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  ‘PI?’

  ‘Presumed Innocent – the name of his yacht. The engine failed when he needed it. It had recently been refurbished by one of the local contractors.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘John Speakman. Apparently, he’s employed some new mechanic who was supposed to be excellent.’

  ‘And where was this argument?’

  Horton paused again. ‘Nick was furious. Blind with rage, he kept going on and on about having spent ten grand on refurbishing the engine. Soon as we got back into the marina he spotted a young kid – Jamie something or other. He was working on some other yacht and Nick rushed over to him. They began pushing and shoving. Nick smacked him a couple of times before the young lad got a length of rope and threatened to horsewhip Nicholas. That’s when things got really out of hand.’

  Horton shared a glance with Drake and Sara.

  ‘Jamie charged at him and they both finished up in the drink. The lad’s head was cracked open – there was blood all over the place.’

  ‘Did someone call the police?’ Sara asked, as she continued to make notes in her pocketbook.

  Horton shook his head.

  Before he could ask any more questions, Drake’s mobile telephone rang with a number he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Detective Inspector Drake.’

  ‘It’s Tony Roberts, sir, at the Wixley house. It’s just that… Mrs Wixley has arrived.’

  Chapter 4

  Monday 25th March

  3.23 pm

  Deputy Chief Constable Wixley stood on the drive by the Mercedes and glared at Drake, before staring at his warrant card. She ignored Sara.

  ‘Do you have some identification?’ Drake asked.

  It earned him a sharpened glare, her eyes darkening. Wixley scrambled through her handbag before producing her City of Manchester police force warrant card and thrusting it at him for a brief second. ‘Satisfied? I demand to be told what’s happening.’

  ‘Has Superintendent Wyndham Price spoken to you?’ Drake said.

  ‘And who the hell is he?’

  ‘He’s my divisional commanding officer.’ Drake added. ‘Ma’am.’ Hoping his deference would be rewarded.

  ‘This is my home. These officers…’ She tipped her head towards Roberts and Jones. ‘Have prevented my lawful right to enter.’

  Drake took a deep breath. ‘Superintendent Price has been trying to get hold of you all morning. I’m afraid we have some bad news. Your husband has been killed.’

  Laura Wixley didn’t move for a moment. She blinked rapidly, and her mouth fell open slightly. ‘I…’ Drake reached a hand towards her arm, but she waved him off. Would she explain where she had been that morning and why she had been out of contact? ‘Can I see him?’

  Any police officer would know that visiting the crime scene was out of the question until the forensic team had finished. But it wasn’t a police officer asking; it was the widow of a man brutally killed in his own home.

  ‘The forensic investigation is still ongoing.’

  ‘I need a glass of water,’ Wixley said.

  Drake led Laura Wixley inside to the kitchen and pulled a chair from underneath the table. She sat down heavily. Laura’s gaze followed Sara around the room as though she was surprised Sara knew where to find things. Sara filled a glass and set it down in front of Wixley.

  ‘When did you receive the first call?’ Wixley asked after her first mouthful of water.

  ‘Your cleaner discovered the body when she arrived this morning.’

  Wixley dragged a loose strand of her thin brown hair back over her ear. She had bloodless narrow lips and a strong nose, and rimless glasses couldn’t hide the crow’s feet around her small, dark-blue, piercing eyes. Her cheeks were make-up free, but a diamond-shaped earring hung from each lobe. Drake also noticed that Sara had been right; there was zero chance Laura Wixley was a size ten: more like sixteen.

  ‘Gill,’ Wixley replied flatly.

  ‘Do you know anything about your husband’s movements yesterday?’

  Wixley adjusted her position on the chair. ‘Very little. I believe he was due to be sailing in the afternoon with Colin Horton. It’s a regular thing.’

  ‘Where were you yesterday?’

  Wixley squeezed her lips together into a sharp thin line. ‘I thought you wanted to establish what my husband was doing?’

  ‘It will give us a complete picture.’

  ‘I think your job is to find my husband’s killer.’ Wixley gave Drake a challenging glare.

  Establishing her whereabouts would have to wait. She had been out of contact that day and now she refused to explain where she had been the day before, which only made Drake suspicious. A quick glance at Sara told him she shared his misgivings.

  ‘When did your husband leave home?’

  Wixley ran a finger down the glass in front of her. ‘He left on Saturday morning. He was going to travel here and get the yacht ready for the racing on Sunday morning. I had a text message from him Saturday confirming he had arrived.’

  ‘You didn’t speak to him?’

  ‘No.’

  Drake turned to Sara. ‘Check with Mike Foulds to see if he has recovered a mobile telephone.’ Her chair scraped on the quarry-tiled floor as she stood up.

  Wixley gave Drake a look he couldn’t read. Was it defiance, resilience?

  ‘Was he expecting anyone?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Drake averted his gaze. He could count on one hand the number of occasions he had spoken with a deputy chief constable – one rank below chief constable. Now he was interviewing the deputy chief constable of the City of Manchester police, a force three times the size of the Wales Police Service, and the uncomfortable sense she was hiding something surfaced in his mind.

  But he was the senior investigating officer and she had no jurisdiction in Wales. Even so, he could feel the presence of Superintendent Price in the room, looking over his shoulder, questioning every thought process.

  ‘Do you know anybody that he would be entertaining?’

  Not even Deputy Chief Constable Wixley could infer anything from such an innocuous question, Drake hoped.

  ‘He didn’t tell me about any of his plans. I suppose some of his sailing pals could have been here over the weekend.’

  ‘Did your husband ever complain that he felt unsafe?’

  Wixley shook her head.

  Sara returned clutching a plastic evidence pouch. ‘Is this Mr Wixley’s mobile telephone, ma’am.’

  ‘How can I possibly tell?’ Laura Wixley raised her voice before glaring at it. ‘It looks like it but they all look alike.’

  She reached down into her bag, found her own telephone and made a call. The bagged mobile rang. ‘There, you have your answer.’

  ‘Does your husband have any enemies?’ Drake said.

  Wixley groaned. ‘Every successful person has enemies, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Your husband was a barrister, so he must have prosecuted a lot of criminal cases. Did he also act for defendants facing justice?’

  ‘Recently he specialised almost exclusively on prosecuting. He enjoyed it.’

  Every successful barrister had to be terrier-like in their attention to detail and utterly determined, but Laura Wixley made it sound like a blood sport.

  ‘Were there any particular cases in the past few years where your husband might have made enemies?’

  Wixley shrugged.

  Drake heard the thud of a car door and an exchange of words between the two officers on duty outside. A louder voice approached the front door and Drake recognised Wyndham Price’s tone. It occurred to Drake that Price’s driver must have turned around as soon as he knew Mrs Wixley had arrived.

  Drake stood up and met Price as he entered the house.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Drake nodded to the kitchen door. ‘In there.’

  Price barged past Drake, who followed him into the kitchen. Price reached out a hand. ‘I am
most terribly sorry for your loss, ma’am.’

  Her handshake looked limp and lifeless. Drake hadn’t attempted such a step; perhaps reaching superintendent rank made it permissible.

  ‘Your inspector has refused to allow me to see my husband’s body.’ Venom laced her voice and Drake pitied any of her junior officers.

  Price gave Drake a troubled glance.

  ‘As a serving police officer who, incidentally, outranks you all, there’s nothing to prevent you allowing me into the crime scene.’

  Drake folded his arms. He had made his decision. Price could indulge Laura Wixley if he wanted to. It avoided any flak for breach of protocols being levelled at Drake. Drake and Sara looked over at Price, who had been fixed by one of Laura Wixley’s javelin-tipped stares. He had no real option. A pang of sympathy for Price pricked Drake’s mind.

  ‘Follow me.’

  When Laura Wixley reached the door of the bedroom, Drake sensed her hesitation. She dipped her head, paused. Superintendent Price did not notice; he was already in the room talking to Mike Foulds, warning them to clear out of the way.

  Laura Wixley composed herself and entered the room. She averted her eyes until she reached the bottom of the bed. Then she turned and drew her arms tight to her chest before giving out a brief whimper. There were no tears, no hysterics. She took in the rest of the room, ignoring the crime scene investigators as she did so. Nearing the newspaper cuttings on the board, she frowned and squinted.

  ‘These clippings are all about cases where your husband was involved,’ Price said.

  Wixley didn’t react, didn’t nod confirmation or raise an eyebrow.

  Turning her gaze to her dead husband’s body, she raised a finger and pointed in his direction. ‘Is that the letter “e”?’

  Foulds cleared his throat. ‘That is certainly what we believe.’

  Wixley glanced at the crime scene manager and then at Price.

  ‘Does that mean anything to you?’ Price said.

  She blinked away tears before making straight for the door without a word to Price, who followed her out. Drake caught up with them in the kitchen as she drank another glass of water.

  ‘There was a case years ago called the alphabet murders. A letter from the alphabet was tattooed into each victim’s chest. The killer had reached the letter D before he was caught. He was sentenced to life imprisonment.’

  ‘And is there a connection with your husband?’ Drake said.

  Wixley nodded slowly. ‘He was the prosecuting barrister.’

  Drake breathed out heavily. This information meant they had their first realistic thread. He hoped that forensics would give them enough to move the inquiry forward. ‘We’ll need all the details about the case.’

  ‘You need to talk to some of the other barristers involved. One of the defence barristers, Justin Selston, I believe, was from the same chambers as Nicholas.’

  ‘Presumably chambers can provide a record of all your husband’s past and current cases.’

  Wixley lifted her gaze from her feet and looked over at Wyndham Price. ‘I suggest your detective inspector should talk to them today. Some of the members of chambers and staff are staying at the Portmeirion Hotel. Chambers are celebrating fifty years and there is a big dinner this weekend. It was going to be a special occasion for Nicholas as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Price asked.

  ‘He had recently been appointed as a circuit judge.’

  Chapter 5

  Monday 25th March

  5.05 pm

  ‘What did you make of her, boss?’ Sara sipped on a thin plastic cup containing a thick brown builders’ tea. One look at the mobile food kiosk on the outskirts of Pwllheli persuaded Drake to opt for a soft drink. At least the Coke was cold.

  ‘It’s odd she was so secretive about her whereabouts.’

  ‘I agree.’ Sara nodded enthusiastically.

  Price’s words still rang in his ears. ‘Keep me informed about every step.’ He had reacted with exasperation mixed with annoyance when Drake had explained that Mrs Wixley had refused to provide any explanation for her whereabouts that day or for the previous day. Mrs Wixley’s circumstances had to be investigated: he had been sorely tempted to remind Price that most murders are committed by someone already known to the victim.

  A judge had been killed and his wife, a deputy chief constable, could well be a suspect. At the very least Drake could see they had to treat her as a person of interest. Police officers were meant to be upstanding and above reproach. Wixley’s murder challenged the assumptions of a civilised society: that the judiciary was a fundamental part of the system and alongside police officers made for a law-abiding world.

  Drake started the engine. ‘Digging into the life of Nicholas Wixley will inevitably mean including her too.’ A few minutes later Drake indicated for the entrance to the Portmeirion Hotel.

  Drake slowed to a halt in front of the barrier restricting his access. Non-guests had to pay a fee for visiting the hotel and its grounds with the famous Italianate village. Drake had promised himself to visit with his daughters but had never got around to it.

  He produced his warrant card for the staff member who approached the car. ‘This is official police business.’

  The man gave Drake a startled look and allowed him through.

  ‘I’ve never been here,’ Sara said. ‘Although friends of mine are going to book for the No.6 Festival this year.’

  Drake negotiated the road down to the hotel at a sedate pace.

  ‘A drama series in the 1960s was filmed here,’ Drake said. The Prisoner.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  Leaving the car, they skirted around a low wall overlooking a shallow bay. It was a calm night; the early spring sunset cast a warm glow over the sea and Drake saw the impressive array of property scattered over the hillside above him. Discreet lighting lit up the red and yellow surfaces of the gables and exterior elevations, creating a magical quality.

  ‘It’s spectacular,’ Sara said.

  Dozens of guests bustled on the patio outside the entrance enjoying the view over the estuary. Inside, the reception had a comfortable, prosperous feel. Drake identified himself to a receptionist whose face turned from a standard warm customer greeting to stiff and serious. She led them to a bay window where two men sat, grim-faced.

  ‘Mr Selston?’ Drake reminded himself of the name of the barrister Laura Wixley had mentioned.

  Both men stood up. The taller one, the same height as Drake, reached out a hand. He had a carefully trimmed short back-and-sides, a developing paunch and a mouth fixed in an emotionless weak smirk.

  ‘Justin Selston.’

  They shook hands before Selston turned to his colleague. ‘This is Michael Kennedy, the chief clerk of our chambers.’

  Both men shared an expensive tailor judging from the quality of their suits. The prominent chalk line on Kennedy’s three-piece pinstripe complemented his baldness, although a smattering of white hair clung to the back of his head.

  Kennedy’s hand was surprisingly damp when Drake shook it.

  ‘Do sit down, Detective Inspector,’ Selston said, beckoning over a waiter. ‘Can we get you a drink?’

  A lonely piece of sliced lemon sat at the bottom of the cut-glass tumblers on the table in front of both men.

  ‘Sparkling water, thank you,’ Drake said. Sara ordered the same and Selston motioned for the waiter to refresh their glasses.

  ‘This is the most frightful business,’ Selston said.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Mrs Laura Wixley this afternoon.’

  ‘Poor darling must be devastated. I can’t imagine what she must be going through.’

  The waiter returned, depositing the drinks on the table. Kennedy and Selston took a decent mouthful of each.

  ‘How is she?’ Selston leaned forward slightly, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

  There was a clear pecking order in the relationship between the men. Selston was the barrister, an accom
plished lawyer, Kennedy merely the hired help.

  ‘She’s gone to stay with some friends locally. Has there been anything to suggest Nicholas Wixley was a target for a disgruntled criminal or client? Any threatening letters?’

  Selston again. ‘Nicholas was a very successful member of chambers. He prosecuted some extremely high-profile cases. He was exceptionally able at what he did.’

  Drake looked over at Kennedy. ‘Any problems at work?’

  Selston gave Kennedy a sharp look.

  ‘He was well liked by all the members of staff. We have an administration team that runs the day-to-day operation of chambers.’ Kennedy’s flat northern accent contrasted sharply with Selston’s cultured, rounded vowels.

  Both men emptied the other half of their glasses.

  ‘We shall need to visit chambers in due course and speak to the staff as well as removing any personal items that belonged to Mr Wixley. Someone from my team will be in contact about the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘Of course, of course. We shall do everything to cooperate with your inquiry,’ Selston said.

  ‘Quite a few of the members of chambers are already here.’ Kennedy said. ‘They’ve taken the opportunity to take some holiday before the dinner on Saturday night.’

  Selston butted in. ‘We thought you might want to talk to the members of chambers who were here last night. So, I’ve asked them to gather in one of the dining rooms.’

  Another grain of suspicion developed in Drake’s mind. He hated being manipulated but it was always sensible to start identifying the killer from those nearest to the victim. Colleagues, family members and Mrs Wixley were all in that group. Was everything as rosy in Nicholas Wixley’s chambers as Kennedy made out?

  ‘That might be helpful, thank you.’

  Michael Kennedy left, announcing he would corral everyone together. Drake turned to Selston. ‘Are you familiar with the alphabet killer?’

  Selston’s mouth barely quivered but he squinted, obviously surprised. ‘Is there some connection?’