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  Winder and Luned were allocated Good Friday while Drake sat with Sara and Joe watching the footage from Saturday.

  They watched as sailors carried kit bags, laughing and joking as they trudged their way down to the pontoons. Sara recorded the names of sailors Joe recognised. He hesitated over others and shook his head for those who were strangers. Every unfamiliar face would need to be tracked down and their movements identified for Friday evening and Saturday morning. It was tedious and time consuming and the process only raised more queries. But someone might have seen something.

  The footage for Saturday morning had far more people milling around the ramp waiting to enter the marina. Once the crime scene had been discovered it had meant the marina had been cordoned off and owners had been trapped in their boats and yachts until the crime scene manager had narrowed the perimeter to the pontoons around Levine’s yacht.

  A crowd gathered and streamed through the gate.

  It was difficult to see every face and Joe struggled with the identification. ‘I cannot possibly be expected to recognise all these faces.’

  ‘Do the best you can,’ Drake said.

  ‘Stop it there,’ Joe said as a group of a dozen sailors squeezed past the gate. He named three but didn’t recognise the others. Drake peered at the screen. A face looked familiar. Someone involved in the inquiry, and for a second he couldn’t place him.

  ‘I know that face.’

  Sara shuffled her chair nearer to him. Joe moved to one side.

  Suddenly Drake recognised the face. ‘That’s David Eaton.’

  Sara leaned forward and squinted at the screen. ‘You’re right, boss.’

  ‘I wonder what he was doing there?’

  * * *

  Rationalising how he felt as he drove over to Felinheli that evening made him realise that more than anything he wanted his relationship with Annie to work. It didn’t dispel completely the rituals and obsessions that could dominate his mind, but it had helped. Had it not been for her parents visiting that weekend Drake would have been staying at Annie’s home: waking up by her side in the morning, enjoying breakfast around her kitchen table, sharing a joke, looking forward to life.

  Annie’s original plans were for them to spend the day with her parents. He had really hoped to have taken the day off and despite her reassuring him that she realised how important the case was, he still felt guilty.

  His daughters, Helen and Megan, had met Annie twice. On the first occasion, Helen, the oldest, had been frosty, offhand-ish with her, and although Megan had been a more laid-back, she had taken the lead from her older sister. By the end of their afternoon bowling and then eating pizza at the girls’ favourite restaurant, his daughters had relaxed. Annie had been sensitive, and when Helen asked Annie about her family, he knew his daughters would enjoy her company. The intervening winter months and Annie’s encouragement that he needed to take things slowly meant contact with his daughters had been confined to trips to the cinema and meals.

  Often Drake mulled over what Helen and Megan thought of Annie. He dismissed seeking out the girls’ approval and dreaded the prospect of Helen, in particular, asking him intimate questions.

  He tried to dismiss the knot of apprehension curling in his stomach as an immature teenage approach to meeting Annie’s parents. He hadn’t done this for years, but he was in his forties, he chided himself. Cancelling the arrangements to see Helen and Megan on Good Friday meant he felt guilty for spending the evening with Annie and her family.

  Drake parked behind a ten-year-old BMW and glanced up at Annie’s house. He looked in the rear-view mirror and with no tie to adjust, he drew a hand through his hair. There were bags under his eyes and he contemplated what he’d look like in ten years. Policing was ageing him prematurely. Leaving the car, he made his way over to the door and rang the bell.

  Annie answered and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I missed you last night.’

  Drake really wanted to pull her close, but she went indoors, and Drake followed her to the sitting room on the second floor. Roland Jenkins had thin wisps of silvery hair still clinging on to life. He had an average paunch for man in his late sixties and a kindly, warm face that smiled as he shook Drake energetically by the hand. Rebecca, Annie’s mother, was an older version of Annie – her face more lined, the hair a little thinner, more brittle, but she had the same engaging smile.

  Sitting outside in Annie’s garden overlooking the Menai Strait, Drake opened a bottle of wine and distributed four glasses. The sun began its slow descent, turning the sky a brilliant red. Two yachts passed each other, motoring on engines along the Strait; another slowed as it approached the harbour nearby.

  ‘This is the most magical place,’ Rebecca said. ‘We should retire here.’ There was a semi-serious tone to her voice.

  ‘It is lovely,’ Roland said.

  When the temperatures fell, they sat inside.

  Small talk came easily to Roland and Rebecca Jenkins. They were polite and interested in Drake and his family, although Drake guessed Annie had shared a lot of the details already. It led onto a conversation about his family and how long his parents and grandparents had lived in the foothills of Snowdonia. Drake didn’t feel on edge with Roland and Rebecca, as he had with Sian’s mother. He made polite enquiries about Roland’s family, knowing Annie had mentioned his farming background in west Wales. Farmers always have things in common, Drake thought, as Roland recalled his own upbringing.

  Annie made them dinner and they sat around the kitchen table until Drake’s eyes burned. He had another full day ahead of him, a full week. He made excuses, shook Roland by the hand and warmly kissed Rebecca on the cheek, and Annie followed him outside to his car.

  By the front door he pulled her close and kissed her lips. He had been wanting to do that all evening.

  ‘I think my parents like you,’ Annie said.

  Drake willed himself to believe that everything would be all right between Annie and himself. A feeling of breathlessness made him realise he would miss her badly that evening.

  Chapter 22

  Tuesday 2nd April

  11.30 am

  Drake sat in his car at headquarters after attending Tom Levine’s post-mortem and mulled over the pathologist’s conclusion that the absence of defensive wounds suggested Levine hadn’t struggled. It wasn’t a surprise given Levine’s drunken state.

  He left the car and when he reached the Incident Room, Winder was pinning two photographs to the board. Luned and Sara, sitting at their desks, turned to face Drake.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ both women said in unison. Winder nodded an acknowledgement.

  Even an afternoon off had revitalized the team: there was a clear-eyed determination on their faces.

  ‘Any results for David Eaton?’ Drake said.

  Eaton’s photograph had been circulated to every police officer and every community support officer in Northern Division area as well as the neighbouring police forces in England.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Sara said.

  ‘I found a picture of Sir Ivan Banks, the high court judge and Hector Murren, the journalist,’ Winder announced.

  ‘Any progress with establishing their whereabouts?’

  Winder shook his head.

  ‘The countrywide alert for Sir Ivan’s car hasn’t produced any results. I spoke to one of the Met officers this morning who told me a neighbour believed he owned a garage near his home so for all we know his car could be safely locked up,’ Sara added.

  Drake joined Winder, staring at the photographs of Sir Ivan and Murren. ‘Let’s hope there’s an innocent explanation for both men being out of touch. Otherwise…’ Contemplating the possibility that either were being sliced up by Zavier Cornwell’s accomplice made him shiver.

  ‘We need to find them,’ Drake announced before turning and looking over at Luned. ‘Call Murren’s partner and organise a time for us to see him tomorrow.’ The young officer nodded. He turned back to face the board again and took a couple
of minutes to rearrange the images into a neat and precise order. The photographs of Levine’s murder scene were placed alongside similar images from Nicholas Wixley’s bedroom – the similarities unmistakeable. Drake stood back for a moment.

  Drake turned to face Luned and Sara as Winder returned to his desk. ‘We need to finalise the list of the owners of the yachts, boats, dinghies and everyone connected to the marina. And establish who was sleeping on their yachts or boats the night Tom Levine was killed.’

  Luned again. ‘That could be a long list, sir.’

  ‘I still haven’t finished the CCTV footage from the various garages and supermarkets, trying to track down the red car,’ Winder said.

  Winder and Luned scribbled on their legal pads. Winder’s comments about the red car reminded Drake that the buyer of the pink gilet still needed to be traced. Turning back to the board, he tapped a finger against the image of the expensive piece of clothing. ‘And I want progress made today on the gilet.’

  Back in his office Drake spent an hour calling Sir Ivan Banks’s clerk in the Lord Chancellor’s department, talking again to the judge’s neighbours, hoping that Sir Ivan had made contact. But they had nothing new to contribute. Drake reread the emails from Sir Ivan’s brother, a retired teacher living in Vancouver, who hadn’t heard from his brother for three months and, apart from an email address and his mobile and a landline number, had no other way of contacting him. Activity on all three was being monitored in any event. Drake ignored the tightening in his chest as he contemplated the possibility the high court judge was a target for the alphabet killer.

  If Sir Ivan’s body was found in some dingy, out-of-the-way location, the publicity would dwarf the press attention Nicholas Wixley’s murder had received. But they already knew the judge had taken that week as holiday, so they couldn’t demonstrate he was actually missing. Maybe ‘unaccounted for’ was the right description, Drake thought, or ‘whereabouts uncertain’. The longer his absence continued the more Drake realised he would have to seek authorisation to enter the judge’s home. A vivid image of Sir Ivan huddled over his desk in the study of his Chelsea home, his throat slit open and letters written in blood over expensive wallpaper suddenly invaded Drake’s mind. It made him feel nauseous. One more day and he’d speak to Wyndham Price.

  Silently he chided himself for not feeling as serious about Murren. He was a journalist of course, and not a high court judge or a circuit judge. He scolded himself. Every death was just as important as another. There would be loved ones left bereft, a grieving family. Drake blanked out the noise from the Incident Room beyond the threshold of his office door and quickly read about Hector Murren. The home address was a village in Cheshire, convenient enough for a reasonable commute into the newspaper’s offices on the outskirts of Manchester. Background checks on Murren had told Drake he had covered various trials and celebrity events and Drake worried that he was fretting unnecessarily about the prospect that Murren might be a target. The random nature of the alphabet killings made it impossible to figure out who might be the next victim. Sir Ivan Banks was a more likely candidate, but they had nothing to link Zavier Cornwell to Tom Levine. It persuaded him to believe there was more to Tom Levine’s relationship with Nicholas Wixley than their shared membership of the Pwllheli Sailing Club.

  Drake glanced at his watch; he and Sara had to leave soon. The telephone rang and interrupted his train of thought as he pondered the likelihood of delays to their journey along the A55.

  ‘I’ve got some preliminary results on the forensics from Tom Levine’s yacht.’ Drake recognised Mike Foulds’ voice.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘There are dozens of partial fingerprints. And lots of possible DNA samples. It’s no more than I would have expected from a yacht used by different people.’

  ‘Any positive leads?’

  Drake heard Foulds groan. ‘We’re doing a search, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. I discovered a fingerprint on the whisky bottle and the glass but they both belonged to Tom Levine. The killer would have been covered in blood. My guess is that Tom Levine had already passed out on the bunk when someone slit his throat. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle, no scuff marks or blood anywhere other than the cabin where you found the body.’

  Sara appeared at Drake’s door, tapping a finger on her watch to remind him that time was short.

  ‘Send me the report, Mike.’

  Drake finished the call, replaced the handset and, once satisfied his desk was neat and tidy, got to his feet and joined Sara.

  The journey took an hour and a half, a good twenty minutes more than Drake anticipated. A white transit van, its rear doors open, stood on the drive of Dorothy Levine’s bungalow behind an Audi SUV. Drake parked a little distance away. He and Sara made their way past men carrying furniture from the property and shouted a greeting at the front door. Moments later Dot Levine appeared.

  ‘Come in, come in.’ Levine sounded businesslike.

  After directing a tall, lanky youngster holding a box precariously, she led Drake and Sara into a sitting room. The furniture was functional: practical sofas, coffee-ring stained table, no personal knickknacks or ornaments, a television and sound bar in one corner.

  ‘I cannot wait to leave this place.’ Levine sank into an armchair, obviously expecting Sara and Drake to sit down.

  ‘We want to ask you about your husband’s movements the night he was killed.’

  Levine nodded, and her unwavering eye contact unsettled Drake.

  ‘We arrived at the club at about seven pm. All the usual crowd were there. Tom started drinking with Colin Horton, Marcus Abbott and his sailing buddies. Later that evening, about eight-thirty, the club laid on a buffet. I spent my time talking with some of the other wives.’

  ‘Who else did he talk to?’

  ‘Lots of people I guess. I didn’t pay that much attention.’

  ‘Did he always plan on sleeping on the yacht?’

  ‘Not really. He has done in the past when he’s been drinking, and he can’t be bothered to get a cab home.’

  ‘Did you see your husband arguing with anybody?’

  Levine contemplated the question for a few seconds. Then she shook her head. ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘When did you leave, Mrs Levine?’

  Again, she paused for thought. ‘It must have been about ten-thirty. I couldn’t stand another minute of the place. I’d been drinking orange juice, so I was safe to drive home. By then Tom was deep in conversation with Michael Kennedy and Pamela.’

  ‘Did he know them well?’ Drake asked; her reference to Tom Levine knowing Michael Kennedy piqued his interest.

  ‘Tom was brought up on a council estate in Manchester, so he thought he’d made it by mixing with people like Nicholas Wixley and the other barristers and people with families that have owned properties around this area for years and years.’ She waved a hand limply in the air.

  ‘When you say “deep in conversation”…’ Sara made her first contribution. ‘What exactly do you think they were talking about?’

  ‘Tom persuaded Wixley to be his general counsel,’ she gave the title with a snide tone. ‘He thought it would add something to his businesses having some hotshot lawyer giving him some kudos.’

  ‘We’ll need more details about your husband’s business interests.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Dot Levine gave a world-weary shrug.

  Drake left Levine and headed back to his car with Sara, reflecting that the link between Nicholas Wixley and Tom Levine seemed improbable. What did Wixley gain? Drake suspected it was money and power, and now all he had to do was find the connection.

  Chapter 23

  Wednesday 3rd April

  8.30 am

  Drake ate breakfast watching a TV news item that featured a reporter in Pwllheli standing near the marina, describing how the police investigation was difficult and protracted. Several locals and yacht owners were interviewed at length about how frightened they felt after two murde
rs in their ‘close-knit community’. Finishing his Americano, Drake watched on his mobile the snippet of footage of David Eaton leaving the marina. He was the only person directly linked to Zavier Cornwell. Drake could see the motive for killing Nicholas Wixley, not that Zavier Cornwell needed a motive; that much was clear from the alphabet killings. But Drake struggled to find a motive for the death of Tom Levine and he resolved to focus his attention on Tom Levine’s background.

  The previous evening two uniformed officers had visited Jamie, making certain he was abiding by the curfew on his bail, which required him to stay in the chalet from eight pm to eight am. Managing to persuade him to allow them access inside satisfied them he was alone. Jamie had blanked out their questions about his father’s whereabouts.

  Drake tapped out a message for Winder to ensure that uniformed officers from Pwllheli would interview all the staff at the sailing club in the hope someone would recall seeing David Eaton there on the night in question.

  He had time to spare before collecting Sara, so he called Annie. It lightened his spirit to hear her voice as it soothed his mind and it kept him smiling to himself after their conversation had finished.

  Half an hour later he collected Sara in the car park at headquarters; they drove down to the A55 and he powered the Mondeo eastwards towards the border with England. Hector Murren and his partner Oliver Barkley owned a terraced property in a quaint village with a pub and a church surrounding a small green with a stream running through the centre.

  Barkley darted a nervous glance between Sara and Drake as he stood on the threshold. Barkley frowned over both warrant cards before relaxing and ushering them into his home. Two heavily bloodshot eyes gazed over the kitchen table at Drake once they sat down. Drake put him at forty-five, give or take a couple of years.