake. ‘Nobody on the investigation team knew about the number on Roderick Jones’s body then.’

  Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. A serious look passed over the face of Brian Johnson and Robert Stone looked intently at Drake.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Stone asked.

  ‘I’m saying the killer is your source,’ Caren said.

  Stone cleared his throat and then began to chew on a fingernail. Drake decided to emphasise the point, to regain the upper hand.

  ‘He knows where you live.’

  Stone sat quite still. Drake had his complete attention.

  ‘And he knows your phone number. Smart cookie isn’t he?’

  Drake folded his arms. Despite the defiant look on his face, he could see the fear in the young reporter’s eyes.

  ‘How many times has he called you?’

  Drake glanced over at Johnson, who sat looking at Stone waiting for an answer.

  ‘Three times. Once before the press conference. Then on Thursday morning and finally on Wednesday.’

  Drake wondered where the killer had been when he made the call. In his car, in a kiosk, at work – functioning satisfactorily, as Dr Fabrien had said. And then he wondered what she would say about this. Perhaps it was part of functioning normally that killers did this sort of thing, making regular contact with the press.

  ‘Would you recognise the voice?’ Drake asked

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What exactly did he tell you?’

  Stone opened his notebook and read from his shorthand notes, summarising each of the conversations as Drake scribbled his own record.

  ‘Do you think this man will kill again?’ asked Johnson, sounding sombre.

  Drake placed his arms on the table. ‘Yes. We do.’

  Johnson flinched but Drake could see he understood. The body language told him that the edgy defiance had gone. The killer had seen to that.

  ‘Don’t answer the telephone at home until we’ve put a trace on it,’ Drake ordered. ‘If he calls back, this might be our best chance to catch him.’

  For a few moments, the room went quiet, and then Stone nodded, slowly.

  Chapter 29

  Monday 21st June

  ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t we know about this?’ Drake asked.

  Caren had an inscrutable look on her face.

  ‘But why isn’t there an election?’ he said.

  He noticed the time, knowing he had to leave for court within the hour.

  ‘And have you seen Dave’s memo about the Archery Club? Walters was a member at the same time as Mathews.’

  Caren nodded.

  The newspaper open on Drake’s desk had the news of Roderick Jones’s successor filling the second page. He read the comments made by Aled Walters, paying tribute to Roderick Jones and pledging himself to work hard as his successor.

  Thorsen, sitting by Caren’s side, cleared his throat. ‘Because Roderick Jones was elected from the regional list, there doesn’t have to be an election. His seat automatically goes to the person after him on the same party list.’

  Drake stared at the lawyer and, out of frustration, asked. ‘Even when that person is a possible suspect in three murders?’

  Neither Thorsen nor Caren bothered to reply.

  ‘And now we’ve got the death of Jones,’ Drake continued.

  ‘Surely you don’t think that Walters is involved?’ Thorsen raised his voice.

  ‘He has a perfect motive,’ Caren said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘With Roderick Jones out of the way, he inherits a seat in the Welsh Assembly – quite a step up from being a county councillor. We know he’s ambitious.’

  ‘And he owns a crossbow. Possibly the one that killed Mathews and Farrell.’

  Thorsen flicked through his papers reviewing his scribbled comments. ‘I thought you were looking for the same suspect for the murders of Jones and the two police officers.’

  ‘Same description,’ Drake corrected.

  Thorsen wet his forefinger and ran through various pages in his notebook. ‘You mean the ponytail …’ he said, after finding the relevant section.

  ‘And the baseball cap and beard,’ Caren added.

  ‘So how do we proceed, Andy?’ Drake said.

  ‘Carefully. I’ll want to review all the evidence against Walters. He’s already made a call to Price asking about the Jones inquiry.’

  Drake screwed up his eyes and stared at Thorsen in disbelief. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

  Thorsen’s expression told him he wasn’t.

  Drake broke a
ll the speed limits to get to the Crown court on time. He ran from the car park and entered the courtroom, breathless, his face flushed. The prosecuting barrister nodded an acknowledgment, broke off from his discussions, and straightened his wig as he walked over to Drake.

  ‘Our star witness hasn’t appeared,’ he said.

  Drake gaped. No witness. No case.

  The logic was simple and the defendant knew that as well as anyone. And when the witness had been in love with the defendant, a love that was blind to the beatings and kickings she received, it made the case all the more difficult. Drake could see her huddled on the floor of the house, shaking in fear, the blood running down her face. He had promised her then that he would do everything to see that justice was done and now she had lost her nerve. Myers, the Crown prosecutor, joined the discussion, turning off his mobile as he did so.

  ‘Tried her mobile and the landline. No luck.’

  The barrister folded his arms. ‘The judge won’t be happy.’

  ‘You handle the judge,’ Drake said. ‘I’ll go and find her. But just make sure you crucify this bastard afterwards.’

  For a second time that morning he broke the speed limit as he raced towards Rhyl and the home of Audrey Embers. He knew time was short and if he could find her and get her back to court, the judge might let the case proceed. He had no intention of letting the defendant walk free.

  He passed a deserted fun park as he entered Rhyl and immediately turned left towards the part of town squeezed between the sea and the railway line. It was an area the police knew well – a squalid collection of bed-sits, amusement arcades, pubs and more drug dealers than the police could catch.

  He followed the streets towards the narrow terrace huddled behind the rear of an old hotel, where Audrey lived. The torn net curtains were streaked a dark, dirty colour. He banged on the door and stepped back into the street. A curtain moved in the upstairs bedroom, the one where Drake had found the burnt silver foil remnants of her boyfriend’s heroin habit.

  He called out, ‘Audrey.’

  Nothing moved. He banged on the door again. The house sounded empty. A fragment of memory came back to him and he jogged, then ran, towards the end terrace and banged on the door. No answer. He spotted the side gate and pushed it hard with his shoulder and when it gave way, he almost fell onto the concrete path.

  The rear door of Audrey’s house was half-open and inside he saw a familiar face. The head was bobbing to an iPod playing in the man’s ears and his eyes were closed as he drew on a joint. Drake tugged the iPod leads and a rap beat broke the silence of the room. The man opened his eyes suddenly.

  ‘Where’s Audrey?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  Drake pushed him to the floor, knocking his head against the fridge door.

  He squirmed around the dirty lino floor, ‘You can’t fucking do that,’ he cried, dabbing a finger against the blood on his forehead.

  Drake swung his right foot at the man’s thigh. He let out another sharp cry of pain.

  ‘What would your probation officer say if he knew you were back on the smack?’

  ‘It’s only a joint, man.’

  ‘You’d be sent back to jail faster than you could say smack-head. How do you fancy that?’

  The man shouted an address at Drake. ‘Now, piss off.’

  Drake duly obliged and once he was back on the street he ran for his car, after glancing at his watch. He’d been an hour already – at least nobody had called from the court.

  He fired the engine into life and hammered down the side street. He screeched to a halt and glanced at the street name – it looked familiar. Where had he seen it before? He parked on a double-yellow line and noticed the CCTV camera perched high on one end. He worked out where the house might be and ran down the street, only to find himself running against the flow of house numbers. He stopped and looked down the street. It had a Chinese takeaway at one end, next to a public house with chipboard screwed to the windows, flyposted with adverts for the circus visiting the town. Across from him was a narrow passageway and then he recalled the statement from Fisher about Harrod and Dixon – what had he said? Dark passageway – no witnesses and no traffic. Boarded-up pub. As he stepped across the carriageway, he saw a door open and Audrey stepped out, the look of astonishment clear on her face when she saw him.

  ‘Audrey. Audrey!’ he shouted.

  She stood motionless. He ran over to her.

  ‘I can’t go through with it.’

  He saw the tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘We’ll put the bastard away.’

  ‘His brother was here … threatened the kids. Told me I’d never see them again.’

  ‘We’ll put him away, too.’

  Drake took her by the arm into the house until the tears had gone and she’d agreed that giving evidence was the only way to stand up to Jason. He called the barrister, who sounded relieved, telling Drake they had until the afternoon to produce her in court – after that, Jason walked.

  Stepping out onto the street, he looked around and held her arm tightly. As they walked towards his car, he noticed again the CCTV camera. Once they reached the car, he snapped the door closed and reached for his mobile.

  He pressed a speed-dial number and thrust the handset to his ear – it was a one-way conversation, his instructions clear and precise.

  Detective Inspector John Marco hated only one thing more than paperwork and that was doing someone else’s paperwork. The pile of folders on the table in front of him made him crave another cigarette and his rule of no more than five a day was in danger of being broken.

  Marco glanced over at the two young officers sitting across the table who were busy working on the files. They looked keen, excited even. And it wasn’t even his case. He sensed the packet of cigarettes in the pocket of his coat draped over the chair next to him, and longed to feel the smoke filling his lungs.

  His mind drifted to the meeting he had with Drake and the first minister. The politician was shorter than he appeared on television. And fatter. And the DI from Northern Division was just as he’d expected – buttoned up, formal; but then everybody from the north was like that.

  Marco spent the rest of the day trawling through the files and papers exercising just enough patience with the two young DCs to make sure they stayed focused. By the time Marco was standing outside, drawing on his fourth cigarette of the day, the headquarters building had emptied of staff and he had at least another two hours’ work ahead of him.

  It was after eight o’clock when a name leapt out at him and he did an immediate retake, hardly believing what he was reading. He closed the folder and read the title again and then reopening the file, he pressed on, scanning the pages, blanking out the groans from across the table.

  Once he’d finished he picked up his mobile.

  The minute timer on Drake’s Tissot bleeped and he stretched out a hand to the small cafetière on the desk and pushed the filter downwards. He poured the coffee, allowing the oil to gather on the surface, feeling pleased that he had delivered a key witness to the Crown court, earning the thanks of Judge Machin for his efforts. He had seen the angry faces of Jason’s relatives staring at him and made certain they noticed him pointing them out to the burly sergeant on duty that morning. The officer gave them a long hard look as Drake spoke to him. He reckoned Jason would get a four-year stretch – maybe five – but with good behaviour and parole, he would be out in three. Time enough for Audrey to move on and rebuild her life.

  Winder stood at the door to Drake’s office.

  ‘Ready boss?’ There was an eager look on Winder’s face.

  Drake’s instructions earlier in the day had pinpointed the CCTV camera and Winder had little trouble finding the tapes. The computer screen had a frozen image, various codes and numbers displayed, until Winder clicked the mouse, and the images sprung to life.

  ‘This is from the camera nearest to where Fisher said the assault took place,’ Winder said.

  Dr
ake leant over Winder’s right shoulder and Caren squinted at the screen over the other. Drake looked at the time elapsing on the clock at the bottom of the screen.

  ‘Slow it down. Slow it down,’ Drake barked.

  ‘Can you see Fisher, sir? He’s the one in the dark shirt.’

  ‘Okay, good.’

  ‘Now comes the interesting bit.’

  A Range Rover drew into the screen and three men dropped out of the vehicle. Then Winder zoomed in and froze the computer screen with a clear image of Dixon’s face.

  ‘You bastard,’ Drake said.

  ‘It gets better,’ Winder said, restarting the tape, then zooming back out and waiting until all three men stepped away from the Range Rover. The tall man who left the passenger side straightened his jacket as Winder zoomed in. The face of James Harrod was unmistakable, despite the blurred image.

  Chapter 30

  Wednesday 23rd June

  After the file of papers had arrived from Cardiff the day before, carefully tied with a thick plastic band and accompanied by a scrawled note from Marco, Drake had taken the rest of the day to read them carefully. Once he had finished, he knew the Crown prosecutor would have to be involved and he’d arranged to see Thorsen that morning.

  As Drake entered the room Thorsen gave him a stern look.

  ‘Well. What do you think?’ asked Drake.

  The label on the file was clearly marked ‘James Harrod Planning.’

  ‘We’ll need to get an expert to explain everything. I’ve spoken to a colleague and he’s going to have a look at the file later.’

  ‘It gives Harrod a connection to Roderick Jones,’ Drake said. ‘The planning application was recommended for approval by the officials in the department.’

  Thorsen raised his eyebrows, opened the folder and tugged at a yellow Post-it note that marked a section.

  ‘It seems that Jones was minded to refuse the application and made his views very clear indeed. It’s unusual for a minister to go against the advice of officials,’ he said eventually in the matter-of-fact condescending manner that annoyed Drake so much.