‘I suppose you are looking for identification.’ Foulds looked over at the smouldering remains.
‘Top of the class,’ Drake said.
Foulds gave him a weary look. ‘This might take some time.’
The fire officers kept watch while two crime scene investigators began their macabre work. Sara followed Drake as he circled around the car park taking the footpath down towards the beach. Hell’s Mouth stretched out in front of Drake for what he guessed was a mile, maybe more. It had a narrow band of sand and shingle, and being in the teeth of the south-westerly gales made it unappealing for a family beach outing.
‘What was he doing here?’ Sara said.
Drake shivered. Windsurfers on the bay skimmed over the surface of the sea; the wind was fresh and salty against his face.
Drake turned on his heels and retraced his steps towards the car park.
Mike Foulds kneeled by the driver’s side open door. The investigator with him was standing nearby, a hand over his mask shrouding his face. Inside the car Drake could see the remains of a body sitting upright. He wasn’t going to venture any further. The smell of burning hair could linger in the nostrils for days. He could make out that most of the skin around the face was charred. Identification might only be possible from dental records. Mike Foulds was rummaging around in the man’s jacket. Without warning the investigator standing behind him hurried away towards some nearby shrubs and promptly puked.
Foulds walked over to Drake and Sara, holding something in his hand. ‘He’s got a weak stomach.’ Foulds nodded towards his colleague who drew the sleeve of his one-piece white suit over his mouth.
Foulds opened the leather wallet held in his left hand. The material was scorched, its threads unravelling. The first bank card Foulds removed had melted so badly none of the numbers or names were visible. He read aloud the first six digits from the second card. ‘The name?’ Drake said.
Foulds shook his head. From the inside pocket underneath a flap Foulds pulled out gingerly a semi-melted driving licence. He looked up at Drake and gave a nod of accomplishment. ‘Norman Turnbull. Does that match the person who owns the car?’
Drake nodded.
Behind him Drake’s name was called, and he turned to see the second uniformed officer waving at him. Two civilians stood by his side. Drake strode over, relieved to be leaving the putrid smell.
‘This is Byron Green,’ Constable Harry Pritchard said.
Green had a long chin that matched his thin frame.
‘I witnessed the explosion.’
Sara reached for her pocketbook as Drake spoke to Green. ‘Tell us what you recall.’
‘I’d already been up for an hour. I’d done my early-morning constitutional along the beach. This place is so beautiful and tranquil… until this morning that is.’
‘Time,’ Drake said too sharply. ‘Do you know the time when the car exploded?’
‘Of course.’ Green gave them a pleased look. ‘It was just before the eight am news headlines on the Today programme on Radio 4. I never miss it no matter what. I can even remember which politician was being interviewed. They were discussing—’
Drake raised a hand to stop Green. ‘We’ll need your details. One of the inquiry team will contact you for a full statement.’
Chapter 42
Thursday 9th of April
11.35 am
A ball bounced its way towards Drake and Sara as they neared the static caravan. Alan Turnbull’s three small children were completely oblivious to the catastrophic events unfolding a few miles away.
The flimsy metal door squeaked open and Alan Turnbull’s gaze darted between Drake and Sara. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ His voice sounded desperate.
‘Can we talk in private?’ Drake said.
He gasped and held a fist to his mouth. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’
Children’s clothes and toys strewn all over the caravan created a scene of organised chaos. Drake and Sara pushed some possessions out of the way and sat down on a sofa, looking at Alan Turnbull as the colour drained from his cheeks.
‘We recovered a driving licence from the car belonging to your brother. We’ll organise formal identification through dental records in due course.’
Alan Turnbull stared at Drake and then at Sara. It was the stare of a man unable to take in what he was being told.
‘Mr Turnbull, can you tell us why Norman was in this area?’
‘He was going to spend the weekend with us. He’s been under a lot of stress recently.’
Sara used her most sympathetic tone. ‘What kind of stress?’
‘He was always highly strung. He argued with the editor of the newspaper where he did some freelancing about an article he had written, about a Tom Levine and his business dealings. The man had taken over his life – he had become completely obsessed with him. He thought he was going to break a big story that would build his reputation and get him a job with one of the national newspapers.’
‘Did he tell you where he was going this morning? Or who he was meeting?’
‘He left first thing. I should have warned him, told him to be careful.’ Turnbull’s gaze drifted out of the window into the far distance, ignoring the sound of a child crying outside. After a moment, he added, ‘He said he was going into Abersoch to that Italian café on the main street.’
‘Did he tell you who he was meeting?’
Turnbull shook his head. ‘I should have stopped him from going.’
‘We may need to see you again,’ Drake said as he got to his feet.
Outside they made their way back to the car. ‘We need to get house-to-house organised around Porth Neigwl. And get the usual search done on Norman Turnbull’s phone.’
Sara nodded.
‘Let’s go and see if anyone in the café can tell us anything.’
* * *
Abersoch was certainly bucking the trend for shop closures in rural areas: an Italian café, a fish-and-chip shop, a fancy-looking ice cream parlour and various convenience stores. Property prices in the village, driven skywards by wealthy families from England, made it a fashionable all-year-round destination resort.
Drake passed half a dozen metal tables and chairs on a narrow terrace in front of Sergio’s café, as described by Alan Turnbull, and reached the counter. Drake pushed his warrant card at the owner.
‘I’m investigating the murder of a man who might have been here this morning.’ Drake thrust his mobile into the man’s face: it had a copy of the image from Turnbull’s driving licence.
The man nodded. Drake expected a singsong accent from Sicily or Naples but he guessed the man had travelled no further than Blackburn.
‘He was here with Dot Levine. Really sad about her husband. They were regulars every weekend when they were down. I hear she’s selling up.’
‘How long were they here? Where did they sit?’ Drake asked, stunned at this revelation.
A puzzled look passed over the man’s face. He jerked his head towards a table by the window. Drake hurried over and looked straight out over a terrace onto the main road. Gliding past were high-end SUVs driven by glamorous women with glistening hair. He noticed the CCTV camera under the eaves: it would have recorded all the activity outside.
‘Have you got the CCTV footage from earlier?’
‘I’m busy right now. I’ve got a delivery to collect.’
‘This is a murder inquiry.’ Drake pointed an angry finger at the restaurateur. ‘I need to see your CCTV footage. Now.’
Drake and Sara were led through a stale-smelling kitchen towards a room at the rear with a desk and piles of folders and papers. Sitting down, the owner fiddled with a mouse until the screen came to life.
It took a few minutes for him to find the right footage. Drake leaned over his shoulder, making sure the man knew they had little time to waste. Drake read the time; the CSIs would be finished, he would need to report to Superintendent Price, and he had to prepare for the remand hearing in the magistrates’ court the
following morning. Time was scarce.
Price would probably decide Turnbull’s death should be transferred to a new detective inspector.
The owner stopped at the image of Dot Levine entering the restaurant. He paused the footage. The clock on the screen read 7.15. Drake nodded for him to move the footage on. They saw Norman Turnbull marching across the road, his head turning in all directions: the time said 7.26.
‘Do you want to see the footage of when they left?’
The owner ran the footage on until Turnbull left. The time said 7.46. Mrs Levine was still sitting by the window; they watched her wordless instructions to a waitress. Traffic drove past the café, occasionally stopping at the pedestrian crossing outside. Drake thought he recognised a driver of a car that pulled to a halt as three teenagers meandered over the road. The footage carried on running until Drake realised who he had seen driving the car moments earlier. ‘Go back.’
‘How far?’
‘Back to when Mrs Levine speaks to the waitress.’
The man sighed his frustration. Drake listened to the mouse being clicked and when the youngsters appeared he raised his voice. ‘Stop there.’
Sara joined him as they looked at the screen. Michael Kennedy, the chief clerk of Britannia Chambers, was sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of his BMW.
* * *
Dot Levine opened the door of her bungalow and the sound of Celine Dion drooling out a love song far too loudly followed behind her. The expensive-looking, crisp white blouse gave her a healthy, summery look.
‘May we come in, Mrs Levine?’ Drake said.
She shrugged her agreement, pushed the door open and let them enter. Behind him Drake heard the door being snapped shut by Sara. Boxes were lined up along the kitchen table, on every available space of the worktops.
Drake got straight to the point. ‘Did you see Norman Turnbull this morning?’
‘Yes, he is that damn fool journalist. He printed some articles about Tom a while ago. He was making a nuisance of himself and he wanted to ask some questions. I told him I’d agree to meet him on one condition – that he never contact me again and that if he did I’d report him to the police.’
‘What did he want to ask you about?’
‘He wanted to know if I knew anything about the betting shops in south Manchester Tom had bought a few years ago.’
‘Betting shops?’ Drake looked at Mrs Levine, but his mind frantically sorted threads from earlier in the investigation. Nicholas Wixley had a list of betting shops on his computer.
‘He bought a small chain of bookmakers. He thought he might turn it into something successful.’
Successful at money-laundering, Drake thought.
‘Anyway, I remember Tom telling me I’d be surprised about who was in hock to the company.’
Mrs Levine put an ancient-looking liquidiser into the nearest box. ‘So, I told Turnbull he’d be the last person I’d help.’ She turned to face Drake. ‘Why are you asking about Turnbull anyway?’
‘He was killed a few minutes after seeing you.’
Chapter 43
Thursday 9th of April
3.35 pm
Wyndham Price kept his eyes fixed on Drake as he finished summarising the details from Hell’s Mouth, adding. ‘It’s too early to formally confirm Turnbull was murdered. But I’ve—’
‘Treat it as murder immediately.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Price hadn’t waited to hear that Drake was doing just that.
Winder was coordinating house-to-house inquiries. Luned was taking a statement from Alan Turnbull and officers from Stockport were at his flat securing the property and removing computers and paperwork.
Until forensics had completed their work he couldn’t rule out the possibility it was a freak accident. Cars do catch fire, Drake had observed to a sceptical Price.
‘Selston’s remand hearing is tomorrow morning. I need you in the magistrates’ court with Andy Thorsen.’ Price left no room for Drake to contemplate being anywhere else. ‘If the magistrates refuse bail you can be certain there will be an appeal to a Crown Court judge. I’m not putting any money on him not getting bail.’
Selston would have the very best legal team. Arguments would have been researched, sureties already available, his passport ready to be surrendered to secure his release.
Price was right; Selston would probably be out on bail by Friday evening.
And it was only a matter of time until Price allocated the Turnbull inquiry to another detective inspector. Drake left the senior management suite and returned to the Incident Room.
Since discovering Turnbull’s body Drake had smothered a worm of doubt wiggling around in his mind about Selston’s guilt. He hated the possibility he’d been responsible for deciding to charge a man who might be innocent. Miscarriages of justice did happen, but why had Selston lied to them?
Below the photographs of Selston and Wixley on the board was the list of Britannia Chambers’ staff headed by Michael Kennedy.
‘Why was Kennedy in Abersoch yesterday?’ Drake swept his gaze around the images and details pinned to the board.
‘We know about the telephone calls Turnbull made last night,’ Sara said after joining him. She handed Drake a list of the numbers on a printed sheet. Drake read them carefully. Two looked familiar. He strode back to his room, Sara following in his slipstream. ‘I’ve seen these numbers before.’
Drake trawled through the details on his computer until he reached a list of persons of interest, witnesses, and people spoken to during the course of the inquiry. He found the number and turned to Sara.
‘He called Laura Wixley last night. Can you believe that?’ Drake recalled a comment from Price. ‘She’s staying at her holiday home.’
‘You don’t think she…?’
Drake reached for his phone. Winder answered after two rings. ‘I need you to go over to the Wixley home. I want to know exactly where Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley was last night.’
‘What, me, boss?’
‘Yes, Gareth, you and Luned.’
The second telephone number he recognised belonged to Michael Kennedy. The worm of doubt suddenly struggled to break free in his mind. Why had Norman Turnbull called Michael Kennedy?
‘Norman Turnbull called Michael Kennedy last night.’
‘I don’t understand what the connection could be, boss.’
Drake fumbled for a clean sheet of A4 paper from a drawer in his desk. Then he carefully moved the columns of Post-it notes to one side. ‘What do we know about Michael Kennedy?’
Sara began. ‘He’s the chief clerk of Britannia Chambers.’
‘And he was regularly humiliated by Nicholas Wixley.’
He paused, allowing the cogs of the investigation to slot slowly into place. ‘We’ve been told Nicholas Wixley got all the best cases. How did he manage that unless Michael Kennedy favoured him?’
Drake got into his stride.
‘What if Wixley had something on Michael Kennedy? Something that gave him the ability to maximise his income.’ A comment from Dot Levine the night before, about her husband being surprised at who owed the bookmakers money, made him turn his attention to the records from Nicholas Wixley’s laptop.
‘Come on, boss.’ Sara sounded patronising. ‘It wouldn’t give him a motive to murder Nicholas Wixley.’
He ignored her, and after finding the list of debtors he scrolled down to the surnames beginning with K. Nothing. ‘Damn. He isn’t on the debtors list from Wixley’s computer.’
Sara paused, obviously unconvinced. ‘I suppose the fact that he had an affair with Kennedy’s wife adds to the mix.’
‘There could be something else…’ Drake said. ‘Nicholas Wixley threatens to share the details of what he knows about Kennedy with the other senior barristers. After all, he’s been appointed a circuit judge. He doesn’t need Kennedy any longer.’
Drake stood up and paced around the room before stopping to peer out of his office window. Tree
s were in bud and the grass on the wide expanse of parkland surrounding headquarters needed its first cut. The image of Laura Wixley’s immaculate garden came to his mind. It was the first gardening activity he had seen that season. Then it struck him that she had mentioned Kennedy. He turned abruptly to Sara.
‘What did Laura Wixley say about Kennedy?’
Sara left the room, returning moments later with her notebook. She flicked through the pages until she found the right notes. “Funny little man from Nicholas’s Chambers.”
Drake looked at Sara. A guilty silence enveloped the room. Drake didn’t need to tell Sara: Michael Kennedy needed their immediate attention.
Drake sat down, fisted his right hand, and tapped the table. He added the name Selston in capitals on the top of the sheet in front of him. And alongside it the name Michael Kennedy. He gestured for Sara to sit down.
‘We need to analyse everything again.’ Drake said through drying lips. ‘Selston would have known about the funeral order of service. Kennedy could too, from access to the prosecution papers. The press didn’t mention them, which means only someone on the inside knew that detail.’
‘It could be anyone. Dozens of people in the Crown Prosecution Service, the defence lawyers and the courts had access to that information.’
Drake didn’t let Sara’s comments deflect him. ‘We’ve assumed it was Selston because he was the defending barrister, but Michael Kennedy could have read the prosecution file.’
‘And he was staying at the Portmeirion Hotel when Nicholas Wixley was killed.’
‘Damn it.’ Drake straightened in his chair, reached for the telephone and dialled Winder.
‘I’ve arrived outside DCC Wixley’s home,’ Winder said.
‘After you’ve seen her, call at the Portmeirion Hotel and identify the staff working the evening Nicholas Wixley was murdered. Find out if anybody ordered a taxi or if any of the staff can remember anybody leaving late at night. And see if they have any CCTV footage.’
Written in Blood Page 26