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  ‘Do you have any idea where Hector may have gone?’ Sara took the lead, as they had agreed on the journey that morning.

  He replied with a brisk shake of his head.

  ‘Does he have family, apart from you, of course?’

  ‘His parents are still alive. They live in Taunton.’ He bowed his head. ‘Hector hasn’t been in touch with them for some time.’

  ‘Some time?’

  ‘They took it badly.’ Barkley shared a glance with Drake and Sara, clearly hoping they would understand his meaning, but he explained it in any event. ‘When Hector came out there was quite a row.’

  ‘Does Hector have any siblings?’

  ‘As I told you, things haven’t been right with his family. They simply couldn’t accept that he had decided to share his life with me.’

  ‘Mr Barkley.’ Using the surname was a sure sign he was getting under Sara’s skin, Drake thought. ‘Does he have a brother or sister he might visit or contact?’

  Barkley blurted out a response. ‘Without telling me, hardly.’ Then he pouted. ‘He has a sister who lives in Middlesbrough. She… sends a Christmas card.’

  ‘Can you find her contact details please?’

  Barkley scrambled to his feet and left the room. Sara raised a dubious eyebrow at Drake, obviously sharing his discomfort at Barkley’s attitude. Moments later he reappeared, a yellow Post-it note in hand.

  ‘I’ve written down the addresses for his parents and his sister. And there are telephone numbers, but I can’t tell you if they are still current.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason that could account for Hector’s whereabouts?’ Drake could tell Sara wanted to say ‘disappearance’, but good sense prevailed.

  ‘No, I cannot, Detective Sergeant.’

  Sara paused. ‘Does he have any friends that he might be staying with?’

  ‘All his friends are my friends too. And I have spoken to them all. Nobody has seen him.’

  ‘And tell us about his work colleagues,’ Drake said.

  Barkley scowled. ‘I never liked any of them.’

  ‘Do you recall the alphabet killings?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Hector was working long hours then.’

  ‘How did he feel about the case?’

  ‘He really thought it would make his reputation.’

  ‘And did it?’

  Barkley’s eye contact drifted away as he stared out of the kitchen window. ‘It was a dreadful case. I couldn’t possibly have dealt with it.’

  Sara butted in. ‘Can you think of anything – a favourite holiday destination or—’

  ‘We did everything together.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’ Sara lowered her voice a fraction. ‘But presumably Hector had friends or relationships before you met him. Can you tell us about those?’

  Barkley gave her an incredulous glare, as though the mere suggestion was inconceivable.

  ‘My life started when we fell in love and he felt the same.’ Another disbelieving, pained expression crossed Barkley’s face. Then he threaded the fingers of both hands together and leaned on the table. ‘We always did things as a couple,’ Barkley continued. ‘Have you been able to trace his mobile telephone?’

  ‘It’s not switched on as otherwise we could triangulate the signal,’ Drake said, injecting a degree of firmness into his voice. ‘And we have issued an alert for his car.’

  ‘How could Cornwell be directing these murders from prison, for goodness sake.’

  ‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry. Making certain Hector was aware of the potential risks is uppermost in our mind.’

  Drake doubted Barkley had understood exactly what he was saying from the confused look on his face. But Drake had had enough of Oliver Barkley. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Barkley.’ Drake nodded at Sara and stood up, finding a business card from his suit pocket, which he pushed over the table. ‘If Hector contacts you or any of your friends or his work colleagues, do please get in touch.’

  The card merited another bewildered face. ‘What happens next?’

  Drake made for the front door. ‘I suggest you formally report him missing to the Cheshire police force. I’m sure they will be able to help.’

  Barkley blinked furiously. Drake and Sara left and retraced their steps to the car.

  ‘If I were Hector Murren I wouldn’t want to go back to living with that sort of man,’ Sara said as Drake fired the Mondeo’s engine into life. ‘And he didn’t even offer coffee or tea.’

  ‘We passed a tea shop in the village.’ Drake nodded out of the windscreen. ‘I’m parched.’

  Drake pulled into a layby near a small cluster of shops. The Village Teashop nestled between an old-fashioned greengrocers and the local post office. A bell rang when Drake pushed the door open. Lace curtains hung on the bottom half of the window and starched white cotton tablecloths gave the place an old-world charm. They found a table and sat down.

  A surly looking woman in her fifties took their orders.

  ‘Do you believe all that stuff about their lives starting when they met each other?’ Sara said.

  Drake shrugged. ‘We’d better contact the parents – they might know where he’s gone. He might even be staying with them.’

  ‘He’s probably sick to the back teeth of Barkley.’

  Tea and coffee arrived. Drake checked his drink, satisfied that it looked strong enough, having made clear he wanted two shots of espresso.

  ‘And we talk to his work colleagues.’ Drake turned a spoon noisily around the china cup. ‘I’ll make contact with the newspaper.’ Drake reached for his mobile and it rang as he pulled it out of his jacket pocket. He didn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’

  The voice was deep, educated and very confident. ‘This is Sir Ivan Banks speaking. You left a garbled message on my mobile telephone for me to contact you. What the hell is this all about?’

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday 3rd April

  12.30 am

  Drake stumbled a greeting.

  ‘M’Lud… Sir Ivan…, thank you for contacting me. We’ve been trying to reach you for several days.’

  ‘I’ve been fly fishing in Scotland. I always go this time of the year. I switch my mobile off. It is the only way I can get any peace and quiet.’

  Drake had left the café and stood outside, away from other customers, as he explained about the inquiries into the deaths of Wixley and Levine. Sir Ivan recognised Zavier Cornwell’s name and assured Drake he would take his personal safety more seriously. He rang off, and a renewed determination filled Drake as he returned to the café, slurped a mouthful of the now tepid coffee and turned to Sara. ‘Let’s go.’

  The journey back to north Wales felt shorter than the drive that morning.

  Sara called Murren’s family. Once she had finished she glanced at Drake. ‘Looks like Barkley was right. They haven’t heard from Hector.’

  Drake nodded. ‘Try his employers and then track down the officer in Cheshire who deals with missing persons and send his details to Barkley. At least he won’t be able to complain about us being unhelpful.’

  Sara had finished the various calls by the time they neared headquarters.

  Drake barged straight into the Incident Room, letting the door crash against the wall behind it as he stalked over to the board. ‘Sir Ivan Banks is safe and well.’ He removed the judge’s image and dropped it onto a desk. ‘But Murren’s partner has no idea where he might be.’

  Drake turned to face his team. ‘We need to track down David Eaton and later I want updates on Levine’s movements the night he died.’

  Drake’s computer was booting up when Winder appeared on the threshold of his door. ‘I’ve been doing some background searches on Tom Levine, boss.’

  Drake motioned for him to enter.

  ‘It looks as though he’s got a lot of business interests. He’s also got several limited companies; all of them seem to be connected in some way. I’ve se
nt you the link.’

  Winder left and Drake scrolled down through some emails in his inbox. He scanned the more important ones and jotted down a reminder, on one of the orange Post-it notes, to read the updated policy from the Wales Police Service on gender balance.

  Once he found Winder’s email he clicked it open and read an article written by Norman Turnbull of the Stockport Times. It portrayed Tom Levine as a modern-day Al Capone, intimidating business associates, hounding tenants and threatening competitors. Even if half of it were true, Tom Levine was undeniably a gangster. It meant he had enemies, lots of them.

  Who would want Tom Levine dead? His wife certainly wasn’t grieving.

  A few clicks of his mouse gave Drake the contact number for the Stockport Times and he reached for his telephone. After being passed from one journalist to another, he eventually spoke to a Patricia – the principal news desk editor. She made her title very clear by announcing it slowly.

  ‘May I speak to Norman Turnbull?’

  ‘Norman, is…’Patricia said his name as though he had recently died and that everyone was desperately sad. ‘He’s freelance, but… I’m not certain if I…’

  ‘This is a police inquiry.’ Drake hoped the emphasis he got into his voice underlined the seriousness of the request. ‘You must be able to contact him?’

  ‘After his last piece about Tom Levine there was a lot of flak. His lawyers threatened hell and damnation. The editor became nervous about using Norman again.’

  ‘Are you aware that Tom Levine was killed three days ago?’

  ‘Jesus Christ. I hadn’t heard. How did it happen? Has it got anything to do with that lawyer who was murdered?’

  ‘I really need to contact Norman Turnbull.’

  ‘Surely you don’t think he’s involved?’

  ‘Do you have the telephone number, or do I need to speak to your editor?’

  ‘There is no need to get aggressive.’

  ‘Patricia, the number, please.’

  Drake heard the fumbling as she clicked on her mouse, presumably accessing a database. Then she dictated the details and Drake scribbled down the number.

  ‘Has there been a press release?’ Patricia was now clearly in journalistic mode as she shrugged off her shock at Levine’s death.

  ‘I suggest you ring public relations.’ Drake could have offered to put her through, but he finished the call.

  What exactly did Turnbull know about Tom Levine?

  Rather than using his mobile Drake decided to use the headquarters landline. A businesslike message invited him to leave a name and contact number. Drake left his details, resolving to call Turnbull back again later that afternoon.

  Returning to the Stockport Times article, Drake saw the smiling face of Tom Levine and his wife, less engaged, less smiling, standing in a group of dignitaries examining a building site and then another, with Mr and Mrs Levine at a black-tie event. They looked prosperous, successful, the very essence of a power couple. Another had images of Tom Levine addressing an audience of would-be property millionaires, all with ambitious-looking faces. He spotted another with Pamela and Michael Kennedy sharing a joke with a group including Levine at a cocktail party attended by the Lord Mayor of Manchester.

  The telephone on his desk rang and he hoped it was Norman Turnbull returning his call – at least he was prompt, Drake thought.

  Instead he heard the voice of Assistant Chief Constable Neary. He stiffened in his chair. ‘Detective Inspector Drake, ACC Neary. The chief constable asked me to contact you about the minutes of the appointment panel when DCC Wixley was a candidate.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Drake recalled the pained expression on the chief constable’s face from their first meeting when he mentioned the minutes to Drake.

  ‘As we speak they are in transit. I wasn’t going to transmit them electronically for obvious reasons. I’m sure you can appreciate they are highly confidential.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Circulation is limited to yourself and Superintendent Price. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘In this day and age of utter and complete transparency I don’t want any suggestion we haven’t considered, and, of course, dismissed, the possibility that a senior police officer was responsible for the death of Nicholas Wixley.’

  Drake analysed her remarks. Completely contradictory of course but it left him with a clear impression ACC Neary and the chief constable were covering their asses. If he messed up it would be down to him alone.

  ‘I understand there was another murder this weekend?’

  ‘The body of a Tom Levine was found in his yacht.’

  ‘Is the death linked to the murder of Nicholas Wixley?’

  ‘They were known to each other and the MOs are similar.’

  ‘Does DCC Wixley have an alibi for Levine’s murder?’

  ‘We haven’t spoken to her yet.

  ‘Keep me posted.’ Neary rang off.

  Neary’s abrupt response made Drake think she knew far more than she wanted to share. He replaced the handset and deliberated what the minutes might disclose.

  He didn’t have to wait long until reception requested his presence. A tall road traffic officer waited for Drake. ‘I was given strict instructions to ensure this parcel was only delivered to you, sir.’ He held up Drake’s warrant card, checking the picture against the live version. Assistant Chief Constable Neary wasn’t taking any chances. Drake scribbled his signature acknowledging receipt. The traffic officer relaxed, announcing he was heading off to the canteen before restarting his journey back to Cardiff.

  Drake retraced his steps to his office. Sara didn’t look up from her desk; Winder stared at the computer screen, as did Luned. Drake sliced open the package with a pair of scissors he retrieved from the drawer of his desk.

  Drake found the interview notes from the final round of the appointment process. Laura Wixley had been a strong contender. He read about her confident manner and impressive history of multidisciplinary policing. Glowing reports from stakeholder organisations praised her invaluable contributions in developing new strategies for investigating sexual abuse allegations. She had progressed effortlessly from constable to assistant chief constable in her early fifties and Drake guessed it must have been challenging having a career and being married to a high-flying barrister.

  After Drake read the summary of the appointments panel recommendations he tried to fix in his mind the consequences. The intelligence reports about Nicholas Wixley’s activities had a clear impact on Laura Wixley’s career. Had she asked for feedback? The appointments secretary would be hardly likely to share with her the intelligence made known to the committee. Perhaps someone had had a quiet word in her ear – ‘the committee is a bit concerned about Nicholas, perhaps you should reconsider your current ambitions.’

  How many other unsuccessful promotion applications had there been?

  A series of discreet and confidential telephone calls took up most of the morning as he rang the three police forces in northern England where DCC Wixley had applied for the post of chief constable. Each telephone call was met with initial suspicion and reluctance to cooperate.

  ‘I can’t possibly discuss this with you over the telephone’ was the least offensive response.

  He decided on a different approach and, knowing that the chief constable of each force would have a personal liaison officer, usually an officer of inspector rank, he tracked down the respective individuals. It would be an easier and more effective way than trying to speak to each chief constable whose daily routine would be set in stone weeks, if not months, in advance. The calls were brief and professional, and Drake sat back and waited.

  The tactic yielded dividends when a chief constable rang.

  ‘On a fishing expedition, aren’t you, lad?’ The voice had a thick Yorkshire accent.

  ‘I’m pursuing certain lines of inquiry, sir,’ Drake retorted.

  ‘Are you the senior investigating officer
?’

  ‘I am, sir,’

  ‘And is this an authorised line of inquiry?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The chief constable paused. ‘I’ve met Laura Wixley a couple of times. I’ll contact the appointments panel clerk and authorise the release of the files you need.’

  Drake got the distinct impression the chief constable wanted to add. ‘And it’s got nothing to do with me.’ As though the mere process of suspecting a senior police officer was anathema to him.

  He rang off and Drake blew out a lungful of breath.

  Before late afternoon, the chairmen of one appointment panel had interrogated Drake, wanting information Drake wasn’t able to share with him. Drake emphasised the urgency and, buoyed up by confirmation from each that they would provide the files, he headed for the kitchen to organise coffee. Annie had been pulling his leg about the fastidiousness he adopted when fussing over making coffee. He smiled as he recalled the last time she had teased him. He always used a blend of expensive ground coffee and allowed the water to come off the boil for no more than a minute and a half before letting the coffee brew in the cafetière.

  The telephone on his desk rang. An unfamiliar voice introduced himself as the chair of the appointment panels for the North Lancashire Police Authority. His voice was gruff, and he got straight to the point. ‘That Laura Wixley was something else. I didn’t take to her at all. I couldn’t get over the fact she rang for feedback after the interview.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Drake cut across.

  ‘I told her straight that she needed to sort out her husband. That his name had been linked to some villains and that she’d never get promotion.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I always call a spade a spade. None of this political correctness. She were out of touch with the way we do things.’

  Once the chair rang off Drake sat back wondering what sort of impact his feedback had had on Laura Wixley. Her whole life had been focused on being appointed a chief constable and being told that her husband had been the impediment to her promotion would have appalled her.