Written in Blood Read online

  A nasty smell inevitably followed Laura Wixley. Insinuations and half-truths could be the most destructive. Assistant Chief Constable Neary had said ‘utterly and completely transparent’ on the telephone. But did she really mean it? The next task would be to contact the other forces she had applied to for vacant chief constableships.

  The telephone rang again, interrupting Drake.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’

  ‘Norman Turnbull.’ The voice sounded abrupt, as though he were in a mad rush. ‘What do you want?’

  Drake took a breath. ‘I need to speak to you about Tom Levine. You’ve written an article about his business dealings—’

  ‘That was only the half of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It was only what the editor would allow me to print at the time. And who gave you my telephone number?’

  ‘I rang the paper.’

  ‘My number is private. I want your assurance you’ll keep it confidential. I don’t want any of Levine’s cronies knowing how to contact me.’

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved. It’s more than my life’s worth. And I had nothing to do with his death.’

  Drake decided to go on a fishing expedition. ‘Do you know if Tom Levine was associated with Nicholas Wixley?’

  All Drake heard was heavy breathing.

  Drake continued. ‘What have you got?’

  Again, no reply.

  ‘I think we should meet to discuss.’

  Drake paused. ‘You’re aware presumably that Nicholas Wixley was married to Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley.’

  Before the phone went dead Turnbull said, ‘You have no idea what these people are like.’

  * * *

  Superintendent Price read the latest email from Assistant Chief Constable Neary asking for an update briefing memorandum as well as confirming she had sent Drake the papers from the appointment panel. Idly he considered what she would have been like as the senior police officer in Wales. She had worked in Cardiff but that would be a world away from policing in north Wales or west Wales – the people were different, their expectations and priorities a world away from those of a big city.

  Although he had replied to HR, he had made excuses telling them that the recent case had taken all his time. It sounded plausible, but he knew there would be a reminder in his inbox soon. He surveyed his room. Retirement would mean never sitting at his desk again. Perhaps he and his wife should move. But where to? Penarth or Barry maybe – somewhere near a good golf course at the very least.

  Hannah interrupted his rumination. He smiled as she entered his room after a discreet knock on the door, realising that he would miss her too. ‘Ian Drake is on his way over.’

  Price frowned. It was unscheduled, and he brooded over what was on Drake’s mind.

  He didn’t have to wait too long.

  Price ushered Drake into his room. Drake sat down and Price made him himself comfortable at his desk. He scratched his bald head; he needed to give it a shave that evening.

  ‘We are going to interview Zavier Cornwell tomorrow, sir,’ Drake said.

  Price nodded.

  ‘We’ve established a link between Zavier Cornwell and a David Eaton who was recently released from prison.’

  ‘Good. That makes it easy. I love a straightforward case. One villain inside, another outside conspiring with him. Find the evidence, Ian and lock him up.’

  Price could tell that there was more to come.

  ‘I want to pursue a couple of other lines of inquiry. I’ve read the papers from the appointment panel in Cardiff and I’ve spoken to the chair of one of the authorities where Laura Wixley applied for the chief constable position. When she called for feedback he told her they had reports of her husband’s link to “villains”.’

  Price sat back in his chair, and glared at Drake. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting…?’

  ‘And we need more background on the relationship between Laura Wixley and Justin Selston, who was the other candidate for appointment as a circuit judge.’

  Price threw the ballpoint pen he had been clutching onto the desk. ‘Christ, Ian, one is a deputy chief constable and another is likely to be a circuit judge.’

  ‘I’d like you to authorise a full financial search and background checks against both.’

  Price glared at Drake.

  ‘You should be concentrating everything on Eaton being Zavier Cornwell’s accomplice. There must be a link.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir. But we need to look at all the lines of enquiry. And one of the team is looking into the staff members of chambers and business links Nicholas Wixley might have had to Tom Levine. I’ve read the original file of the case involving Zavier Cornwell. The original SIO had no evidence to suggest there was an accomplice apart from his gut feeling.’

  ‘Okay, I get the message. And there’s nothing wrong with gut feelings sometimes. I’ll authorise the searches you need. I just hope they will all be worthwhile.’

  Chapter 25

  Thursday 4th April

  1.30 pm

  Visitors thronged around the main reception area of HMP Marchfield. A notice screwed to a wall indicated that the afternoon visiting slots started in half an hour. The woman behind the desk gave Drake and Sara a blank, lifeless look as she checked their warrant cards. Then she made a display of re-reading various forms in front of her.

  Self-important people like her always irritated Drake. The prearranged meeting and their warrant cards would surely have been enough to smooth the process. He leaned down towards the glass partition. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  The woman looked up at him and tilted her head, making it clear she was in charge.

  ‘And we need our warrant cards back.’

  ‘When I’m finished, Inspector.’

  The harsh Scouse accent grated on Drake, who chewed his lip: it was all he could do to stop himself from raising his voice.

  Eventually she shoved the warrant cards back through a trough-like opening at the bottom of the glass partition and pointed to a door. They scooped up their cards and stepped towards it. It opened, and a burly prison officer spoke to them. ‘Follow me, sir.’

  He led them through a corridor to a door that he unlocked using a key on a chain dangling by his waist. It led through into the prison area. The place had a cool, antiseptic feel; muted voices filtered down the corridor, alternating with the jangling sound of keys inserted into locks. An office window in front of a metal gate slid open as Drake and Sara approached. A broad Liverpool accent boomed out. ‘Please leave all your personal possessions and valuables in these trays. And that includes your mobiles.’

  Drake and Sara did as they were told. The legal notepad and file of papers under Drake’s arm went unchallenged. A different officer, shaved head and tattoos on his forearm, produced another set of keys that unlocked a gate. A jerk of his head encouraged Drake and Sara to pass through.

  They followed the officer down a passageway until they reached another gate. Beyond it more prison officers gathered by an office door, laughing and joking. The officer who accompanied them exchanged a few words with another officer.

  The original officer left them in the company of a man with ‘Harries’ printed on a name badge. ‘You’ve come to interview Zavier Cornwell.’ It could be a question or a statement, Drake wasn’t certain.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  After another gate was opened and locked by Harries he pushed open the door of a room with ‘Interview Suite 1’ printed on a metal plate screwed underneath an aperture filled with dull Perspex. Glass would definitely not be used.

  ‘We’ll organise to bring Zavier Cornwell down as soon as we can.’

  Drake drew his finger across one corner of the table, checking for dust. He dropped his papers on the surface. Three hard, uncomfortable plastic chairs stood by a table screwed to the floor. Lights built into the ceiling filled the
place with a pale yellow light. The atmosphere was clawing and stale – no air conditioning here. Lawyers like Nicholas Wixley or Justin Selston used rooms like this to interview their clients.

  They didn’t have to wait long as two officers escorted Zavier Cornwell into the room. They released him from handcuffs and pointed to a chair.

  ‘We’ll be waiting outside,’ one of the officers said.

  They left, and Drake saw both men staring in blankly through the Perspex. A risk assessment had probably determined that the officers should stay near at hand.

  Both sides of Zavier Cornwell’s head had been shaved. It left him with a piece of auburn hair perched on the top of his scalp. Most prisoners Drake had met always looked undernourished and badly in need of sunshine, and from Cornwell’s pasty appearance he was no exception. It made him look older than fifty-four. His gaze settled a second too long on Sara’s face before scanning her figure. He turned to face Drake. There was an intense, unsettling expression on his face. Was it more than simply being excited at a trip away from his cell?

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Ian Drake and this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan.’

  Zavier grinned.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Nicholas Wixley. He was a well-known barrister.’

  Zavier leaned forward, placing the threaded fingers of both hands on the table. ‘Nicholas Wixley, of course. I was very sad to hear of his demise.’

  Drake paused for a beat. ‘You do remember Mr Wixley?’

  ‘How could I forget? He was the barrister who prosecuted my case. How did he die?’ He managed a salacious, voyeuristic tone to his answer.

  Drake hesitated. ‘The letter ‘E’ had been stencilled into his chest. It was exactly like the circumstances of the murders for which you were convicted. The press called you the alphabet killer at the time.’

  ‘I remember that very well.’ Zavier preened himself. Drake hesitated, uncertain whether Zavier was going to say any more.

  ‘You carved the letters A, B, C and D onto your victim’s bodies.’

  He gave Drake another grin. ‘And how do you possibly think I could be responsible for murdering Nicholas Wixley when I’m stuck here behind bars?’ Zavier raised an eyebrow. ‘I know, I know,’ he added in a rush. ‘I’ve got a time machine in my cell. A Tardis, like Dr Who.’ He waved his arms in the air like an orchestra conductor. ‘I transported myself to north Wales and sliced up Wixley.’

  His voice taunted Drake.

  ‘The City of Manchester police force couldn’t satisfactorily explain the circumstances of the various murders. The senior investigating officer at the time—’

  ‘Ramsbottom.’ Zavier made him sound like a long-lost friend.

  ‘… believed you had an accomplice. Someone who assisted you in perpetrating the murders.’

  ‘And why the hell would he think that?’ Zavier snapped. ‘Why would I need someone to help me? It was nothing to do with anybody else. He had a hell of a cheek to think I needed assistance. It was all my own work.’

  ‘Are you protecting someone?’

  Zavier guffawed. ‘It was all my own work.’ His voice drifted off, as though he couldn’t believe anyone would suggest otherwise. ‘Ramsbottom went on and on about it.’

  Drake fumbled with the folder in front of him and removed the photographs of Nicholas Wixley and the crime scene. He set them out methodically, facing Zavier who leaned forward.

  He beamed in appreciation and dragged them nearer to himself.

  ‘The socks are a nice touch. After all, red and white are a good colour. Dad played for Rotherham for a couple of years.’ He stood up and rearranged the images like a curator assessing the best arrangement to exhibit them. Seeing that the photographs hadn’t shocked Zavier, that they had entertained him, emboldened him, Drake was sickened by Zavier’s performance.

  An intense frown creased Cornwell’s forehead as he examined the funeral orders of services. Examining each in turn, he dwelled on the letters written on the inside in Wixley’s blood. ‘One of them French art films gave me the inspiration for the funeral material – shame the press never mentioned them at my trial.’

  After glancing at Sara, who stared intently at Zavier, Drake turned to face him. ‘It would help our inquiry—’

  Zavier chortled. ‘Help your inquiry?’

  ‘You’ve been sentenced to several life sentences. And a minimum term of thirty years. If you cooperate there is every possibility the parole board would smooth your path to early release.’

  Zavier leaned on the table. ‘I know your tricks. I didn’t need anybody to help me, Inspector. An artist doesn’t need help. Did van Gogh have someone to help him when he painted them pictures?’

  Sara straightened in her chair. Zavier continued. ‘I don’t know why you think I had somebody with me.’

  Sara made her first contribution. ‘Have you discussed the circumstances of your crimes with anybody here? For example, you might have told a cell-mate how you perpetrated the murders.’

  Zavier shook his head very slowly and gave Sara a pitiful glance. ‘You don’t understand anything do you?’

  ‘I’ve got a list of the prisoners that shared a cell with you.’ Drake announced, adopting a businesslike tone, although he doubted it would have much impact on Zavier. ‘A David Eaton was one.’

  Surprise and confusion crossed Zavier’s face. Drake had expected him to have shown contempt, a scornful derisive look, but instead he saw surprise.

  ‘Did you tell Eaton about the murders?’

  Zavier sat back in the chair, folded his arms in front of him and pulled them tightly to his chest.

  ‘In the long hours you were banged up together you must have talked about your exploits. Boasted about your achievements.’

  ‘Nice try, Inspector. It won’t work. I don’t even remember Eaton.’

  Offering a sweetener, something to ease his time in prison, was the only option Drake had left.

  ‘We are also investigating the murder of a Tom Levine.’

  Zavier grinned wildly again.

  ‘Don’t tell me – F was printed on his chest.’ He made an exaggerated movement with his right-hand, mimicking marking out the letter. He focused intently on staring at Drake, who continued. ‘If you did provide information about your accomplice that leads to a satisfactory outcome, we could make certain your cooperation didn’t go unnoticed. A formal report could be made to the prison service and the parole board. It might accelerate your transfer to an open prison and improve your privileges.’

  It was Drake’s last throw of the dice. Zavier sat impassively.

  ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ Zavier glared at Drake. ‘Are we done?’

  Drake walked over to the door, nodded at the officers to enter and turned to Zavier.

  ‘We are finished, for now.’

  Zavier smirked as he pushed out his wrists, inviting handcuffs to be snapped in place. Seconds later Drake and Sara were alone.

  ‘What did you make of that, boss?’

  Drake gathered his thoughts. ‘He is one sick individual. But somehow I don’t think he had an accomplice.’

  Drake recalled Zavier’s disappointment that the press hadn’t printed details of the funeral orders of service. Perhaps they had been his calling card, like an artist’s signature. Perhaps he was offended that a copycat was faking his work. Or was he simply a psychopath like the press described with a sick and twisted mentality?

  ‘So, do you think it could be a copycat? Maybe Jamie Eaton and his dad?’

  ‘We need to talk to David Eaton. But I can’t help feeling that Zavier is a waste of time.’

  Chapter 26

  Friday 4th April

  7.45 am

  ‘Bore da, Dad.’

  Drake loved to hear Helen’s voice with her good morning greeting and it lifted his spirits when she spoke to him in Welsh. She sounded so grown-up, too grown-up, Drake feared, realising he still missed seeing his daughters every day. Sian had warned h
im in a brusque tone not to be long and, determined that he and his ex-wife had to make the best of their situation, he agreed. He kept his conversation brief, asking Helen about one of her school projects. Megan sounded tired, disinterested, with no more than a monosyllabic exchange; he tried to sound upbeat, unaffected by her tone. He reminded both his girls that he was seeing them over the weekend.

  Drake tidied away his breakfast dishes, made certain the dishcloths hung neatly from the oven handle and walked through into the hall. He pulled at the fold of skin under his eyes, hoping he didn’t look as tired as he had felt last night. He drew a comb through his hair, fastened his jacket and left the apartment.

  He was walking down to the Mondeo when his mobile rang.

  He didn’t recognise the number. ‘It’s Norman Turnbull.’

  Drake paused for a moment and pitched his head up towards the early spring sunshine.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the Plaza Café in ten minutes.’

  The line went dead before Drake had an opportunity to respond. Bloody journalists, who did he think he was – Jason Bourne?

  The Plaza Café had a corner slot on the outskirts of the main street in Colwyn Bay. He pulled up a little distance away and scanned the cars parked nearby: all empty.

  He crossed the road and over to the café. The greasy smell of frying bacon filled the air, with the loud conversations from a group of men in high-visibility vests sitting at one table, heavy work boots indicating a busy day on a building site.

  He sat down. When a waitress came over he shooed her away with an excuse about waiting for someone to join him. He read the time from his watch, deciding he’d give Norman Turnbull ten minutes; after that he’d head over to headquarters.

  Surreptitiously he scanned the customers. Two men sat alone, both busy reading a red-topped newspaper and supping enormous mugs of tea or coffee. Neither of them looked like a journalist, not that Drake knew what to expect.

  On the other side of the café three women enjoyed their early-morning tea, taking turns to stare out of the window. When a minibus arrived, they trundled out. It reminded Drake of the excursions his mother would make for shopping in Chester or one of the outlet malls.