Written in Blood Page 23

  It was parked outside a row of closed shops. Drake pulled up behind. He and Winder got out and joined the uniformed officer who left his car. ‘Eaton’s car is at the bottom of a dead end. It’s tucked out of sight, but I spotted it because I was calling at the house next door.’

  ‘Do you know who lives there?’

  The officer shook his head.

  ‘Is there a back gate?’

  ‘No, sir. All the properties have a small backyard.’

  Drake turned to Winder. ‘Let’s go and visit David Eaton.’

  The uniformed officer followed them down towards Eaton’s property, a two-storey end terrace, and stood a little distance away as Drake rang the doorbell. Moments later David Eaton opened the door and looked at Drake and Winder as though he were expecting them.

  ‘David Eaton?’ Drake said.

  ‘Yeah, who’s asking?’

  Drake pushed his warrant card at Eaton. ‘Detective Inspector Drake and this is Detective Constable Gareth Winder. We need to speak to you.’

  Eaton’s lips formed a cynical grimace. ‘You people never give up, do you? Is it you that gave Jamie a hard time?’

  Not waiting for an answer, he turned his back on Drake, who took it as an invitation to step inside. Winder followed him through into the kitchen at the rear. Foil containers from a Chinese takeaway littered the table alongside two empty beer cans.

  ‘Do want some chow mein?’ Eaton raised an eyebrow.

  ‘We’re investigating the murders of Nicholas Wixley and Tom Levine.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Last Saturday you were recorded on CCTV leaving Pwllheli marina.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘It was the day we found Tom Levine’s body.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘You shared a cell with Zavier Cornwell when you were in prison.’

  ‘He was a fucking nutter. I told the screws he should have been in a cell on his own.’

  ‘What did you talk about with Zavier Cornwell?’

  ‘Football. He was mad about Rotherham. I heard the name of every manager they’ve had in the past twenty years, every team captain and all I can remember is that they’ve been up and down from the Championship to league one repeatedly.’

  From the hallway Drake heard the sound of footsteps descending the staircase, and a woman in her mid-forties wearing a cheap dress clinging to her thin frame entered the kitchen.

  ‘This is Beth,’ Eaton said.

  She gave Drake and Winder an inquisitive, open look. ‘Do you want a paned?’ She used the Welsh word for cup of tea in a broad local accent.

  ‘I was staying with a mate who has a boat on the marina. We caught the tide first thing that morning to go fishing. We must have left about four o’clock in the morning. He’s a mad-keen fisherman and thought it would be good for me to get out onto the water.’

  ‘What time did you get back?’

  ‘Once we came back into the marina we tidied the boat and then left. We didn’t realise until we reached the security ramp what had happened.’

  Eaton’s explanation sounded plausible and his friend needed to be contacted. ‘What’s your friend’s name?’

  ‘Darren – I suppose you want his number?’ Eaton reached for a mobile near the electric kettle. He dictated the number to Winder, who left the house, already punching the number into his mobile.

  ‘What else did Zavier Cornwell talk about when you shared a cell? He must have told you about how he killed those people. He’s the sort of bloke to boast about his achievements.’

  ‘It was all over the newspaper, for Christ sake. If there’s someone copying Zavier Cornwell – it’s not me. And, yes, he did tell me all about his ‘modus operandi’. But he had a ready supply of drugs inside and was completely off his head most the time.’

  Standing in the kitchen with the smell of stale Chinese food playing on his nostrils Drake judged that Eaton had been candid. His replies hadn’t made him suspicious, but he still needed to ask about Nicholas Wixley’s death.

  ‘I need to ask you where you were the weekend before Tom Levine was killed. It was the weekend before the Easter bank holiday.’

  ‘That’s easy enough.’ Beth reached for her smartphone. ‘We were in Blackpool.’ She tapped the screen and then thumbed her way until she found the page she was looking for. She pushed the telephone at Drake. ‘I took lots of photographs. We went to a concert.’ Beth mentioned the name of a well-known Welsh singing duo that owned a hotel in the seaside resort.

  The first thing Drake noticed was the date. It corresponded to the weekend of Wixley’s death. Then he noticed David Eaton grinning for the camera.

  ‘You’re welcome to check with the hotel,’ Eaton said.

  Drake gave them a simple nod. One of the team could check as they’d have to check Beth’s Facebook page. ‘Is this your permanent address?’

  Eaton nodded.

  ‘I’ll need your telephone number. And don’t move home without notifying me.’

  Once Drake jotted down the details he rejoined Winder as he finished a telephone call. ‘His alibi stacks up, sir.’

  ‘And I’ve checked the photographs on his partner’s Facebook page confirming they were in Blackpool the night Wixley was killed.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like David Eaton then.’

  Even in daylight the town was gloomy – the mountains towering above it suffocating the atmosphere. Now they had to focus on a killer who knew all about the alphabet killings and not on Zavier Cornwell’s elusive, possibly imaginary, accomplice.

  Chapter 37

  Tuesday 7th April

  9.56 am

  Sara read the names of the university friends added by Mrs Thorpe in a neat hand on the back of the photograph. Had they all become lawyers? Sara searched the Law Society’s records of solicitors in England and Wales with the name Roger Brown. Depressingly, there were twenty-four. If Roger Brown qualified as a lawyer three years after graduating, then a starting point would be 1986 and onwards for a maximum of three years. It narrowed her search to four individuals. She spent far too long tracking each of them down to the various law firms where they worked. After two hours she established that none of them read law at the same university as Nicholas Wixley. It left her with one likely candidate, who worked in Newcastle upon Tyne.

  She called the number, and the voice of a receptionist announced the practice name.

  ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan of the Wales Police Service,’ Sara said. ‘I’d like to speak to Roger Brown.’

  Seconds later she listened to a mystified voice. ‘This is Roger Brown; what’s this about?’

  It took her a few moments to outline how Roger could help her, and he made the occasional mumbled sound of recognition. He sounded shocked when she shared the news about Wixley. ‘I need background on his relationship with Justin Selston.’

  ‘Justin was a formal stuffed shirt. I think he came from a long line of lawyers and judges. He had a sense of destiny about his career. Most of our group of friends enjoyed being undergraduates. We’d work hard and play hard, but Justin Selston was the serious one.’

  ‘What was his relationship like with Nicholas Wixley?’

  Brown chortled. ‘There was this girl… Jennifer… she and Justin went out together and he was infatuated with her, he thought she was the one for him. But Nicholas… took an interest in her and when Justin caught him having sex with Jennifer in his car outside a rugby club following some college do there was an almighty argument.’

  Sara was scribbling notes. ‘We have a photograph of you with Nicholas Wixley and Justin Selston with two other girls, one called Jennifer, the other Mary.’

  Their conversation filled out valuable background about Selston and Wixley. Had the student antics been enough for Selston to harbour a grudge?

  ‘Mary died in a car accident a few years ago.’ Brown sounded pensive. ‘She left two young daughters. It was all very sad. I think
Jennifer lives up in the Highlands of Scotland somewhere.’

  ‘How did you get on with Nicholas Wixley?’

  ‘He was always selfish and egotistical, but he could be fun. Were Nicholas and Justin still working in the same chambers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That surprised me. I never thought Justin would want anything to do with Nicholas again. He was the sort of man not to forgive and forget. He could carry a grudge forever.’

  Sara thanked Brown and rang off. It had took her far more time than she anticipated to find Jennifer Blackburn on Facebook. It amazed her how many people shared their surname with the industrial town in the heart of Lancashire and how many Jennifers there were.

  Luckily, not many lived in Scotland.

  Sara started with the faces that looked similar to the grainy image open on her monitor. The hair might be shorter, grey with age, and the face would have filled out but the basic features would remain the same, Sara concluded. There was an outside possibility that the Jennifer Blackburn she was looking for didn’t have a Facebook page. She found two women with a passing resemblance to the young student of the photograph, her arm hitched around Selston’s.

  Sara found addresses for both women and numbers from the telephone directory. She dialled the first. A woman with a broad Scottish accent answered – ‘Avonmouth Bed-and-Breakfast.’

  Cheerily, the woman told Sara she had never been to university before embarking on a summary of her life story, recounting how she’d inherited the business from her mother who unsurprisingly came from near Bristol.

  The second Jennifer Blackburn picked up the call after five rings just as Sara had decided to try later.

  ‘Mrs Blackburn?’

  ‘Yes, who’s calling?’

  Sara couldn’t make out the accent; it definitely wasn’t Scottish, more the English Midlands.

  ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan of the Wales Police Service. We’re investigating the murder of Nicholas Wixley.’

  Sara was convinced she had a gasp.

  ‘How… I mean… I haven’t seen Nicholas Wixley for… A long time.’

  ‘I understand that whilst you were at university you had a relationship with another student, Justin Selston?’

  ‘Yes, briefly. Look, is this going to take long? My husband is going to be back shortly. I don’t want him to know anything about this.’

  ‘Can you tell me about your relationship with Justin Selston?’

  Sara heard Blackburn draw breath. ‘We were students. He was urbane, came from a wealthy family. I’d never met anyone like him. But he got too serious. He kept talking about our life together in the future as though he had everything planned out in detail. Surely you don’t think he’s involved?’

  ‘I’ve spoken with Roger Brown.’ Sara decided to barge right into this woman’s private life. ‘He recounted an incident when you had a brief fling with Nicholas Wixley at the same time as you were going out with Justin Selston. How did Mr Selston react?’

  All Sara could hear was the sound of regular breathing down the telephone.

  ‘That was long ago.’ The voice trembled slightly.

  ‘Every murder inquiry means we have to dig into people’s backgrounds.’

  Blackburn sighed heavily.

  ‘Justin lost his mind. He brought our relationship to an end. But after we finished at university he wrote to me. And before you ask, I haven’t got any of the letters. I read two or three, but they were filled with bile as though he couldn’t get over what had happened. I threw the rest unopened in the bin.’

  If Selston had reacted like this as an undergraduate, how much deeper would his enmity be towards the same man who had now beaten him to the one thing he cherished – being a judge?

  ‘Did you ever hear from him again?’

  ‘No, and I don’t want to. And I don’t want to hear from you again either.’ She slammed the phone down.

  Sara sat back in her chair. From university to the barristers’ chambers and now the recent judicial appointment, the lives of Nicholas Wixley and Justin Selston were intertwined. How much more had they to learn about Selston?

  * * *

  Drake returned to headquarters with Winder, who made straight for the canteen and a late lunch. Drake had little appetite. He sat at his desk nursing a bottle of water when Sara appeared in his door.

  ‘Any luck, boss?’

  Drake blew out a lungful of air. ‘David Eaton has an alibi for the nights that Wixley and Levine were both killed. Any progress with Selston?’

  Sara sat down and summarised her conversations with Blackburn and Brown. ‘It’s not giving us evidence, sir.’ She added forcibly.

  Drake grimaced. She was right, of course, and he feared that Superintendent Price and Thorsen would dismiss out of hand the prospect of even interviewing Selston for Wixley’s death. The decision to interview Laura Wixley and its consequences festered to the point of poisoning his mind. He had to banish this uncertainty.

  ‘I spoke to the harbour master this morning and he confirmed it would be easy for a cuddy or day boat or small rib to slip in late at night and leave without having to report to the office. And there’s no CCTV on the pontoons. So Selston could have left that landing stage near his home for the marina.’

  ‘But we’ve got no evidence and no motive.’

  Drake took a mouthful of water. ‘We’ve got enough to arrest him on suspicion of Wixley’s death.’

  Sara gave him an unconvinced look and finished her tea.

  * * *

  An hour later Drake sat monitoring Andy Thorsen’s facial expressions. It was like watching a fish swimming around in a tank. Thorsen was breathing but he remained expressionless as he listened to Drake.

  Eventually Thorsen cut in. ‘I am exercised about the value of the evidence regarding his relationship with Nicholas Wixley from his undergraduate days.’

  Drake had prepared for this. ‘You know as well as I do, Andy, any relevant details relating to the defendant’s past gives the opportunity for a jury to form a clear picture. Their history of animosity is surely relevant.’

  Drake half expected Thorsen to challenge his assertion, but the Crown prosecutor simply sat impassively. Drake was prepared to remind Thorsen that a recent case involving the prosecution of a man in his sixties for murder offered evidence about his military past forty years earlier.

  It was Superintendent Price’s body language that really unnerved Drake. He rubbed his hands vigorously over his face as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘So, for thirty-odd years Selston has a festering hatred of Nicholas Wixley because he slept with his one and only true love?’

  ‘Selston is the sort of character to take that personally.’ Drake hoped he didn’t sound too pleading.

  Price replied. ‘Even so, it beggars belief. And you’re saying that because he was passed over as a circuit judge it tipped him over into becoming a murderer.’

  Drake sensed Price wanted to continue.

  ‘This is a man from a fine, upstanding family. His father was a judge and his grandfather too, for Christ’s sake. It’s inconceivable…’

  Thorsen added in his measured tone. ‘A jury isn’t going to be swayed by all that family stuff. They’ll be more interested in the history of conflict between both men. It could be a persuasive argument to suggest the disappointment of failing to become a judge and seeing his nemesis appointed in his place would be enough to make him murder. We’ve all seen these sorts of barristers, pompous idiots, but very clever and very good at what they do. And then we have the eyewitness evidence—’

  ‘She’s a fucking escort.’ Price raised his voice.

  For the first time Drake noticed a grin playing on Andy Thorsen’s lips.

  ‘She has no possible axe to grind, nothing to gain and she was terrified of coming forward because of Nicholas Wixley’s choice of friends.’

  Drake paused before continuing. ‘Selston was one of the defending barristers in the case
of Zavier Cornwell. He knew all the details of Cornwell’s MO. The person who killed Nicholas Wixley knew all about the alphabet case. And Selston is the prosecuting barrister in a case involving Euan Levine, Tom’s nephew. The prosecutor in that case is convinced someone is leaking information to the defence lawyers.’

  Price threw a silver Cross ballpoint he had been playing with onto the desk in a huff. ‘That’s a stretch. It could be anyone. And you haven’t given us any single link between Justin Selston and Tom Levine.’ Before Drake replied, Price held up a hand. ‘And all you’ve done is suggest he could have accessed the marina at Pwllheli undetected because he has a boat. Anybody could do that. There must be dozens of people with boats along the coast.’

  Drake didn’t reply. The superintendent was correct. Everything about the inquiry suggested the death of Tom Levine and Nicholas Wixley were linked. They just hadn’t found what linked them so far.

  Price persisted. ‘There could be two killers.’

  ‘Two copycats is pretty unlikely, Wyndham,’ Thorsen said.

  Price glared at the prosecutor.

  Andy Thorsen announced in a serious voice. ‘The eyewitness evidence changes everything. It turns Justin Selston from a person of interest to a suspect. And we all know that must mean his arrest. When you interview him, you could take the opportunity to ask him about Tom Levine.’

  A panic-stricken look crossed Wyndham Price’s face.

  Drake nodded. ‘And it means we can execute a search warrant.’

  Thorsen added in a pleased tone, ‘Of course.’

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday 7th April

  7.45 am

  Drake arrived in the leafy suburb where Selston lived and parked the Mondeo. Sara had said little on the journey from north Wales and Drake guessed she was still worried about the impending arrest. A few minutes passed before a marked police car pulled up behind them followed closely by an anonymous van with a search team of six officers. Later that morning another team would arrive at Selston’s holiday home. The pavement was litter-free and discreet signs promoted the neighbourhood watch group. Drake left the car and nodded briefly to the officers who’d accompany Selston.