Written in Blood Page 18

  Payments over a two-week period the previous summer at various destinations in Cape Town suggested South Africa had been her last holiday destination. What surprised Sara were the regular cash withdrawals. There could be as many as three a week. She built a spreadsheet establishing that Laura Wixley withdrew £4,500 in cash from her account over the last three months.

  In the age of contactless debit cards and Apple Pay on smartphones, it was difficult to imagine why she needed cash. By lunchtime, Sara focused all her attention on establishing a pattern to Laura Wixley’s cash withdrawals. In the last twelve months they totalled £16,250 and in the two years prior £18,350. Sara had ten pounds in her purse. Everywhere she went took electronic payments and she had read that Sweden had decided to ban cash transactions at some point in the near future.

  So, what had Laura Wixley done with all this money?

  By early afternoon Sara finished building a spreadsheet that gave her an accurate picture of Mrs Wixley’s withdrawals over the past three years. She scribbled a list of the financial records she’d need to requisition in due course. It read like a Who’s Who of the main investment fund managers in the United Kingdom.

  She had to speak to Drake, and, for the second time that day, she rapped her knuckles on the edge of his office door and stepped in. He was poring over papers on his desk, neat piles of Post-it notes indicating various different tasks in hand. She admired the neatness but knew that behind the rituals lay a dedicated and thorough detective. But having everything just so got on her nerves. Living with a man like this might be trying, and Sara guessed the fastidiousness had contributed to his marriage break-up.

  ‘I’ve made some progress, boss,’ Sara said.

  Drake looked up. ‘Good, so have I.’

  Sara sat down.

  Drake began. ‘Apart from having a substantial income he was a real heavy spender. I found a regular pattern of substantial cash withdrawals.’

  ‘It’s exactly the same in Laura Wixley’s bank account.’

  Drake stared at Sara. ‘How much money are you talking about?’

  As Sara recounted the details Drake double-checked his notes before butting in. ‘In the same periods of time Wixley withdrew £15,425 and £14,725.’

  ‘That’s almost £60,000 between them, boss.’

  Sara guessed Drake was thinking exactly the same as her.

  He cleared his throat and announced in a soft tone. ‘What did they do with all that money?’

  Drake frowned and when he said nothing, Sara continued. ‘Somebody might be blackmailing them – perhaps Jamie Eaton or his dad? Nicholas and Laura Wixley tell him they are not making any more payments. They demand more money. Wixley refuses – there’s an argument and they decide to finish him off.’

  ‘But that doesn’t match the premeditated nature of the offence.’ Drake ran a hand over his face as though doing so rebooted his mind. Drake fingered the file of papers on his desk. ‘These are the documents Norman Turnbull left. He got really paranoid and told me he never stored documentation on his computer in case it was hacked. One of Tom Levine’s companies specialised in property development. Nicholas Wixley gave him the nod about a property being sold by one of Wixley’s clients. Levine turned a massive profit he shared with Wixley.’

  Sara whistled under her breath.

  ‘There’s a substantial chunk of money that comes into his bank account at about the same time as the sale of the property takes place.’ Drake added ‘And he receives a quarterly payment from Levine’s business – presumably for his work as general counsel.’

  ‘Is it enough to interview Deputy Chief Constable Wixley?’

  The door to the Incident Room swung open noisily. Sara recognised Winder’s voice as he approached Drake’s office door. He appeared with a box in his hand, Luned behind him.

  ‘We’ve got the papers you wanted.’

  Sara followed Winder to his desk, Drake trailing behind them. The first box was dumped onto Winder’s desk and the second on to Luned’s. Both full of paperwork, all needing hours of work. Drake glanced at his watch.

  ‘Did you track down Warmbrunn?’

  Winder nodded.

  Luned responded. ‘He’s a washed-up drunk with a jaded attitude. I don’t think he’ll be of any help.’

  Winder continued. ‘He wasn’t that bad.’

  Luned again. ‘Yes, he was—’

  Drake raised a hand. ‘A quick summary only, please.’

  Winder stiffened. ‘He’s got an axe to grind against Mrs Wixley all right. He hates her and most of the senior officers. He thought she interfered in their case. Destroyed a perfectly good inquiry.’

  ‘Okay.’ Drake turned to the boxes. ‘Let’s see how much we can do before my meeting with Superintendent Price.’

  Two hours flew past. Telephone calls were ignored. Coffee and tea were left undrunk as they ploughed through statements, case summaries and opinions from Crown prosecution lawyers. A few minutes before Drake’s meeting he summoned everyone into his room.

  ‘Updates please.’

  ‘The whole thing stinks, boss,’ Sara said. ‘They had enough to prosecute Levine and some of his cronies for people-trafficking. There was enough corroborative evidence from mobile phone tracking and from number plate recognition.’

  Standing by her side she could sense Winder and Luned nodding slowly.

  Luned was the first to respond. ‘I found a memorandum on the file from Sergeant Warmbrunn. He recorded formally that he didn’t agree with the decision not to prosecute.’

  Winder added, ‘I couldn’t understand why Deputy Chief Constable Wixley got involved at such an operational level. It struck me as unusual. Was she protecting Tom Levine, boss?’

  Sara gazed over at Drake, who hesitated. ‘I came to the same conclusion from the papers I read.’

  Drake stood up. ‘I’m going to talk to the super.’ He nodded at Sara. ‘And you too.’

  * * *

  Wyndham Price spent the afternoon ignoring the email from the director of human resources at headquarters in Cardiff inviting him to telephone for a discussion about retirement planning and ‘transitional arrangements’, which Price assumed meant handing over his responsibilities to another officer. The reality of not arriving at work each morning opened up a bottomless chasm in his mind. Imagining someone else staring over his desk as he explained who did what and how things ran would be a torment, too much to bear. It would be easier to leave on a Friday afternoon, Price thought, and face a life of cruising with other retired couples. The prospect made him feel nauseous.

  He shrugged off his rumination. The investigation into Nicholas Wixley’s murder was the most challenging inquiry in Northern Division since two officers were killed on duty several years previously. Planning for his retirement could wait until this case was finished.

  Ian Drake’s request for a meeting meant he needed Price’s support and requesting Andy Thorsen, the Crown prosecutor attend, suggested he was making progress. Having a deputy chief constable in the mix as a person of interest complicated things. He knew it shouldn’t. Every person of interest, every suspect, needed to be treated the same, but it was never that simple. Negative headlines about the lack of transparency and fair play were the last thing he wanted as his legacy on retirement.

  The daily emails from the chief constable or one of his assistants meant more pressure. Drake better have something positive to report, Price thought.

  Andy Thorsen was one person Price wouldn’t miss when and if he retired. The Crown prosecutor had the personality of a dead fish, and often in meetings Price had suppressed the desire to shout at him. Invariably Thorsen got the law right, which grudgingly earned him Price’s respect. Drake, on the other hand, would be missed. He could be earnest and finicky but deep down Price liked him and trusted him too. He had worked with too many officers where lingering doubts over their trustworthiness had tugged at his mind.

  The telephone rang on his desk and Hannah announced Thorsen’s arrival.
Early as usual. Price jerked his head at Thorsen after opening the door, inviting him into his office.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Thorsen settled himself into a chair around the conference table.

  ‘Ian Drake wants to brief us on the Wixley murder case.’

  Thorsen gave his watch a bored glance. Hannah knocked on the door. ‘Detective Inspector Drake is here.’

  Drake and Sara appeared behind her. Price waved them in and pointed to chairs before smiling acknowledgements. Thorsen sat expressionless. Sara deployed an enthusiastic expression ambitious officers used to impress senior colleagues.

  Drake got straight to the point. ‘I want authority to interview Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley. I need to ask her about her finances, which may have a material bearing on the investigation.’

  Thorsen grimaced, ran his thumb and forefinger along his bottom lip and almost snarled. ‘You do realise what you’re suggesting?’

  Price butted in. ‘Of course he does. Detective Inspector Drake has been the senior investigating officer on several murders. You know that better than anybody, Andy.’ Price turned to face Drake. ‘Let’s hear you out.’

  Price sat and listened although occasionally Thorsen jotted some notes in a legal pad. Drake methodically worked his way through the questions he wanted to ask Mrs Wixley. Lying about her husband’s family made Thorsen scribble furiously and kept Price’s eyebrow raised.

  ‘I’m still not convinced we have a motive,’ Thorsen said. ‘Are you suggesting she killed her husband to further her career and that she killed Tom Levine to shut him up, again to further her career?’ Price looked over at Thorsen. It was exactly what Drake was suggesting. He continued. ‘Because if you are it is very serious indeed. She’s a senior police officer and Nicholas Wixley was a circuit judge. The public put their faith in the police, judges have to be respected. It beggars belief to think…’

  ‘That’s exactly why we’ve got to get to the bottom of what the relationship was between Tom Levine and Nicholas Wixley and his wife.’ Price said. ‘The public have a right to know that everyone is equal under the law.’

  For another half an hour they reviewed all the evidence again. Price drilled down into every option. He wanted every argument rehearsed, every eventuality examined. Was he avoiding a decision? He wasn’t going to rush.

  Thorsen added, ‘Have you consulted Assistant Chief Constable Neary at headquarters?’

  Price turned to the prosecutor. ‘I’ll be notifying her of my decision in a conference call later.’ Then he turned to Drake, sharing a glance with Sara at the same time. ‘In the meantime, both of you have got a lot of preparation to do before an important interview.’

  Chapter 29

  Saturday 4th April

  9.41 am

  After arriving promptly at the senior management suite of the City of Manchester police force headquarters, Drake detoured into the bathroom and cleaned his hands, a ritual that soothed his mind. Then he drew a comb through his hair after adjusting the blue striped tie against his white shirt. Expensive furniture filled reception and there was a quiet, settled atmosphere Drake associated with clear thinking, and high-level decisions.

  He wore his best suit, the one he reserved for meetings with the chief constable of the Wales Police Service or occasions where a good impression was called for.

  On the journey that morning Drake read aloud several times a summary of their notes from the evening before. It hadn’t relieved the tension gripping his chest like a vice. Even his pulse had settled into a sporadic spiking pattern.

  Wyndham Price had telephoned Drake as they reached the outskirts of the city. His comments were meant to settle Drake’s nerves, but they only made him feel uneasy.

  A long corridor led off the waiting area where Drake sat with Sara. He imagined the chief constable and the assistant chief constables all with palatial offices. Behind one of the doors was Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley. She wasn’t a suspect in her husband’s murder, yet, but as a person of interest there were too many loose threads for Drake’s liking. He wanted to tie them off neatly. Superintendent Price and Assistant Chief Constable Neary wanted Laura Wixley’s involvement in the investigation to end, quickly. Comments implying the preposterousness of suspecting her dominated his mind, mixing with the harsh reality that policing imperatives dictated she assist with their inquiry.

  Vases of freshly cut flowers had been strategically positioned on various spotless surfaces. They weren’t the variety available in the nearest supermarket garage.

  When a civilian walked down the corridor towards them, Drake’s mouth dried until his lips stuck together. ‘Detective Inspector Ian Drake?’ The accent was cultured, educated. Drake looked up and nodded. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan.’

  The woman gave Sara a brief, noncommittal smile without opening her mouth. ‘Please follow me.’ She turned on her heels and Drake and Sara followed her over the glistening solid-wood floor to a door with a brass plaque – the name on it read Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley. A voice from inside invited them to enter after the woman knocked. Drake straightened, took a deep breath and walked in.

  Laura Wixley stood up as Drake and Sara entered and she directed them to the visitor chairs. Two glistening monitors clinging to metal brackets were positioned at eye level. The size of Superintendent Price’s desk always impressed Drake and he assumed that the further an officer was promoted the larger their workspace became. Papers might even get lost on Laura Wixley’s desk, Drake judged.

  She gave Drake and Sara a perfunctory shake of the hand and sat down.

  The black rim to the folds of skin under each eye suggested little sleep. Her lips still had that lifeless quality Drake had noticed when they first met.

  ‘How is your investigation proceeding?’

  ‘We’ve made one arrest of a man seen arguing with your late husband the day before he was killed. It transpired he was the son of a convicted killer your husband prosecuted.’

  ‘I am assuming from your comments that he was released.’

  ‘On bail.’ Drake took a moment; he wasn’t here for small talk or to discuss the confidential mechanics of his inquiry. After all, Laura Wixley wasn’t an officer in his police force. But treating her like a civilian wasn’t on the cards.

  ‘How can I help?’

  Drake ran his tongue over his lips. He would have given anything for a glass of water.

  ‘Forensics discovered an amount of a Class A drug at your property. Was your husband a regular user of cocaine?’

  The silence was sharper than any finely honed steel. Laura Wixley dipped her head slightly and stared at Drake.

  ‘Although the man we arrested denied supplying your husband. It suggests Mr Wixley had a supplier in the Manchester area. We need to identify that person and eliminate him from our inquiry.’

  ‘I cannot help you, Detective Inspector.’ Her voice was measured and exact. But was she being truthful?

  ‘Did you ever suspect your husband used Class A drugs?’

  ‘Never.’ The reply too quick, too emphatic.

  Drake gripped the folder on his lap tightly. No surprises so far. He had expected a denial. How she’d react to his next questions would be interesting.

  ‘Did you know whether your husband was expecting to see anyone the night he was killed?’

  ‘He didn’t mention anyone.’

  Interviewing Laura Wixley was like walking into a cul-de-sac repeatedly.

  ‘We found an item of clothing that we cannot identify.’ He pulled a photograph of the pink gilet from the folder on his lap and pushed it over the desk. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘It’s a woman’s size 10.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘We thought it might belong to a friend of your husband’s?’

  Wixley paused, narrowing her eyes. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘We need to trace this woman and we hope you can help.’<
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  She gave the image one final glance. ‘I don’t know who owns this gilet.’

  Drake took a slow breath. ‘A suggestion has emerged that your husband had links to nightclubs frequented by escorts.’ Laura Wixley was a person of interest and he wasn’t going to sugar-coat these questions. ‘Did your husband use escorts?’

  ‘If you’re going to hurl that sort of allegation around about Nicholas you’ll need more than innuendos.’

  It made him sound like a Sunday School teacher. Drake paused. He had to tread carefully.

  ‘We’re also investigating the murder of Tom Levine.’

  Laura Wixley nodded.

  ‘His body was found on Easter Sunday on his yacht.’

  ‘I saw the news reports.’

  ‘I understand you knew Tom Levine?’

  Wixley stiffened, her face taking on a granite-like expression. Drake continued. ‘I was hoping you might be able to assist us with identifying any possible links between your late husband and Tom Levine. Did your husband have any business dealings with him?’

  ‘My late husband made a number of successful investments.’

  Smoke and mirrors were not going to fly, Drake wanted to tell her. He decided to get straight to the point.

  ‘Did you ever meet Tom Levine?’

  Wixley paused. Was she calculating whether to lie? Working her way up through the ranks, she would have conducted this sort of interview dozens of times. Surely she would assume they had done their detective work.

  ‘I believe I did on one occasion. He was being interviewed here at the central custody suite in relation to various allegations of fraud and intimidation of witnesses.’