Written in Blood Page 22

  ‘I need to speak to Joan Baker,’ Luned said, reading from the details on her monitor.

  ‘Yes, dear, that’s me.’

  Luned made the appropriate introductions, and reminded Baker that someone had spoken to her previously and that she had received an email inquiry about the pink gilet.

  ‘Of course, I remember. We’re a small, bespoke outfitters here. We don’t stock many of those items. I did ask the staff if they could remember who bought it. They were very popular.’

  Luned’s enthusiasm sagged. Another dead end like the Chester and Altrincham stores.

  ‘One of the girls thought she remembered who might have purchased one of the gilets. A lot of our customers are visitors, but Jeanette was convinced she had seen a woman who bought one with her husband or boyfriend walking past the shop last week.’

  ‘Last week?’ Luned’s pulse missed a beat but she kept her voice calm. ‘Is Jeanette with you now?’

  ‘Yes, she’s just finishing with a customer.’

  Luned could barely contain her enthusiasm. There was the sound of movement down the telephone and an exchange of words. Finally, she heard her name being mentioned.

  A young woman’s voice spoke down the phone. ‘It’s Jeanette here.’

  ‘Detective Constable Thomas.’ Luned forced a serious note into her voice.

  ‘I saw one of the customers who bought a gilet. And when Joan mentioned the email, well, it sort of lodged in my mind. I’ve got a good memory for faces and they were such a nice garment. I wish I could have afforded one myself.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Jeanette. What can you tell me?’

  ‘I’ve seen her twice since she was in the shop. The first time she was with her husband walking into the hotel opposite. They do this special lunchtime meal. I know it’s expensive, but it is lovely food.’

  ‘And the second time?’ Luned’s lips ran dry.

  ‘I saw her getting into her car. It was one of those Mercedes sports cars. There are lots of them around the town. It was a lovely red colour.’

  ‘Do you know if she went into any of the other shops?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Do you recall seeing her in the shop before?’

  ‘No.’

  Luned sensed this lead was busy fizzling out.

  ‘And I don’t suppose you know her name?’ Luned added, without any real hope of a positive reply.

  ‘No, sorry. But I did make a note of the number plate.’

  Chapter 35

  Monday 6th April

  3.35 pm

  ‘Good work, Luned,’ Drake said, after listening to her update. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Mandy Forsyth.’

  ‘Email me the address and contact details. Do you have a telephone number?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘We’ll pay her a visit this afternoon. Do we know anything about her?’

  ‘Nothing on the PNC, sir and I’m waiting intelligence from the City of Manchester police force.’

  ‘Thanks, Luned.’

  Moments later an email reached his mobile with an attachment: Mandy Forsyth’s driving licence. Finding and interviewing her was a priority. Drake glanced at his watch. He would text Annie before leaving the café, telling her he wouldn’t be able to Skype that evening. A sense of loss that he wouldn’t speak to her and see her face and warm to her smile made him realise how much he valued the relationship. How much he hoped things would develop in the future.

  Ten minutes later, texting completed, he settled the bill and returned to his Mondeo with Sara. His mother had persuaded him he needed something more practical them the Alfa GT to ferry his daughters around on the weekends he saw them. Even so, a Mondeo was boring, and he missed the buzz and simple enjoyment the sports car gave him.

  Sara punched the postcode into the satnav. Drake cursed as he realised he hadn’t listened to the disembodied voice telling him where to indicate. At one point he took a wrong turn and listened to the announcement that a route recalculation was underway. But it meant negotiating a convoluted journey around a one-way system that eventually brought them back onto the main road they had just left.

  Drake glanced at the screen of the satnav as though by sheer willpower it would direct him to Lakeland Towers. The name implied a rural location, but nothing suggested a country setting from the rows of tower blocks that lined an old industrial canal. Raised beds constructed from lengths of recycled railway sleepers had been planted with spring flowers.

  Window boxes hung from the occasional balcony. Faux wooden panels added colour and texture to the bland external concrete render. Drake toured around the car park for any sign of the Mercedes coupe. Eventually he drew the car onto the grass verge and called the Incident Room.

  Luned answered the call. ‘We’ve been able to trace Mandy Forsyth to the address you’ve got, boss. She has owned the flat for five years. Paid for it in cash.’

  ‘And is there anything known about her through the City of Manchester force?’

  ‘Gareth is still chasing.’

  Drake thanked Luned and rang off. He turned to Sara. ‘She paid cash for her flat a few years ago.’

  Sara raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘So, what do you think Mandy Forsyth does for a living, boss?’ There was enough insinuation to make clear Sara knew the answer.

  ‘Flat bought for cash. Mercedes coupe. It all suggests she’s a high-end escort.’

  Sara nodded. They left the car. The numbering system at Lakeland Towers soon vexed Drake. The first block they approached was Block A with flats one to ten. Logically Drake hoped the next block would be B with flats 1 to 10 but it was H with flats 15 to 25. They were looking for Block C, flat 12.

  While Drake made for the next apartment block, Sara spoke to a tall, thin man walking towards a car. Sara joined Drake as he stood outside Block L, despairing of the lettering and numbering system.

  ‘The man I spoke to had no idea where Block C could be.’

  ‘Bloody annoying numbering system. How the hell do people find their way around?’

  The absence of residents irritated Drake as well. ‘Is everyone at work?’

  He took the initiative and paced through a covered alleyway, deciding it was sheer potluck if he could find Block C.

  Luckily they found a plan of the estate screwed to a wall. Drake heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Block C nearby. ‘Let’s go. I hope she’s at home.’

  A couple deep in conversation left Block C before the door closed behind them and Drake and Sara slipped inside without having to trouble the video entry system. It was quiet apart from the dull hum of televisions and the occasional sound of muted conversation. They took the stairs to the second floor.

  They stood outside the door of flat 12 for a moment, listening. Drake turned his head and put his right ear nearer the door; he heard a television inside. He pressed the doorbell. A discreet jingle played. Instantly the sound inside muted. Drake sensed the presence of a body on the other side of the door looking at him.

  ‘Who is it?’ It was a woman’s voice.

  Drake took a step back and held up his warrant card, hoping the person behind the door could see it clearly. He kept his voice low. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Drake from the Wales Police Service. We’d like to speak to you, Mandy.’

  Silence.

  Was Mandy Forsyth thinking how the hell they’d tracked her down? Could I lie? Do I really want to be involved in a murder investigation?

  A security chain was pulled into place before the door eased open. Drake and Sara held their warrant cards aloft long enough for the woman on the threshold to read them carefully. ‘Are you Mandy Forsyth?’ Drake said.

  She nodded. Obviously satisfied, she unfastened the safety chain that clattered against the rear of the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Sara followed Drake into the hallway and Mandy closed the door behind them.

  She led them into a sitting room with a small balcony occupied by a plastic chair
and two expensive-looking ornamental trees. Forsyth waved a hand to comfortable leather sofas. She sat on a recliner nearby. She wore no make-up, her hair needed attention and her baggy tracksuit bottoms and white T-shirt suggested she wasn’t going out that evening.

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Nicholas Wixley.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  Drake paused and Sara offered the explanation. ‘We tracked you down through the shop where you bought the gilet.’

  Forsyth nodded politely. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why haven’t you come forward to tell us you were with Nicholas Wixley on the night he died?’

  Forsyth sagged into the chair as though Drake had punched her in the solar plexus.

  ‘He was one of my regulars.’ Her gaze drifted towards a large, modern, abstract painting hanging on the wall.

  ‘I take it you’re an escort. And how often did you see Nicholas Wixley?’

  Forsyth nodded. ‘By appointment only of course. And I’d see him once a month. He was generous. And very… energetic.’ Although she had chosen her words carefully, it still sounded deadpan.

  ‘And had you been to his holiday home previously?’

  She shook her head. ‘He had… an interest in… having sex in different places. It was a big turn-on for him. And I thought it would be nice to have a day in Wales.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stay overnight?’

  She gave Drake a quizzical look. ‘I never stay overnight.’

  ‘So why didn’t you contact us when you learned that Nicholas Wixley had been murdered?’ Drake detected an edge to Sara’s voice.

  Forsyth threaded the fingers of both hands together and clasped them tightly. ‘I didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Involved?’ Now Sara sounded incredulous. ‘A man has been killed and you were there on the night.’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  It never is, Drake thought. ‘Look, Mandy, if you’re not going to cooperate with us and tell us exactly what you know then we’ll treat you as a suspect. We can interview under caution in our area control custody suite. And before we leave we’ll need a DNA sample.’

  She blinked at the realisation of the seriousness of her position. ‘I heard him talking on the telephone. I only heard one side of the conversation. He told the other person to be very careful and he had all the information he needed safely stored away. If that other person did anything stupid then he’d share all the personal details. He made it sound ominous.’

  Drake frowned. Without knowing who Wixley was talking to it would be impossible to identify the caller. Drake wracked his recollection for details of any calls received on Wixley’s mobile: an untraceable pay-as-you-go number called him on the evening he was killed.

  ‘Could you tell whether it was a man or woman he was talking to?’

  Forsyth shook her head.

  ‘What time was that call?’

  Forsyth looked over at him blankly, clearly unable to recall.

  ‘What was Wixley like after this telephone conversation?’

  ‘Hyped up. I’ve noticed an aggressive streak in him before.’ Forsyth breathed out deeply before continuing. ‘I’ve seen Nicholas with other girls when he was in some nightclubs. And he was friends with a man called Tom Levine.’ She let the name hang in the air while staring at Drake and Sara. ‘So, when I learned what had happened to Tom Levine it was too much of a coincidence. I got scared.’

  Her voice trembled, and Drake read the concern on her face.

  ‘I knew I’d left the gilet. That’s why I went back to look for it.’

  ‘You went back?’ Sara said.

  Drake butted in. ‘But you left it there.’

  ‘I didn’t go in. Somebody was standing by the front door. So, I left.’

  Drake’s hands felt clammy: Mandy might be their only eyewitness.

  ‘Can you describe this person?’

  Forsyth gave them a detailed description of the man she had seen. Before she finished Drake frantically tapped into his mobile telephone the details of where exactly an image of the man she described could be found. He tapped on the website of Britannia Chambers scrawling through to the face of Justin Selston.

  ‘Is this the man you saw in Nicholas Wixley’s home on the night he was killed?’

  Forsyth nodded.

  Chapter 36

  Tuesday 7th April

  5.56 am

  Drake woke before six, his mind racing. The dream that ruined his sleep had Justin Selston and Nicholas Wixley in a Crown Court, arguing about some point of law. When their argument intensified, both barristers lashed out at each other. The lawyers’ wigs went flying as fists connected with cheeks before they crashed around the benches where they stood.

  Drake swung his legs out of the bed and sat for a moment chasing the dream into the abyss. Convinced sleep would elude him, he got up. Dragging on a pair of jeans, a sweater and some old trainers he set off, tramping the streets, hoping the fresh air and the morning activity would focus his thoughts. Delivery trucks and vans were parked on pavements replenishing stock for the shops and cafés. Early-morning dog-walkers passed him as well as a lone jogger.

  When he reached the promenade, he stopped and watched the sea lapping against the shingle. Selston and Wixley returned to his thoughts. Both men studied at university together. Both men had practised from the same chambers. Why had Selston lied about seeing Wixley the night he was killed? Had his jealousy boiled over into something much worse?

  A man appointed as a circuit judge should have been more liked, even respected, Drake thought. But personableness wasn’t in the job description. His conversation with Mr and Mrs Thorpe, telling them Laura Wixley knew nothing of their existence, was made more depressing by their numb reaction. They had become immune to the harsh bullets life could shoot at them. Reluctantly they had agreed to meet her, and Drake wondered what they’d find to talk about. Bearing the loss of a child challenged the natural order of things but at least they could meet their son’s widow and it might give them some closure, perhaps also a degree of reconciliation.

  He picked up a handful of small stones and hurled them one at a time into the still surface of the Irish sea. The death of a circuit judge had certainly created headlines although the initial news frenzy had died down. The press would go into meltdown if they knew Deputy Chief Constable Wixley was a person of interest. Once Superintendent Price and the Crown prosecutor knew an eyewitness existed, Drake fully expected them to agree that Selston be arrested.

  Back in his flat he showered and breakfasted and left for headquarters.

  The Incident Room was empty when he arrived. He leaned against a desk, deciding Laura Wixley needed to be moved from her prominent position and relegated to one side. A grainy image from Mandy’s driving licence replaced the A4 sheet with ‘mystery woman’ written on it. The faded photograph of Wixley and his university friends took his attention and he wondered what they could tell the inquiry about Selston and Wixley.

  Sara was the first to arrive. She looked healthy, healthier than he felt despite his early-morning exertions. She dumped her bag on the desk and sat down.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘We need to fill in a lot more of Selston’s background before we can contemplate an arrest. See if you can find out more about Selston and Wixley from their student days.’

  Drake had settled back at his desk, intending to call Phillips, the harbour master, at Pwllheli, wanting to satisfy himself that the killer could have got access to the marina from the sea without the harbour master noticing. He found the telephone number and as he spoke to Phillips, he heard Winder and Luned entering the Incident Room. Questioning Phillips only made Drake realise how easy it would be for a rib to approach the marina at night undetected. And Selston owned a rib. It was another piece of the jigsaw.

  Winder appeared at his door before he had finished the call, a flushed look on his face.

  Drake looked up at him as he ended the call.

/>   ‘We’ve found David Eaton in Blaenau Ffestiniog, boss.’

  Drake stood up, grabbing his car keys and jacket. ‘You’re with me Gareth.’ As he passed Sara he said, ‘And get that background on Selston finished. I need to speak to the super later.’

  * * *

  Drake accelerated along the A55 to the Black Cat roundabout near the main junction for Llandudno where he indicated left for the Conwy Valley. As he powered towards Llanrwst, Winder shared with Drake the details of his work from the day before.

  ‘Tom Levine’s nephew, a Euan Levine, is being prosecuted for a VAT fraud. And guess who the prosecuting barrister is?’ Winder didn’t wait for Drake to reply. ‘Justin Selston.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘And there’s more, boss. The CPS lawyer I spoke to told me the defence is so well prepared he reckoned they might have inside knowledge.’

  ‘You mean he thought there was a leak?’

  Winder nodded. ‘And when I spoke to Dot Levine she said that Tom Levine had said that Euan had nothing to worry about. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘What the hell links Selston and Wixley to Levine?’

  They reached the junction with the main road to Betws-y-Coed and Drake indicated south towards Dolwyddelan and the Crimea Pass. Soon they would pass the spot where two road traffic officers had been killed in the middle of the night. Although not recent, it had been one of Drake’s first cases and the journey reminded him about that terrible night.

  They reached Blaenau Ffestiniog in good time. The town nestled underneath mountains littered with slate waste, a legacy of its history at the centre of the Welsh slate industry. The satnav guided them through the streets, past terraces of houses with slate roofs and slate windowsills.

  Winder pointed through the windscreen into the distance. ‘There’s the patrol car.’