Written in Blood

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘We can’t ignore the possibility there was an accomplice.’

  A request for additional manpower would be on the top of the list for his next meeting with Superintendent Price.

  Michael Kennedy walked into the room and reached out a hand to Drake and Sara. ‘Good afternoon. I am sorry to keep you waiting.’ He wore a dark navy suit with a white handkerchief jutting a couple of centimetres from its lapel pocket. It gave him a dandy air Drake hadn’t noticed when he had met him on Monday evening. ‘Do follow me.’

  Luxurious carpeting covered the staircase and landings of the building. Expensive-looking watercolours hung along the wide hallway, and at the end Michael Kennedy pushed open the door and let Drake and Sara in first.

  A tall thin woman, with a sharp jaw and fine white hair cut so severely she didn’t need to tuck any stray hairs behind an ear, approached Drake. She gave him and Sara a staccato handshake before waving them to a dust-free table surrounded by plush conference chairs.

  ‘Julia Griffiths, head of chambers.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan.’

  Everyone sat down and Griffiths weighed in. ‘I want you to understand that in my capacity as head of chambers we shall do everything in our power to assist you with your investigation. No stone must be left unturned. We all want to find out who was responsible for this ghastly crime.’

  It was difficult to make out her accent. Educated and cultured certainly, honed by appearances in courts where English with rounded vowels was expected.

  ‘How can we help you, Detective Inspector?’ Griffiths said.

  ‘We’ll need a full list of all Mr Wixley’s cases in the last five years. And we need to interview his colleagues and staff.’

  Griffiths nodded. ‘Of course, of course.’ She glanced at Kennedy. ‘Michael will organise a conference room for you to use. All the support staff have been told to expect you to question them.’

  And prepped with the right things to say, Drake thought, taking a dislike to Griffiths’ headmistress-like voice.

  She stood up. ‘I’ll let Michael take charge. If there’s anything else you need from us then please do not hesitate to contact me.’ She handed Drake a business card. ‘It has my personal email address on it.’ Her tone suggested it shouldn’t be used on pain of death.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Griffiths.’

  She returned to her desk, a model of tidy, precise paperwork that Drake grudgingly admired. They left with Kennedy and followed him until he stopped outside a room with Nicholas Wixley written on a brass plaque screwed to the glistening white paint. Kennedy fumbled with the keys from his jacket and unlocked the room.

  It felt cold inside. Drake made for the desk and Kennedy flicked on the central light, which illuminated a green shaded desktop lamp at the same time. The place exuded a well-ordered professional air. A large, modern, abstract painting was the only thing out of place.

  ‘Mr Wixley doesn’t have any of his personal possessions here,’ Kennedy said. ‘I’ve already printed out for you a list of his cases in the past five years with the names of the solicitors who instructed him and the Crown Prosecution Service lawyers who coordinated the cases where he prosecuted.’

  Drake ran a finger along the edge of the desk. ‘How did you get on with Mr Wixley?’

  ‘I always thought he was fair employer. My job is to look after the administration of chambers. We let the barristers get on with all the legal stuff and we make certain their professional lives run smoothly.’

  Kennedy stood for a moment until Drake turned to him. ‘We’ll let you know once we’ve finished.’

  Kennedy hesitated. ‘Of course. I’ll be in my office on the ground floor.’

  The door closed with a reassuringly expensive-sounding thud and Drake sat at Wixley’s chair. In one corner, a shelving unit that held piles of papers secured by pink ribbon caught Sara’s attention. There was little of interest in the desk, Drake decided after rummaging through the contents of most of the drawers – pens, pencils and the normal stuff of a working office.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ Drake said.

  ‘I suppose all these cases will be on the list of his current and past work,’ Sara said. ‘It could be like searching for a needle in a haystack.’

  Drake got up. Behind him were bookcases with old volumes of legal reports and textbooks on procedure. He imagined Wixley poring over the papers for the prosecution of the alphabet killer. The details of that case would have been thrashed out in this room, and if everything he had been told about Wixley was correct, his sharp mind made certain that Zavier Cornwell spent the rest of his days behind bars.

  ‘Let’s interview the staff,’ Drake said.

  Sara followed him downstairs.

  Kennedy joined them in the conference room, clutching a pile of paperwork. ‘I’ve printed a list of all the barristers and support staff,’ Kennedy said. ‘As well as details of Nicholas Wixley’s past and current cases.’

  In the background, an air conditioning unit hummed quietly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Drake said as a young woman entered with a tray of china cups and saucers. Drake and Sara both opted for coffee and the woman promised to return shortly. There was even a plate of fancy biscuits. Sara gave them a hungry glance.

  Drake scanned the list. ‘Let’s get started.’

  For the next two hours Drake and Sara sat listening to complaints of varying intensity. Some of the older barristers were unwilling to criticise or praise Wixley. Younger employees were less reticent: one woman in her mid-thirties appeared particularly reluctant to speak her mind, allowing her fingers to play together nervously as she chewed her lower lip. Eventually Drake teased out of her that she was doing everything possible to leave chambers and unless she found a job soon she would be giving her notice without somewhere to go. ‘Why are you leaving?’ Drake said.

  ‘I hate it here.’ She looked over helplessly to Drake and Sara. ‘I can’t stand them.’ Abruptly she got up and left. Sara, encouraged by Drake’s raised eyebrow, underlined the woman’s name.

  A tall, gaunt man in his sixties with the air of a ham actor well past his sell-by date was the only barrister unafraid to speak his mind. ‘I’m retiring next month,’ Alan Lees said, folding himself into a chair. ‘I suppose you believe that someone at chambers might have a motive to kill Wixley.’ He paused, waiting for Drake to reply, but seeing Drake’s frown he continued. ‘It’s all a bit Miss Marple, don’t you think? I can imagine the title of an Agatha Christie novel – Murder at Britannia Chambers. The truth is, Inspector Drake, that Nicholas Wixley was thoroughly hated by us all. Every single one of us; but nobody will tell you that of course. But because his reputation brought in lots of cases and we all prospered and, well… you know… earning a living is important, isn’t it?’

  Did Lees have anything to gain by Wixley’s death? He sounded jaded and tired of the professional intrigue of life as a barrister. But he didn’t sound like a killer. How indiscreet might Lees be if pushed?

  ‘Are there any members of chambers that you think might have a motive to kill Nicholas Wixley?’

  Lees drew a hand slowly over his thinning hair as he composed his face for a serious reply. ‘How Michael Kennedy ever put up with his insults I shall never know, and he treated everyone with contempt, especially younger females.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Holly Thatcher was the most recent to leave. Many good lawyers left because of him. But she wasn’t the first.’

  Lees continued sharing his recollections and opinions about Wixley. No one could accuse Lees of not playing to the audience, Drake decided.

  ‘He should have retired years ago,’ Drake said once they were alone.

  Sara nodded. ‘He was really sanctimonious.’

  Pamela Kennedy was the final barrister who traipsed into the conference room. She tucked her legs under the table and smiled at Drake, ignoring Sara.

  ‘How did you get on with M
r Wixley?’ Drake said.

  ‘He was fair-minded and an excellent lawyer.’

  This echoed what Michael Kennedy had said. Drake concluded that Pamela and her husband had interests in common and that protecting his job and her status in chambers was predictable. Perhaps it was nothing more than what he should expect from an ambitious lawyer.

  ‘And what was your relationship like with Mr Wixley?’ Drake searched for any awkwardness on her face, but she kept an inscrutable appearance.

  ‘Professional. I’m sure you’ll forgive my prying – professional curiosity – but do you have any evidence from the scene?’

  ‘We’re pursuing a number of lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Of course, I understand.’ She gave Drake an intense smile.

  ‘Were you aware of how other members of chambers felt about Nicholas Wixley?’

  ‘I don’t pay office gossip much attention.’

  ‘How did he treat other women barristers?’

  ‘Again, I don’t listen to idle chatter, Inspector.’

  After finishing with Pamela, they spent the rest of the afternoon with the administration team. One of the final members of staff was a man in his mid-forties whose role was Crown Court coordinator. He had a broad London accent and a silver-grey goatee beard.

  ‘I don’t know there’s anything I can do to help,’ Richard Murdoch said, unprompted. ‘I just get on with my job.’

  ‘What did you think of Nicholas Wixley?’

  ‘As a man – I couldn’t abide him. I thought he was obnoxious. He treated everybody like a piece of something he’d picked up on his shoes.’

  ‘What was he like with you?’

  ‘I always did my job and never gave him cause to complain. The Crown Court staff used to tell me Wixley got all the best cases recently because Michael was looking after him, despite the way Wixley treated him. It made Wixley a fortune. And he gave up being head of chambers because he wanted to become a judge. And that’s another thing – he and Justin Selston hated each other. They couldn’t stand being in the same room as one another. When Selston heard that Wixley had been appointed as a judge he puked his ring in the toilets. And I mean gut-wrenching stuff.’

  ‘So he was disappointed at not being appointed himself?’

  Murdoch guffawed. ‘You could say that.’

  Although Drake’s mobile was on silent, its vibration alerted him and he saw the London number he had telephoned earlier that morning. He looked at Sara. ‘I need to take this call.’

  He glanced around the corridor, making certain no one could hear.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake, Wales Police Service.’

  ‘It’s Rufus Dixon from the judicial appointments board. We spoke earlier this morning. I wanted to confirm that only two candidates were interviewed for the vacancy filled by Nicholas Wixley. The other was Justin Selston. Is this the information you needed?’

  Drake stood for a moment mulling over the reply. Was it a real possibility that Justin Selston had killed Nicholas Wixley because he had defeated him for appointment as a circuit judge? It certainly meant Selston required far more of their time.

  ‘Will Justin Selston now be appointed as a judge?’

  ‘I couldn’t comment but I daresay he’ll be considered sympathetically when the appointment process is reopened.’

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday 27th March

  6.27 pm

  ‘You don’t really think Justin Selston could be the killer?’ Sara said.

  Drake sat in the passenger seat turning a bottle of water through his fingers. It was difficult to imagine the placid barrister slitting the throat of his colleague and then scratching the letter E onto his chest. But Drake had seen some unlikely murderers, human beings that had appalled him with their hate and the depths of their depravity.

  ‘Nicholas Wixley was universally disliked. I wonder what Justin Selston thought about him. If he was driven mad by jealousy I suppose it’s possible. And he knows about the alphabet murders case and all its gory details. So perhaps he tries to create the impression that a copycat or the mysterious associate of Zavier Cornwell is responsible.’

  Sara had parked a little distance from Mrs Wixley’s home. Stripes ran along the narrow lengths of lawns that lined the neat verges dotted with carefully trimmed ash and sycamores. Expensive Mercedes and Jaguars glided past.

  ‘Let’s go and talk to the grieving widow.’

  ‘Not so much of the grieving.’ Sara reached for the door handle.

  They left the car and walked over to the gate where Drake pressed the buzzer on the intercom. A crackly voice emerged. Drake leaned forward. ‘Detective Inspector Drake and Detective Sergeant Morgan.’

  The gate ahead of them clicked open. Ahead of them a navy Range Rover Sport was parked in front of a garage with old-fashioned oak doors. The house was an old Edwardian mansion. Money had been regularly spent to maintain its upkeep – the windows look spotless, even the guttering glistened, and Drake noticed the discreetly placed CCTV cameras.

  Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley stood in the open doorway as Drake approached.

  ‘I was expecting you earlier.’ Wixley fixed Drake with a reproachful stare.

  ‘It has taken us rather longer than expected to complete the interviews with the staff at Britannia Chambers.’

  Drake read a glimmer of disdain on Wixley’s face. Or was it simply her default position? She led them into a hallway where tables groaned with vases filled with cut flowers. The sound of activity down a corridor drifted towards them and a thin woman in her twenties, with high cheekbones and a prominent jaw, emerged from the room, a clothes iron in hand. She retreated as soon as she saw Drake and Sara. All the domestic chores continued unchanged, Drake thought.

  ‘When we spoke on Tuesday I should have mentioned that family liaison officers from the Wales Police Service are available. And—’

  Wixley raised a disdainful eyebrow and folded her arms.

  ‘Do you have immediate family?’ Drake determined that not even a deputy chief constable would deflect him from following the right protocols.

  ‘You needn’t trouble yourself about my wellbeing.’

  Her reply dumbfounded Drake. Most normal grieving widows would have offered details about a supportive sibling or a heartbroken mother. Wixley glared back at him.

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  ‘No, Inspector. Nicholas and myself never had any children.’

  ‘Did Mr Wixley have any immediate family?’

  ‘He was an only child and both his parents died when he was a teenager.’

  ‘Did he have any other relatives?’

  ‘None.’

  Her reply included a prohibition against further questions. Drake got the message but he sensed something out of place – the world of DCC Laura Wixley wasn’t the calm ordered version she wanted them to accept. Killing Nicholas Wixley had seen to that.

  ‘I’ll take you to his study.’

  Drake looked over at Sara as Wixley turned her back on them and headed down the corridor. Sara frowned. Drake guessed she was as troubled as he was about the reaction from Laura Wixley.

  At the end a door led into a ground-floor room with large French windows looking out over a long garden where two men worked on various shrubs in the borders.

  ‘The gardening contractors were booked weeks ago – Nicholas always liked the place to look pristine. He kept his personal papers in the desk.’ Wixley pointed at a substantial knee hole desk positioned in the middle of the room, allowing the user an unrestricted view down the lawn. Embossed invitation cards lined the mantelpiece of the fire surround. ‘That awful man Kennedy from his chambers has already been to collect any legal papers Nicholas was working on.’

  ‘Who do you think might have killed your husband?’ Drake said.

  Somewhere in her past Laura Wixley had been a detective barking out orders to officers like him, so Drake felt justified in asking her opinion. Surely it would have surprised h
er had he not. He could imagine her complaining about him to Price, or even one of the assistant chief constables in Cardiff, that he hadn’t asked even the basic questions a good detective should ask.

  ‘I think it must have been linked to one of his cases.’

  ‘Do you think it could be the suspected accomplice in the alphabet killings?’

  Wixley nodded. ‘Or a copycat. So many of these serial killer stories are published in the newspapers. It’s so easy to access all the details about the case. He prosecuted a lot of important murder cases so he made enemies.’

  ‘It’s unusual for defendants in cases to have a grudge against the lawyers involved; police officers, maybe.’

  Wixley shrugged. ‘I suggest you focus your inquiry on his past cases. There’s bound to be someone that fits the profile of the person you want.’

  Wixley made for the door.

  Sara made her first contribution. ‘Can we see his personal items too, ma’am.’

  Respecting Wixley’s rank didn’t spare Sara from an angry retort. ‘Whatever for?’

  Sara didn’t immediately reply, but Drake seized the initiative. ‘I’m sure you appreciate that it’s only part of building a complete picture of your late husband’s life.’

  Wixley swung her glare at Drake and barely lessened its intensity.

  Drake wasn’t going to be intimidated by Wixley baring her teeth.

  ‘Once you’ve finished. I’ll show you his bedroom.’

  Wixley left Drake and Sara, who stood looking at each other. ‘Do you think she’s hiding something?’ Sara whispered.

  ‘At least she relented about his personal stuff.’

  ‘She said she’d show us his bedroom, so they must have slept apart,’ Sara said.

  Drake nodded. Discreet lighting illuminated several canvases of modern art. Sara squinted at one appreciatively. Drake couldn’t make out the mass of colour and shapes. Against one of the walls was a glass-fronted display cupboard with fountain pens and ballpoints and propelling pencils in their original boxes.

  ‘It looks like he was a bit of a collector,’ Sara said.