Brass in Pocket Page 15

  ‘Well that and his pre-cons does make for an interesting picture. Tick. VG.’

  Winder was still munching a Danish but managed to give Caren a confused look. She made a movement with her forefinger in the shape of the Nike brand and mouthed very good just as Drake got up and walked back to his office. Winder rolled his eyes in understanding and looked into the bag for another pastry.

  Drake sat down and drew his chair hard against the desk before looking at Caren, who had followed him.

  ‘So Harrod’s become more interesting, hasn’t he?’

  Caren nodded as she pushed the last of the pastry into her mouth. ‘Fiona Trick has a boyfriend – Aled Walters.’

  ‘Worth a look?’

  ‘Something’s not right there.’

  ‘Okay, but be careful. Grieving widow, etc.’

  Drake glanced at the pile of files on the corner of his desk. He noticed Caren’s tea – which must have been cold – was still unfinished. She lifted the mug to her mouth and hesitated.

  ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Frightened.’

  It reminded Drake that he still hadn’t heard from Foulds so he punched a text on his mobile, hoping the killer might have got sloppy.

  ‘I just can’t get the numbers out of my mind,’ Caren said.

  Neither could Drake. An edge of despair crept into his mind, gnawing away – there was nothing he could do – he didn’t know where to begin to look for two other potential victims. Options, there must be other options, he said to himself.

  Caren took a final noisy slurp of her tea and after putting the empty mug on the coaster, continued. ‘Are there going to be more deaths? Are they revenge killings? How does Roderick Jones fit into all of this?’

  His mobile bleeped – Nothing. Clean – the message adding to his frustration. He heard raised voices and furniture being moved in the Incident Room. He guessed that Dr Fabrien had arrived. He got up from his desk, stretched his arms behind his back, straightened his tie and nodded to Caren who followed him.

  ‘Margaret,’ he said, giving her a weak smile.

  She remained seated and gave him a cool smile back. He noticed flecks of pastry on the floor and the remains of the torn bag in one of the bins – the cleaners would have to work a little harder tonight. He restrained the urge to kneel down and pick up the mess himself. He turned his back to the board and saw the concentration on everyone’s faces.

  ‘We need to discuss the numbers.’

  Howick straightened in his chair, Winder fastened his collar, adjusted his tie and opened his notebook. Caren sat with one leg folded over another, her gaze focused on him.

  ‘There has to be a connection between all the murders.’ He scanned the assembled officers, making eye contact with them all. They waited for him to continue. ‘We may not catch him until he’s killed again.’

  It was as though Drake had read their minds and then said aloud what they were thinking.

  ‘We have to assume he had a motive for killing Mathews and Farrell and Jones. That’s why we have to keep digging. Margaret?’

  Dr Fabrien got up and moved to stand alongside Drake but as she did so peered at the board.

  ‘You’re looking for a man. He plans carefully and meticulously. There’s something about the numbers that has significance for him. The easiest explanation is that there are two more deaths. But only one of the deaths on the Crimea Pass had a motive—’

  ‘So one of the deaths had no motive at all,’ Caren interrupted and ignored the sharp glare Dr Fabrien gave her. ‘It was entirely random.’

  ‘There can be no other explanation for the single number.’

  Howick cleared his throat and asked, ‘So all we have to do is find whether Mathews or Farrell was the intended victim?’

  Winder groaned loudly, ‘That’s a needle-in-a-haystack job.’

  ‘Yes. That will be most important,’ Dr Fabrien ignored him before moving quickly to explain her theory about the song lyrics. She moved to the end of the board where the words were prominently displayed. She moved her hands over the pages as though the meaning would appear. ‘The lyrics mean something to him. They have a special significance in his life. First love. Celebration or birthday and family event.’

  ‘What if it’s a code? Maybe we should be looking at the numbers backwards,’ Howick said.

  There was a silence before Winder spoke. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Dave.’

  Howick was the first to break the silence. ‘I’ve gone back four years. Drawn a blank. After all, they were Traffic cops.’

  Drake glanced at Dr Fabrien before speaking to Howick, ‘Then look at them individually. If that doesn’t work then go back another four years.’

  ‘The crossbow,’ Dr Fabrien announced.

  ‘Sorry?’ Drake said.

  ‘Have you looked at the crossbow connection? There will be something. A link, for sure,’ Fabrien added, almost under her breath.

  Drake said, ‘And what about the photograph sent to my parents – why me?’

  ‘Don’t think he has an interest in you, Inspector. He’s got another agenda.’

  Drake knew that if he told Dr Fabrien how little he thought she was helping it would be a guarantee for a reprimand from Price.

  ‘Why the horrific injury to the eyes?’ he asked, crossing his arms.

  She didn’t respond at first but chewed her lips slowly. ‘If it was a ritual it would have been done to Jones as well. They might have known the killer. Nothing more than simple hatred. A strong emotion, Ian.’

  As she finished, a woman civilian support officer came into the room with an envelope.

  ‘Special Delivery,’ she announced, handing the envelope to Drake.

  It was a plain envelope with a printed label: Strictly Private And Confidential Detective Inspector Ian Drake.

  He tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.

  As the blood drained from his face, a silence descended on the room.

  ‘Call CSI,’ he said.

  Chapter 21

  Monday 14th June

  Drake looked over at the Indian takeaway, wanting to believe it had been sensible to call the Armed Response Unit. Caren sat by his side in the unmarked car, drinking from a plastic water bottle. Price had insisted, telling them that he wasn’t going to take any risks. Even when Drake had radioed in that the return address on the letter was a curry house, Price was adamant.

  The Armed Response Unit team leader was a short man with a military twitch to his jaw who had made clear he was in charge at the scene and that all his officers were correctly trained. Watching a man leaving the restaurant with a plastic bag full of takeaway food containers only made Drake more worried.

  He didn’t have time to dwell on things as the ARU vehicle screamed to a halt and the officers streamed out. Two officers entered the main restaurant and another three pushed open a side door, taking with them the battering pole that hadn’t been needed.

  From the car, Drake could hear the screams and shouts.

  ‘Armed police,’ and then, after a delay, ‘Stop! Armed police. You’re under arrest.’

  A crowd gathered on the opposite side of the road.

  Drake got out and drew on his stab jacket. He walked over towards the restaurant, Caren by his side and a uniformed officer behind him, as a BMW with blacked-out windows pulled up. The driver’s door opened and a tall man wearing various gold necklaces jumped out. Drake arrived at the restaurant door at the same time as the man from the car.

  ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he said, pushing past Drake.

  ‘This is a police raid,’ Drake said. ‘You can’t go in.’

  ‘But I own this place. It’s my fucking place. You’ve got no fucking right. I’m going in.’

  Drake nodded to the uniformed officer beside him, who stepped in front of the man.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to stay outside. If you don’t, then this officer will arrest you.’

  ‘This is fucking unbelievable
. I’m going to call my solicitor.’

  The man scurried back to the BMW, a Smartphone pinned to his ear. Drake took the stairs to the first floor, Caren following behind him. The property was a warren of small bedrooms with three beds to each room and dirty clothes piled everywhere. Drake and Caren walked up to the second floor without saying much; occasionally they heard the raised voices of the ARU officers demanding identification and the unintelligible responses.

  ‘This place stinks,’ Caren said, as they peered into another small room, filthy bed linen piled in a corner. ‘It’s not fit for anyone to live here.’

  Drake nodded.

  He heard the ARU team leader call his name from the first floor. Drake shouted an acknowledgment and made his way downstairs.

  ‘Fifteen altogether, Ian,’ he said, a pleased tone to his voice. ‘None of them can speak a word of English. There must be some illegals amongst them.’

  Drake wondered if the killer was outside looking on and enjoying the whole fiasco that was taking place.

  ‘We’ll need all their personal details,’ he said.

  ‘They’re all in the kitchen downstairs. No sign of any firearms and definitely no hazardous substances, unless you count the curry.’

  Drake ignored the attempt at humour. An hour passed, before Drake and Caren had finished gathering all the details they needed. There was still a crowd on the pavement when they left but there was no sign of the owner.

  ‘Covered in prints, of course,’ Mike Foulds began.

  Drake stared at the remains of the envelope on the table of the CSI lab. Price stood by Caren’s side with arms folded, a severe look on his face. Dr Fabrien maintained an aloof pose.

  ‘There are four sets of complete fingerprints on the envelope and at least that many partials. I expect one to be Ian’s and the other from the civilian support staff who delivered the envelope.’

  Drake nodded as Foulds continued.

  ‘Then there will be postal workers. No real way of telling how many people might have handled the envelope.’

  Price let out a long frustrated groan. He turned to Foulds. ‘And the letter?’

  ‘Guess what, only one complete set of prints. If I’m a betting man, they’ll be Ian’s.’

  They all knew that was a certainty – no one would offer them odds on any other outcome. Foulds dropped the envelope and letter into a clear plastic evidence wallet. Once they had finished, the envelope would be subjected to the full range of forensic analysis. There might be minute particles of skin or hair inside the envelope, attached to the letter, saliva on the stamp – they had ruled out the envelope – it was a self-sealing variety.

  Foulds passed round photocopies of the letter.

  ‘So what do we make of it?’ Price said, to no one in particular.

  ‘It’s another song lyric,’ Drake said.

  ‘What is it with this guy and songs? What the fuck is he trying to say?’

  Drake continued. ‘It’s a Pink Floyd song – ‘Another Brick In The Wall’. It was a hit. Can’t remember when.’

  And then Drake realised he knew.

  ‘1979,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The year, sir. I’m sure it’ll be 1979.’

  Foulds hummed the tune. ‘I’ll dream about that song now,’ he added.

  Another song to repeat itself, Drake thought. Another beat for his fingers to drum on the steering wheel. Price unfolded his arms, stuck his hands into his pockets and walked round the table. ‘And there is no number on this letter. So what do we make of that?’ He added in an exasperated tone, ‘If anything.’

  ‘You seem to have caught his attention, Ian.’ Price faced Drake. ‘The letter’s personally addressed – he must have a thing for you.’

  Drake tried a half-hearted smile but the muscles waned. He clenched his jaw as he thought of his parents with the CSIs on the morning the Polaroid had arrived and how they’d have felt having their fingerprints taken. But he had to stop the anger getting in his way.

  ‘Anything from the forensics on the photograph?’ Drake said.

  Foulds shook his head.

  Drake’s name on the envelope had to mean something: he’d been on television, his name was in the newspapers and the killer had posted a letter to his parents. And since then, it had become personal.

  Drake noticed Caren tapping her mobile until eventually she looked up.

  ‘You were right, sir. 1979.’

  ‘Margaret, what do make of these lyrics?’ Price said.

  ‘I shall have to read them, carefully,’ the profiler said, ‘and I shall have to read them with the other lyrics. It is all very troubling.’

  Drake and Caren left the lab for the Incident Room after picking up copies of the envelope and letter. As Caren pinned up a photocopy of the song lyrics, Winder walked in.

  ‘I hope you’ve got some good news for me,’ Drake said to him.

  The sub-postmistress of the post office from where the letter had been sent had enjoyed every minute of her discussion with Winder. Her favourite television programme was The Bill, after Coronation Street.

  ‘It was like being on one of the soaps for her,’ Winder said. ‘She knew all the jargon.’

  ‘Well, is there a description?’ Drake said.

  ‘Yes,’ Winder began. ‘Dark glasses, heavy beard, baseball cap and a deep voice.’

  Howick spluttered into a coffee. ‘Fuck me, I thought you were going to say he had a red nose and big ears.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Any CCTV?’ asked Drake.

  ‘None. It was a small sub-post office.’

  ‘Thought they’d closed all of those,’ Caren added.

  ‘Well, she’s still going strong. She’s sixty-five next week and could talk for Wales.’

  It was after midnight when Drake sat in the Alfa and began his journey home. He pressed play on the CD player and the car filled with the sound of Bono’s voice. He had drunk two glasses of tepid water in the past three hours and was starving, although the chances of getting anything to eat at home were now slim.

  The house looked quiet when he turned into the drive, the downstairs rooms in darkness and the curtains to the bedrooms closed. In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and extracted a bottle of Peroni. He found a sudoku and sat, drinking the cold beer, trying to solve the fiendish puzzle, until his mind was a complete blur.

  Chapter 22

  Monday 14th June

  He poured two sachets of white sugar into his cappuccino and stirred carefully. He took his first sip of the hot coffee before unfolding the newspaper.

  There were two photofit impressions in the middle pages but it was the one without the disguise that made his pulse quicken. It wasn’t anything like him of course. Nobody had seen his face. The fat woman in the taxi company hadn’t even looked up. He’d put the envelope on the counter with enough money to cover the fare and then walked out without saying more than a few words. And there was an odd smell in the place, like piss and sweat and old clothes.

  He wondered whether she’d be able to recognise his accent. But what if she could? It wasn’t going to tell them where to look. It wasn’t going to help them find him, but as he’d got so much to do he couldn’t afford for that to happen. He knew it was only a matter of time but it had to be at a time that he decided.

  Then he thought about the CCTV cameras on the summit of Snowdon. Nobody would have paid him any attention. It had been full of tourists having coffee and tea. He could remember his excitement as he watched Jones walking in, sweaty, well fed. Jones didn’t notice him. Just like Jones didn’t notice her. She was just another statistic, a case, a file. He didn’t speak to anybody that day, not even nod of the head. So nobody could tell them about his accent. Impossible.

  There was a photograph of Detective Inspector Drake in the newspaper; he had an intense look on his face, and a quotation alongside the article. He was wearing one of those expensive shirts and he’d spent hours getting the tie fastened c
orrectly. He imagined what Drake would make of the disguise. Beard, ponytail and baseball cap would make it difficult, very difficult, for someone to describe his face.

  Drake was going to spend hours going round in circles. He was going to make sure of that. He didn’t care. She was gone.

  He looked again at the second image and a worry fluttered through his mind. He had to be careful. He wasn’t going to take any chances.

  It had been a risk standing in that crowd by the Indian restaurant, watching the debacle. He realised then that it was all going to be worthwhile. He wanted to laugh out loud. Those officers from the Armed Response Unit must have been waiting for some action. Sitting on their backside all day and then nothing – just a bungled raid on a takeaway restaurant.

  He hadn’t paid any attention to the music playing in the background until a cover version of ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’ began playing. He had to stop and putting the newspaper on his lap for a moment listened to the words. He replayed in his mind the initial conversation with the snivelling journalist. The team at Northern Division Headquarters wouldn’t understand a thing. They wouldn’t have a clue.

  He hummed the words under his breath and then caught himself changing to ‘Brass In Pocket’ and then the baseline from the Pink Floyd song crashed into his head. He would miss these songs.

  But the last couple of days had been enjoyable.

  Really fucking enjoyable.

  Chapter 23

  Tuesday 15th June

  Drake drew his forefinger over the dust on the computer screen, cursing the cleaning staff who should have dusted the night before. He reached for a box of tissues and wiped his finger, before discarding the crumpled remains. He pulled the chair towards the desk and sat down. He sensed the belt around his waist straining and, running his fingers along his waistband, tried to loosen his trousers.

  ‘We both need to do some exercise,’ Sian had said when she explained that they were both joining a Pilates class in a tone that implied disagreement was ill-advised. In a vague way, he was looking forward to the class the following day.