Drake finished the call and turned to Sara, who shook her head. ‘He’d never take the risk of leaving the hotel.’
In Drake’s experience murderers and criminals always took risks. There was always something that let them down, some detail they hadn’t considered, some possibility of detection that eluded them. It made his job worthwhile.
‘I’ll go through Nicholas Wixley’s papers again. You work on Tom Levine’s death. We’ve missed something.’
Sara struck a serious note. ‘And we still have the knife found at Selston’s home.’
Drake rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I know, I know.’
Drake barked instructions for reception to make certain he wasn’t disturbed, and he got straight down to looking at everything again. Even if his fears were unfounded he had to prepare for the court appearance tomorrow. By the early evening his desk was a mass of papers and it unsettled him.
Drake heard Winder and Luned as they entered the Incident Room. By now he welcomed the interruption, so he left his office.
Winder stood by his desk. ‘Nobody has seen anything.’
Luned nodded. ‘Porth Neigwl is a very isolated spot.’
‘Even so,’ Winder continued. ‘It’s not every day that a body is burned to a crisp in a car.’
‘And Mrs Wixley?’ Drake said.
‘She wasn’t there, boss,’ Winder said. ‘And we spoke to a neighbour across the road that you’d spoken to previously. Funny old dear, she kept asking if we wanted tea and scones.’
‘I think she’s lonely,’ Luned added.
Winder continued. ‘She told us Laura Wixley had left the previous afternoon to go back to Manchester.’
Drake circled around the desks belonging to his team and reached the Incident Room board as Sara posed the question that was on his mind. ‘So, I suppose that means she is not implicated in the murder of Norman Turnbull?’
Drake sighed. ‘So why did he call her?’
‘That Portmeirion Hotel is a swanky place,’ Winder announced after slurping on a bottle of Diet Coke he produced from a jacket. ‘We spoke with two of the night staff working on the night of Nicholas Wixley’s murder. They don’t remember anyone leaving the hotel in the middle of the night or anything strange or unusual. Some of the younger barristers stayed in the bar until the early hours getting shit-faced.’
‘We’ve got three more names to contact in the morning,’ Luned contributed.
‘Some of the guests were going fishing when we left. Catching the evening tide.’
Drake then knew exactly what he had missed about Kennedy. ‘Christ, I’ve just remembered. Kennedy has a boat in Porthmadog.’
Three pairs of eyes gazed over at him, questioning.
‘He could have got into the marina undetected.’
Sara sounded a note of caution. ‘We still don’t have a motive for Kennedy to kill Levine.’
Drake stared over at the image of Selston on the board. If he was innocent then a serious miscarriage of justice could be prevented. He had to satisfy himself, be certain, he had discharged his duty. Suddenly the priorities sharpened into clear focus. He turned to face his team.
‘Gareth, speak to the night staff in the morning. Sara you contact the harbour master at Porthmadog and establish if there’s any evidence of Kennedy’s boat being moved the night Levine was killed.’
Drake paused. Concentration oozed from every pore of the officers present. ‘I’m in court tomorrow so I want updates as soon as you have them.’
Back in his office he requisitioned an urgent financial search against Kennedy. The Incident Room had emptied by the time Drake had finished preparation for the court hearing the following morning. Evenings like this drove his obsessions, forcing him to check and recheck everything, guaranteeing he’d stay chained to his desk until something could free him. Annie’s telephone call did just that.
‘Are you still in the office?’ She scolded.
‘I’ve got a lot to do before tomorrow.’
‘Ian, go home. There’s nothing more you can do.’
Drake did as he was told, reluctantly. He could never fully dismiss the risk in his mind that he had done something wrong. But he listened and grabbed his jacket and left headquarters.
On the way out, he sneaked a look at the board. All the photographs were still there: the brutal record of each crime scene, the funeral order of services and list of persons of interest. He switched the light off as he left the Incident Room and went home.
Chapter 44
Friday 10th of April
6.35 am
Drake jolted into consciousness as his dream faded to a silhouette. He had been shaking hands with the mourners at his father’s funeral. Earnest, intense faces expressed their condolences as they shook his hand, reminding him that his father had been well liked and loved. The sight of his grandfather’s open casket had been a recurring theme of his dreams over the years, or were they nightmares? He sat on the edge of the bed interrogating his thoughts. Had the orders of service he had inspected before leaving the Incident Room been the catalyst for his disrupted sleep?
Andy Thorsen’s text message the night before had reminded him he needed to be at the magistrates’ court by nine-thirty at the latest. It meant he would have to leave headquarters by no later than eight-thirty. Listening to the news as he ate his breakfast, he half expected an item referring to Selston’s court appearance, but the radio bulletin focused on the latest round of depressing trade figures with an analysis from an economist about the certainty of interest rate rises.
He detoured to the Incident Room at headquarters and perched on the side of a table gazing at the board. The criminal justice system would grind Justin Selston through its relentless mangle. He hadn’t told Price about the doubts surfacing in his mind. Facing up to the possibility they had blundered would be painful. As police officers their first duty was to establish the truth. Personal reputations could go to hell. But was it always that simple? Reputations were hard earned and admitting a mistake could be the toughest thing to face.
Something made him stand up and remove one of the orders of service. After the image of the loved one on the front page there were the usual hymns inside with the prayers and readings. On the back were thanks to the staff of the care home that had looked after the family member. Donations were to be made to a well-known charity. None of the persons of interest had any links to the deceased or their families. The funeral undertaker didn’t keep a register of mourners. The second order of service was similar, but the charity was different.
It reminded Drake that his mother had sent a cheque to the cancer ward of the local hospital for the donations collected at the time of his father’s death. Then it struck him that there was one thing they hadn’t checked.
He stood up abruptly, grabbed both orders of service and read the contact details of the funeral directors. Back in his room he picked up the telephone and rang the first number. Although it was still early, a voice answered. ‘Sunnyside funeral undertakers.’
Someone with a dark sense of humour, Drake thought. He spelled out his request in clear terms. Then he repeated the same exercise for the other undertakers. He glanced at his watch, worried he might be late.
* * *
The magistrates’ court shared a building with the Crown Court on the outskirts of Caernarfon. Drake saw the phalanx of reporters gathered by the main entrance after parking his car. He recognised two of the faces of journalists from the Welsh TV channels and another from the major UK-wide network. Selston’s court appearance was at least generating substantial press coverage. With Selston in custody the cameras couldn’t record the perp-walk favoured by the news. Drake gave them no more than a passing glance as he went inside.
Andy Thorsen paced around the conference room reserved for the prosecution.
‘Good morning,’ Drake said.
Thorsen grunted a reply. Moments later Rhodri Boyd, the barrister representing the Crown Prosecution Service, breezed i
n. He made Drake feel like the poor relation even though he had chosen his best suit, newest shirt and least-used tie. Boyd was immaculate, his suit clearly made to measure. A little over six-foot and flat-stomached with neatly trimmed auburn hair, it was difficult to make out his age – late forties at a guess, Drake thought.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ His accent flowed with the natural rhythms and confidence of a man accustomed to addressing a court and who expected his every word to be given the weight and importance it demanded. It was a sensible move by Thorsen to have a Welsh barrister from the capital working for the prosecution as Drake could hear the Welsh undertone to his accent. The magistrates would appreciate that, as well as the circuit judge who’d inevitably consider the appeal that afternoon.
‘Good morning, Rhodri.’ Thorsen’s voice trembled slightly. ‘This is Detective Inspector Ian Drake. He is the senior investigating officer on the case.’
Boyd reached out a hand and gave Drake’s a firm, brisk shake. ‘Pleased to meet you. Are we all ready?’
A part of Drake wanted this process to pause. Give him time to reconsider. But it was too late for that. After all, they had enough to satisfy the test for prosecuting Justin Selston. A bloodied knife had been found in his home. He had ample motive; he had been to Nicholas Wixley’s property on the evening he was killed. He had lied to them. That was the biggest thing, Drake reminded himself.
Killing time at court hearings had wasted hours of Drake’s career and it never got any better. Delays seemed to be an inherent part of the process. They waited around exchanging small talk; Boyd quizzed Drake about the interview with Zavier Cornwell. Drake surreptitiously checked his mobile, hoping that all the threads his team were working on would soon enough come to fruition. He wasn’t going to second-guess what the outcome might be, but he needed to be convinced Justin Selston had rightly been charged.
A few minutes to ten Selston’s barrister appeared at the door of the conference room followed by a team of lawyers. Introductions made, Selston’s barrister turned to Rhodri Boyd. ‘A word, please.’
Both barristers left and the defence team did the same.
‘Do you know Selston’s barrister?’
Thorsen nodded. ‘Howard Allport is a Queen’s Counsel from London. One of the youngest ever appointed as I recall and he sits as a deputy high court judge and has a reputation for being utterly ruthless.’
‘A QC?’ Drake said, thinking it was highly unusual for a senior barrister to appear in a magistrates’ court. ‘No pressure then.’
Thorsen made a grunting sound.
When Rhodri Boyd returned, Drake searched his face and body language for some tell-tale disclosure, some comments from Selston’s barrister that would make them rethink. ‘They’ve organised for the local circuit judge to deal with the appeal this afternoon. On the assumption the magistrates refuse to grant Selston bail.’
‘That’s what we expected,’ Thorsen said.
‘Allport made some very uncomplimentary remarks about the investigation. I basically told him to go to hell.’ Boyd grinned. ‘And it’s Dewi Richards sitting as the judge today so Allport’s accent will be enough to persuade him to deny Selston bail any day of the week.’ Boyd chortled now.
Another agonising hour drifted past as the magistrates heard two drink-driving cases.
Drake checked his emails repeatedly for any sign of the financial reports on Michael Kennedy. Thorsen and Boyd gave him suspicious glances. He returned weak smiles that he hoped and prayed wouldn’t give them any inkling of how his nerves were torn to shreds. Sweat soaked through his armpits.
Another half an hour passed before he texted Luned. Check all team emails for Kennedy finances.
A text to Sara and Winder asking for updates followed. Both men in the room with Drake gave him a guarded look when he finished. A court clerk appeared at the door and Drake’s pulse quickened. ‘The magistrates will hear the case at midday.’
Chapter 45
Friday 10th of April
9.37 am
Winder knew not to challenge the logic of Inspector Drake’s orders. But that morning he felt like he was being sent on a fool’s errand. They had a defendant in the dock and enough evidence to get a conviction. He regretted not saying anything in the last team briefing. After all, Luned had grown in confidence and secretly he admired her determination even if she was probably the most boring person he had worked with.
Winder reached the first address on his list and banged on the door of the terrace in Porthmadog but his efforts went unrewarded. He had a mobile number for Iwan, employed part-time at Portmeirion, and Winder dialled it, but it went straight to a voice message asking him to leave his details; he didn’t bother. He gazed up at the curtained first floor windows. No movement or any sign of life.
He got back in his car and punched in the postcode for the second address. Conveniently, it was close to the third; Winder was confident he’d be the first to report progress to Drake.
Gwel y Mynydd was a detached house overlooking Penrhyndeudraeth and near enough to Portmeirion for Hywel Parry to walk to work. A woman in her fifties opened the door.
‘I need to speak to Hywel. Is he in?’ Winder gave her little time to inspect his warrant card.
She ushered him into a sitting room at the front of the property and then yelled Hywel’s name. A display of Toby jugs and Moorcroft pottery adorned a shelf above the picture rail.
Hywel looked flushed when he entered. ‘Sorry, I was in the back of the garden.’
‘I’m investigating the death of Nicholas Wixley.’
Hywel nodded. ‘Is that the judge who was killed?’
‘I understand you were working at the Portmeirion Hotel on the night he was killed.’
‘Yes. I was helping in the bar and reception. There isn’t a lot to do at night.’
‘Do you remember anyone leaving in the middle of the night? One of the guests?’
Hywel crumpled his forehead. ‘I wasn’t paying attention to who left.’
Winder had Hywel explain his evening, where he worked, and who he was with until he was satisfied that he could learn nothing more. His interrogation of Hywel would satisfy Drake and his own conscience when he’d reassure the inspector he had thoroughly quizzed the witness.
Winder left soon after and drove to the next address.
Fred Williams led him into a sitting room, announcing as he did so that he needed to get to bed soon. Winder repeated his request for information about the night Wixley was killed.
‘That was the night a crowd of lawyers stayed up late. Jesus, they drank a lot. I’ve never seen so many champagne bottles ordered in one night.’
It suggested Williams had been busy, so Winder decided to wrap up the interview and get back to headquarters. ‘Did you see anyone leaving the hotel that night?’
He shook his head.
Winder made to leave when Williams added, ‘But when I was having my break and a smoke outside, I did see a car arrive. It must have been after twelve.’
It grabbed Winder’s attention. ‘Did you recognise who was driving it?’
‘No.’
Nothing to help us, Winder decided.
‘But the car was a BMW. I noticed the colour – Le Mans blue. My father has a car in the same colour, and the car parked below one of the street lights.’
* * *
A message reached Drake’s mobile as they filed into court. Selston stood in the dock staring straight ahead, flanked by a security guard. Drake settled into a bench behind Thorsen, who sat behind Boyd. There was a definite pecking order to barristers, solicitors and police officers.
The magistrates entered and the sound of a collective shuffle filled the courtroom as the lawyers, court staff and journalists stood up. Drake’s mobile vibrated on silent in his pocket. Surreptitiously he reached into his pocket as Boyd got to his feet.
‘Bore da, Your Worships.’
Opening in Welsh was inspired, Drake thought as he looked over at Al
lport, who had an eyebrow raised.
He read the bland, neutral language of the email with the results of the financial search on Kennedy. He let out a slow breath as he opened the attachment, hoping he could concentrate on Rhodri Boyd’s opening remarks to the magistrates and read from the screen of his mobile simultaneously. He scrolled through the attachments until he found the relevant statement.
He glanced up, hoping that no one paid him any attention.
Boyd’s voice filled the court. ‘The prosecution’s case is that the defendant had been driven to murder because of deep-seated resentment and hatred of Nicholas Wixley nurtured over many years. And…’
Drake blanked out the rest of Boyd’s comments as he read the date of Kennedy receiving the sum of £50,000 into his bank account. He fisted a hand and tapped his knee – it was the first part of the information he needed.
He tapped out a message for Luned.
She might give him the second part of the jigsaw.
Chapter 46
Friday 10th of April
10.35 am
‘I don’t work nights, love.’
The Porthmadog harbour master had a corpulent face, a massive paunch and the most annoyingly dismissive attitude to Sara’s questions.
‘Is there anyone who works nights?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
Sara counted mentally to ten. Drake would have been rude by now. She adopted a softer tone. She had to get this man’s cooperation.
‘I need to establish any boat movements for a certain evening.’ She gave him the date. ‘It was the night a Tom Levine was murdered in Pwllheli marina. We want to eliminate as many people from our inquiry as we can.’
The harbour master shrugged. Then he waddled around in his chair, adjusting his seating position. ‘I’ll dig out the details of every vessel that requested access. It is not going to be a long list.’ He found a large bound volume from the drawer of his desk and flicked through the pages. ‘You might try some of the local fishermen. They have small boats that come in and out all the time.’ She jotted down two names in her pocketbook.
Written in Blood Page 27