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  ‘We have no reason to believe your personal safety is at risk. We can’t disclose any more details. Can you tell us where you were?’

  Thatcher’s frown made clear she wasn’t happy with the reply.

  ‘It’s a café in Salford. I take my uncle to meetings of Gamblers Anonymous – he lost his driving licence last year. You still haven’t told me why these photographs were taken.’

  ‘How often do you take your uncle?’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose I could check my diary. Maybe once a month. Sometimes less often. It depends.’

  Sara butted in. ‘How long do the visits take?’

  ‘An hour or so. I usually take some papers with me so that I can catch up with work.’

  Drake fumbled for the photograph of Michael Kennedy in the same café and showed it to Thatcher. ‘Have you ever seen Michael Kennedy in the café?’

  She squinted at the image. ‘No, I haven’t… although I had heard a rumour that he liked a flutter. Who gave you these photographs?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give you any more information.’

  Thatcher pouted and then finished the dregs of her latte before expressing surprise at the time and leaving Drake and Sara.

  ‘That didn’t take us anywhere,’ Sara said.

  Drake contemplated another coffee; after all, it was going to be a long day.

  ‘We should get going, sir,’ Sara said. ‘We don’t want to be late for Julia Griffiths.’

  Their meeting with the head of Britannia Chambers was the second of the morning. His mind turned to Turnbull. A natural scepticism from years of policing had taught him to be suspicious of the journalist. His paranoia contributed to Drake’s cynicism, but he couldn’t simply ignore the link between Britannia Chambers and Tom Levine. And Laura Wixley’s shock at discovering a photograph of her with Tom Levine lingered in his thoughts. What had really happened?

  Drake parked in a multistorey car park convenient for Britannia Chambers after the short journey from seeing Holly Thatcher.

  Julia Griffiths wore a glistening, starched white blouse under the ink-black jacket that complemented the scattering of grey in her hair.

  ‘We need to identify whether the murders of Tom Levine and Nicholas Wixley are linked in any way other than by the killer’s modus operandi,’ Drake said.

  Griffiths turned a fountain pen with a blotched barrel through her fingers while keeping direct eye contact. Drake continued. ‘Your chambers have a lease for this building.’ Griffiths frowned now. ‘And the landlord is a company owned directly by Tom Levine.’ The annoyance morphed into outright astonishment as her mouth fell open.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. We paid a substantial premium.’

  ‘Your landlord is a limited company whose shares are owned indirectly through a series of other companies belonging to Tom Levine.’

  Griffiths discarded the fountain pen and drew her chair nearer the desk. The telephone rang. She didn’t give the caller any time. ‘I know I have a conference, but this is more important. Tell them to wait.’

  She turned to look at Drake. ‘We paid £50,000 as an initial payment to secure the lease. I can’t remember the exact terms of the rent but there is an escalating clause for the rents to increase every year. Our chief clerk dealt with all the negotiations.’

  ‘Is it usual for such large payments to be made in advance?’ Sara said.

  ‘It was the basis of our commercial arrangement. We considered it sound business and we took independent advice about the rental payment.’

  ‘When exactly was the payment made?’

  Griffiths frowned. She reached for her mouse and let her eyes dart around the screen. ‘We took occupation in September two years ago. So, at a guess I would say the payment of the premium was made a month or two before. Why do you need to know?’

  ‘We still have loose ends with the inquiry into Tom Levine’s death. His financial and business affairs were complex.’ Drake hoped his reply deterred further questions.

  Griffiths returned to fidgeting with her pen.

  ‘Mrs Griffiths,’ Drake started formally. ‘The initial impression given to us by your colleagues made us believe Nicholas Wixley was well respected and valued in chambers. The picture we’ve built subsequently contradicts that. Were there any issues between Nicholas Wixley and the other professional members of chambers or the administration staff?’

  Griffiths chided him. ‘I hope you’re not relying on idle tittle-tattle.’

  Drake gave himself a moment to recall Holly Thatcher’s comments that anyone in chambers would have been capable of killing Nicholas Wixley. He doubted a jury would call her evidence tattle-tattle. A natural defence mechanism kicked in for Griffiths, protecting her own, defending the integrity of her barristers’ chambers.

  ‘We may need to speak to you again.’

  No outstretched hand now: only a simple, courteous nod dismissing Drake and Sara.

  ‘Obnoxious bitch,’ Sara said under her breath as they made for the administration department.

  A red polka dot handkerchief was draped from the breast pocket of Michael Kennedy’s suit at a rakish angle. He gave them an oleaginous smile and waved a hand towards his office.

  ‘May I offer you some coffee? We’ve got this wonderful machine that produces the best cappuccino.’

  ‘Americano, reasonably strong,’ Drake said.

  Sara added. ‘Cappuccino will be fine.’

  Kennedy scooped up the telephone with a flourish and dictated the orders.

  ‘How did you get on with Mrs Griffiths?’

  Drake tried to detect an attitude. Was Kennedy implying she could be difficult?

  Before leaving headquarters, Drake had taken the opportunity to print off a list of Nicholas Wixley’s most prolific and significant clients. He intended to check off every name and establish whether any of the convicted criminals had threatened Wixley or anyone else in chambers. And Drake calculated that while he needed this information, Turnbull’s photographs and the financial details of the property arrangements were the real reason for speaking to Kennedy.

  ‘We want to go through the list of Nicholas Wixley’s clients we’ve identified as possible persons of interest who might have a grudge against him.’

  Kennedy gave him another version of his unctuous smile. Coffees arrived, and Drake worked his way through the list. Kennedy pointed out names he thought might be capable of murder and others who were regular criminals.

  Then Drake turned his attention to the photographs and the property transaction.

  ‘Were you aware that the landlord of this building is a company indirectly owned by Tom Levine?’

  Kennedy had made an exaggerated gesture of surprise. It seemed out of place, forced. ‘I had no idea.’ Kennedy wouldn’t admit chambers had entered into a lease with a company owned by Levine, Drake thought.

  ‘I understand all the negotiations for the lease were handled by you.’

  ‘With the full consent of chambers management, of course.’ Kennedy forced a tight-lipped smile. ‘All these sorts of matters are dealt with by me. The barristers prefer not to get involved with the nitty-gritty day-to-day running of chambers.’

  ‘We’ll need to see the full file of papers relating to the property transaction.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  Kennedy should have realised that any link with Tom Levine needed to be investigated. Before Drake could reply, Kennedy continued. ‘The file is in storage; it has been for several months. It will take me a few days to be able to recover it.’

  Drake stared back at Kennedy realising that he was being deliberately obstructive.

  ‘Yes, please make arrangements.’

  Kennedy gave a smile that died at birth.

  ‘Did you know Tom Levine well?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’

  ‘How often did you meet him?’

  ‘In the Pwllheli Sailing Club occasionally but otherwise I can’t say our paths crossed that oft
en.’

  ‘I see.’ Drake reached for the photographs of Levine and Kennedy in the folder on his lap. ‘These photographs came into our possession recently.’ Drake noticed Kennedy’s lips tighten.

  How would he react? Suggest the images had been doctored in some way? Bluff his way out of it?

  His voice trembled a fraction and he caught his breath. ‘Of course, I forgot. There was some charity event he wanted chambers to sponsor and I was discussing the details with him.’

  ‘How often did you meet?’

  ‘I cannot possibly remember.’

  Good move – covering his back.

  ‘More than once?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I simply cannot recall.’

  Drake allowed a pause to hang in the air. Kennedy blinked away his discomfort.

  ‘When we initially spoke to you, it was made clear to us that Nicholas Wixley was a well-liked and valued member of chambers, but that’s not true, is it?’

  Kennedy made a flouncy attempt at looking offended. ‘There were never any complaints about him. I always got on well with him.’

  ‘Again, that’s not strictly true either, is it, Mr Kennedy? Several members of chambers have complained to us about Wixley’s behaviour, describing him as obnoxious and odious. Were you glad to see him appointed as a circuit judge?’

  The door to the office opened after a brisk businesslike tap and Pamela Kennedy swept in before Kennedy could reply. She gave Drake and Sara an inquisitive glare as though she were surprised to see them, which Drake found hard to believe.

  ‘Good morning.’ She gave Drake and Sara a brief nod.

  ‘DI Drake was asking about any of Nicholas’ clients that may have been likely killers.’

  ‘Where do you start?’ Pamela drew up a chair. ‘He defended so many of the crème de la crème of the Manchester underworld it could be a long list.’

  Her husband nodded. ‘We could go through the list for you if that might help.’

  Pamela added. ‘Do send it to me and I’ll see if I could suggest any likely culprits. And we could ask our colleagues.’ She even smiled.

  ‘I was telling Inspector Drake that I’d completely forgotten that I’d met Tom Levine to discuss the charity fundraiser.’ Kennedy fingered the photographs on his desk.

  Pamela gave them a cursory glance. ‘I remember that – it was a great evening – very successful.’

  ‘When did you both see Tom Levine last?’

  Kennedy and his wife shared a glance and shrugged.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Kennedy said.

  ‘Did you see him at the sailing club the night he was killed?’

  ‘Oh, yes, come to think of it he was there…’

  More half-truths Drake thought as he recalled Dot Levine telling them she had seen the Kennedys deep in conversation on the night her husband was killed. Why did he have a feeling the Kennedy’s were hiding something…?

  It was early afternoon when Drake and Sara found themselves outside Britannia Chambers. ‘Let’s find somewhere to eat,’ Drake said.

  ‘Michael Kennedy was lying through his teeth, boss.’

  Drake nodded his agreement. He was hungry, and he needed to spend time computing everything they had learned that day. ‘These barristers live in a world where covering your back is commonplace; it makes it tough to see who’s telling the truth. We need to get to the bottom of the connection between Levine and Britannia Chambers.’

  Chapter 34

  Monday 6th April

  10.45 am

  Mid-morning arrived, Winder organised coffee for Luned and himself and got back to researching Tom Levine. Wixley had been foolish to associate with Levine and, returning to his desk, he settled down to more Google searches.

  On the second page the name Euan Levine appeared. Intrigued, Winder clicked it open. Euan Levine was being prosecuted for a complex VAT fraud and Winder’s interest was sharpened; he blanked out the noise from the Incident Room. He was about to bookmark the page as another small cog in the bigger picture of Tom Levine’s life when he read ‘prosecuting barrister, Justin Selston’. The rest of the article disappeared into a blur. He needed to find out what exactly this case was about. And more importantly, how Justin Selston fitted into Tom Levine’s life.

  Winder took an hour to track down Joe Young, the senior Crown prosecutor responsible for the case against Euan Levine.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Tom Levine. A barrister called Nicholas Wixley was murdered a few days before him and there’s a possibility both deaths may be connected. Was Tom Levine involved in your case?’

  ‘He doesn’t feature at all. It’s his nephew who’s in the frame. It’s a complicated cross-border fraud involving mobile telephones.’

  ‘I understand the prosecuting barrister is Justin Selston.’

  Young took it as a question.

  ‘He’s a stuffy old character, real old-school but he’s got great attention to detail. Having said that, the defence lawyers are extremely well organised.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Winder didn’t like the sound of the last remark.

  ‘We’ve been preparing the case for months. Euan Levine has been interviewed several times and every time we thought we had all the bases covered he outmanoeuvred us, offering an explanation that suggested he knew exactly what we were doing.’

  ‘Are you suggesting some sort of leak?’

  ‘I can’t say. It certainly felt like that. It was frustrating because Euan Levine was prepared for us at each stage.’

  Winder finished the call but the sense there was far more to the relationship between Tom Levine and Nicholas Wixley lingered. Something made him decide to call Dot Levine. She might be able to offer more information.

  ‘What do you want?’ Dot Levine said after he had been as polite as possible.

  ‘I need some background and I hope you might assist. Did your husband know a Justin Selston?’

  ‘He’s the barrister prosecuting Tom’s nephew, Euan, isn’t he?’

  ‘And did Tom ever talk about him?’

  ‘What do you mean? Like they were best buddies or something? You people never stop do you?’

  Winder needed to sound helpful and he wasn’t doing a good job at the moment. ‘Mrs Levine, I do appreciate this is a difficult time, but we believe the death of your husband and Nicholas Wixley are linked. Is there anything you can tell us about comments your husband made about the case against Euan?’

  She sniggered. ‘Just that Euan didn’t have to worry.’

  * * *

  Luned found the whole investigation daunting, intimidating even. She had been brought up to believe that police officers and judges should be completely above reproach. They were all pillars of society, people her parents and their generation looked up to. It was inconceivable they were contemplating treating a deputy chief constable as a person of interest. Being a senior police officer and a judge surely meant certain values had to be maintained.

  Luned had made few contributions during the various team meetings. The implications of what had taken place, who had been murdered and the possible suspects frightened her. Her parents were a quiet, law-abiding couple with a deep commitment to doing things properly, treating everyone with dignity. Her father nearly always turned off television programmes in which swearwords were used. And her mother always treated Sunday as a day of little activity. Sharing the most basic details with them about the inquiry was awkward – she knew how it would have shocked them.

  She had spent hours contacting the shops that stocked the Michael Jason brand and hours more talking to staff members, hoping she could track down the shop that had sold the item and its buyer.

  DNA results from the fibres and strands of hair recovered had proved inconclusive. It simply meant the owner wasn’t known to the police. Luned read the DNA test result again, imagining what the person looked like. The recommended retail price was over £150, which suggested someone with deep pockets, and a good dress sense with a figure
to match.

  Since Nicholas Wixley’s murder each of the outlets on a list of stores in Manchester had been contacted and, frustratingly, several gilets had been sold. Luned had a list of customers from half of the shops. She had spent hours the previous week calling each in turn, prepared with a standard list of questions.

  Had they purchased a pink gilet?

  Did they know a Nicholas Wixley?

  Could they provide their whereabouts for the day of his death?

  Over half of the list still had their gilets hanging in wardrobes. Three had been given as gifts, one had been chewed by an angry Alsatian and one had been stolen. Luned hoped that morning she would have better luck with the stores in Liverpool. She found the list of stores in the Liverpool area as well as a store in Altrincham, Chester and Knutsford that were still left to contact. All of the stores had been supplied with stock in the previous two months and all had received preliminary emails inquiring about sales of the pink gilet.

  The shop in Chester was first on the list. The store manager became dismissive when Luned asked if she had a list of customers.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it. We haven’t got time to do that sort of thing.’

  ‘This is a murder inquiry, madam.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, but we get hundreds of people in here every week – we can’t possibly keep track of everybody.’

  ‘Please make certain you remind all your staff.’

  Grudgingly the woman confirmed her agreement, but it sounded half-hearted. This really was needle-in-a-very-large-haystack time. After she typed out an email attaching to it a photograph of the garment, Luned made a note in the calendar on her computer to call again in two days. Then she changed her mind and set a reminder for the following day.

  The shop manager in the Altrincham store had a far more cultured drawl than her counterpart in Chester. She spun various platitudes that annoyed Luned. The outcome was the same – the staff couldn’t identify any customer who bought the item. Next was a shop in Knutsford.

  Luned recalled a visit to the small, well-to-do town a few months previously with her mother, and promising themselves to return for a longer visit. A friendly-sounding voice at the other end of the telephone interrupted her daydreaming.