Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  Drake felt like saying not very far. A possible suspect had done a runner to Australia and her boyfriend, another suspect, knew nothing about it. Drake remembered the look in Walters’s face as he tried to find an answer to Drake’s last question. He had no idea she was leaving. He had seen the vulnerability in Walters’s face and the pain of a loss he couldn’t explain.

  Drake couldn’t explain this as the killer’s attempts to distract their attention. But he couldn’t take the risk that Walters and Fiona weren’t involved. Instinctively he knew that he had to resolve the investigation into Walters before he could move on. There was a motive, but no evidence, and without a physical connection to the deaths, the case against Walters and Fiona was drying up. He tried to discount her lies, but had there been some Faustian pact to kill Mathews and then Jones? Solving her problem and advancing his career. And then there was the death of West, but there was nothing to connect them to his death. Drake didn’t have the answer and Fiona leaving for Australia hadn’t helped.

  Drake returned to his office and spent an hour reading the statements and reviewing the evidence and his notes from Dr Fabrien. He thought about ringing Sian but decided to try later. Instead he called his mother.

  ‘I’m so glad you called,’ she said. ‘Are Sian and the girls back yet?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘It must have been terrible.’

  Drake glanced at the sudoku in the newspaper on his desk and asked, without enthusiasm, his mind on the puzzle, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better now. There haven’t been any more disturbances and your father’s sleeping better.’

  Drake immediately felt guilty that he’d not been to see his parents since his mother called in the middle of the night.

  ‘You should call to see him.’

  That made Drake feel worse. They exchanged small talk and after a few minutes he rang off.

  He wiped the grease off his skin and then walked through to the bathroom. The water was hot as he immersed his hands in the basin and then, pressing soap from a dispenser, lathered his hands and face. Once he’d finished, he returned to the Incident Room. Howick was busy on the telephone demanding cooperation from some unfortunate administrator. In the kitchen he began the process of making coffee before staring at the grounds falling in the cafetière. Then he felt hungry and remembered that Sian had told him hunger was a sign of dehydration. Perhaps the coffee would help.

  Back in his office, he stared out of the window as he drank the coffee. The weather was still warm, but knots of white cloud were gathering to the south. An old man was exercising his dog on the grass and a group of cyclists passed on the main road, their heads down, legs pumping. Turning away from the window, he looked at the chaos on his desk, stifling an impulse to sweep everything onto the floor. He couldn’t think straight in the middle of chaos. He set about reorganising the papers. The reports were stacked to one side, then all the memos were read and urgent calls added to a to-do list.

  He moved his attention to the computer and scanned through the latest emails, noticing the details about a course, later that week, on interviewing techniques for interrogating sex offenders. He typed a message to Caren, asking her to attend and clicked Forward. A knock on his door brought his attention back to the investigation and he waved Caren into the room.

  ‘We need to plan the arrests,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’ Caren sounded matter-of-fact.

  ‘First, let’s talk about Stevie Dixon.’

  The image of the gloating face of Dixon came to his mind and he decided that nothing would go wrong the second time. He wrote the word Timetable on the top line of piece of A4 paper and underneath he jotted a time for Dixon’s arrest.

  ‘I don’t want Gareth involved,’ he said.

  ‘No, of course.’

  ‘You make the arrest with Dave. Liaise with the police in Birkenhead. Get two Uniform officers to go with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t say anything to him. Just caution him. He can call his brief when he’s at the station.’

  After an hour Drake had a list of questions in blue ink, some of which he had underlined in red, others circled and then he did the same exercise for Harrod. The arrests would have to be coordinated in advance. There could be no risk of either man talking to each other or anybody else.

  ‘It’ll take you an hour to get to Dixon’s place. Is he still there?’

  ‘I had a call half an hour ago confirming that he hasn’t moved all day.’

  ‘Not with the girlfriend?’

  ‘Not today, sir.’

  ‘Call me when you’re outside Dixon’s house. I’ll be waiting outside Harrod’s.’

  ‘Going shopping, sir?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  After Caren left, Drake read the prison reports about Harrod’s time on the same wing as Stevie Dixon. He could feel the strength of the sun waning through the windows and he heard the sound of cars leaving headquarters at the end of the normal working day. As he read the paperwork, he scribbled notes; later he would put them together for the interview.

  He decided to call Sian but as he picked up the telephone, a text message arrived from Caren telling him she would arrive at Dixon’s house shortly. He replaced the handset; the call would have to wait.

  A team of officers were waiting in the car park and he gave them last-minute instructions. He checked that he had his warrant card and then folded his jacket before placing it on the rear passenger seat of the Alfa. Winder sat in the front and Drake fired the engine into life.

  ‘They say you’re not a driver unless you’ve owned an Alfa Romeo,’ Winder said, looking around the clean interior of the car.

  Drake ignored him, negotiated his way out to the main road, and then down to the A55, followed by two unmarked police cars. Another unmarked car was parked near Harrod’s property and its regular messages confirmed that he was still at home. Drake accelerated hard, earning some complimentary remarks from Winder about the performance of the car. Drake pushed the ‘on’ button of the radio and from the multi-function steering wheel switched to the CD player and then through the tracks until he found Thunder Road. The opening chords of the mouth organ gave him a welcome moment of relaxation.

  Winder’s mobile hummed.

  ‘Where are you?’ Winder said.

  He paused.

  ‘We’ll be there in five.’

  Drake drew up behind the unmarked police car and called the officer who confirmed Harrod was still inside. They sent a text to Caren and the convoy turned into the drive, lined with freshly painted fencing. The chippings under the wheels made a soft crunching noise and, approaching the house, Drake saw the Range Rover Sport parked next to a Mercedes coupé. He left the car with Winder and approached the front of the house, two other officers covering the rear.

  Drake stood by the door, Winder by his side, two uniformed officers – broad shouldered with intense stares – stood behind him. The door opened. It was Harrod.

  ‘James Harrod.’

  ‘What do you want? Who are you?’

  Drake flashed his warrant card. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Paul Mathews and Danny Farrell.’

  Drake drove back to headquarters playing ‘Born to Run’ more loudly than usual. The evening temperature was cooling and he gathered his thoughts for the interviews. He still had all his notes to finalise, which meant working late.

  Drake took off his jacket and placed it on a wooden hanger. Standing over the desk, he felt his warrant card in his shirt pocket. Usually he kept it in his jacket but after arresting Harrod he had slipped it into the pocket without realising. He pulled it out and read the details before looking at the photograph. He looked younger, with less grey hair and fewer wrinkles. He placed it to one corner of the desk.

  He sat down and cleared his mind for the work in hand. Caren arrived, carrying takeaway fish and chips and the smell drifted through from the Incident Room.

  ‘Take that
into the kitchen and close the door,’ he shouted.

  He arranged the papers and started preparing an interview plan. Barely any time had passed, when Caren stood by the door, one corner of her mouth smeared with tomato ketchup.

  Drake cursed when he saw the time – his watch said 11.00 pm – and realised that he hadn’t called Sian. He had promised himself to call but work had taken over again. He picked up his mobile and sent her a text. He sat, looking at the handset, urging it to bleep. He fell into a despondent mood as he drove home, disappointed with himself, knowing he should have called Sian earlier.

  The house felt cold and he sat in the kitchen drinking water, trying to decide if he should eat anything. After some cheese and the remains of a dried-up bottle of chutney, he went to bed, but sleep eluded him and he tossed and turned. Realising he was under-sudokued, after a day so busy even his rituals had been overlooked, he found a fiendish puzzle and a newly sharpened pencil. An hour later he tried sleeping again.

  He dreamt about the journey to the Crimea and he saw the two officers as they parked on the top of the pass. He watched from the vantage point as they walked over to the motorist – but it didn’t happen that way – and he heard someone asking them for their warrant cards.

  Then he woke.

  The sweat was pouring off him and the duvet was on the floor.

  Chapter 38

  Tuesday 29th June

  Drake pulled into the car park a few minutes before seven and yanked up the handbrake on the Alfa. He looked over towards the building in front of him. One of the men inside was responsible for the bottles. Had been into his house, opening cupboards, touching their clothes. The memory of Megan and Helen carrying the bottles only made his determination stronger, despite the anger building in his mind.

  Leaning over to the passenger seat he searched through the inside pockets of his jacket and found his mobile. He thumbed another message to Sian – how difficult can it be to apologise in a text? But the words didn’t come and he pressed the clear button and started again. The handset bleeped once he’d finished. Then he left the car and strode over to the entrance door and stood by the security panel. He thought about the numbers: it was always the same – numbers everywhere, but why in this case? The messages from the killer were pinned to the board of the Incident Room and, for a moment, he forgot the code for the security door. Was it 4231 or was it 1324? Had he got the numbers totally confused? And, if he couldn’t remember the code, how could he get access to the custody suite? His mind froze and he stood there staring at the panel with the black plastic buttons arranged in neat rows. A part of him wanted to go back to his office, get a clear order on his thoughts and then find the newspaper and do the morning’s sudoku – it would help. Had to. Slowly his concentration focused again – it was 3421, so he punched the numbers into the panel.

  Nothing.

  For some reason he saw his fingers punching 1979 and then he waited for the buzzing to allow him access.

  Nothing.

  His mind went to the song lyrics pinned on the board alongside the messages and he hummed ‘Brass in Pocket’.

  Let’s see who the special one is, he thought. If there were going to be more, it had to stop now. No more. A moment of doubt crept into his mind. He tried not to think about it. He stood back and forced his mind to think. Security number. He stepped forward and dialled the number into the panel and the door clicked open.

  The custody sergeant was a tall man with a clean-shaven head and a faint smell of aftershave.

  ‘How are they?’ Drake said.

  ‘Both asleep when I looked.’

  Drake spent an hour in one of the windowless interview rooms reviewing and annotating the notes he had prepared the night before. He yawned several times and sipped a plastic mug of coffee but the taste was disgusting and he pushed it to one side, unfinished.

  He saw the light on the mobile before it buzzed into life.

  ‘I got your messages,’ Sian said, once he answered.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Better. I’ll be back by four. Work tomorrow.’ She sounded matter-of-fact.

  ‘I’ll see you later. I don’t know when I’ll be home.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Area custody suite.’

  ‘This early?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  He rang off and outside heard the movement of bodies through the corridors and voices in conversation. He guessed the solicitors had arrived. The sound of Caren’s voice was clear above the chatter and activity. The door opened and she walked into the room, clutching a file of papers and a pack of coloured biros. She wore tight fitting trousers, a black blouse, and her hair drawn back severely – power dressing for a power interview.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Caren nodded

  ‘Let’s get started.’

  Dixon glared at Drake. The solicitor had placed his suit jacket on the back of his chair. The shirt was short sleeved and the tie a mass of blue and white dots. He had an expensive-looking silver biro in one hand and balanced a notepad on his knee.

  Drake spent more time than he needed setting out the papers in front of him.

  ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  Dixon groaned. ‘Yes, I do know why I’m here. Get on with it.’

  ‘Can you account for your movements on the night of the 31st May, early hours 1st June?’

  ‘We’ve been through this already.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘I was at home and then I went to a family party.’

  ‘What time?’ Drake looked down and scanned a sheet from the pile of papers.

  ‘I’ve told you this before.’

  ‘Try me again,’ Drake said.

  Dixon repeated the details. Drake waited until Dixon had finished, knowing the next question he was going to ask.

  ‘We’ve got an eyewitness that says you left the party at eight o’clock.’

  ‘They’re lying,’ Dixon replied automatically.

  Drake glanced over at the solicitor; the self-satisfied appearance had disappeared.

  Drake read the eyewitness’s statement and after two sentences stopped, lifted his head up and saw contempt in Dixon’s face. Contempt for him, for the system and for the witness. Dixon sat back in the chair and pouted. Then he crossed his arms and leant back on the rear legs of the chair. Drake thought about the training sessions on reading body language and tried to decipher Dixon.

  He decided he was a toe-rag.

  Dixon said nothing and, at each pause, Drake asked him to comment. Sometimes, he opened his mouth slightly, then he pursed his lips but he didn’t say anything. The solicitor glanced over at him but Dixon ignored him and stared at Drake. Drake came to the end of the statement and looked again at the notes for the interview.

  ‘When did you first meet James Harrod?’ Drake asked, looking directly at Dixon, waiting to read the response in his face.

  ‘Who?’

  Stupid, really stupid, thought Drake. ‘James Harrod,’ he repeated.

  Dixon flapped his hands – his eyes darting around the room.

  ‘You were on the same wing as him in HMP Chokes Lane,’ Drake feigned a need to check the details in his papers, before repeating the periods Dixon had spent in jail.

  ‘Now do you remember him?’

  ‘Yeh, of course.’

  ‘Were you good mates?’

  ‘No, hardly knew him.’

  ‘Hardly knew him,’ Drake repeated.

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘That’s not what several witnesses say.’ Drake laid his hand on the folder in front of him. ‘You shared a cell with him for four weeks.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What did you talk about, Stevie? Paul Mathews? Danny Farrell?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We’ll come back to that.’

  Drake shuffled the papers again, bringing to the front the grainy photograph from the CCTV coverage.

  ‘When did
you last see Harrod?’

  ‘Can’t remember,’

  ‘Try. Last week? Last month?’

  Dixon shrugged.

  ‘Try four weeks ago in Rhyl.’

  Dixon pushed himself back down level with the table and put his elbows squarely on the surface. From the file of papers Drake pushed a photograph towards Dixon.

  Dixon stared at it.

  ‘That looks like you,’ Drake said. ‘And that’s James Harrod as well,’ he continued, raising his voice. ‘Can you confirm that the man with you in the photograph is James Harrod?’

  Drake could see the colour begin to drain from Dixon’s cheeks. Dixon nodded.

  ‘We have a statement from Mitchell Fisher. He says you assaulted him that night. Quite a vicious attack. The medical report is clear.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘This is how I see it,’ Drake announced. ‘You’ve got two previous convictions for serious offences of assault. You did two years for grievous bodily harm with intent and then eighteen months for actual bodily harm. Now we come to the time in Rhyl when you assaulted Fisher, and you’ve got a connection to Harrod. Fisher had crossed Harrod, so he gave you a call and you popped down and assaulted Fisher. Suitably rewarded no doubt.’

  He paused and looked at Dixon. He thought he saw a bead of worry in his eyes.

  ‘A third conviction for assault and you’re facing an indeterminate sentence.’

  Now the colour had completely disappeared from Dixon’s face.

  ‘You might be out in five years. Might be eight. Could be twenty. Who knows? We’d make representations of course, when the time came, about any cooperation during this inquiry.’

  The solicitor stood up abruptly. ‘I need some time with my client.’

  Drake and Caren waited, killing time, drinking water from small plastic cups and watching the custody sergeant processing a drug dealer, anxiously wanting to leave the station for his next fix, after admitting to a string of low-level thefts.

  When the interview door opened, they turned to look at Dixon’s solicitor. He stepped over to the counter and looked directly at Drake.

  ‘We can restart.’

  Dixon was sitting in the chair, his face buried deep in his hands, his skin ashen white. The solicitor turned to Drake.