Written in Blood

by Stephen Puleston

  A few feet from the base of the bed, five dining chairs were set out neatly. A funeral directors’ order of service lay on each seat cushion. Drake picked up the first. ‘This is for a Jason Pownall from Stockport,’ Drake said. He opened the cover and recoiled when he saw blood. He turned to Sara. ‘The letter D has been daubed inside.’

  He replaced the first and picked up another from the second chair and discovered the letter E written in blood on the inside. Sara opened the third carefully. She turned to Drake. ‘It has the letter A.’

  Then Sara opened the final two. ‘Two more letters, T and H.’

  ‘Death,’ Drake said. ‘What sort of sick bastard…?’

  Why had the order of service from five different funerals been left at a murder scene in a holiday home in north Wales?

  Drake surveyed the rest of the room. A fifty-five-inch television dominated one wall. Drake flicked through a collection of DVDs on top of a cupboard, including the Jason Bourne trilogy and the latest James Bond films. Behind him, Drake heard Sara opening the contents of a bedside cabinet.

  ‘You won’t believe this, boss.’

  Drake turned and saw her holding up a bag of white powder.

  ‘That doesn’t look like talcum powder to me,’ Drake said, raising an eyebrow.

  The sound of vehicles arriving drifted into the house: engines being switched off, car doors being opened and discussions taking place with Constable Roberts. Drake recognised the voice of Mike Foulds. This would be his crime scene now.

  ‘Let’s go and talk to the woman who found the body,’ Drake said.

  He reached the door into the hallway when his mobile rang – Superintendent Price’s name appeared on the screen. It put Drake on edge that Price had called so quickly for an update.

  ‘Is it Nicholas Wixley, the barrister from Manchester?’ Price said.

  Drake cast a sideways glance back into the bedroom. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Jesus. His wife is Laura Wixley.’

  The name meant nothing to Drake, so he wasn’t certain how to react. His silence must have irked Price, who raised his voice. ‘That’s Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley.’

  Chapter 3

  Monday 25th March

  12.30 pm

  A white-suited Mike Foulds whistled under his breath when he entered the bedroom. The crime scene manager had seen some horrific examples of human depravity and his reaction encouraged Drake to believe that he could still be shocked.

  ‘Somebody’s been busy.’ Foulds glanced at Drake and Sara standing in the doorway. Behind them a team of investigators lugged bags of equipment into the hallway.

  ‘Do you need identification?’ Foulds studied the body and the bed slowly.

  ‘Nicholas Wixley,’ Drake said. ‘He’s a hotshot barrister from Manchester and this was his holiday home.’

  ‘Lawyer?’ Foulds said, as though the very word explained everything, offering up a whole world of suspects with genuine motives. ‘We’d better get to work then.’

  Drake and Sara walked through to the kitchen where PC Roberts stood by an ancient Belfast sink. He straightened when Drake entered and introduced his colleague, sitting at a large pine table in the middle of the room, as Nia Jones. She got up, but Drake motioned for her to sit back down alongside a woman in her late forties. ‘This is Gillian Evans, sir. She was the first on the scene this morning.’

  Drake pulled up a chair and leaned over and looked at Evans. Her hair had been tied back severely; a streak of blood discoloured the top half of her housecoat and for a moment Drake contemplated the possibility that she had been the killer. Her eyes were swollen, and she played aimlessly with a small handkerchief.

  ‘It is important you tell us as much as you can remember. What time did you arrive?’

  Gillian Evans gazed at Drake as though he had spoken a foreign language.

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Evans had a strong Welsh accent.

  Drake lowered his voice, and spoke a few words in Welsh, cymerwch eich amser, telling her to take her time, hoping he could put her at ease.

  ‘It would have been my usual time.’ Evans gave Drake another helpless look. ‘I usually leave home about eight-thirty, so I would have been here before nine.’ Her chin wobbled, tears filling her eyes.

  ‘Did you see anybody else when you arrived?’

  Evans shook her head.

  ‘Did you see any other vehicles parked on the road? Anything unusual?’

  Evans gave Drake a pained look.

  ‘It was just the same as every other day I come here. Until I went into the bedroom, that is…’ She slumped back in her chair, snorting into the handkerchief. Sara’s glance at Drake told him she didn’t think there was anything further they could achieve.

  ‘Did you move anything when you came into the house?’

  Again she shook her head.

  ‘How long had you been here before you found the body?’

  ‘Not long. I thought it was odd that he wasn’t around. So, I called out.’ She shivered. ‘I knocked on the bedroom door a few times before I went in.’

  She put a hand to her mouth and choked back a sob.

  ‘We may need to speak to you again.’ Drake gave Evans a weak smile. He explained they would need her fingerprints, and terror creased her face.

  ‘It’s to eliminate you from the inquiry.’ Sara’s voice was soft.

  Drake nodded at Tony Roberts, who took his cue to organise Gillian Evans’ departure.

  Once the two uniformed officers had left with the cleaner, Drake looked around the kitchen. A range cooker was tucked neatly into an old chimney breast, and glass-fronted wall cupboards filled with wineglasses and crockery dominated one wall. A half-empty bottle of a twenty-five-year-old whisky stood in one corner of the butchers-block worktops, its top loosened. Sara absent-mindedly opened some of the drawers.

  Drake announced, ‘I’m going into the other rooms.’

  Sara nodded.

  In the hallway, Drake paused. The sound of activity in the bedroom drifted down the passageway. In front of him were frosted glazed doors but before them were two other doors, and Drake opened the first to find a small bathroom with ancient fittings, which doubled up as a closet for coats, judging from the hooks and boxes overflowing with woolly hats, gloves and scarves.

  A study opened out from the door opposite the bathroom. Neat shelves of books lined one wall while various watercolours in ornate carved frames covered another. Drake fingered some of the papers on a mahogany desk: they related to a case listed in the Knutsford Crown Court.

  Retreating back into the hall, Drake opened the frosted double doors into a sitting room that stretched out over the headland. Instantly the view took his attention and he walked over to the wide bay windows that were lined with a padded bench. He could imagine Nicholas Wixley and his wife entertaining their inner-city friends here, marvelling at the wonderful scenery. A bank of swirling clouds drifted overhead and on the long beach beneath the headland, dogs raced after balls thrown by their enthusiastic owners.

  ‘Wow, that’s a spectacular view.’ Sara joined Drake and continued to gaze out over the headland and bay.

  As Drake turned to take in the rest of the room, he noticed items of clothing draped on the back of a sofa. He strode over, reached down and moved a pink gilet. A heady, perfume filled his nostrils.

  ‘That looks expensive,’ Sara said, as she moved alongside him.

  Drake read the label inside – Michael Jason.

  ‘It looks like a size ten,’ Sara said wistfully.

  Drake set it out carefully against one of the seat cushions. ‘I wonder if Mrs Wixley is a size ten?’

  ‘Nicholas Wixley looks to be in his mid-fifties. So, unless Mrs Wixley is a gym bunny, I think it’s unlikely.’

  A man’s crumpled boxer shorts lay on the sofa alongside a white shirt with double cuffs. A navy tie with a red stripe had fallen onto the floor. Drake noticed the glistening links of a watch bracelet and he kneeled down, g
ently easing the casing out from underneath the sofa. It was a heavy Breitling chronograph. It only confirmed for Drake that he wasn’t dealing with a burglary.

  ‘We’d better leave all this for the CSIs.’

  ‘It looks like Nicholas Wixley got undressed in a hurry.’ A touch of cynicism crept into Sara’s voice.

  Drake took in again the view from the windows of the sitting room. The house wasn’t overlooked. None of the adjacent properties could peer in. Nicholas Wixley could have done anything in that sitting room and nobody would have seen him.

  ‘I’ll do a search later for the name of the gilet’s brand,’ Sara said.

  ‘The CSI team will need to get a forensic analysis done.’ Drake made for the door, Sara following behind. After telling Foulds about the gilet they left the house.

  It was the Easter weekend in a few days and the warm spring temperatures had already arrived. The uniformed officers standing by the gate nodded an acknowledgement at Drake and Sara as they stepped over towards the Mercedes. Drake peered in. The leather upholstery was pristine, no plastic coffee mugs stuffed into cupholders; even the compartments in the doors were empty. A folded copy of the Financial Times sat on the back seat.

  A gate fixed to the wall of the garage opened easily and Drake and Sara took a footpath between the garage and the property. The earlier grey clouds had thinned although the wind picked up as they sauntered down over the rough lawn of the headland.

  He was still enjoying the view when he heard his name being called.

  Drake turned and saw Superintendent Wyndham Price striding down the footpath towards them. Reaching the rank of superintendent meant being chained to a desk. Only exceptional circumstances required the presence of the senior officer at a crime scene.

  Wyndham Price’s shaved head glistened and for a moment Drake thought the superintendent appeared a little tanned, from the distinctly orangey hue to his skin. Perhaps a sunbed had found its way to the Price household.

  ‘I want to see the crime scene, Ian, for myself. Please accompany me.’ Price turned on his heels and Drake hurried after him, Sara following in his slipstream.

  In the hallway, Drake nodded down the passageway. ‘He’s in the master bedroom.’

  ‘We’ve been trying to contact DCC Wixley since we realised who was involved,’ Price said.

  ‘Do you know her, sir?’

  ‘Only by reputation.’

  Drake wanted to ask and that reputation is? but thought better of it. Price continued in any event. ‘She’s the chair of various committees for the Association of Chief Police Officers. She’s very vocal, very ambitious and doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’

  ‘The woman who found the body does have a contact number for her, if you would like me to speak to her?’ Drake asked.

  Price snapped. ‘I’ll speak to DCC Wixley.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  One of the CSIs emerged from the bedroom and walked down the passageway towards them. The investigator tipped his head at Drake and Price.

  ‘Follow me, sir,’ Drake said.

  Horror and disgust crossed Price’s face as he gazed down at the body of Nicholas Wixley.

  ‘The whole thing is staged,’ Drake continued, before drawing Price’s attention to the dining chairs a few feet away and to the board nailed to the wall. ‘We’re looking for a determined killer. This wasn’t a burglary gone wrong.’

  Price continued to grimace as he surveyed the room, the CSIs huddled together in the far corner of the room, having temporarily suspended their work.

  ‘We’re looking for one sad loser,’ Price said, before leaving the room abruptly.

  Drake nodded for the CSIs to continue. Back in the hallway Price turned to Drake, standing with Sara by his side. He gave them both an intense stare.

  ‘We need to inform the next of kin,’ Drake said.

  ‘I’ll be talking to DCC Wixley personally. I want to be kept fully informed about everything in relation to this investigation.’

  Drake nodded his understanding of Price’s insistence. The wife of the victim being such a senior police officer meant plenty of scrutiny to come. Plenty more senior officers looking over his shoulders. It meant he would have to check and recheck everything. It would make everything about this case that bit more challenging.

  * * *

  Price’s Jaguar sped away.

  Drake stood by the gate casting his gaze around the other properties. The cars parked in the driveways were all expensive, Range Rovers, Audis and the occasional BMW. The Easter weekend was coming up and Drake guessed that most of the holiday home owners would arrive on Thursday evening: it was the first weekend of the season. In due course everyone would be interviewed, exact movements established for the day before.

  ‘Somebody must have seen something,’ Drake said without expecting Sara to reply.

  A man wearing red cords and a rugby jersey approached them, a puzzled frown intensifying as he neared Drake and Sara. He wore sunglasses, the sort popularised by Tom Cruise decades previously.

  ‘I’ve come to see Nick. What the hell is going on?’

  ‘And who are you?’ Drake produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Ian Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan.’

  ‘Colin Horton,’ Horton craned over Drake’s shoulder. ‘Is Nick all right?’

  ‘When did you see Mr Wixley last?’

  ‘Now look here – tell me what happened. Do you know who he is?’

  Drake stiffened. ‘I’m afraid I will need your full name and your address.’

  ‘And, more importantly, do know who Mrs Wixley is?’ Horton continued.

  Drake took two steps towards the man and squinted into his face. ‘Mr Wixley is dead. There are suspicious circumstances. The property is now a crime scene. I need you to tell me exactly the nature of your relationship with Nicholas Wixley. Now.’

  ‘Christ,’ Horton ran a hand over his mouth as he paled. ‘Dead? We were sailing together yesterday. We were going to meet up this morning…’ Horton glanced over his shoulder again.

  ‘Mr Wixley has a boat?’

  Horton nodded. ‘He was looking forward to this week. His chambers had organised some big dinner at the weekend. And he was going to take part in the regatta. He had everything planned.’

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  Horton looked through Drake. ‘I’ve known him for years… I mean, this is awful.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  Horton jerked his head behind him and mispronounced Bodlondeb as the name of his house.

  ‘We’ll need to get some details from you, Mr Horton.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Go home and wait for us.’

  Horton turned on his heels and marched away.

  Drake fished out his mobile from his jacket and called Price. ‘I’ve spoken to a neighbour and I’ve told him about Nicholas Wixley. Have you tracked down Mrs Wixley yet, sir?’

  ‘We don’t know where the hell she is,’ Price said. ‘She’s on a week’s holiday somewhere, and apparently her assistant doesn’t know where. Her force mobile is turned off. She has a personal mobile that’s also turned off. I mean, who the bloody hell turns both their mobile telephones off?’

  ‘I’m going to interview the neighbour.’

  ‘If we can’t find her then we can’t find her. Damn it.’

  The line went dead and Drake glanced at Sara. ‘No sign of her?’ she said.

  Drake shook his head. ‘We’ll have to hope nobody she knows contacts her before the super.’

  Drake took in the other nearby properties as he walked over to Bodlondeb with Sara. He hoped that Horton hadn’t rang around all his friends and neighbours announcing the murder of Nicholas Wixley. Being unable to reach Mrs Wixley could be embarrassing if someone else reached her first.

  Horton’s house was of the same vintage as Wixley’s with a generous drive and well-maintained garden. Three cars parked on the drive suggested Horton had company an
d Drake worried again that Price wouldn’t be able to reach Mrs Wixley before someone else told her about her husband. Through the open rear door he shouted a greeting and voices down the corridor confirmed his fears. Horton appeared at the end of the hallway and gestured for Drake and Sara to join him.

  An ancient kettle stood on top of an Aga. Two men sat by the table nursing bottles of lager. They turned to face Drake and Sara.

  ‘This is Tom Levine and Marcus Abbott.’

  Pleasantries exchanged, Horton continued. ‘Do you want tea or something?’ He glanced at the beer bottles on the table. ‘I know it’s early. But in the circumstances…’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Drake said.

  Horton slouched into a chair and waved a hand for Drake and Sara to do likewise.

  ‘When did you see Mr Wixley last?’ Drake said.

  Levine answered as Horton swigged on his beer. ‘We all saw him yesterday in the sailing club. There was a race and Nicholas had put his boat into the water on Saturday, so he was dead keen.’

  Abbott nodded. ‘It was the first real race of the season and there were lots of yachts out on the water. Nicholas didn’t win, which really annoyed him.’

  ‘Nicholas was extremely competitive and hated to lose. He always thought he’d win every race,’ Horton added as both Abbott and Levine nodded. ‘We had a meal together and a couple of pints in the sailing club afterwards.’

  ‘Did Mr Wixley mention that he was seeing someone last night?’

  All three men shared a conspiratorial glance.

  Horton was the first to reply. ‘He said he had some work to do. Some papers to read.’ Abbot and Levine had their eyes firmly fixed on the wooden table top.

  ‘Did he mention seeing anyone?’

  Three heads shook in unison.

  Horton cleared his throat. ‘Nick had an argument yesterday with a local contractor. They’d fallen out about a bill.’

  ‘We’ll need the details.’ Sara already had her notebook in hand.

  Levine rested one elbow on the table in front of them and let out a long breath. ‘Like we said, we had been sailing. PI had just been put back into the water. There—’