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  Michael Kennedy interrupted. ‘I’m sure you appreciate this is a difficult time for everyone. Tom Levine was at the party, but we didn’t see him leave the club that evening. As I recall he’d been drinking quite heavily.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  Kennedy avoided Drake’s gaze. Pamela fixed him with an intense glare.

  ‘Not that well,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘We’re all part of the sailing set. We don’t mix much with the locals,’ Pamela added.

  Sara appeared at Drake’s table as he mulled over whether Michael and Pamela Kennedy might need to be spoken to again. ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss.’

  Drake turned to Kennedy. ‘We’ll be in touch again.’

  Sara sat down by Drake’s side once they had left. ‘Colin Huxley Horton is convinced someone spiked Levine’s drinks.’

  Drake glanced over at Horton who gave him a brief conspiratorial nod. He walked over and whispered to Drake what he had told Sara already from the way she nodded. ‘He got very drunk quickly.’

  ‘I’ll get one of my team to speak to you again,’ Drake said.

  By lunchtime Drake and Sara had a list of guests and details of another dozen who had left Pwllheli to return to their homes in northern England. And Drake knew the names of all the bar and the waiting staff working the evening Levine was killed. Each would need to be interviewed, memories jogged.

  Drake bought a sandwich each for Sara and himself and they sat on the balcony looking out over Cardigan Bay. ‘Everyone drank far too much that Friday evening,’ Sara said.

  Drake nodded. ‘Nobody saw Tom Levine leave or even missed him when he had gone.’ A frustrating morning of interviews had given them nothing tangible and he hoped the afternoon would be more productive. Drake scrunched up the food packaging. ‘Let’s get back to Porthmadog.’

  He left and walked to his car, texting Mike Foulds as he did so, requesting a toxicology test on Levine.

  * * *

  Drake stared down at the map open on the bonnet of his car as Winder explained the morning’s activities. Inquiries on one side of the town had been finished. The team would cover the northerly section that afternoon as well as the isolated properties on the outskirts. Drake noticed the white oblong shapes representing chalets and static caravans dotted around the area behind the beach to the south. Morfa Bychan was a wide, flat and safe beach a short distance from Porthmadog and he let his gaze drift along the coastline, remembering his visits there as a child with his mother and sister. Had it been thirty years since he’d visited? A spasm of guilt announced itself, challenging Drake to answer why he hadn’t taken his own children there.

  This summer, he resolved to take Helen and Megan with Annie. They could go swimming, have a barbecue. The sound of two marked police cars arriving interrupted his train of thought. Car doors creaked open, radios crackled, greetings exchanged as the officers joined his group.

  ‘That must be a big holiday camp at Morfa Bychan,’ Drake said tapping the map. ‘Sara and I will go over there.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll do as much as we can today. Tomorrow is a rest day.’

  Sitting in his car he fumbled in the glove compartment for a CD – ‘This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours’, pleased that it was where he recalled. He passed the case to Sara.

  ‘The cover photograph is the band standing on Morfa Bychan.’

  She gave the Manic Street Preachers CD a cursory glance but said nothing. She had shown little interest in his taste in music, but it was a short drive, so he decided she would have to tolerate rock music for the journey.

  The route took Drake out of the town and up over Moel y Gest and then down for the holiday park and the beach beyond it. Drake recalled warmly his father driving onto the sand and producing a windbreak from the boot of the car before settling into a family day at the seaside. A sign welcomed visitors to Morfa Bychan Holiday Park. He slotted the car into a parking space. Checking that Sara had a photograph of Jamie Eaton, they left the Mondeo and made for the entrance building next to a gate with a horizontal bar. A CCTV camera was discreetly positioned under the eaves.

  A woman in her sixties with thinning hair gave him a weak smile. She was sorting paperwork and looked up at them from behind a counter.

  ‘We are fully booked I am afraid.’

  She gawped wide-eyed at the warrant cards Drake and Sara produced.

  ‘Do you have a list of the people who own the chalets?’ Drake said.

  ‘Yes… but, I don’t know if I can give them to you.’

  Drake leaned on the countertop. ‘This is a murder inquiry. I’m sure you want to help.’

  The woman nodded. ‘The boss isn’t here right now.’ She glanced over at a clock hanging on the wall. ‘He won’t be long. Perhaps you could wait.’

  Waiting for the owner to materialise on a Sunday morning was the last thing Drake would tolerate. ‘I need the names now.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It really is important that you cooperate.’

  Colour faded from the woman’s face. ‘Give me a minute.’ She grabbed a mouse on the table and clicked frantically as she peered at the monitor on her desk. Soon the printer behind her purred into life as it spewed out various sheets.

  She pushed them over the counter at Drake. ‘This is a list of people who own the chalets.’ She fumbled to reach for a book on her desk. ‘These are the names of people staying as guests.’

  Drake started reading. Sara showed the woman a photograph of Jamie Eaton. ‘Have you seen this man?’

  ‘No… I don’t think so.’ she squinted at the picture. ‘There are lots of people that come and go. And sometimes guests don’t sign in. They are supposed to, I know, and the boss gets really angry if they don’t. He says it’s all to do with health and safety.’

  The park had over two hundred chalets and each owner listed alphabetically according to the zone in which the chalets were located. Drake recognised a name – Michael Kennedy.

  ‘Do you know this Michael Kennedy?’ Drake wondered if it was the Michael Kennedy he had seen that morning.

  ‘He inherited a chalet after his father. Michael works in some fancy legal firm in Manchester.’

  Drake nodded.

  ‘Michael is really nice; he’s taken my son sailing and he does a lot with the kids on the park when he’s here. He’s got a boat in Porthmadog.’

  Drake read the name ‘Eaton’ on the owners’ register and blanked out the woman’s high-pitched voice as he saw he was registered as a chalet owner.

  Drake shared a glance with Sara as he showed her the list.

  ‘Do you have a key to the Eaton chalet?’ Sara said.

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘You’ll need to tell us where their chalet is located.’

  Drake and Sara hastened back to their car. The entrance barrier was already in the upright position as Drake approached, but the speed bumps meant it was impossible to do more than five miles per hour. Visitors sat on makeshift balconies looking out over the beach and the sea beyond as they ate breakfast, enjoying the spring sunshine.

  ‘Over there, boss.’ Sara pointed at a chalet at the end of one row. The curtains were drawn, the car parking area outside empty. Drake parked, and they walked over to the chalet. They heard the sound of a door squeaking open and being slammed shut. Drake and Sara ran over and watched as Jamie Eaton vaulted over a nearby wall into an adjacent field.

  ‘Get backup,’ Drake said. ‘I’m going after him.’

  Drake clambered over the wall and by the time he regained his footfall the man was almost at the bottom of the field, reaching a gate leading down towards sand dunes and then onto the beach. Drake heard the urgency in Sara’s voice as she made a telephone call and followed him. He took off at a gallop towards the gate, ignoring the pinching around the toes of his brogues.

  Occasionally the running figure cast a brief glance over his shoulder, and each time, realising Drake was on his tail, he pulled further away. Drake couldn’t risk losing Jamie Eaton again.


  He negotiated the farm gate easily enough and saw Eaton hopping over the tufts of marram grass and sand dunes that divided the fields and chalets from the beach. Eaton made heavy progress and Drake sensed he was gaining on him even though his heart wanted to crack his ribs open. His breathing became ragged. He really did need to get into better shape.

  Glancing over his shoulder Drake saw Sara nearing and it encouraged him to increase his pace. Eaton disappeared from view as he approached the edge of the dunes. For a moment Drake worried, but then he saw that Eaton had slipped on a piece of flotsam discarded by the high tide. Eaton set off again at a steady pace over the flat, hard sand, his arms flailing around, his head bobbing up and down. Eaton was tiring: too many beers last night, Drake hoped.

  Eaton continued towards Blackrock, the name of the large rock that gave the beach its English name. With the tide so low it might even be possible for Eaton to make his way around the coast. Drake pressed on, trying to take deep, regular breaths, filling his lungs to power his legs.

  Eaton looked around again. Drake was in shouting distance now, so he bellowed. ‘Stop, police.’

  Eaton turned to look over at Drake but as he did so failed to see the remains of a child’s sandcastle a few yards ahead of him. After his feet had lost their secure footing he went headlong, his hands struggling to prevent him landing flat on his face.

  Drake reached Eaton as he got to his feet.

  Drake landed squarely on top of Eaton, hearing the wind being forced out of his lungs. Seconds later Sara arrived. She produced handcuffs that she securely attached to Eaton.

  They turned Eaton over.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ Drake gasped between breaths.

  Chapter 20

  Easter Sunday 31st March

  7.58 pm

  Drake recoiled when he entered Eaton’s caravan. The place stank of stale food and unwashed clothes. Inside he waved a hand in front of his nose. Sara followed him and stifled a cough. ‘This is disgusting. How can anyone live in such conditions?’

  Magazines, an Xbox, and empty pizza boxes covered the seating area at one end of the caravan. Old newspapers littered the floor in a pile as though they had been brushed off the seats when Jamie wanted to watch the fifty-five-inch television perched precariously on a thin table.

  Drake joined Sara at the kitchen area. There was little sign of any food preparation from the bin overflowing with plastic takeaway food containers, all reeking of fat.

  The panels of the internal walls creaked as he pushed open the door of the first bedroom with his shoe. The smell inside was no better and a duvet lay crumpled over the pillows.

  ‘I can’t imagine how anyone could sleep in such a place.’ Drake tried to fathom out how a double bed could have been squeezed into the narrow space.

  Sara stood at the door to the other bedroom. ‘You need to see this, boss.’

  Drake joined her and looked inside. The bed had been slept in recently judging by the duvet and clothes discarded in a heap in one corner. After snapping on latex gloves he picked up a pair of old jeans. He rummaged through the pockets, fingering loose change and a petrol receipt from services on the M56. He dropped the trousers on the mattress and shuffled towards the bottom of the bed. Drake kneeled to pick up a navy striped shirt lying on the floor. From the breast pocket he pulled out a sheet of folded paper.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Drake said after reading the contents. He stretched out his hand for Sara to read the details. ‘It’s the discharge grant notification from David Eaton’s time in prison.’

  ‘So he’s arrived in north Wales.’

  ‘And we need to find him. Let’s get a search team here and then we interview Jamie Eaton.’

  Three hours later Drake sat in an interview room at Pwllheli police station. His shirt was damp, his suit crumpled, and his brogues scratched. Taking off his shoes and socks and shaking them hadn’t been enough to extract all the grains of sand. They tickled his skin and it made him feel that the only thing he wanted to do was have a long, hot shower and change his clothes.

  But he had Jamie Eaton to interview. The search team’s progress in Eaton’s caravan had delayed the process long enough. Drake ignored Eaton’s lawyer’s whingeing remarks about his own ruined bank holiday family plans.

  A one-piece white paper suit crinkled every time Jamie moved. The forensic investigators were processing the polo shirt and jeans he wore when arrested along with all his clothes and possessions from the caravan.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Nicholas Wixley and Tom Levine,’ Drake said. ‘We understand you had an argument with Nicholas Wixley the day before he was killed. Why did you try and abscond this morning?’

  ‘You lot would do anything to stitch me up.’

  ‘We wanted to talk to you about the death of Nicholas Wixley.’

  Eaton folded his arms, dragging them close to his body. ‘You can’t pin that on me.’

  ‘Is it true your argument with Nicholas Wixley got violent?’

  ‘He wanted to do me over. I’d worked on the engine of his yacht. Then he made up some shit complaint about the engine not working.’

  ‘Where were you on the night after you argued with Nicholas Wixley?’

  Eaton shrugged.

  Drake hesitated for a moment. He had seen this edgy, contemptuous attitude so many times and it never worked. He had every reason to detain Eaton in custody for at least twenty-four hours and absconding that morning would probably give him more than enough grounds to seek an extension that would see this arrogant youngster behind bars for another forty-eight.

  ‘I’m sure it’s in your best interest if you cooperate.’ Drake looked over at the lawyer, who made no response. ‘Have you been in touch with your father recently?’

  Drake kept his eye contact with Eaton direct, watching for his response, gauging exactly the reaction. Eaton glanced at his lawyer, who raised an ambiguous eyebrow.

  ‘Are you trying to fix my dad up for Wixley’s death, now?’ Eaton sounded shrill.

  ‘I asked you a simple question about contact with your father. When did you last see him?’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Drake flicked back through some of his papers on the table, hoping the pause would encourage a reply. It didn’t.

  ‘A search team has been busy going through the possessions in your caravan today. So, I’ll ask you again – when did you see your father last?’

  Eaton moving in his chair made a scratching sound and he jerked himself forward. He gave his lawyer a panicked glance before facing Drake. He tightened his jaw and flared his nostrils. ‘You filth will stop at nothing.’

  Drake took a moment and kept his eye contact direct. ‘For the record we have evidence that your dad was staying in your caravan. Is that true?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘We need to speak to him in order to eliminate him from our inquiry.’

  Jamie guffawed. ‘Yeah, as if.’

  ‘Where is he now, Jamie?’

  Jamie shook his head again very slowly.

  ‘Did you know Tom Levine?’

  More shaking of the head.

  ‘He was found murdered in his yacht in Pwllheli marina on Saturday morning. CCTV footage records you arriving at the marina and going down onto the pontoons early that morning. Can you explain to me what you were doing there?’

  Eaton stood up abruptly and leaned on the table towards Drake. He’d caught everyone in the room by surprise. ‘I was fucking working. You can’t stitch me up for Levine’s death.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Drake demanded.

  For the next half an hour Jamie made no reply to any further questions. A sense of frustration made Drake tell the custody sergeant he shouldn’t release Eaton at all and that they were going to charge him with assault on Nicholas Wixley. When Sara reminded him that they had no formal complaint, he relented and agreed to let the CPS decide Eaton’s fate.

  It was late in the evening by the time they watched Eaton leave
the police station on bail.

  At least they had his address.

  Chapter 21

  Bank Holiday Monday 1st April

  9.00 am

  Drake read an email from HMP Marchfield explaining that staff shortages meant the first available time for him to see Cornwell would be Thursday. It annoyed him that the prison authorities had ignored the urgency in his request. Complaining wouldn’t get him far so he curbed his anger, left the car and headed for the Pwllheli marina building.

  Tired faces looked at Drake once he arrived in the room on the first floor – he had promised them the day off after all. Eaton’s arrest meant a change of plan and new priorities but the last thing he wanted was his team burning out. ‘We get as much done by lunchtime. We all take this afternoon off. This week is going to be busy.’

  Jaded faces brightened at the news.

  Drake sat by a desk laden with boxes of paperwork and records. ‘We need to know the names of everyone who was sleeping on their yachts or boats overnight Friday and we need a database of the names of everyone who owns yachts in the marina. But first we trawl through the CCTV records. We cross-check everyone on the footage against the names of boat owners.’

  He shared a glance with the team. ‘Get the CCTV footage up onto the laptop screens while I find the harbour master.’ Luned fiddled with one of the laptops on the table. Winder nodded his understanding and reached for the second laptop.

  Drake stood up and made his way to the control room where a stony-faced Mervyn Phillips sat with Joe. Drake had called Phillips the day before, making clear he and his assistant would be needed that morning.

  ‘Sorry, we’re both on holiday,’ Phillips had replied.

  ‘It’s not a request,’ Drake had retorted. ‘I expect you there by nine.’ He had finished the call without waiting to hear the response.

  Drake jerked his hand at them and they followed him. He pointed at one of the chairs with Winder and Luned and turned to Phillips. ‘You’re with Detective Constables Winder and Thomas. We need names to match faces. The sooner we get finished the sooner we can all go home.’