Written in Blood

by Stephen Puleston

  Drake and Sara thanked Mrs Thorpe, who closed the door firmly behind them. Sitting in the car, Sara turned to Drake. ‘That was the saddest thing I have seen in a long time.’

  ‘I agree. Nicholas Wixley must have been a monster to cut his family from his life. We’ll need to speak to Laura Wixley again though.’

  Chapter 15

  Good Friday 29th March

  10.17 am

  It was likely to be a very bad day, Winder thought. After he’d broken the news to his girlfriend that he couldn’t take her on the train to the summit of Snowdon, she had sulked. Not one of her flouncy, half-hearted versions but the full silent treatment for the past two days. It made him feel thoroughly miserable, but he consoled himself that the rest of the team had to work too.

  He arrived at the Incident Room later than normal, giving Luned, already clutching a mug of herbal tea, a noncommittal nod before dumping a bag of his favourite Danish pastries on the table and heading for the kitchen in search of his first coffee.

  After the first sugar rush from a raisin swirl, Winder washed it down with a mouthful of his drink and gathered his thoughts. ‘It’s going to take hours.’ Although it was a statement, he was looking for a response from Luned. She gave him a weak smile that barely troubled her cheeks. Although he had no inkling what Luned had planned for the holiday, her taciturn mood suggested her disappointment. It wasn’t the same working with a woman, Winder thought, reminiscing about Saturdays with Dave Howick. Things had been easier with two men on Drake’s team.

  ‘You know the boss wants us to make progress today.’ Luned didn’t even look up as she reproached Winder.

  He took another slurp of his coffee before booting up his computer as his mind focused on the unfinished work from yesterday. It had been late the previous evening when Inspector Drake had finally been happy with the list of possible targets and prioritising the tasks needed.

  Sir Ivan Banks, the high court judge who sentenced Zavier Cornwell, was at the top of the list. Winder followed Drake’s instructions and made contact with the Metropolitan Police force in London where he lived. He spoke to a detective inspector who agreed in a languid cockney drawl to send some officers to the judge’s home.

  Next Winder turned his attention to the prosecutors.

  Wixley’s junior barrister and several lawyers had been prominent in the Crown Prosecution team. A database of mobile telephone numbers helped the task and by mid-morning over half had been called. All expressed surprise and shock that he should be contacting them.

  ‘Please make certain you take your personal security seriously,’ Winder announced in a serious tone as he finished conversations. ‘And contact your local police force if you suspect anything suspicious.’

  Winder returned from the kitchen with a coffee when his telephone rang, almost spilling his drink as he reached his desk. ‘DC Winder.’

  ‘We spoke earlier about Sir Ivan Banks, the high court judge.’ Winder recognised the voice of the inspector from the Met. ‘We can’t find him.’

  Winder’s lips dried. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. He wasn’t at home and his neighbours don’t know where he might be.’

  ‘Does he have family?’

  ‘No, single. The next-door neighbour thought he had a brother in Vancouver.’

  ‘Might he be there?’

  ‘Look, constable. This isn’t my case. I’ve done what I can. I can give you the contact numbers for the neighbours. After that it’s up to you.’

  Winder scribbled down the details and flopped back in his chair, knowing now he had calls to make. By lunchtime he had spoken with several of Sir Ivan’s neighbours but had learned nothing new.

  The judge was a bachelor, and occasionally spoke to his neighbours who he invited into his home at Christmas for sherry and mince pies, but they knew little about him apart from a mention of a brother Winder already knew about. Winder tracked down the name of a civil servant on duty that morning in the Ministry of Justice government department responsible for the courts, resolving they were likely to be able to reach Sir Ivan Banks. But Wanda Preece’s number rang out.

  He wasn’t going to work through his lunch hour and with his girlfriend having announced at breakfast in a staccato monotone that she was going to spend the day shopping with her mother, it left him contemplating a lunch with Luned.

  ‘Do you want to get a bite to eat?’ Winder said, loudly enough for Luned to hear him.

  Luned looked over. Was she amused or surprised? ‘Thanks.’ She got up and they wandered through headquarters to the canteen where Winder ordered a sandwich and a plate of stale chips. He gave Luned’s chicken salad a mournful glare. She picked her way through it as Winder gave her a summary of his activity that morning.

  ‘Are you making progress?’ Winder said.

  ‘I’ve tracked down the names of all the officers on the case and I’ve spoken to half of them. I’ve got the rest to do this afternoon and then the defence team.’

  ‘Justin Selston was the defence barrister.’

  Luned nodded. ‘The boss spoke to him in Portmeirion. I’ve been working on his background.’

  After forty minutes Luned made a move to return to the Incident Room. Normally Winder would have felt short-changed; after all, it should be an hour for lunch, but the urgency in locating the original judge weighed on his mind.

  The early afternoon dip in his concentration forced Winder to repeatedly stifle a yawn, hoping Luned wouldn’t notice. He rang Wanda Preece again and this time got through. She reluctantly agreed to make contact with the judge on the mobile telephone number the department held. It meant waiting. And that unsettled him.

  He turned his attention to the emails in his inbox and discovered an overlooked report from the prison service with Zavier Cornwell’s incarceration history. He read probation reports, and updates from the officers on the prison wings where Cornwell was housed, but it was the prisoners who shared a cell with the alphabet killer that took his attention.

  * * *

  Lunch with Winder had been bearable. Sometimes he acted like a spoiled child and often Luned felt like telling him to grow up. Working with someone like Gareth Winder wasn’t what she had hoped for in CID so she’d wait a year, maybe eighteen months, before requesting a transfer.

  At least he had asked about her plans for the weekend. She shared his frustration that their bank holiday, the first after the three months of winter, had been ruined by the demands of the inquiry into Nicholas Wixley’s death. But she hadn’t booked a vacation, like Sara, and her arrangements to see her parents could be changed to dinner one evening.

  It took her an hour to reach the rest of the investigation team from the City of Manchester police force before she turned her attention to the defence lawyers. By mid-afternoon all the calls had been completed so she started on building a picture of Selston’s background.

  Selston hailed from an eminent legal family. His grandfather had been a circuit judge in Liverpool and his father had also been appointed as a judge in the Manchester area. Luned’s research even turned up a Wikipedia entry for a distant cousin who was a Member of Parliament. She unearthed grainy images of archived photographs from various local newspapers of his father and grandfather in their robes and fineries, smiling with other dignitaries. The pictures of his father and grandfather reminded her that, for a family like the Selstons, status was invaluable. Did he crave it enough to kill Wixley?

  Selston’s curriculum vitae included references to his education at a well-known public school. Did Selston believe he had a preordained right to be elevated to the bench? If he did then Nicholas Wixley had ruined his plans.

  A quick internet search told Luned that Selston’s detached property, where he lived alone in a leafy suburb of Manchester, was valued at at least £1 million.

  She recalled Drake’s comment that a member of staff at Britannia Chambers had seen Selston violently sick when he’d heard the news of Wixley’s appointment. Both men must
have been rivals, competing for the best cases; making complimentary sounds to the judges who might put in a good word with the judicial appointments board.

  It was late in the afternoon by the time she finished all her checks on Selston. She glanced over at Winder; he appeared more animated, and Luned guessed he had made progress too.

  * * *

  Drake stood by the board in the Incident Room, both hands pressed against his lower back. Spending four hours in the car on Good Friday wasn’t his idea of the best way to spend a bank holiday. He felt stiff and uncomfortable, and, more than anything, grimy and dirty, which meant a long shower when he returned home. A spasm of loneliness struck his thoughts as he realised Annie wouldn’t be there. He would call her, they could talk on Skype, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  He glanced over at Winder and from his wide-eyed enthusiastic expression, assumed the young officer had something on his mind.

  Sara returned with coffee that he hoped wouldn’t be the cheap, instant variety they kept in the kitchen. The cream glaze on the surface of the black liquid encouraged him to give Sara a grateful nod. ‘Thanks.’

  She sat down and he nodded at Winder. ‘What’s on your mind, Gareth?’

  ‘Zavier Cornwell shared a cell with a David Eaton.’

  Drake frowned. ‘Eaton? Is he related to the Jamie Eaton who assaulted Wixley?’

  Winder nodded energetically. ‘Jamie Eaton is his son.’

  ‘Good,’ Drake said. ‘Have you been able to trace Jamie yet?’

  ‘The lads in Pwllheli are still looking for him.’

  ‘What do we know about Eaton?’

  ‘David Eaton has a violent temper – he assaulted three guys outside a nightclub in Manchester city centre. One of them died and the other two were badly beaten. He was lucky to get a minimum sentence of eight years for manslaughter. I’ve requisitioned the file from the Manchester police as well as the CPS and the prison service. And he was released last month.’

  Drake paused when Winder finished. ‘Eaton could be our man. Cornwell shares his secrets with him as they fritter away the hours in their cell talking about his modus operandi and when he’s released, well, it’s…. We need to find Eaton – senior and junior. And have we heard from the prison about visiting Cornwell?’

  Winder shook his head. ‘Nothing yet, boss.’

  ‘Bring me up to date with the list of possible targets.’

  ‘The original trial judge, Sir Ivan Banks cannot be traced,’ Winder announced.

  ‘And I’ve drawn a blank with the defence lawyers,’ Luned added.

  ‘Maybe they’re on holiday,’ Sara said.

  ‘They all need to be contacted. Send me the updated list. Contact the relevant civil servant in the Ministry of Justice and ask for contact numbers for other judges who might be friends with Sir Ivan.’

  Luned made her first contribution. ‘How did you get on this morning, sir?’

  ‘We spoke to Mr and Mrs Thorpe.’ Drake took a mouthful of his drink. ‘It was a bit odd.’

  ‘It was more than that, boss. It was extremely sad,’ Sara said.

  Winder and Luned listened intently as Drake explained how Nicholas Wixley had disowned his parents. ‘Mrs Thorpe seemed too cheery, as though she were forcing herself to sound normal.’

  Sara butted in. ‘They run a convenience store in the backstreets of Manchester. A world away from the fancy life of a barrister and a senior police officer.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy,’ Drake said. ‘Knowing your only child wanted nothing to do with you.’

  Drake paused and allowed a beat to pass. Winder and Luned looked away, their thoughts elsewhere. He found the faded image of Wixley and Selston as young students from the folder on the desk and pinned it to the board.

  Behind him, Luned said. ‘So, did Laura Wixley lie about not knowing his family?’

  Drake’s attention moved to the official City of Manchester police force photograph of Laura Wixley. They certainly needed an answer. He turned back to face his team and replied. ‘I want to know more about Laura Wixley first. And in the meantime, we need to build a clear picture about Selston and Nicholas Wixley’s relationship.’ Drake tipped his head back towards the board.

  ‘Are we going to interview Justin Selston?’ Sara said.

  ‘Tomorrow, he’ll be at his holiday home.’

  Chapter 16

  Easter Saturday 30th March

  7.45 am

  The sultry voice of Alys Williams filled the Mondeo’s cabin as she sang her opening line of ‘Llwytha’r Gwn’ by Candelas, a Welsh-language rock band Annie had encouraged Drake to experience. Connecting a Bluetooth device to his car radio had been annoying and he regretted now buying the cheapest version on the internet. Downloading the band’s album to his smartphone had been easy by comparison.

  But he wasn’t listening to the music. He read the headline of the newspaper, the latest vitriol about ‘fake news’, and it struck him that finding the journalists who had covered the alphabet killing was something he hadn’t contemplated. Sensationalised coverage might well make them a target.

  He discarded the paper onto the rear seat before he even started the Sudoku and drove to headquarters.

  In the Incident Room he ticked off mentally a to-do list. Trawling through hours of CCTV footage would be the only way to identify the red car and the missing woman unless they could trace the pink gilet. The risk that the alphabet killer’s accomplice or a copycat might strike again filled him with dread as he looked at the blank, expressionless face of Zavier Cornwell.

  Sitting by his desk, the columns of different coloured Post-it note reminders helped clear his mind. He studied the most recent notes he’d jotted down – CCTV, pink gilet, woman, red car, Wixley’s enemies. Someone had a motive to kill Wixley, something about Britannia Chambers warranted more investigation, and he contemplated what exactly Justin Selston might say later that morning.

  Until then Drake had a Google search to carry out.

  Every national newspaper had carried details of the case and Drake hoped for something new but the articles all repeated the same message: ‘sadistic killer jailed for life’.

  The list of newspapers and the names of the journalists involved filled a sheet in his legal pad. It would be another task for Winder and Luned. He reached the top of the third page in the Google search results, and a reference to a YouTube video took his attention. He clicked it open and watched a freelance journalist pontificating about the alphabet killer and how society had failed and that the death sentence needed to be restored immediately. Drake half expected the man to offer to be the hangman himself such was the intensity of his jaded bigotry.

  A door banging against a wall and raised voices announced that Winder and Luned had arrived. Both officers stood by the threshold of his office after he called their names.

  ‘We need to warn these journalists.’ Drake lifted the sheet of paper in one hand. ‘They covered the trial.’ Luned and Winder nodded. ‘And trace a Hector Murren. He’s posted several times on YouTube and he clearly hates Zavier Cornwell.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ They both replied in unison.

  Sara arrived moments later but Drake was already searching for the number of the first of the high court judges who might know where Sir Ivan Banks might be. How did he address a high court judge? It was Your Honour for a circuit judge, but high court judges were knighted by the Queen when they took office so he favoured ‘Sir…’ instead of ‘My Lord’. As the SIO he decided he had to make the calls and not any other member of the team.

  The first number rang out.

  Sir Jonathan Meeks was the second and when his mobile rang Drake cleared his throat.

  ‘May I speak to Sir Jonathan Meeks?’

  ‘Who is this? This is my private number.’ The deep, baritone, cultured voice sounded urbane and relaxed. It was the weekend after all.

  ‘My name is Detective Inspector Ian Drake of the Wales Police Service. I am the senior investigating offic
er in relation to the murder of His Honour Judge Nicholas Wixley.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The Ministry of Justice gave me your number, Sir Jonathan.’

  Drake explained how he hoped Sir Jonathan could help. When he finished, the reply was succinct.

  ‘I cannot help, I am afraid. I haven’t seen Ivan for some time – perhaps two weeks. I’ve been tied up on one long case. And I have no idea where he could be. Do you think he might be in danger?’

  Drake paused. No point prevaricating. ‘We are warning everyone connected to the alphabet killings to take their personal security very seriously.’

  ‘Of course. If I think of anything I shall call you. Thank you, Inspector.’

  Drake dialled the first number again and a sleepy woman’s voice answered. She fumbled the handset as she passed it to Sir John Fountain. The conversation was as unhelpful as the previous one and foreboding made itself an unwelcome visitor in Drake’s mind. Sir Ivan needed to be found.

  He read the time on his watch; unless he left soon he might be late. He strode into the Incident Room. ‘I’ve spoken to both the high court judges we thought might know Sir Ivan’s whereabouts, but they couldn’t help. Find his clerk or someone who knows him. A high court judge can’t just disappear.’

  Winder and Luned gave him nods of acknowledgement.

  He turned to Sara. ‘Let’s go.’

  * * *

  Trem y Mor stood alone on a promontory looking out over Cardigan Bay, a few miles from the home of Nicholas Wixley. The translation meant Sea View but the Welsh name for the substantial house sounded more attractive. Everything about the property was gloomy and depressing. Green algae tinged the edges of the Welsh slates; large slabs of dressed stone had been used for its construction giving the place a gothic feel.