Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  Vera Frost knew that any other employer would have sent her home. It had been terrible seeing him like that. His body slumped on the desk. And that inspector had been abrupt, almost rude. What did they teach them these days?

  She had laboured at preparing the list all day and by late afternoon it was finalised. She formatted the information into nice, neat columns and headings. It was most comprehensive, even if she thought so herself.

  But she’d had enough upset for one day.

  It was the weekend tomorrow, it could wait until Monday.

  The sofa was comfortable and, as Drake sat watching television, he started to relax. He thought about West and recalled his father sitting in the consulting room, talking to the surgeon, discussing the treatment for cancer and the survival rates and the side effects of the treatment. What emotions had gone through his father’s mind? What questions did he have unanswered? Had his father liked the doctor?

  Megan and Helen were staying with their Nain and Taid and when Sian returned from her parents’ home she’d reminded Drake that he didn’t have much time before they left for the dinner party with Robin and Jennifer. He nodded.

  Sian had the radio playing upstairs. Drake heard the voices of the broadcasters but couldn’t make out the words. It was like the investigation. He had the lyrics pinned to the board but couldn’t understand the messages they sent.

  The telephone rang and he picked up the cordless handset by his side.

  ‘It’s Robert Stone …’

  He heard fear in the journalist’s voice.

  ‘I’ve had another message.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Few minutes ago.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  There was a pause and he heard Stone’s voice falter.

  ‘He said for me to ask about a knitting needle. What does that mean?’

  Drake saw the scene at the clinic in his mind but said nothing.

  Stone continued. ‘Then he said I had to watch the numbers. What does he mean …?’

  Drake hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know.’

  Chapter 33

  Saturday 26th June

  Drake reached out an arm under the duvet and searched for the warm sensation of Sian’s body, but his hand reached out through cool bedding. He glanced at the alarm clock. His mouth was dry and chalky. He picked up his watch, lying on the floor next to the empty condom packet, which he scooped up and returned to the half-opened drawer.

  Robin and Jennifer’s dinner invitation had come at the end of a long week when Drake had felt further than ever from the killer, and more frustrated with the song lyrics and numbers that had come to dominate the inquiry. The initial hope surrounding the killer’s calls to Stone had faded after it became clear that each call had been made from a different unregistered pay-as-you-go mobile, used once, then discarded. Yet another dead end.

  By the end of the evening Robin had opened several bottles of expensive wine that stood in the middle of the table with the bottles of San Pellegrino. Robin talked incessantly about his time-share and his plans to buy more weeks. It would be an upgrade and he insisted on showing Drake and Sian the brochures, with the glossy photographs of swimming pools and unnaturally tidy apartments.

  Later he ushered Drake into the study and slurred badly.

  ‘Have you heard about Harrod’s planning application?’ Robin said. ‘Word has it that Roderick Jones took a personal interest in the case.’

  Drake knew most of this already but sensed his friend had more to tell.

  ‘He’s got every last penny riding on it. Mortgaged up to the eyeballs. If he was turned down he would have been completely fucked.’

  He heard the sound of movement on the stairs and wondered how he’d explain to Sian that he might have to work, when he had promised it would be a family weekend? Sian wore a purple three-quarter dressing gown and Drake smiled as he gazed at her legs.

  ‘You drank too much last night,’ she said, putting a glass of orange juice down by the clock.

  He ran his hand up her leg and felt the warmth of her thigh.

  ‘And it’s time for you to get up. My mother will be here soon,’ She tugged his hand away from her knee and left the bedroom.

  He stretched out on the bed – it had been the first Saturday since the investigation began that he hadn’t been preparing to go to work. It was going to be a day with the girls. Harrod and Walters and Dixon could wait until Monday.

  He thought about breakfast, strong coffee and toast. He dragged on a pair of faded denims, thrust his arms through an old T-shirt and slipped his feet into a pair of slippers. In the kitchen Drake pulled out a grinder from the bowels of a cupboard, filled the bowl with beans and pressed the ‘on’ button. The high-pitched crushing noise filled the kitchen and then a strong velvety odour drifted through the air.

  The doorbell rang and he put down his coffee and walked through to the hall where Megan and Helen were standing with Sian and her mother. Drake nodded at his mother-in-law who gave him a weak smile before she fussed over the children and left.

  ‘The children want to go the zoo,’ Sian said.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ he said.

  Megan ran towards the stairs followed by Helen. Drake returned to the kitchen. He listened to the sounds of the children upstairs while watching the news on the television, wondering how Sian would react if her told he had to work that afternoon. He blanked out the words from Stone the night before and the troubling news about Harrod that Robin had shared with him.

  A few minutes passed before Megan came into the kitchen holding a glass milk bottle, a piece of white paper protruding from its neck.

  ‘Mam, what’s this?’ she said, hand outstretched.

  ‘Where did you get this? Sian said.

  ‘It was in my cupboard. I’ve never seen it.’

  Sian put the milk bottle on the worktop and pulled out the tube of paper. She unfurled it, paused to read the contents.

  ‘Jesus. Ian … It’s …’

  She let her hands fall but the back of her wrist clipped the bottle, sending it crashing onto the floor. It shattered into tiny pieces that scattered all over the tiles. Megan screamed, Drake jumped up from the table and strode over to Sian.

  ‘It’s a message,’ Sian said, thrusting the paper towards him.

  Then he noticed Helen standing by the kitchen door.

  ‘Stay where you are girls. There’s glass all over the floor.’

  Sian stammered. ‘The paper. It’s him.’

  Drake took her by the arm and tried to move her.

  ‘Listen to me, Ian. Look at the damn thing!’ she shouted.

  Then she drew in deep lungfuls of breath.

  Megan started to cry.

  He picked up the paper and he read the seven lines of text. He knew the words, had heard then sung a hundred times. But now they screamed at him, tormented him and threatened everything he valued most in the world.

  Then Drake saw that Helen had a bottle in her hand, a roll of paper protruding from its neck. Now Helen began to cry and he strode towards her, kicking the glass to one side, taking Megan by the hand as he did so until they stood by Helen. Ignoring every instinct to protect the forensic evidence on the bottle he took it from her hand and read the four lines of text on the message. He knew his heart was beating faster than it ever had and his anger was building. The words were more than a threat. The killer had been into the house, around the bedrooms and into their belongings.

  He took the girls into the sitting room and they slumped onto a sofa. He marched through into the kitchen and found Sian sitting by the table, ashen-faced. He kicked the glass aside from under his feet and dialled headquarters on the landline.

  ‘I don’t think Mike Foulds is working, sir,’ the operator said.

  ‘Put me through to his mobile.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Just bloody well do it this instant. It’s an emergency.’

  There w
as clicking sound.

  ‘Foulds.’

  ‘Mike. I’m at home. I want you here now,’ Drake said. ‘We’ve had another song lyric.’

  He rang off and kicked more glass aside with his slippers. He dismissed the needs of the Crime Scene Investigators – his family was more important. Drake knew that his kitchen was a crime scene and that he had to preserve the evidence, protect the fragments of glass. They had to leave the kitchen.

  ‘Let’s go into the sitting room,’ Drake said to Sian

  Sian nodded. Megan and Helen were curled up on the sofa, a bewildered look in their eyes. Sian sat by their side and told them everything was all right. Megan moved closer to her mother. Drake knelt on the floor by the sofa.

  ‘Megan, where did you find the bottle?’

  She curled her mouth and made an unconvincing shrug. ‘It was in the cupboard.’

  ‘And mine too,’ Helen said.

  ‘You’ll have to show me,’ he said.

  In her bedroom, Helen pointed to the spot where she’d found the bottle. Someone had moved toys to one side, creating a neat space. Drake cursed to himself and walked with the girls into Megan’s room. She pointed to the gap between the clothes where the milk bottle had stood. The muscles in his jaw tightened.

  Tyres screeched on the drive outside. He took Megan and Helen downstairs before opening the door to the familiar face of Foulds.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Foulds asked, as he followed Drake through into the kitchen, his face taut.

  He stood and read the message.

  ‘Megan found it in her bedroom.’

  Foulds let out a shallow whistle.

  ‘What kind of sick bastard are we dealing with?’

  He looked at the glass littering the floor. ‘Looks like an old-fashioned milk bottle.’

  Drake nodded. It made no difference – it could have been a plastic bottle, a beer bottle, or a water bottle. Foulds began the task of recording the crime scene and collecting the evidence. Through the open front door he heard voices and saw Caren, breathless, as she strode into the house.

  ‘I’ve just heard,’ she said, her eyes narrow. ‘How’s Sian?’

  He nodded to the sitting room.

  ‘We’ll need a statement,’ she said.

  Drake stared at her.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that his wife would now be a witness. Her name would appear in the list of witnesses for the prosecution. He cursed the man who brought his sad mind to threaten his family. Then he realised how parched his mouth was and that the dull thumping pain in his head was turning into a proper hangover. He found some painkillers in the kitchen and swallowed a glassful of water. Back in the hallway, family liaison officers were standing by the door.

  ‘Where are the children?’ one of them asked.

  Drake mumbled something about the sitting room. It was hard to comprehend they were talking about his children. He was accustomed to talking about other people’s children in a crime scene – not Megan or Helen. He thought about the children of Audrey Embers who had seen more violence at home than any child should see. How would they be affected? And what sort of human beings would they turn out to be? He wanted to envelop Megan and Helen and protect them from the world, from everything, and especially from the killer.

  He stood in the hallway, unable to decide where he should be or what he should do. Drake sensed things were out of control, he wanted to shout at the world – I want this to stop. They had to find the killer, this song-master, this relic of the 1970s who was taunting him.

  ‘There are formalities, sir,’ Caren said.

  Drake heard her but wasn’t listening. He kept thinking about the investigation and trying to block out of his mind the events of the morning. It hadn’t really happened. None of this – it was all a dream. He thought about all the previous songs and about the numbers. The song lyrics had come with the murders and then later independently. There was no logic to it. If the lyrics had a link to the deaths then why send them separately?

  ‘We’ll need a statement,’ she continued.

  ‘Yes of course,’ he replied, looking at the front door step.

  ‘And fingerprints.’

  He stared at her – fingerprints.

  ‘So we can eliminate Megan and Helen and Sian.’

  Fingerprints. It meant his daughters giving prints.

  Caren continued. ‘Mike can do it now. Get it out of the way.’

  Drake knew she was right. His mind focused. There might be some prints on the bottle, although a massive doubt appeared in his mind as he thought about it. Once they had finished, Sian sat down by the kitchen table, looking older and more tired than ever.

  ‘The girls will be fine,’ Caren said. ‘They’ll think it was a big adventure.’

  Sian raised her eyes, unconvinced by Caren’s reassurance.

  Drake went to the door when he heard a car parking on the drive. Price strode into the house in full uniform – the hair on his scalp a golden colour.

  ‘Just heard, Ian. Awful. Awful. Haven’t got long. Came as soon as I heard. I’ve got a presentation to a group of councillors this morning. All these cutbacks – effect on crime rate. That sort of thing.’

  Foulds passed him the messages. Price held the plastic evidence pouch between his fingers, as though it had some dreadful disease. He read the contents – Drake and Caren waiting.

  ‘It’s more gobbledegook,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a song lyric,’ Drake said, rubbing his temples, hoping the painkillers would begin to work.

  ‘I suppose you recognise them?’

  Drake nodded. ‘The Police’

  Price gave him an exasperated look. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Song by a band called The Police.’

  ‘You’re joking of course. What sort of sick fucking world are we living in?’

  ‘“Message in a Bottle”.’

  ‘I know that.’ Price sounded irritated.

  ‘That’s the name of the song.’

  Price’s eyes opened in astonishment as Drake spoke.

  ‘What’s more important, sir,’ said Caren. ‘Is the year – 1979.’

  Chapter 34

  Saturday 26th June

  ‘Ian, get up here. Now.’

  Drake heard Foulds’s voice and he took the stairs two at a time. Foulds was in Megan’s bedroom and when Drake entered, he pointed into one of the open drawers of a chest.

  ‘You better see this.’

  Drake stepped towards Foulds and then saw the plastic bottle lying on its side amongst Helen’s clothes. For a moment he stared at the bottle, not wanting to believe the killer had been in his daughters’ rooms. It had to be a mistake; the bottle was for a popular soft drink. Helen must have put it there, he thought to himself. It was then that he noticed a piece of paper protruding from the neck and he stepped over and grabbed the bottle.

  ‘Be careful, it’s evidence …’

  ‘Fuck that.’

  In the top left-hand corner a number five was printed and below it were four lines of verse. He read them a second time and then a third time until the words screamed at him, and then he stared at the number and he realised there must be more bottles. He wanted to open his lips and say something but the saliva caught around the edge of his mouth. The killer had been in the house last night. While he had been drinking Robin’s wine, someone had calmly walked round his house and left bottles with verses from the song by The Police.

  ‘There are more,’ Drake said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Bottles. We’ve got to find them.’

  Drake started with the unopened drawers of the chest.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Ian, wear these,’ Foulds passed him a pair of latex gloves.

  Once he’d put them on he joined Foulds, who was flicking through Megan’s clothes in the wardrobe. Just as the killer had done the night before. Drake knew that he had to ignore his anger or else he couldn’t think straight. He clenched his jaw and wanted to tell Foulds that
he would search through Megan’s clothes. He didn’t want anyone else looking through his family’s possessions. Not now. Not ever.

  ‘How many are they going to be?’ Foulds asked.

  ‘Six or seven, maybe eight.’

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘They’re the verses from the song.’

  Drake marched into the main bedroom and stood for a moment.

  ‘What song you talking about?’

  ‘‘Message in a Bottle’ by The Police. You must have heard it.’

  Foulds nodded.

  ‘The bastard has printed verses from the song and pushed them into the bottles.’

  ‘That’s really sick.’

  ‘We found three so far. So there’s more in this room as well.’

  ‘How many verses are there?’

  Drake knelt by a cupboard, opening each of the drawers in turn, his pulse rate increasing. He yanked open the bottom drawer and saw an empty San Pellegrino bottle with a shard of paper protruding from its neck.

  ‘You bastard.’

  He picked up the bottle at the same time that Foulds found another in the bottom of the wardrobe.

  ‘That’s five,’ Foulds said. ‘Any more?’

  Drake said nothing.

  ‘It’s a crime scene,’ Foulds said.

  Drake chewed on his bottom lip as he sat in the kitchen. Caren leant against the frame of the door and Price stared at him over the table. Drake kept thinking about Robin Miles pouring San Pellegrino at the dinner party the night before. He knew something had been said but his mind wanted to blank out the bottles the killer had left.

  ‘Ian, the house is a crime scene,’ Foulds said again.

  Crime scene. He wished he could turn back the clock, that none of this had happened, that his family wasn’t involved. He wanted to scream but instead managed to blow out a lungful of air.

  ‘We’ll need a full CSI team,’ Price said.

  Foulds nodded.

  ‘Sian and the girls will have to leave,’ Caren added.

  Drake started to focus when he heard Sian’s name.