Brass in Pocket Read online

‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just listen.’

  Drake had never before experienced the stabbing, cramp-like pain in his thighs, which he blamed on a combination of sitting in a car and Pilates. He’d hoped that after the day’s travelling and the evening’s exercise he’d be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. But after an hour he still hadn’t found the right position. He listened to Sian’s steady breathing by his side and hoped that he wouldn’t disturb her. He turned to face the alarm clock, willing himself to sleep. Then the telephone rang and he reached for the receiver.

  ‘Drake,’ he said his mind instantly back to that first telephone call about the deaths on the Crimea.

  ‘Ian …’

  It was his mother’s voice.

  ‘There’s someone in the bottom field. I’ve seen a light.’

  Drake almost fell out of the bed.

  ‘Have you called the local sergeant?’

  ‘All I get is a message.’

  Drake cursed under his breath.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  Sian was rubbing the sleep from her eyes as he hurriedly dressed, dragging on a pair of jeans and then fumbled as he laced his trainers.

  ‘It’s Mam,’ he said. ‘She thinks there’s an intruder.’

  He left the bedroom as Sian mumbled a reply.

  In the kitchen, he picked up his mobile and dialled the sergeant in Caernarfon but the message clicked on after the first ring. He stared at the face of the mobile and swore. The local officers were supposed to be available; they should be there to answer her call. He found a jacket and after pulling the door closed behind him strode to the Alfa.

  The night sky was clear, the streets empty, and when he reached the A55 he floored his right foot and the car hurtled into the outside lane. He pressed the speed-dial for Area Control.

  ‘Find me the area sergeant for Caernarfon.’

  ‘What’s his name, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know or else I’d have bloody well told you.’ Drake wanted to add, he’s a Scouser who can’t pronounce Welsh names properly.

  Drake slowed the car through the tunnels at Penmaenmawr and Llanfairfechan but then accelerated hard. He started counting the articulated lorries passing him on the opposite carriageway, streaming from the ferry terminal at Holyhead for England and beyond. He reached one hundred and six before the turning off the A55. He left the lights of the main road and flicked his headlights to main beam.

  He grabbed the mobile from the passenger seat as it hummed into life.

  ‘Area Control, sir. I’ve got Sergeant Davis for you.’

  There were two clicks and Drake heard the Liverpool accent thick with sleep.

  ‘Clive Davis.’

  ‘Why in Christ’s name don’t you answer your bloody phone?’

  ‘What … I’m …’

  ‘I’ve tried twice this morning.’

  ‘There’s must be something wrong …’

  ‘And my mother’s been trying your number.’

  ‘I’ll have to check …’

  ‘I don’t want fucking excuses. Get down to my parents’ place. Now. I’m on my way. There’s an intruder.’

  At a little after one o’clock Drake drew the car to a halt by his parents’ front door. A light came on and his mother stood by the open door, his father behind her. Over his shoulder he heard the sound of the patrol car as it turned down into the lane.

  ‘It was in the bottom field,’ his mother said, as she sat by the kitchen table.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘One of these officers will check everywhere.’ He looked up at Sergeant Davis and the officer with him.

  His father cupped a mug of tea and stared at the table as Drake’s mother gave them a detailed explanation of how she’d been woken by the sound of something outside which she’d tried to dismiss until she heard it a second time. Drake’s father nodded agreement occasionally.

  ‘It looked like a torch. And it stood still by the gate by the stream.’

  Drake was looking at his father, wanting to reach over, touch his hand and tell him not to worry. He could sense the frustration building in his mind, knowing the killer wanted this to happen.

  Chapter 26

  Thursday 17th June

  Drake stared at a girl with skin the colour of burnt chocolate, and with lifeless hair, sitting behind the reception desk at the offices of Miles and Powell, trying to guess her age.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Miles.’

  She gave him a gap-toothed smile. ‘Your name?’

  ‘Ian Drake.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  ‘I’ve got a Mr Drake in reception,’ she cooed down the telephone.

  Drake sat down and immediately started to regret involving his friend, but after their Pilates the night before it had seemed like a good idea. He admired the clean modern design of the offices: the reception had a high ceiling; granite-coloured tiles covered the floor. Miles and Powell Accountants were doing well by the looks of things. He heard the echoing sound of footsteps on the tiles and then saw Robin Miles approaching, hand outstretched.

  ‘Morning, Ian. How are you feeling today? I’m bloody suffering I can tell you. Whose grand idea was Pilates anyway?’

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ admitted Drake. ‘Lovely offices.’

  ‘Cost me a fortune,’ Robin said and led Drake through to his office. From the window Drake could see out over a carefully landscaped water feature.

  ‘Some financial advisor persuaded me to use my pension plan to buy this bloody place. But I’m going to be paying for it until I’m eighty.’

  ‘James Harrod?’ Drake said, impatient to move the conversation on.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is entirely confidential.’

  ‘Of course. This meeting never took place,’ Robin managed a mysterious smile and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger, indicating that he was in on the secret.

  ‘I need some information.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Anything really. Background.’

  Robin was a thin man with a narrow nose and a tall forehead. Drake often thought that he didn’t need to go to the Pilates group – he seemed fit enough. A pair of reading glasses was perched on his nose and he peered over them at Drake.

  ‘Harrod’s become quite a big player in a short period of time. Somehow he’s been able to win contracts that have transformed his fortunes. Gossip is that he’s bribing people to win the jobs. All the usual stuff – holidays in Spain, new kitchens.’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘I spoke to a colleague of mine before you arrived. Made a pretext that I was running a course and wanted to invite Harrod – possibly trying to get his business.’

  Drake flashed a smile – his friend was enjoying this.

  ‘Harrod’s involved in a big leisure development along the coast that’s in planning – shops, offices, bowling alley.’

  Drake scribbled the details in his notepad and waited for his friend to continue.

  ‘He’s got a reputation as a vindictive bastard too. I work for a sub-contractor who crossed him.’ Robin paused for effect. ‘He was walking home one night when Harrod and his thugs gave him a going over. Broke some ribs and couple of fingers, and his nose will never be the same again.’

  Drake pulled himself up in his chair.

  ‘Did he complain?’

  ‘He reckoned there was no point. Harrod made sure there were no witnesses.’

  ‘Did he recognise the thugs?’

  ‘No, but he thought they were Scousers.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  Robin sounded uncertain. ‘I’ll ask him.’

  Drake placed a business card on Robin’s desk as he left. ‘Get him to call me.’

  On the journey to headquarters, Drake hummed the opening beats of ‘Brass in Pocket’ and then repeated a line from ‘Another Brick in the Wall’. They were classic tracks and he knew they meant something. Or were they si
mply random messages, sent to entertain the killer and frustrate the investigation? He kept thinking about 1979 and whether the killer had been born in that year or whether he had married that year or … the list was endless.

  Ten minutes later, Drake squeezed the Alfa into a parking spot and bleeped the car. His first task when he arrived in his office was to hang the jacket of the grey lightweight summer suit on a wooden hanger before he organised a coffee. He managed one sip before the telephone rang.

  ‘Someone wants to speak to you,’ said one of the reception staff.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘They didn’t say – just that they want to speak to you.’

  There was a click as she transferred the call. Drake introduced himself.

  ‘You in charge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you’d better do something about it?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m buggered if I’m going to pay any fine.’

  Drake could feel his patience wearing thin.

  ‘Excuse me, who are you?’

  ‘I’m John Garnett. I own the garage. You know, from where the red Mondeo was stolen. I’ve just had a bloody speeding ticket for the car.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning – just now,’ His voice rose.

  ‘No, I meant the day of the speeding ticket.’

  There was a silence and Drake heard Garnett fumbling with pieces of paper.

  ‘31st May.’

  ‘Where?’ Drake held his breath.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘It’s on the bloody form.’

  ‘Okay, Okay.’

  More silence; Drake waited until his patience broke. ‘Look, just bring the paperwork in as soon as you can.’

  ‘But I can’t leave the garage.’

  Drake wanted to shout but settled on a steely tone instead. ‘Stay exactly where you are. I’ll get someone to collect it.’

  Drake and Caren stared at the speeding ticket on the desk in front of them, as if the name of the killer was written on the back. It gave them a time and a place. It was another small part of the jigsaw. A telephone conversation to double-check confirmed that on 31st May at eleven am the red Mondeo was clocked by a speed camera for speeding.

  ‘Type up the details,’ Drake said. ‘I want them up on the board. And I’ll get Margaret here too.’

  In the Incident Room he cast his eye over the various photographs, notes and fragments of maps on the board. He fiddled with his elasticated cufflinks and ran a finger around his collar. Through the open windows he heard the roar of the traffic on the A55 as well as the rattle of chainsaws from the tree surgeons.

  Caren was pinning an A4 sheet with the details of the traffic offence to the board when Dr Fabrien arrived, fanning herself with some papers, complaining about the heat. Drake folded his arms and tried to concentrate on constructing a picture of the killer.

  ‘Margaret. He was clocked speeding,’ Drake said. ‘Why the hell take the risk of being stopped in a stolen car?’

  Dr Fabrien stood by his side. ‘He takes risks. Must be a man,’ she said.

  ‘I need to know about him,’ Drake said.

  Drake’s thoughts were a mass of questions he had to answer and he wanted Dr Fabrien to answer all of them. Was the killer tall? Was he overweight? Did he have a family?

  ‘Let’s recap,’ Drake continued. ‘We know that red-Mondeo-man was here in Colwyn Bay on the morning of 31st May. That was four days after the car had been stolen.’

  ‘I just don’t see Harrod or Walters driving around in a stolen car,’ Caren said.

  ‘That’s why we need to look at all known associates.’

  Before Drake could continue, they heard the sound of a loud conversation approaching the Incident Room from along the corridor. The door opened and Winder and Howick entered. Howick draped his jacket over the rear of his chair and Winder sat, arms folded, eyes narrowed, as Drake explained the significance of the speeding ticket.

  He looked over at Howick. ‘Dave, I want you to look at all of Harrod’s associates. We need to identify everybody who might be of interest. And do full PNC checks. Gareth, you’re to do the same for Dixon.’

  They both nodded and turned to their computers.

  For the rest of the morning Drake read all about The Wall in the several pages of its Wikipedia entry. The screen on his computer filled with various open tabs, where he had clicked from one link to another, following anything that drew his attention. He had to make progress, so he called Dr Fabrien again and she sat in his office, a film of sweat covering her face.

  ‘What do you make of the songs?’ Drake said. ‘I can’t get them out of my mind. There’s got to be something we’re missing.’

  ‘The songs could be anything. His favourite tunes or maybe—’

  ‘But why are they all from 1979?’

  ‘Are there any connections between the bands who recorded the songs?’

  ‘None. But I’ll get Gareth to double-check.’

  ‘I think it is unlikely the bands are relevant. I think the year is important. You have to find something that links the victims to 1979—’

  ‘There’s nothing. Nothing,’ Drake said, an edge of despair to his voice.

  ‘Don’t keep interrupting me, Ian. It’s not going to help.’

  He gave her a sharp look. ‘But I need you to profile this guy. He’s going to kill again—’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘I want to stop him before he has a chance.’

  Dr Fabrien left, telling him she still had work to do and Drake sat back in his chair, feeling his eyes burning and an odd sensation in his thighs that shot up to the small of his back. No more Pilates for a while he concluded. After an hour, his mind was darting from one thing to another.

  He went to the kitchen but found to his intense irritation that there was no more ground coffee. He had to settle for instant and added plenty of sugar to sweeten the bitter taste.

  Caren called out to him as he left the kitchen. ‘Reception after you. There’s a Mitchell Fisher to see you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Says he was to ask for you.’

  Fisher was sitting on one of the sofas in the waiting area, his hard hat perched on his lap and the yellow high-visibility vest crumpled over his back.

  ‘Robin Miles told me to speak to you,’ he said.

  Drake ushered Fisher into one of the small rooms near reception. Caren cleared the table of plastic cups and an old copy of the regional newspaper.

  ‘I understand you allege Harrod was responsible for assaulting you.’

  Fisher snorted. ‘He kicked the shit out of me. I had a broken nose, two broken fingers and cracked ribs to prove it.’

  ‘How long ago was it?’

  ‘A month ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you make a complaint at the time?’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be interested.’

  Drake paused. He knew a delay might make a prosecution difficult.

  ‘Let’s get some background,’ he said.

  Drake opened a notepad, flattened the seam and clicked the top of his ballpoint.

  ‘He’s a fucking bastard. Screws all his sub-contractors to ridiculous prices knowing there is no other work around.’

  ‘Why did you fall out?’

  ‘I told him I wanted payment every fortnight. Told him I’d leave the job if I wasn’t paid. He went fucking ape-shit. Called me all sorts.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was out with some lads one night in Rhyl. I was walking back to the car. They jumped me. Dragged me into a side alley by an old boarded-up pub.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at the others?’

  ‘Yes. They were all Scousers. One was an old bastard, short hair and a neck like a tree trunk. He didn’t do very much but he did all the talking. He must have swallowed a fucking dictionary. You do realise Mr Harrod has a business to run. All that sort of crap.’

  D
rake exchanged an are-you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking glance with Caren. She raised her eyebrows slightly, acknowledging his thought process.

  ‘We’ll need a better description.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Fisher said, crossing his arms.

  Both men were clean-shaven; both had tattoos on their arms, which Fisher described in detail. He described the kicks and the pain of the cracked ribs and didn’t hide his anger. But Drake could hear the reluctance from a CPS lawyer looking at the evidence. It’ll be his word against theirs. He’s got the bruises to prove it. There’s no corroboration. No eyewitnesses. He’ll make a good witness. It’s less than 50–50. What about natural justice? Sometimes he knew that the criminal justice system was a lottery.

  ‘So what do you think, sir?’ Caren said once Fisher had left, a glint of excitement in her eye.

  ‘Sounds like Dixon. And now we’ve got a reason to talk to Harrod.’

  Chapter 27

  Thursday 17th June

  Aled Walters sat upright in the chair, turning his iPhone through his fingers. Before the interview Drake had put a large black plastic bag with the crossbow inside it, on the floor behind the table. He spread out the notebook in front of him and looked up at Walters who gave him a typically insincere political smile back.

  Drake knew he had to be careful. A partial fingerprint didn’t make a case. But it helped. And it helped that years before Walters had spent a year as a special constable, meaning his fingerprints were on the national database.

  Once he’d asked some preliminaries he got onto the question he really wanted to ask.

  ‘Do you have a crossbow?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I do. Or did.’

  Drake paused, not expecting the answer, before lifting the bag onto the table. ‘Your fingerprints were found on this crossbow,’ he said, removing the bag.

  Walters moved forward and looked down at it. ‘That’s because it’s mine, Inspector,’ he said, an edge to his voice.

  ‘Why was it found in the rear of a van in Rhyl?’

  ‘It was stolen a couple of months back.’

  ‘Did you report the theft?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  Drake sensed that Walters wanted to make this as difficult as possible. ‘What do you mean?’