A woman wearing an immaculate housecoat opened the door once Drake had rung the bell, which chimed impressively through the building. Colour drained from her cheeks when she saw the two police officers standing behind Drake.
‘May we speak to Mr Selston?’
She scampered back into the house and a troubled-looking Selston emerged, the creases on his forehead deepening as he reached the door.
‘What the hell are you doing? I’m due in Crown Court for a remand hearing this morning. Whatever it is you want, it will have to wait.’
‘Justin Selston. I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Nicholas Wixley.’
The housekeeper gasped. Selston took a deep breath and leered at Drake.
‘You are making a terrible mistake.’
Once Drake had cautioned Selston, he said, ‘These officers will escort you back to the area custody suite at Northern Division headquarters of the Wales Police Service. We’re likely to be in a position to interview later today. Can we contact a solicitor to represent you?’
Drake packed Selston off with the two uniformed officers and stood on the threshold of the barrister’s substantial home. Moments later a search team filed in. It had been difficult assembling officers with sufficient training at short notice and a number of the constables present were on rest days. The overtime on offer had been the sweetener in persuading them to agree to take part.
Drake and Sara walked through the house. The sitting room was cold, uninviting, the sort of room a bachelor with few friends or visitors would maintain. The kitchen had a similarly old-world feel with a tired-looking Belfast sink surrounded by a wooden draining board that badly needing re-varnishing. Pots and pans hung from butchers’ hooks suspended from a cage above an oak table. It was easy to imagine Justin Selston sitting here alone eating scrambled eggs for breakfast.
‘Sad old place, isn’t it, boss?’
Drake couldn’t agree more. ‘I wonder whether this was the lifestyle he chose? Did he blame Nicholas Wixley for not having another girlfriend?’
‘That would be dead weird.’
From the kitchen they took the staircase and found the first search team working their way through various bedrooms. It would have surprised Drake had Selston ever entertained guests. Why did he need such a large house? It reminded Drake that living a lonely, sad existence wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.
They retraced their steps downstairs, knowing that by now Gareth Winder and Luned Thomas were in Selston’s room at Britannia Chambers. Another barrister would no doubt be in the Crown Court advising the defendant about his bail application while trying to ignore the shattering news about a senior colleague.
Drake turned to Sara. ‘Let’s get back. We’ve got a suspect to interview.’
* * *
Drake worked his way through half a round of a soggy ham sandwich, sitting at a desk in the Incident Room, listening to Sara ticking off the questions on the interview plan between mouthfuls of her cheese salad.
The custody sergeant had already notified them that a solicitor from Manchester was on his way. A quick Google search told Drake he was from one of the prestigious firms. He checked in with Gareth Winder, who was still busy gathering Selston’s documents and paperwork from Britannia Chambers. They expected to be back later that afternoon. The search team supervisors at Selston’s home and his holiday home had little to report.
Arriving at the area custody suite Drake detoured into a bathroom where he scrubbed his hands and dowsed his face with water. The rituals soothed his mind. He drew a comb through his hair and straightened his tie. He stared at himself in the mirror – were they treating Selston any differently from any other potential suspect? He was a highly experienced barrister, so of course they were.
The interview suite was the only one at area custody control able to record on tape and video simultaneously. Before starting, he had spoken briefly with Superintendent Price, who was going to sit and monitor the recording live. Price said little; after all, Drake was the senior investigating officer; he was in charge of the interview. Drake collected the tapes from the custody sergeant and shared one last encouraging look with Sara.
Justin Selston looked exactly as he did earlier. He wore a navy three-piece suit with a shirt with a detachable collar, favoured by barristers. He looked completely unperturbed at the prospect of being interviewed. Drake expected nothing less. He had probably read hundreds of interview notes, cross-examined dozens of detective inspectors, represented murderers and rapists, so he wouldn’t be intimidated.
Price’s last words rang in Drake’s ears. ‘Treat him as you would any other suspect. Don’t give him any quarter. You’ve got a job to do.’
Aiden Turner sat alongside Justin Selston. Drake guessed he was early forties; his hair was immaculately tidy and he had clear, intelligent, probing eyes.
Formalities completed, Drake clicked on the tape machine and everyone in the room identified themselves. Drake took a moment to compose himself, sipping slowly from the bottle of water on the table in front of him.
‘How would you describe your relationship with Nicholas Wixley?’
Selston stared back hard, his head slightly lowered, his eyes hooded. ‘We were professional colleagues.’
‘Would you call him a friend?’
‘It’s depends on how you define “friend”.’
‘I was asking if you described him as a friend. I repeat the question.’
Drake noticed a nervous twitch at the back of Selston’s jaw.
‘We never socialised, apart from events relating to chambers.’
‘Did you know his wife, Mrs Laura Wixley?’
‘I met her a few times.’
‘How long have you known Nicholas Wixley?’ Drake fixed Selston with a steady gaze. Would Selston take the risk of assuming they hadn’t investigated his background before the arrest was justified?
‘We went to the same university.’
Another indirect answer that satisfied the question, just.
‘Were you friends as undergraduates?’
Selston paused; again Drake read the calculation going through Selston’s mind. He must be assessing how much they had discovered.
‘No, we weren’t.’
From the folder in front of him Drake drew out the photograph given to them by Mr and Mrs Thorpe. He pushed it over the table at Selston. ‘This is a picture of you at university with a group of friends. One of those present was Nicholas Wixley.’
Selston’s eyes bulged. It convinced Drake he hadn’t seen it before.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘And Nicholas Wixley?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the names of the others?’ Surely he wouldn’t lie now; surely he would realise they knew their identities.
‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t recall their names.’ Selston fidgeted with the nail of the forefinger of his right hand. He pushed the photograph away.
‘You don’t remember their names.’
Turner butted in. ‘That’s not a question, Inspector. Do please move on. Are you going to show my client more photographs from decades ago? I thought you were dealing with a current murder inquiry.’
Drake gave him a narrow, cold smile.
‘Let me help you, Mr Selston. Mary died a few years ago and Jennifer now lives in Scotland. The other man in the photograph is Roger Brown. Did you have a relationship with either of these women?’
Selston raised an eyebrow a fraction and let it rest before a contemptuous shadow filtered across his eyes.
‘Would you like to reconsider your previous answer to my question about remembering the names of these fellow students?’
Selston shook his head briefly.
Drake gave Aiden Turner a brief nod as though he were warning him that he was taking the interview up a notch. ‘We’ve spoken to Jennifer Blackburn. She confirms that while you were at university you had a relationship with her. An intimate relationship. Is that correc
t?’
Selston threaded the fingers of both hands together and placed them slowly on the table between him and Drake. Then he proceeded to turn each thumb around the other.
Drake stared at Selston. ‘For the purposes of the tape, Justin Selston makes no reply.’
From the folder Drake produced the notes from the interview with Jennifer. ‘Mrs Blackburn was very frank. During her relationship with you she had a brief liaison with Nicholas Wixley. She describes it as having a devastating effect on you.’
‘Really, Inspector,’ said Turner again. ‘This is ancient history.’
Drake ignored him. ‘You see, Mr Selston, I think you bore a grudge against Nicholas Wixley from that moment on. Do you blame him for destroying your relationship with Jennifer?’
Selston gave Aiden Turner a tired sort of look as though it was beneath his dignity to respond. ‘No comment.’
Drake paused. ‘Let’s move on to something else. I understand you represented Zavier Cornwell. The press called him the alphabet killer.’
Drake’s new line of questioning took Selston and Turner by surprise. Turner scribbled something in his notebook that he passed over to Selston. The barrister shared a scornful look with his lawyer.
Drake continued, deciding it was a decent enough attempt at mind games. ‘The letter E was tattooed into Nicholas Wixley’s chest. Exactly the same modus operandi as Zavier Cornwell.’
‘Then I suggest you should be looking for a copycat killer,’ Selston blurted out.
‘Or someone with an intimate knowledge of the original case. At Cornwell’s trial no mention was made of the orders of service daubed in the victim’s blood. A copycat killer would never have known those details. But you knew them all. Do you agree?’
Drake noticed Selston taking a long, hard swallow.
‘I can’t possibly remember all the details… of every case I have handled.’
Drake took a moment to allow the implication of his last questions to sink in. Then he spent time questioning Selston about the prosecution of Zavier Cornwell, pushing over images of Nicholas Wixley’s corpse, comparing them to the bodies Cornwell had carved up on his killing spree. They would have caused revulsion for most people but Selston appeared unaffected. Professional immunity, Drake thought. Selston said little, made the occasional response, and glanced over at his lawyer, who sometimes interjected, all of which Drake ignored.
A message reached Drake’s mobile and he scolded himself for not having turned the thing off. He saw the name of Michael Foulds, the crime scene manager, asking him to make contact urgently.
‘I need to suspend this interview,’ Drake announced. He got up and motioned for Sara to follow him.
He found an empty interview room and called Foulds.
‘We found a bloodied knife at Selston’s holiday home,’ Foulds said.
The implication didn’t sink in for a few seconds. ‘What?’ Drake sounded throaty and disbelieving.
‘It was in a drawer in the garage. It had been given a cursory wipe. There are no fingerprints on the shaft but the blood residuals are enough for a DNA test.’
‘Send me a photograph.’
‘On its way.’
‘And Mike, get the DNA done urgently.’
‘Of course.’
Drake let out a long breath. Interviewing Selston was demanding and he could feel his energy sagging. Now the possibility they had evidence made him want to punch the air. His telephone bleeped, and an image reached the screen. He showed it to Sara. ‘They found this knife with blood residuals at Selston’s holiday home.’
She whistled under breath. ‘That changes things.’
‘You bet.’ Drake headed back for the interview room once he had calmed.
They retook their seats and Drake restarted exactly where he had left off. They had time at the end to ask about the knife. Drake opened the folder again, shielding its contents from Selston by propping it at an angle on the table. He took out an email from the judicial appointments board. He read the text, conscious of two pairs of eyes boring into him. Then he handed it to Sara, prodding at the middle of the page, pretending to draw her attention to something. She gave him a conspiratorial nod.
‘Nicholas Wixley was favoured over you for the best cases. How did that make you feel?’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘He got all the major murder trials and he garnered a very high reputation. Did that annoy you?’
‘This is beneath contempt.’
‘Would you describe yourself as ambitious?’
Selston rolled his eyes.
‘Your father was a circuit judge and also your grandfather. Is that correct?’
‘I don’t see what my family background has to do with this.’
‘It must have come as a blow when Nicholas Wixley was appointed as a circuit judge.’
Selston’s complexion faded.
‘It must have been galling to see the person that you blamed for ruining your chance of happiness with Jennifer being more successful in your chosen profession and then being appointed as a judge.’
‘I can’t believe this interview is being conducted.’ Selston struck a high, cultured tone to his voice.
Drake pulled out from the folder the images from Tom Levine’s yacht. Slowly he set them out on the table facing Selston. ‘These were taken at the scene of Tom Levine’s murder. The circumstances of his death are similar to Nicholas Wixley’s. The letter F was tattooed onto his chest.’
Selston raised his eyes after checking each image and gave Drake an incredulous look.
Drake continued. ‘You are the prosecuting barrister in a case involving Euan Levine, Tom’s nephew.’
‘And do you think that gives you a basis to link me to Tom Levine’s death?’
‘The Crown prosecution lawyers strongly suspect that Euan Levine’s defence team is being leaked information.’
Selston almost shrieked his disbelief. ‘This is absurd. Pam worked on that case as well as my pupil.’
Turner raised his voice too. ‘Detective Inspector. There isn’t a shred of evidence to connect my client to Tom Levine’s death.’
Just wait until what comes next.
‘Please take a look at this photograph.’ Drake showed Selston and Turner the screen of his mobile. ‘This knife was found in your garage. Is it yours?’
Drake searched for a spasm of fear passing over Selston’s eyes, but they remained unaffected.
‘I’ve never seen it before.’
‘The forensic team believes there are blood traces on the blade. DNA tests are currently being conducted. Now is your chance to offer an explanation for the knife.’
Selston shook his head but fixed Drake with his eyes.
‘Where were you on the night Nicholas Wixley was killed?’
‘I was staying in the Portmeirion Hotel. You know that well enough.’
‘Did you leave at any point that evening?’
‘Of course not.’
Drake sat back for a moment. It had been the one lie he was waiting for.
‘We have an eyewitness that saw you at Nicholas Wixley’s holiday home in the early hours of the morning. Is that correct?’
Panic threatened to overwhelm Selston. He made an odd grunting sound and stammered a reply.
‘I… I… knocked the door, but nobody replied. I had some urgent chambers business to discuss.’
‘Why did you lie to me about leaving the Portmeirion Hotel?’
Colour seemed to drain from Selston’s face. Drake could see that he realised he had stepped over into the abyss.
‘I believe you killed Nicholas Wixley as a result of your deep-seated jealousy that turned into pure hatred.’
Selston shook his head slowly.
Chapter 39
Wednesday 8th of April
6.36 pm
Drake sipped a coffee that Sara had organised. It was a weak and insipid concoction, but Drake was beyond caring. Selston’s interview had drained him. He wa
nted to sit in a dark room for hours, saying nothing, doing nothing.
Instead he was watching the television screen with Superintendent Price standing by his side. Drake recognised the face of the reporter outside Northern Division headquarters.
‘I believe that the Wales Police Service has this morning arrested a man on suspicion of the recent murder of Nicholas Wixley. He’s being held at a secure police station in north Wales. The police haven’t as yet formally confirmed his identity, but I understand from sources in Manchester that one of Mr Wixley’s colleagues has been arrested.
This is now a fast-moving inquiry and the police have asked for any eyewitnesses or any members of the public who may have anything to contribute to contact the helpline. The murder of Nicholas Wixley caused considerable shock and revulsion in legal circles and the wider community as he had recently been appointed a circuit judge and he was a well-respected and well-known lawyer in Manchester with family connections to north Wales. It is understood that his widow, a senior police officer in the City of Manchester force, has been kept fully informed of all the latest developments.’
‘Typical load of bollocks,’ Price said.
‘Have you made contact with Laura Wixley?’ Drake said, finishing the last of his drink and dropping the plastic cup into a metal bin.
Price nodded. ‘I spoke to her this afternoon. I thought it was only right she should be informed – professional courtesy and all that.’
‘How did she react?’
‘Hard to tell. She sounded businesslike. It took me a while to track her down. She’s been ordered by the chief constable to take a week off so she’s staying at her holiday home. She’s planning on selling up – too many bad memories so she’s getting the house ready to be sold.’
It was easy to imagine Laura Wixley coordinating the necessary work to have the house professionally deep cleaned, making sure that all the walls and floors were scrubbed clean. But once the house was on the market it would probably attract a few voyeuristic rubberneckers keen to know exactly where Nicholas Wixley had been killed.
Written in Blood Page 24