Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  Back in the Incident Room he made coffee, set off the timer on his mobile and waited for the coffee to brew properly. Once he had poured the dark liquid and the first sips had passed his lips he knew that he was back in control, of himself and the investigation.

  No more lazy mornings and disorganized patterns to his working day.

  Drake sat opposite Price who stared at Foulds.

  ‘We’ve been through every room – and nothing.’

  Drake ran a finger round his collar, hoping he would feel more comfortable despite the heat in the room.

  ‘How did he get in?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Must have opened the lock somehow. This guy knows what he’s doing.’

  Drake sensed the tension in his chest again. He thought of Sian and then Megan and Helen and the anger welled up again and he hoped he could still think straight.

  ‘So he must have been wearing gloves,’ Price added. ‘And he must have planned this really carefully. How did he know you were out?’

  Drake blinked furiously wondering whether he had told anyone that they’d be out. But the thoughts were a blur. And maybe the killer didn’t know and maybe he would have left the bottles on the doorstep if they’d been home.

  Drake didn’t reply. Foulds had more to report, ‘Fingerprints all over the papers. Only one set we can’t identify. Wait-and-see.’ He sounded less than hopeful.

  ‘And the bottles?’ Drake said.

  ‘Traces of liquids. Water, nothing else of any significance.’

  ‘No saliva?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No fabric or traces in the house?’

  ‘Where do we start, Ian?’ Foulds spread out his hands. ‘There’s no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘But there must be something.’ Drake raised his voice more than he’d intended.

  ‘Ian,’ Price cut in. ‘Once your family is back I want an armed officer to stay with you overnight until we catch this bastard.’

  Drake stared at Price. He had no idea what to say.

  Chapter 36

  Monday 28th June

  Drake stared at Howick and Foulds. He wanted to dispel the miserable mood invading his mind but the forensic reports on his desk hadn’t helped. It was shaping up to be a bad start to the week.

  ‘There’s no evidence in either van of anything linking these two men to the murders.’

  ‘That’s right, Ian. Just boxes of books and second-hand DVDs and CDs. Hundreds of them. All neatly stored.’

  Drake flicked through the report. ‘And the crossbow only had one set of prints.’

  ‘Yes. Aled Walters.’

  ‘Can we tell if it was the weapon used to kill Mathews and Farrell?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  Howick moved in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, we’ve interviewed both men and their families and they’ve both got cast-iron alibis. They were a hundred miles away watching a snooker competition in Sheffield. Didn’t come back until Wednesday afternoon after the killings.’

  ‘So how do they explain the crossbow?’

  Neither Foulds nor Howick nor Drake had an answer.

  The flickering images on the screen told Drake that the train from London was running late. A chilly breeze funnelled under the canopy and he noticed the goose pimples on his forearms. He walked to the end of the platform where he felt the warmth of the sunshine on his face. If only it could be as easy to change the mood of the investigation, he thought.

  He gazed out over the bay and on the horizon saw the turning blades of the wind farms. In the distance, he saw the approaching train and turned back down the platform as the carriages passed him.

  Dr Fabrien stepped off the train, reached for a small overnight case and dragged it behind her. Drake walked up to her and smiled. Charm offensive – had to work.

  ‘Margaret, good journey?’

  ‘Why are the trains so full these days?’

  He heard the French accent but she was complaining like a proper Briton. They headed out of the station. The uniformed Traffic officer jumped out of the car when he saw them and the boot lid flew open. The car was stuffy and Drake powered down the rear window as the driver inched his way through heavy traffic.

  ‘Busy this morning,’ Dr Fabrien said.

  ‘There’s a market in the main street,’ he replied. ‘Not like the markets of France, of course.’ He decided to ask about her accent. ‘Are you from France?’

  ‘Normandy. My father is English. He met my mother when he was teaching English in Paris. They run a hotel near Caen.’

  ‘Do you go back very often?’

  ‘Not as often as I’d like.’

  ‘We’re going to France for our holiday.’

  Drake had avoided thinking about having to cancel. He knew what Sian might say – can’t someone else deal with it? Even if someone could, he’d be thinking about the case every minute, worrying who would be in charge.

  Dr Fabrien tilted her head and gave him an intense look, ‘And how are your family now?’ she asked. ‘It must have been traumatic for your children.’

  ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘It must be awful for you.’

  ‘I want to catch this bastard more than ever.’

  The journey was brief and soon they walked into the Incident Room and Dr Fabrien looked at the board. Three pairs of eyes watched her as she scanned the words from the latest song lyric. Before she could make any comment, Winder arrived, fumbling to switch off his iPod when he saw Drake and Dr Fabrien.

  ‘Been with forensics to Stone’s place.’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘And his office too. The guy is really spooked. Told me he can’t sleep. Told me he’s got a baseball bat under his bed.’

  When nobody laughed, Winder sat down and Caren gave him an exasperated look – how could you be so insensitive? He looked back. What have I done wrong?

  Drake heard the telephone in his office ring and he hurried over to his desk. He picked up the handset and looked out of the window at the line of trees full of green foliage.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’ The voice used his full title.

  He paused and listened.

  ‘When?’

  Once he had finished, he walked back into the Incident Room.

  ‘Fiona Trick’s disappeared.’

  Aled Walters fiddled with a signet ring on his left hand before adjusting his tie for the third time in as many minutes. His eyes flashed around the room as Drake rearranged the papers on the table, revelling in the politician’s obvious discomfort. Perhaps he should wait until Caren returned from Fiona’s house before having the interview, but it wasn’t under caution and he had to make progress.

  ‘What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Fiona Trick?’ Drake sat back and stared at Walters.

  He cleared his throat and swallowed.

  ‘We’ve been seeing each other for some time.’

  ‘What do mean, seeing each other?’

  ‘We had – have – a relationship …’

  Drake said nothing; he stared at Walters and waited.

  ‘We were close … very close …’

  ‘How long have you been close?’

  Walters moved his eyes around the room again.

  ‘A few months …’

  It was the first lie and Drake guessed there were more to come.

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  Walters was regaining his composure. The politician’s instincts were kicking in, the need to survive paramount. Walters drew one hand over another and placed them on the table.

  ‘I was attending some function and she was present.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  He hesitated. ‘In Colwyn Bay, last year some time.’

  Second lie. Drake could see them coming.

  ‘Did you stay overnight every weekend?’

  Walters opened his mouth and then stopped himself and Drake could see him gathering his thoughts.

  ‘We … tried to be discreet
… for the children. No, not every weekend.’

  ‘I understand the children liked having contact with their father?’ Drake asked as he glanced at the original statement from Fiona Trick – the children hate their father.

  ‘They enjoyed their time with him. He had contact regularly. When his work commitments allowed. I’m sure you know what it’s like, Inspector.’ Walters was getting into his stride.

  ‘How did you get on with the children?’

  ‘Fine. We had a good relationship.’

  ‘Were you planning to get married?’

  Drake saw the flash of uncertainty pass over his face. Hadn’t thought about that one, had he?

  ‘We hadn’t discussed it.’

  ‘You’ve been married before?’ Drake tried to sound conversational.

  ‘Yes. I was divorced several years ago. Look Inspector, I don’t see what this has to do with Fiona’s disappearance.’

  Drake thumbed through more of the papers, gathering his thoughts.

  ‘Background, that’s all,’ he said. ‘Did you and your former wife meet Paul and Fiona at the Archery Club?’

  Drake looked him straight in the eye and Walters paused. He blinked and moved his jaw until he must have calculated that Drake knew it all and there was no point denying the connection.

  ‘What are you trying to suggest, Inspector?’ He spat out Drake’s title. ‘That I had something to do with Mathews’s murder? If you are, that’s absurd.’

  Drake knew he was in charge now.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that at all, Mr Walters. I was asking you whether you met Paul and Fiona in the Archery Club. After all, you were the president when they were members.’

  ‘Yes, we met there, but nothing happened … We met again last year.’

  ‘That’s not true is it?’

  ‘What do you mean? This is preposterous. I’ve come here to report Fiona missing and you’re asking me about the murder of her husband.’

  ‘Your wife had an affair with Paul Mathews.’

  Walters sat back in the plastic chair, a defiant look on his face. Drake continued. ‘And she contracted chlamydia from him. Did she pass it on to you, Mr Walters?’

  Drake saw the embarrassment in the politician’s face. Drake read the thought process that threatened his world. The headlines in the press and the awkward glances from colleagues would be the start, until a quiet word suggesting it would be in the interest of the ‘party’ if he stood down.

  ‘My personal life is none of your business.’

  Defiance – the only mechanism Walters had left.

  Drake shuffled the papers again. But he knew what the next question was going to be and he hoped he knew the answer. He tried to read the body language from Walters. He feigned an interest in the paperwork until he’d dragged out enough time. He glared at Walters and asked slowly.

  ‘Were you going to emigrate to Australia with Fiona?’

  As he read the report Price scratched the top of his head with his fingernails. It made a dull rasping sound and Drake wondered how he would look if he shaved his head. Dr Fabrien paid little attention to the male grooming and was busy scribbling notes on a piece of yellow paper.

  Drake had read the profiling report several times, underlining various sections with a highlighter. He cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. He adjusted his tie and checked the shirt that he’d ironed that morning as he listened to the Today programme. The weather was still warm and he had chosen a short-sleeved white shirt with a blue-and-red striped tie.

  ‘Let’s get on,’ Price announced.

  Drake straightened in his chair.

  ‘We’ve all read the report, Margaret,’ Price continued. ‘But what do you make of the latest message?’

  ‘Intriguing.’

  Intriguing. The word flicked a switch in Drake’s mind. He could feel the anger building. He counted to ten. And then he counted to ten a second time. He was running an investigation into three murders and she found it intriguing.

  ‘I’ve looked again at all the songs. They obviously have a considerable significance for this man. The first song draws attention to himself. He’s demanding your attention. Telling you, he is special. Then the second song is a cry for help. It’s about the oppression of children and freeing the mind.’

  Drake glanced over at Price and saw the pained look on his face.

  ‘One could be tempted to overemphasise the third song. On the first reading, it is a simple love song. The words don’t convey anything in themselves. But when you listen to Freddie Mercury …’

  Drake tapped the fingers of his right hand on his left hand, clenched tightly.

  ‘He has such a powerful voice,’ she continued. ‘However, I think the killer is trying to tell us something far deeper about himself. Perhaps he has had difficulty maintaining a true, loving relationship. Possibly, he could be single, having only experienced love from a distance.’

  ‘And the final message?’ asked Price.

  ‘Ah yes. Intriguing.’

  That word again. Drake clenched his jaw. He thought about the bottles on the kitchen floor and Megan crying.

  ‘It’s a song of hope.’ She paused and looked up. Drake and Price caught her gaze before she continued. ‘The song is about loneliness and how love can both break and mend the spirit.’

  Drake thought of something constructive to say. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to ask her whether she had anything helpful to say.

  ‘But then the song turns to hope. I think the profile of this killer suggests he has suffered loneliness and loss. And that his cries for help went unheeded.’

  Drake interrupted before she could continue, forming the words carefully. ‘And what about my involvement and how it’s affected my family?’

  ‘He’s targeting you because you are in charge of the investigation. Nothing more.’

  Drake was convinced the killer was saying more with the bottles. Then he realised Dr Fabrien hadn’t said anything about 1979.

  ‘And the year?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s either deliberate or pure coincidence.’

  Drake flattened his hands on the desk with a thump. ‘Pure coincidence – how could it be? I just don’t see that?’ His voice raised.

  Dr Fabrien blinked and avoided Drake’s eye contact.

  ‘I believe the songs and their lyrics are important to this killer,’ she said.

  ‘Then why choose them all from the same year?’

  ‘They could be his favourite songs.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean, Margaret. That would make the year significant.’

  ‘Not as significant as the song lyrics. You mustn’t lose track of that. It’s the lyrics that are telling us about the man.’

  ‘If 1979 is important, why would that be?’

  Dr Fabrien pushed her papers around the table and rolled her eyes.

  ‘It could be that something significant happened to him in that year or to somebody he loves or loved. Or there could be a connection from 1979 to each of the three deaths – have you looked at that?’

  Drake gave her a pinched look and decided he wasn’t going to respond.

  ‘Did anything interesting happen in 1979?’ Price asked, trying to deflect the tension.

  ‘Margaret Thatcher became prime minister. There was a referendum on Welsh devolution. Wales didn’t win the rugby grand slam,’ Drake said, without pausing for breath.

  ‘Nothing much then,’ Price said.

  Drake tidied his papers, closing the open report and making moves to get back to the investigation. He knew that had Price not been there he would certainly have lost his temper.

  ‘And you shouldn’t dismiss the choice of the last song. It was very theatrical. Leaving a message in numerous bottles, and of course the words of ‘Message in a Bottle.’ And also the name of the band.’

  Drake moved his chair back and glanced self-consciously at the clock on the wall and then at his watch.

  ‘What
do you make of the death threats to Mathews and Farrell?’ Drake said.

  She gave one of her customary shrugs, the sort that suggested the question didn’t deserve an answer.

  ‘They are all the same and their wording is no different from the first to the last.’

  ‘If Evans was only responsible for the first, then who sent the rest and how did he or she know about the wording?’

  ‘Have you thought about the possibility that the killer might be a police officer or a retired police officer?’

  Drake could see an expletive forming in Price’s mouth before he snorted. ‘Don’t be absolutely absurd.’

  Drake thought about replying but his mobile, sitting on the pile of papers, bleeped twice. He picked up the phone and read the text message before rushing for the door.

  ‘I need to leave.’

  Chapter 37

  Monday 28th June

  ‘It’s midnight in Perth.’

  Howick looked pleased with himself. He handed details of the flight confirmation to Drake; someone had already written Down Under on the board.

  ‘Do we have an address?’ Drake asked.

  ‘We’re waiting for the details from the Australian consulate,’ Howick replied.

  Drake nodded. The young officer had been busy.

  ‘What did Walters say?’ Caren was dunking a biscuit into a mug of tea.

  ‘He lied all through our discussion,’ Drake said.

  Winder grunted. ‘Bloody politicians.’

  ‘He lied about when and where he met Fiona.’

  ‘Did he know she was going to emigrate?’ Caren asked, through a mouthful of sodden digestive.

  ‘He lied about that too.’

  Winder laughed quietly. ‘Poor bastard. He probably didn’t know anything about her plans.’

  Caren finished the last of the tea. ‘The house had been cleaned and tidied. An estate agent arrived to take photographs as we left.’

  ‘So where does this take us, boss?’ Howick asked.