Written in Blood

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘It looks a bit spooky,’ Sara said as they drove down a narrow track towards the gated entrance. Drake couldn’t avoid the puddles that a shower of rain the night before had created. To his right he noticed three sailors gathered with their kit bags on a jetty that reached its way into the bay.

  Parked outside the wooden doors of a single garage was a glistening Mercedes E Class. Drake drew up alongside, and once he left the car he felt the uneven surface of the fine gravel on the soles of his brogues. He reached for his jacket, carefully folded on the rear seat. The Easter bank holiday brought the first visitors of the year to the Llŷn Peninsula. The weather always changed at Easter as though the previous three months were a cold and miserable afterthought.

  Sara joined Drake as he left the car. A substantial set of steps led up to the front door, and at the top Drake rapped with the heavy, cast-iron, oak-shaped handle.

  He half expected a butler in formal morning clothes to appear, but Justin Selston opened the door. A yellow cravat folded neatly at his neck and his immaculate short back-and-sides gave him an austere appearance. Selston wore a pinstripe suit with a waistcoat and a gown and a wig for most of his working day so he probably had little time for current fashion, Drake thought.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector.’ Selston glanced over Drake’s shoulder towards the sea. ‘It’s a fine morning, don’t you think?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Selston,’ Drake said. Selston gave Sara a brief nod of acknowledgement. He ushered them both into the house and closed the door behind them. He led them along a corridor. ‘Let me show you to the morning room. We can speak there.’

  Mahogany wooden panels lined the walls into the main part of the building and after a few more steps led into a generous hallway. Sunshine poured in through a roof light over an enormous staircase.

  A woman, mid-fifties, wearing a housecoat, appeared from a door and looked over at Selston. ‘Mildred will organise coffee,’ Selston announced.

  Mildred looked at Drake, her face blank and expressionless. Drake and Sara expressed a preference and Mildred gave them a nod before scuttling off. Selston stood by the window where Sara and Drake joined him. There was a faded elegance to the room. The curtains were old and thinning, and the sofas and armchairs were from an era when people invested in furniture that they hoped would last a lifetime.

  For the second time in the investigation, Drake stood at a window looking out over Cardigan Bay. In the distance, sails fluttered from a flotilla of yachts already underway in a regatta.

  ‘Do you sail, Mr Selston?’ Drake said.

  ‘I did some as a boy with my father. He was quite a keen dinghy sailor. The family keep a rib at the jetty you passed.’

  ‘Has the house been in your family for very long?’ Drake asked. Holiday homes like Trem y Mor passed through the generations, providing a retreat from the bustle of the cities of northern England.

  ‘My grandfather had the property built between the war years. I share its use with my cousins and their family, although the younger generation much prefer to fly off to Spain than come to this draughty old place.’

  Mildred reappeared and deposited a tray with a cafetière and three china cups and saucers on a coffee table.

  ‘Thanks awfully, Mildred,’ Selston said, without looking at her. He waved a hand as though directing Drake and Sara to sit down.

  ‘Now, do tell me how much progress you’re making with your inquiry,’ Selston said. Sara helped herself to coffee and she handed a cup and saucer to Drake – it gave him time to gather his thoughts. Selston had given his voice an authoritarian ring as though Drake were in the witness box being cross-examined.

  Drake took the first sip of his coffee – it was strong and clean, just as he liked it.

  ‘We were hoping you might be able to help us with more background about Nicholas Wixley.’

  If Justin Selston didn’t like his question being ignored, he didn’t let on. He was a man who had seen people lie on oath, cross-examined witnesses, read the expression on the face of an accused and interpreted the body language of a defendant squirming to hide the truth. And now Drake was doing exactly the same. How far would Selston go to conceal what he was really feeling?

  ‘We were colleagues.’

  It was true, of course: a simple statement of fact. Drake would have to work at his questions to get more detail out of Selston.

  ‘What was your relationship with him like?’ Sara sounded warm and inquisitive.

  Selston gave her the beginnings of a sneer that he quickly checked into a condescending smile.

  ‘Cordial and businesslike, of course. We often crossed swords in the courtroom but that’s what barristers do.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  Selston hesitated. ‘Some time in the week before his death. I cannot be certain.’

  ‘Did you socialise with him?’

  ‘Good heavens no.’

  ‘Have you been in the same chambers with him for many years?’ Drake butted in as Sara drank her coffee.

  ‘Yes, we practised at Britannia Chambers for a number of years.’

  Drake expected a little more detail, more background and perhaps a tinge of emotion.

  ‘So what was he like as a colleague?’ Drake persevered. ‘There must have been business meetings all the barristers attended. How would you describe the atmosphere in chambers?’

  Drake reminded himself of the comments made by Kennedy, the chief clerk of chambers, praising Wixley, which contrasted so sharply with the working environment described by Holly Thatcher.

  ‘What are you implying?’ Selston lowered his head and frowned at the same time. Drake having to contend with lawyers when he was interviewing suspects was one thing, but actually interviewing a lawyer was different. Resolving that Selston wasn’t going to intimidate him, Drake continued.

  ‘I am not implying anything, Mr Selston,’ Drake said. ‘I’m investigating the murder of your colleague Nicholas Wixley. As I am sure you are aware, we need to build a complete picture of his life.’ The mild rebuke worked; Selston’s body language mellowed as he reached for his cup and saucer and sat back in the sofa.

  ‘Things were always very cordial between us.’

  Obfuscation wasn’t going to help, Drake concluded. Was Selston hiding something?

  ‘So there were never any arguments or disagreements about the running of chambers, hiring and firing of staff, finances etc.?’

  Selston replaced the cup and saucer on the table before giving Drake a withering glare. ‘If you have heard something about the atmosphere in chambers that you want to put to me then now is the time to do so, Inspector.’

  Drake took a moment, but he kept eye contact with Selston. Perhaps ‘atmosphere’ hadn’t been the best choice of word. The barrister’s face gave nothing away, but his answers suggested Drake had far more to discover.

  ‘Were you friends with Nicholas Wixley at university?’

  Selston averted his gaze first. Drake wondered if he was calculating what they knew already. How far would this man go to colour the truth?

  ‘The law faculty had many students when Nicholas and I were undergraduates. Our paths rarely crossed, and we couldn’t be described as close friends. I was focused on my degree; there was never any doubt in my mind I wanted to practise as a barrister.’

  Drake had resolved earlier to ask Selston about the photograph from the home of Mr and Mrs Thorpe. On the surface, it had been a picture of close friends but something made Drake hesitate. Something about Selston’s replies made him suspicious. ‘Did Nicholas Wixley ever mention his family to you?’

  A thoughtful expression creased Selston’s face. ‘I don’t believe he ever did. I seem to recall his parents died when he was a teenager. I’m sure that Laura Wixley can give you more details.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Sara stopped making notes for a second and turned to Selston. ‘Do you have any immediate family, Mr Selston?’

  ‘I’ve never marri
ed. I have several cousins.’

  ‘I understand you come from a family of highly respected lawyers and judges.’

  Selston gave her a grudging nod of approval.

  Drake glanced over at Sara, wondering if she had finished. He had one more line of questioning, probably the last one Selston would tolerate.

  ‘When Nicholas Wixley was appointed as a circuit judge you were a candidate as well.’

  Selston did exactly as Drake thought he might: a chill invaded his face, and the realisation that two police officers were in his holiday home scratching into his intimate professional life would be intolerable.

  ‘You are very well informed.’

  ‘As your father and grandfather were both on the bench, it might seem that being a judge was natural for you, almost dynastic.’

  The chill turned into an arctic freeze.

  Selston said nothing.

  Drake continued. ‘How did you feel when Nicholas Wixley was appointed to the bench?’

  Selston pressed his lips together very tightly.

  Drake kept his eye contact. ‘Were you disappointed?’

  Selston cracked. ‘How dare you!’ He stood up, put his hands on his hips. ‘Come here and suggest I could in some way be implicated Nicholas’s murder. It is preposterous. Get out now.’

  Drake glanced at Sara, who had closed her notebook. Their coffees were unfinished. They had nothing further to ask Selston, for now. Drake got to his feet, slowly buttoning his jacket. ‘We’ll see ourselves out, Mr Selston but if there is anything else you’d like to tell us, you know where to find me.’

  Selston sneered, as though making contact with Drake would be the last thing he’d contemplate.

  Drake’s brogues echoed against the wooden flooring as they made for the front door.

  ‘Pompous oaf,’ Sara said. Even her choice of words matched Selston’s personality and his depressing morbid property. ‘Do you think he is involved?’

  ‘He is hiding something: whether it’s how he really feels about Nicholas Wixley or something altogether more serious is what we need to discover.’

  Drake crunched the car into reverse gear before negotiating his way out of the property and back to the main road. His mobile, sitting in a cradle, rang as he indicated right. Sara took the call. ‘DS Morgan – D I Drake is driving.’

  Drake changed down through the gears.

  ‘What!’ Sara said. ‘You better give me the postcode.’

  She finished the call. ‘One of Wixley’s friends we met with, Tom Levine, has been killed. Someone discovered his body on his yacht.’

  Chapter 17

  Easter Saturday 30th March

  12.04 pm

  When Drake neared the outskirts of Pwllheli, tension clawed at his chest. He wanted to scream at the cars dawdling in front of him. He reached a roundabout and prayed the traffic causing the delay would stream away to the right or left so that he could travel straight ahead.

  ‘Yes,’ Drake exclaimed, unable to hide his relief as he covered a few yards towards the next small roundabout. After the railway station he took a left and powered along the edge of the inner harbour. Banks of sand and mud lay exposed by low tide. In the distance, Drake spotted the marina.

  He parked by the entrance of the old sailing club building and saw a uniformed officer standing next to the security gate by the ramp leading down to the pontoons. A group of half a dozen men in sailing trousers and beanie caps stared over at them as they neared the officer.

  ‘Gareth Hawkins, sir. It’s a yacht called Terra Firma.’ Hawkins dictated directions. ‘Griff is down there making sure the scene isn’t contaminated.’

  ‘Have you been told when to expect the CSI team?’

  Hawkins shook his head.

  ‘Just make certain nobody gets down this ramp.’

  Hawkins tapped a code into a security pad and the gate swung open.

  Sara joined Drake as he jogged down towards the first pontoon. It swayed gently under their footfall.

  Terra Firma was a handsome, substantial yacht tied up alongside a pontoon at the far end of the marina. The word Sigma was stencilled onto the side of the hull and Drake made a mental note to google the details. A pleased look creased the face of Griff Jones, the second uniformed officer, when Drake and Sara reached him.

  ‘He was supposed to be racing this afternoon,’ Griff said. ‘One of the crew members found him when he arrived to prepare this morning.’ The officer nodded at the yacht. ‘He’s in one of the cabins. It’s a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Who was it who found him?’ Sara asked.

  ‘A guy called Peter Duncan. He’s in the clubhouse, waiting to talk to you.’

  Drake snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and Sara did likewise. He wasn’t going to wait for the CSIs before examining the crime scene. It would be cramped inside, and he could imagine they’d take hours to finish the examination. He didn’t have time to waste. Reaching up, he grabbed hold of the railing surrounding the deck area. Then he placed his right foot on the deck and clambered up and over the thin metal wire.

  Looking down into the cabin Drake realised the board discarded by his feet was the makeshift entrance door. The security was minimal; presumably nothing of value was ever kept on a yacht apart from the equipment, which would have been difficult to dismantle and steal.

  Drake turned and lowered himself down three steps into the main cabin area.

  A bottle of single malt whisky stood on a table in the galley area with a glass by its side.

  ‘He must have been drinking early,’ Sara said once she had negotiated the steps.

  ‘He could have been here all night,’ Drake said, glancing over at the sailing jacket discarded on a bench seat.

  ‘There’s probably CCTV covering the entrance ramp.’

  Drake nodded: it was to be expected, and doubtless one of the things the owners paid for as part of their mooring fees.

  A bank of equipment dominated one corner. Drake looked down towards the cabins at the bow of the yacht. He said to Sara. ‘I’ll go first.’

  Drake made as little contact as possible with the handrails, conscious he shouldn’t contaminate the scene. He could imagine Mike Foulds’ irritation if he did so.

  Two cabins led off left and right at the bottom. Each had a small single bunk against the hull. At the end of the short corridor was a door that Drake gently nudged open with his shoe.

  Tom Levine was spread-eagled on a bunk. Drake looked for signs of a struggle, but none was apparent. His throat had been cut like Wixley’s. There was no sign of a murder weapon, but the blood covered the sheets, drenching his clothes. And he wore an identical pair of socks to Nicholas Wixley.

  ‘It’s the same MO, sir,’ Sara said under her breath, gazing at Levine’s legs and feet.

  Had both been killed by the same man? Drake turned around as Sara joined him in the small space and noticed the letter F written in blood on the bulkhead near the door.

  Soon it felt claustrophobic and Drake couldn’t imagine how the CSIs might feel having to work in such a confined area. The cabin had no personal effects. Levine wore a pair of denims, and a blue chambray shirt under an expensive-looking half-zip sweater.

  ‘I didn’t see any blood anywhere else in the yacht,’ Sara said. ‘It suggests he was killed here. But why was he down here?’ Sara sounded perplexed. ‘If he was expecting somebody wouldn’t there be two glasses on the table?’

  Drake nodded. ‘Perhaps he knew his killer, but didn’t like him enough to offer him a drink. Let’s go back outside. There’s nothing more we can do here.’

  Drake and Sara clambered off the yacht, avoiding falling flat onto the pontoon by accepting Griff’s offer of help. They retraced their steps back towards the entrance ramp and spotted Hawkins talking with two anxious-looking women in their thirties.

  ‘This is absurd,’ one of them said to Drake after the gate snapped shut behind him and Sara. ‘You can’t possibly prevent us from going to our yachts. There’s a f
ull calendar of racing today, for goodness sake.’

  Drake glanced at Hawkins, who gave him a pathetic what-can-I-do stare.

  ‘A man has been killed.’ Drake glared at the woman. He wasn’t in the mood to be patient. ‘The marina will stay out of bounds for as long as I decide.’

  Everyone’s attention was taken by a team of crime scene investigators marching towards them with boxes of equipment.

  Drake turned to the woman again. ‘I suggest you leave now.’

  He joined Mike Foulds and the investigators with him. Drake and Sara led them down the ramp and then on to Terra Firma as Drake outlined the crime scene.

  Their footfall clattered over the deserted pontoons. Griff looked pleased to see them, and Foulds put him to work helping the investigators. ‘Get back to me with your report as soon as,’ Drake said.

  Drake and Sara returned to the ramp. Both women were gone and Hawkins had relaxed. Half an hour later Drake and Sara were sitting in their car having interviewed Peter Duncan, who’d discovered Tom Levine’s body. He was in his early thirties, and lived locally, having answered an advertisement in the sailing club to join Levine’s crew for the season. Usual inquiries would have to be made into his background, but he seemed to be genuinely shocked.

  ‘Let’s go and see the widow,’ Drake said after they’d finished with Duncan.

  Breaking the news of a death was something Drake hated, and he was pleased that a family liaison officer had already arrived at Dorothy Levine’s home. It was a comfortable bungalow in Abersoch. The sort of property that sold within a day to the moneyed elite from Cheshire. Drake sympathised with a distant aunt who lived nearby who complained vociferously that locals had been priced out of buying a home in the village. The Levines’ bungalow would have been affordable anywhere else on the Llŷn Peninsula.

  The large panes of glass in the wooden-framed windows suggested the place had been built at a time when conserving energy wasn’t a priority. An Audi 4x4 was parked in the drive alongside a Ford Fiesta.

  A family liaison officer Drake knew from a previous case opened the door. She moved to one side and nodded towards the rear. ‘Mrs Levine’s in the kitchen.’