Brass in Pocket

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Caren, give Moxon’s office a ring. Find out if he’s there.’

  Caren dialled the number of main reception and waited. Part of Drake still didn’t believe it was Moxon and he wanted his friend to pick up the telephone and reassure him that nothing was wrong. Of course, his number was 1979 but it could be a coincidence. And as for Roderick Jones – so what if Moxon had been on the mountain, walking. He always did on fine summer days when he wasn’t working. Drake shook his head. He wasn’t even convincing himself.

  ‘Is John Moxon in please?’

  Drake stared at Caren.

  ‘Really … No, no message.’

  She turned to Drake, but he already knew. ‘He was due in today, but hasn’t shown up.’

  Drake stood up straight, clenching his fists and thumped the desk. He pushed the chair back until it toppled over and crashed against the bookcase behind him. He walked over to the window and shoved it open, breathing the fresh air into his lungs. Drake’s mind turned to his parents and he wondered if it had been Moxon that night at his parents’ farm, or simply a false alarm.

  Precious minutes passed until Walker and Sian came back into the room.

  ‘You’re asking us to take a grave risk with our professional careers in doing this. If you’re wrong and John Moxon is innocent, he could complain to the General Medical Council.’ Walker glanced at Sian. ‘But Sian and I have discussed it, and we’re going to allow you access to Beverley Moxon’s records.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said formally, hiding his relief.

  Walker sat by a computer and almost immediately the records of Beverley Moxon flickered on the screen. He hit the print key and the printer whirled into life, spewing out the notes.

  Walker sat with Drake and Caren as they read the printouts, explaining the technical definitions. The strain of chlamydia had been a virulent and Beverley Moxon had been left infertile when it was left untreated, and she had become seriously depressed. And then the cervical cancer hadn’t been caught in time – the cancer that West had missed.

  Now Drake had the complete picture. Moxon’s life had come to this – Beverley’s desire for children destroyed by Mathews, her hopes dashed by Roderick Jones and her health ruined by West. Moxon had taken his revenge. But who had he planned next?

  Chapter 43

  Thursday 1st July

  He parked right outside, knowing that the van wouldn’t attract attention. It would seem natural, even normal. He didn’t look round; just look confident he had said to himself that morning. Nobody would notice. He wasn’t going to be long and once he’d finished – well, that was the end. It would be over.

  He lifted the latch on the gate to the rear of the house and walked into the back garden. There were trees and well-maintained flowerbeds that had bold coloured plants and flowers well tended by a woman’s touch. In the middle of the lawn were children’s toys and a large trampoline with a safety net surrounding it.

  Recent grass clippings lay over the patio and the decking. The chairs around the hardwood table were all set out neatly, all in their correct place. In fact, everything seemed to be neat and tidy.

  Within five minutes, he was in the house and finding his way into the kitchen.

  He stopped and looked around. She would have liked the granite worktops and the island in the middle of the floor. It looked lived in and warm. Then he dawdled around the lounge, drawing his hand over the pictures of the children and fingering the expensive ornaments and paintings that hung on the wall. He saw a figure passing the window and drew back into the shadows. A handful of letters fell onto the floor and he heard the post office van drive away. He paused in the study and stared at the computer and the polished IKEA desk. It was here that he worked, completed his reports and read documents. The sort of documents that made a difference to people’s lives. Now it was his turn to make a difference.

  He felt odd invading someone else’s space again but the feeling soon dispelled as he thought about his own life and what might have been if things had been different: if she hadn’t met him, if only the doctors had got it right, if only she’d had her chance with the farm. He choked back the emotion. He hadn’t cried for years and when he did it had been on his own, away from people, away from prying eyes.

  He sat down on the leather sofa and relaxed amongst the scatter cushions, knowing that his work was almost complete. The sense of retribution he had felt when he pulled the trigger and shot Mathews with the crossbow had reinforced his conviction that what he had to do was right. He cursed the memory of the Archery Association that had plagued his mind every day as he imagined Mathews with her, holding her, kissing her and inside her.

  ‘Crossbow. Just desserts,’ he said out loud.

  He had laughed when he heard about Walters and Harrod. People talked about innocent bystanders but only he knew the real meaning of that word, how much it hurt, how the pain could cut deep until he couldn’t stand straight. A politician and a crooked businessman were never innocent bystanders in his book.

  He finished his work quickly, once he got down to it. He stood back and allowed himself a brief smile. It was bound to work. He had thought of all the alternatives – nothing could go wrong.

  He closed the back door behind him and then jammed the rear gate closed, making certain the family would have to use the front door. It would only work that way. He had to have certainty. There had to be closure.

  He paced confidently to the van and drove away as if nothing was out of place.

  He didn’t look back. He wouldn’t be going back there again.

  Chapter 44

  Thursday 1st July

  ‘Superintendent Price has asked me to read Moxon’s personnel file.’

  Dr Fabrien’s voice had a serious edge, as though she were now dealing with certainties rather than supposition. An empty coffee mug stood on the desk by the telephone. A lightweight fleece had been thrown over the back of her chair.

  ‘He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, I thought I knew him. Now I’m not so sure.’

  Drake sat down, even though he felt like pacing round the room. Caren opened the notebook and read the notes she had hurriedly scribbled down with Dr Walker.

  ‘Beverley Moxon had a virulent strain of chlamydia that made her infertile,’ Caren said.

  ‘And she and Moxon wanted children badly,’ Dr Fabrien said.

  Drake replied, ‘He always said how much he wanted kids.’

  ‘So we can assume that revenge was his motive for killing Mathews. He perceived Farrell’s death as a necessary evil. Part of what he had to do.’

  Caren looked up from her notepad, ‘Part of what he had to do?’ she said with incredulity in her voice. Dr Fabrien ignored her and carried on.

  ‘And Jones was killed because he destroyed her dream.’

  Caren still had her eyes staring at her notes, ‘The letters on the files pleaded with Jones. Talked about her hopes for the future.’

  Drake pulled his chair nearer the desk.

  ‘The referral to Dr West was to test for cancer. He failed to spot it and it developed so quickly that she had only a few months to live. There was some correspondence between the surgery and West about the diagnosis,’ Caren was checking her notes and speaking at the same time.

  ‘He’s taking revenge on anyone he perceives as being to blame for his wife’s condition.’

  Drake stood up abruptly and walked round the room, alternating between stuffing his hands into his pockets and running them over his face. If only he’d seen the numbers sooner. If only … It was his mistake and West was dead. There was another death to come and he had to stop that happening.

  ‘So who’s next, Margaret?’ Drake said.

  ‘There must be something in his past. You’re his friend. Can you remember anything else about Beverley that might give him a grudge?’

  Drake stepped over to the window and stared out at the rear of headquarters. There were police cars and vans and scientific s
upport vehicles parked at random and a delivery van was offloading pallets of vegetables and supplies for the kitchen. His mind was forcing itself to think about the conversations he’d had with Moxon, the small snippets of conversations in the canteen or in the pub, but his thoughts flashed from one thing to another, in no real order. He could feel the anxiety and stress rising.

  ‘I can’t think of anything. But then I didn’t think that he could ever do this.’

  ‘There must be something about Beverley Moxon,’ Dr Fabrien continued.

  ‘What if it’s not about her?’ Caren said.

  Dr Fabrien and Drake turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

  ‘There could have been a trigger in his own life,’ Dr Fabrien replied, warming to the suggestion. ‘Something that drove him over the edge …’

  ‘Something that would make him want to kill?’ Drake said.

  ‘Please Ian. You know him well. Is there anything you can remember?

  Drake paced around the room again.

  ‘Anything. He’s going to kill again.’

  ‘Is he here?’ Drake asked.

  ‘No, I checked again,’ Caren said.

  Fabrien now. ‘Only one event is needed, Ian. A single trigger.’

  That word again – trigger. Then he saw the face of Moxon walking off the Britannia Bridge after talking quietly to a man standing on the railings, hoping that he wouldn’t jump. And Moxon had to stand and watch as the man threw himself into the waters below. That had to be it. That was the trigger – enough to send anyone mad.

  Drake sat down abruptly.

  ‘It must be the incident on the bridge. He was talking to a jumper for over an hour and then just before the guy jumped, he turned to Moxon and said – I don’t know how you can live with yourself.’

  Dr Fabrien fumbled in the personnel file in front of her. ‘Of course. I think I read the details earlier. There’s reference to Moxon losing work with depression and anxiety for a while.’

  Drake had his hands behind his head, a miserable look in his eyes, ‘He was never the same. Complained about not getting support from the force. It hit him badly.’

  ‘Who did he blame?’ Fabrien asked, intensity clear in her voice.

  Drake pushed forward over the desk.

  ‘I remember one night we’d had a couple of drinks and he complained like hell about the chairman of the police authority who turned down his request for help.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Brian Johnson.’

  ‘Not …’ Caren began.

  Drake nodded. ‘The newspaper editor. He was a county councillor at the time and it was his first year as chairman of the authority.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘You’d better contact him,’ Dr Fabrien said, as Drake reached for his mobile.

  He put the handset to his ear after dialling the number. Dr Fabrien and Caren watched him intently.

  Drake stood up as the telephone was answered, his grip tightening on the shiny black mobile in his fingers. ‘This is Detective Inspector Drake. Can I speak to Mr Johnson?’

  There was a click and the voice told Drake to wait a moment. Soothing music filled his ears and he tilted the phone, letting the sound invade the silence of the room, but the music seemed unreal. Another click.

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘Can I talk to his secretary? It is urgent.’

  More soothing music – this time a slowed-down version of a seventies ballad.

  ‘Mr Johnson had to go out,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘When?’

  ‘He just had a call. He had to go home urgently.’

  ‘What’s his home address and mobile number?’ Drake said, not hiding the rising urgency in his voice. ‘And what sort of car does he drive?’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘His life is at risk. Now, please.’

  He scribbled the details on the back of a sheet of paper, and then made for the door, Caren following him. They ran down to the car park and he fired the Alfa into life.

  ‘Get an Armed Response Unit down to Johnson’s address,’ he said, throwing the piece of paper towards Caren.

  Along the main road he accelerated hard towards Johnson’s home. The secretary had sounded frightened by the time Drake had finished on the telephone but she had been able to tell him that Johnson had only just left. It was no more than a few miles to the editor’s home. Drake knew the road well and he flashed at cars and sounded the horn repeatedly as he cleared a route through the traffic. Caren had finished on her mobile when they stopped at the red lights of a junction but Drake edged the car forward and looked for traffic coming in the opposite direction, before firing the car across the road.

  ‘Call Johnson,’ Drake said.

  Caren dialled and pushed the mobile to her ear.

  ‘Why the bloody hell doesn’t he answer?’

  ‘There he is. I’m sure of it,’ Drake said, as he raced to overtake a red Mercedes.

  He forced the car to stop and jumped out. The window of the car was being lowered as Drake ran over and the driver looked terrified.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? I’m going to call the police. You’re an absolute madman.’

  Drake bent down and stared in at the driver, before realising that it wasn’t Johnson. He flashed his warrant card at the startled man and sprinted back to the Alfa.

  ‘Wrong man,’ he said. ‘How many red Mercedes can there be? Try his mobile again.’

  Caren gave him a troubled look. ‘It’s ringing out.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Within another couple of minutes they were getting nearer the address. Drake could feel the anxiety gripping his chest. What if they were too late, and Johnson was already lying in the road with a crossbow bolt through his heart? He reached a junction and turned sharply, right in front of a car that screeched to a halt, its horn blasting loudly, the driver gesticulating wildly.

  In the distance, they saw a Mercedes pulling into a parking slot in front of a cottage set back from the road. Drake watched as Johnson stepped out of the car and the lights bleeped as he pressed the remote. Drake found the light controls and flashed the headlights, but the editor didn’t notice and he strode towards the front door. Drake braked hard and ran over towards the porch lined with purple clematis.

  He watched as Johnson pushed the key into the latch and as he twisted it, he turned his head to look at Drake, a surprised look on his face. He made a movement with his mouth, as though he wanted to say something: the door was a couple of centimetres ajar. Drake felt breathless and for a fraction of a second was relieved that Johnson wasn’t lying on the ground as he’d feared. Then he noticed the smell tugging at his nostrils – it was damp and acid-like, and in an instant Drake grabbed Johnson and pulled him away from the door. They turned their backs to the porch just as the rush of the explosion shattered the windows and the glass exploded out into the road in a thousand pieces. Drake felt the rush of the explosion around his body as he was hurled to the ground, Johnson lying by his side. The blast buckled the front door and the flames leapt through the cottage high into the sky. Drake grabbed Johnson and scrambled past the Mercedes, its roof and body covered in shards of glass. They fell onto the tarmac behind the Alfa just as the Armed Response Vehicle arrived.

  Chapter 45

  Thursday 1st July

  Drake’s mobile buzzed as they raced back to headquarters and Caren picked up the call.

  ‘There’s been another message,’ she said, turning to Drake.

  Drake slammed his hands against the steering wheel of the car.

  ‘What the …’ But he couldn’t find the words.

  He went through more red lights, flashed a dozen cars with his headlights and sounded his horn so often Caren become concerned for her safety. The brakes screeched as he pulled into headquarters and they ran towards the main entrance.

  Drake stood before the table in Price’s room. There was a long scuffmark down the right leg of his
trousers and his shirt had torn as he’d fallen on the tarmac. At first he hadn’t noticed the scratch on his forehead that was fast developing into a lump, nor the bruise on his cheek, until Caren had looked at his face with a concerned expression.

  Price handed Drake the message.

  It had been four weeks since he first read a message from the killer. Then, he had recognised the song lyric. Now the few words on the page posed a question he couldn’t answer. He couldn’t sit down: he had to think, and he didn’t bother asking how the message came. He moved back a couple of steps and squeezed the paper in his right hand.

  What lies on the whispering wind?

  ‘Well?’ There was an optimistic tone to Price’s voice.

  ‘What lies on the whispering wind?’ Drake said slowly.

  He saw the uncertainty on Dr Fabrien’s face and then the fear in her eyes. A buff-coloured folder sat on the table in front of her.

  ‘Margaret?’ Price said.

  She made eye contact, but then averted her eyes, picking a spot on the desk to fix her gaze.

  ‘He’s … clever …’

  Price straightened himself in his chair. ‘I think we know that.’

  ‘Moxon’s personnel file makes unhappy reading,’ Dr Fabrien added, patting her hand gently on the file in front of her

  Caren added. ‘Took a lot of anti-depressants.’

  Price looked desperate. ‘Jesus. And it affected Moxon’s mental condition …’ He waved a hand in the air to complete his understanding. He let out an exasperated groan.

  Drake was still holding the paper in his hand and trying to make sense of the words. He walked over to the window and looked out towards the trees and the lush grassland, towards the suburbs of the town. The trees were full of foliage and the sun warm on his face through the glass. He felt tired even though he knew that an end was in sight. An end he didn’t want to face.

  Then as he watched a bird swooping through the trees, the meaning struck him.

  ‘Stairway to heaven.’