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  Drake tightened his grip on the folder with photographs of Laura Wixley meeting Tom Levine. Only one way to find out how she’d react.

  ‘So, it was only on that one occasion you met Tom Levine?’ Before Drake reached inside the folder he saw the frown on her face. He pushed the photograph over the desk towards her. Her frown deepened.

  ‘Do you recall this meeting with Tom Levine?’

  ‘Where the hell did you get this photograph?’ Surprise and aggression combined as Wixley raised her voice.

  She stared at it, puzzled by it. Was she taking time to find an excuse? To find a rational explanation? ‘It must have been at a restaurant. I can’t recollect the name.’ Vagueness, a sure sign of prevarication. Drake mellowed to the task of questioning Laura Wixley.

  ‘What did you discuss?’

  Wixley shook her head.

  ‘What did you make of your husband’s connections with someone like Tom Levine?’

  ‘Tom Levine was never convicted of any offence. He ran various businesses. And my husband dealt with a lot of successful businessmen in his life.’

  Another reply that didn’t answer the question. Drake paused. ‘But Tom Levine was investigated several times by your force in relation to money-laundering and people-trafficking. It must have been embarrassing when those investigations were taking place.’

  Wixley took a moment to compose herself. ‘Tom Levine was never prosecuted.’

  Drake stared over at her. Did a shadow of uncertainty cross her face? ‘We are aware of the case where Tom Levine was investigated in relation to people-trafficking, involving a prostitution ring at one of his nightclubs. Do you recall the inquiry?’

  Wixley raised a challenging eyebrow before she drawled a reply. ‘Of course.’

  ‘A decision was made not to proceed with the investigation. A decision you made. Can you remember how that came about?’

  ‘I’m sure, Inspector, you realise I have dealt with dozens, probably hundreds, of complex cases over a thirty-year career. I’d need to see the file of papers to be able to give you a properly considered reply.’

  Drake cleared his throat. ‘We need to formally ask you to confirm your whereabouts on the night Mr Levine was killed.’

  Wixley didn’t blink or miss a beat. ‘I was staying in our holiday home and I went out to Portmeirion for dinner. I got back home at about midnight. So, Detective Inspector, that doesn’t give me an alibi for the small hours of Sunday morning.’

  ‘I want to ask you about your unsuccessful applications for promotion. Have you received any feedback from the appointment panels?’ No turning back now.

  Wixley’s jaw tightened. ‘What the hell are you implying?’

  ‘Being appointed as a chief constable must be a clear ambition, Mrs Wixley.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ Wixley snapped. ‘You still respect my rank whatever you’re trying to do.’

  Drake took a moment to consider. She wasn’t his ranking officer. He was the senior investigating officer. ‘Has your husband’s choice of friends and associates played a part in your unsuccessful applications?’ Drake added after a pause, ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Detective Inspector.’ Wixley threaded the fingers of her hands together and steepled them on the table in front of her.

  ‘That’s not correct is it, ma’am?’ Drake said slowly.

  She glared at him, forcing away an awkward swallow.

  Drake continued. ‘It was made clear to you by the chair of the North Lancashire appointment panel that your husband’s links to organised crime groups was an impediment to your promotion.’

  ‘I do recall him mentioning something.’

  Drake kept her eye contact: obfuscation – her only choice really.

  Drake moved on. ‘When we spoke to you about your husband’s family you told us they had died when he was a teenager.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I told you.’ Wixley’s tone suggested her patience was running out.

  ‘That’s not true, is it?’

  Wixley took a double take, leering at Drake as though he were mad. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve interviewed both his parents. So why did you lie to us?’

  Wixley sagged back into her chair. ‘I had no idea.’

  Drake watched Wixley digesting the news – her shock genuine. Now he had the advantage.

  ‘Nicholas told me… told everyone… they had been killed in a car accident. I shall have to contact them. Where do they live?’

  ‘One of my team will ask them if they’re happy for you to contact them.’

  Wixley nodded.

  Drake reached into the buff folder again and found the spreadsheet of cash withdrawn from Nicholas Wixley’s account. ‘We’ve completed financial inquiries into your husband’s bank accounts.’ Wixley stared at Drake. Surely she’d have assumed that they’d scrutinise her finances too. ‘One of the things we would like to understand is why there were substantial cash withdrawals in the two years prior to his death.’

  He pushed the printed sheet over the desk. Drake couldn’t read her reaction. ‘Were you aware of the cash withdrawals?’

  ‘Tell me exactly where you are going with this line of inquiry. Am I a person of interest?’

  Drake hesitated. ‘Can you explain the substantial cash withdrawals?’ Drake reiterated, firmly determined not to be goaded by Deputy Chief Constable Wixley. He’d ask the questions.

  ‘Because unless you are prepared to tell me if I am a person of interest I think this interview is at an end.’

  Drake had expected her to stonewall him. It left him with no alternative. He took out from the folder a second spreadsheet, detailing the cash withdrawals from her account.

  ‘You must appreciate, ma’am,’ Drake began, ‘we need to look at every possible line of inquiry. A substantial cash withdrawal from an account raises questions. We need answers. And…’ He pushed over the second spreadsheet. ‘This is a list of cash withdrawals from your accounts. There is a combined total of over £60,000 in the last two years.’

  Wixley gawped at the information in front of her. It surprised Drake she hadn’t assumed they’d requisition her financial details.

  ‘I need an explanation behind the withdrawals.’

  Wixley pushed the two pieces of paper back at Drake with a defiant jerk. ‘If you’re going to treat me as a suspect then you’d better bloody well arrest me. See how far that gets you, Detective Inspector.’

  Drake had hoped for a degree more cooperation but her belligerence wasn’t unexpected.

  ‘You were formally asked to clarify your whereabouts on the day before your husband’s death. But you haven’t been able to provide us with any details. As you can appreciate, ma’am, we need to know your movements.’

  After a few seconds she nodded and the defiant edge to her face mellowed to resignation. She let out a breath.

  ‘I was visiting my sister.’ There was a serious tone to her voice. Drake shared a glance with Sara, busy scribbling in her pocketbook.

  ‘Where does your sister live?’

  Wixley looked up at Drake and stared at him for a moment. ‘She’s in prison.’

  Now it was Drake’s turn to be surprised.

  ‘She was convicted of causing death by dangerous driving and she was sentenced to five years.’

  Wixley never averted her eyes from Drake as she explained her sister’s circumstances. After her husband had deserted her she drove home one evening after drowning her sorrows in a pub. But an accident had resulted in a cyclist being killed. A guilty plea quickly followed but prison was inevitable. Arrangements were put in place for carers to look after her two disabled children. Twenty-four-hour care came at a price that needed to be paid in cash. Sara jotted down the contact telephone numbers for everyone involved: all would be contacted in due course, the details checked, the prison visitor record analysed.

  As Laura Wixley explained all the circumstances, Drake could see how it had caused her such pain. A sister co
nvicted of such an offence would be embarrassing, the sort of embarrassment an aspiring chief constable didn’t want. No wonder she wanted to conceal the details surrounding the cash payments.

  Wixley’s face settled back into a defiant mould once she had finished. She was challenging Drake to challenge her back – as though she were goading him to find fault with her for looking after her family.

  ‘Thank you for all the details.’ He even thought of adding how he understood how hard it must have been for her but decided Wixley would judge it to be far too patronising. ‘We shall need to speak to the various individuals involved.’

  Wixley stood up, announcing that their meeting was at an end. ‘And if I am no longer a suspect, you can both fuck off back to Wales.’

  Chapter 30

  Saturday 6th April

  3.30 pm

  Driving back to Northern Division headquarters, Drake dictated instructions to a detective sergeant based in Skipton for him to visit Laura Wixley’s family. He had sounded less than enamoured with the possibility of spending Saturday evening travelling to an isolated farmhouse simply to establish that Laura Wixley’s nephew and niece did exist and that a team of carers was needed.

  ‘How long will you take to get back to me?’ Drake asked after he had given the address.

  Drake heard a groan. ‘I guess it’s a round-trip of an hour and a half.’

  ‘Can’t you call me on your mobile?’ Now exasperation kicked in.

  ‘There’s no signal up there.’

  Drake glanced at the clock on the dashboard. With any luck they’d be back at headquarters by then. ‘Call me soon as you know anything.’

  ‘It’s got to be true, hasn’t it boss?’ Sara negotiated the late afternoon traffic on the outskirts of Manchester, heading for the motorway and the A55 back to Colwyn Bay. ‘She’s hardly likely to make all that stuff up when we can so easily check.’

  Grudgingly Drake had to accept Sara might be right. ‘I’m still not convinced she’s telling us the truth about what she knew about Nicholas Wixley’s family.’

  ‘I agree that is very odd. After all, who disowns their family? It’s not natural.’

  Drake cast a glance down at the stream of lorries and cars as they passed over the M6 motorway linking Birmingham to Manchester and Liverpool and beyond to Scotland when an email reached his mobile. He read the results of his search of the police national computer.

  ‘It’s the result of the PNC check against Laura Wixley’s sister. It checks out all right.’

  Sara pulled into the same services they had used on the first return journey from Manchester and they ate another greasy burger and chips without saying very much. Drake could feel the tiredness nagging at the bottom of his back. His hands felt greasy, his shirt and clothes laden with sweat and the muck and grime from a full day in Manchester. The sergeant in Skipton had still not contacted Drake by the time they were back on the A55.

  ‘What the hell is keeping him?’ Drake said.

  ‘I’ve been to Skipton once. I went with a boyfriend who wanted to go on the train that goes from Settle to Carlisle over the Ribblehead viaduct. He was dead keen on steam trains at the time.’

  Drake glanced over at Sara. It had been the first time he had heard her mention a boyfriend even in the past tense. It made him realise that he needed to get to know Sara better. Annie had even suggested inviting Sara to dinner one evening. Drake had deflected her enthusiasm, but perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea after all.

  ‘What happened? I mean, between you and your boyfriend – not on the train journey.’

  ‘He went to work in Poland on a big electricity plant. It sort of fizzled out after that.’

  Sara pulled into the almost empty car park at headquarters and found a spot near the entrance. In the distance Drake noticed Superintendent Price’s Jaguar. His spirits sagged, realising that he couldn’t delay explaining the outcome of his meeting with Laura Wixley as a small part of his mind had hoped might be the case. No time like the present, Drake scolded himself.

  As Drake reached the corridor leading to the Incident Room his mobile rang. He noticed the number he had used to speak to the Skipton police station earlier. Sara gestured she was going to make coffee and Drake nodded his encouragement.

  ‘DI Drake.’

  ‘It’s exactly as you described, Inspector. There are two disabled children living in the property. There are carers there around the clock and all are paid in cash by Mrs Laura Wixley when she travels to see them. Laura Wixley stayed that Saturday you asked me to double-check. Apparently, she left some time Sunday morning.’

  Drake reached his office and sat down. Why the hell hadn’t Laura Wixley told them where she had been when they first enquired? It would have saved a lot of time, a lot of hassle. As a senior officer she should have known better.

  ‘Thanks, send me a report when you can.’

  Drake turned to think about Laura Wixley again. She had looked genuinely surprised when they had confronted her with details about Nicholas Wixley’s family. Her amazement sounded authentic enough. He made a mental note to call them and ask if she could contact them. It was another part of the picture that told them Nicholas Wixley was a particularly odd individual.

  Sara arrived with a coffee each. ‘Sorry boss, no coffee grounds left in the kitchen.’

  Superintendent Wyndham Price appeared on the threshold of Drake’s office. Sara jumped to her feet. Price sat himself down in one of the chairs, waving for her to do likewise. ‘Let’s have the details then.’

  By the time Drake had finished, a pained look had crossed Price’s face.

  ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t she tell us that at the start?’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking, sir. She has an alibi for the night of Nicholas Wixley’s murder, which means we can rule her out, and the night of Tom Levine’s murder she was in her family holiday home having been out to Portmeirion for dinner.’

  Price gave his skull a comprehensive scratch. It was an affectation Drake had seen often enough when the superintendent was flummoxed. ‘I suppose it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that she had an accomplice who conveniently does away with her husband while she has a gold-plated alibi.’

  ‘Someone like Jamie Eaton?’ Sara said.

  Both men looked up at her. Clutching at straws often happened after a setback.

  Price stood up. ‘I’ll talk to ACC Neary in the morning. You did well, Ian, and you Sara. There was nothing wrong in treating her as a person of interest. She should have cooperated much earlier. She should have known we’d take an interest in her. Someone like that doesn’t deserve to be a chief constable.’

  He made to leave but turned to face them. ‘It’s been a long day for both of you. Don’t hang around, go home.’

  Drake ambled with Sara through headquarters, intent on doing exactly as Price suggested. Sara turned to him as they reached the stairs for the ground floor. ‘What do we do now, boss?’

  ‘A good night’s sleep and a day off tomorrow. On Monday we’ll look again at Selston and the cases Nicholas Wixley was involved in and what links him to Tom Levine.’

  ‘Somebody must have hated him badly enough.’

  Drake’s mobile rang. He heard Winder’s voice. ‘We’ve found Hector Murren’s car.’

  Chapter 31

  Saturday 6th April

  6.30 pm

  Drake glimpsed the glistening beach at Trearddur Bay as he listened to Sara’s directions. He passed a RNLI inshore rescue station on his left that dominated the small promenade and a whitewashed hotel on his right-hand side. Uniformed officers had discovered Murren’s car parked behind the hotel, and Drake turned the Mondeo into a dusty, gravel-surfaced area. Two young officers sat in a marked police car alongside the Volkswagen Golf.

  Drake parked, and Sara followed him as they joined both officers. Two large information hoardings had details of local attractions and walks around the island of Anglesey.

  Force of habit made him peer int
o the car even though it was clearly empty.

  ‘We were called to a domestic disturbance in a house nearby,’ the taller of the two officers began.

  ‘We spotted the vehicle and it rang a bell,’ the young female officer said. ‘We ran the number plates through the system and we were told to wait for you, sir.’

  ‘Well done.’

  Portakabins in one corner provided a makeshift office and reception centre for a company offering kayaking holidays. The place looked empty, shutters over the windows, the door locked. From the far end, the warm smell of baking and garlic drifted in the early evening air from a mobile pizza van.

  ‘We need to find out how long his car has been here.’

  Single-storey bungalows dotted the surrounding area. Drake expected Winder and Luned to arrive any second, so with Sara, himself and the two uniforms there were six officers available.

  ‘Why the hell did he park his car here?’ Drake said, not expecting an answer.

  In the distance he could see the silhouette of a foreboding property built on a small promontory. It reminded him of the houses in villages of the Llŷn Peninsula – popular with the holiday home owners from Liverpool and Manchester. Drake turned to Sara. ‘Call Murren’s partner and ask him if there is any connection with this side of Anglesey. There must be a reason why he’s here.’

  Sara fished her mobile out of a pocket. Drake walked over to the pizza van. The two men running the food stall, a fit, active-looking pair, stared at the image of Hector Murren on Drake’s mobile.

  He gestured over to the Volkswagen Golf. ‘He owns that car. We need to trace him urgently. Have you seen him?’

  Both men shook their heads. ‘There are dozens of cars that come in and out of this car park every day. We don’t keep track of them.’

  He pushed a business card towards one of them. ‘If anyone comes anywhere near it – call me.’

  Drake gave their pizzas a hungry look, deciding he didn’t have time to eat. He paid for a bottle of water for Sara and himself and rejoined her as she finished on the telephone. She nodded at the hotel. ‘They stayed here for a few nights last year. But otherwise he hasn’t got a clue why Murren left his car here.’