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  Drake walked over to the desk as Sara started on a filing cabinet in one corner. He ran a finger along the surface and collected a film of polish. He wondered if Mrs Wixley had been through the contents carefully already. More fountain pens occupied the top drawer. A simple ballpoint from the local supermarket satisfied Drake.

  Legal pads and Post-it notes in neat and tidy order filled the second drawer. By the time he reached the bottom Drake realised Wixley had been a fastidious individual, which he approved of. Turning his attention to the drawers in the right-hand side, he dispelled a feeling he had missed something or at the very least that he should have found something that wasn’t there.

  The arms of the office chair were sumptuous leather. Wixley struck Drake as a man vain enough to have the chair specially made.

  Getting up, he spotted speakers built into the shelving units of the bookcase lining one wall. Sara dumped a selection of buff-coloured photographs, suspended filing pockets and lever arch files on a table before continuing to delve through the cabinet.

  From the bookcase Drake found a stack of boxes and placed them onto the desk.

  Envelopes and stamps filled the first. In the second he fished out old maps of Lancashire and the Peak District as well as a battered copy of the historic county of Caernarfonshire that included the Llŷn Peninsula and Pwllheli.

  A nagging feeling they were wasting time circled the edge of his mind.

  ‘He was loaded,’ Sara announced.

  Drake turned to face her.

  She nodded at the pile on the table.

  ‘He must have millions in various investments. And there are share certificates relating to private companies.’

  ‘We’ll take it all back with us. And I’ll requisition a full search of his finances.’

  Drake turned his attention to the third box. A motley bunch of electronic gadgets was stored inside: an old dictating machine and cameras and chargers, but at the back Drake found a mobile telephone. It looked reasonably new and he switched it on, surprised no password was needed. He returned to the desk. If Mrs Wixley had already been through her husband’s belongings, she had missed this. He sank again into the chair, propped his elbows on the desk and scrolled through the numbers.

  Drake read the first girl’s name – Veronique. It sounded foreign. The second name on the screen was Mandy and the third Kelly. Which one owned the size ten gilet?

  Drake put down the mobile, covering it with his hand as Laura Wixley entered the room, reading the time on her watch as she did so. It had a substantial silver metal bracelet. At a guess Drake thought Rolex and expensive. The recently applied blusher gave her face more colour and there was a faint odour of perfume.

  ‘Are you going to be much longer? Some friends have invited me out this evening and…’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If you haven’t finished then you could always come back.’ She sounded unwelcoming.

  Half an hour later Drake and Sara had finished a rapid search of Nicholas Wixley’s bedroom and wardrobe and sat in the car outside the house. Drake had recognised some of the designer labels on the suits – they made some of the German design labels in his own wardrobe seem like cheap off-the-shelf versions.

  ‘And not even a cup of tea,’ Sara said.

  Drake reached for the mobile he had found. ‘We’ve got calls to make.’

  Chapter 12

  Thursday 28th March

  7.49 am

  Drake woke from a dreamless sleep, struggling to remember which day it was. Then he remembered his conversation with Annie the night before. Thank goodness for Skype, Drake thought, as the image of her warm smile filled his thoughts. He still hoped he could take at least one day off that weekend. Meeting her parents had been planned for weeks and he knew how much it meant to her.

  Cancelling his arrangement to see Helen and Megan tomorrow only reopened harsh memories of holidays and family events he had cancelled because of work, and the old feelings of guilt resurfaced. How could he protect Annie from his life as a police officer?

  A message from Annie reached his mobile and focused his attention. Did you sleep ok? x. Last night he’d arrived home exhausted, feeling like he had worked two days in one. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled – he always did when she messaged him. He tapped out a reply. Slept like a log. Talk later x

  Drake only left the apartment once satisfied the kitchen was neat and tidy. He wore a fresh set of clothes, the shirt and suit from yesterday discarded to a pile for dry cleaning. Although his black brogues had been polished the previous weekend, he gave each shoe a cursory polish with a brush before leaving the flat.

  On the way to headquarters, Drake bought his regular broadsheet and focused on the Sudoku. He drove off after managing five numbers quickly, feeling pleased with himself.

  By the time he’d parked, his mind had turned to Deputy Chief Constable Wixley. Even successful professionals were allowed to be emotional when a partner died, Drake thought. A sallow complexion or evidence of tears would have been expected, but she had appeared unaffected. Walking over to the main reception, Drake reminded himself about the initial comments by Kennedy and Selston, suggesting Wixley was respected and well liked.

  Those comments couldn’t be further from the truth, and either they were lying or they had no idea what he was really like. The first explanation made more sense.

  Drake reached his office and stood by his desk. The columns of Post-it notes were undisturbed and the bin was empty. He adjusted the photographs of his daughters near the telephone and, satisfied everything appeared to be in apple-pie order, he booted up his computer as Sara and the rest of his team arrived.

  Usual morning greetings filled the Incident Room outside his office.

  He extracted the photograph of Zavier Cornwell from the file and noticed the lifeless eyes and blank expression – it looked like any other mugshot Drake had seen over the years. He left his room and walked over to the board, past Winder and Luned.

  ‘How did you get on yesterday, sir?’ Luned spoke first.

  Drake nodded at the boxes of files on a nearby table. ‘That’s the alphabet killer’s file from the major crime team in Manchester.’

  Sara didn’t look at them; she had supervised the team of civilians that had transported them from her car late the previous evening.

  ‘Detective Inspector Ramsbottom was in charge of the investigation.’ Drake reached the board and pinned onto it the photograph in his hand, turning to face his team. ‘We start looking for a link to Zavier Cornwell.’

  ‘Ramsbottom always thought there was an accomplice, but they never traced anyone,’ Sara said.

  Drake added, ‘If it is an accomplice then there may be other intended victims at risk. I want everyone directly linked to the original prosecution listed and contacted. Today.’ He paused to scan the faces of his team. ‘There could be lives at risk. Speak to Ramsbottom and by this afternoon I need that list finished.’

  ‘It’s going to be difficult to get hold of people over the holiday weekend.’ Winder said. Typical, Drake thought; the detective constable would always look for difficulties, but this time he had a point. They couldn’t afford to lose four days because of the extended Easter break, otherwise the impact on the case would prey on his mind.

  ‘Get telephone numbers and call them tomorrow and over the weekend if needs be. This is an important inquiry. Bank holidays will have to wait. And I need background on Justin Selston. Apparently, he was devastated when Wixley was appointed a judge instead of him.’

  ‘He might be a target too,’ Sara said.

  ‘We’ll arrange to speak to him again in due course.’

  Drake searched for defiance in the faces of his team. He thought he saw disappointment in Winder’s eyes and resignation in Luned’s. Detective work meant round-the-clock attention in the first few days of a case.

  Drake read the time on his watch, reminding himself of Superintendent Price’s email asking for a briefing at ten-thirty.


  ‘Let’s make progress today.’ Drake went back to his office, gathered up his papers and threaded his way to the senior management suite.

  ‘Good morning, Ian,’ Hannah said. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

  Drake gave a puzzled look, inviting her to explain the ‘they’ but the superintendent’s secretary was already announcing his arrival down the telephone. This was a routine briefing, and unexpected attendees always unnerved Drake.

  Entering Price’s room, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Chief Constable Riskin.

  ‘Good morning, Ian.’ Riskin offered a hand that Drake shook. Riskin was only a few years older than Drake but his ambition and drive spilled out of the lean and well-toned officer. He looked just as athletic as Drake remembered.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting… sir.’

  ‘My plans weren’t finalised until last night.’

  Riskin glanced at Price as if silently instructing him to get on with the meeting. This was no normal briefing, nor was Price in charge.

  Riskin sat next to Price at the conference table and tension gripped Drake’s chest. Had he missed a notification from Price in all the activity over the past two days?

  ‘I flew up on the shuttle this morning.’ Riskin struck an amiable tone. ‘It’s so much easier than spending hours in the car.’

  Drake nodded. He wasn’t even certain the comment had been addressed to him.

  Hannah interrupted with a cafetière of coffee and Northern Division’s finest china cups and saucers.

  ‘Bring us up to date with the Wixley inquiry.’ Riskin gave Drake a long, calculated stare.

  ‘We recovered the file of papers from the major crime team in the City of Manchester force that handled the original alphabet killing. I’ve already got my officers working on them.’

  Riskin nodded. Price gripped an orange Lamy fountain pen tightly.

  ‘I assume you think they are linked?’ Riskin said.

  Addressing Price was one thing but having Riskin there daunted Drake. His pulse pounded in both ears and his lips suddenly felt chalk-like.

  ‘Wixley prosecuted Zavier Cornwell. The DI in charge of the inquiry thought Cornwell was a psychopath, and he strongly suspected he had an accomplice.’

  Riskin nodded as though he already knew everything Drake was sharing.

  ‘But they never traced him.’

  ‘Or it’s a copycat,’ said Riskin.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And a copycat who has murdered a Crown Court judge.’ Riskin let the last sentence hang in the air. ‘And his wife is a senior police officer. It is an attack on the very fabric of our legal system.’ Riskin tapped the file of papers on the table in front of him.

  ‘We’ll need to interview Zavier Cornwell in due course.’ Drake paused. ‘And we’re searching for a woman in a red car seen at Wixley’s home the night he was killed. Tracing her is a priority.’

  ‘Cornwell is in HMP Marchfield,’ Riskin announced in a sombre tone, emphasising the name of one of the securest prisons in England and Wales, housing only the most dangerous offenders.

  ‘We also visited Britannia Chambers. None of the admin staff liked Wixley. And he was despised by the majority of his colleagues too. A Justin Selston, one of the senior barristers, may well be a person of interest.’

  Riskin squinted at Drake. ‘How so?’

  ‘Wixley beat him to the appointment as a circuit judge. One witness told us Selston took his defeat badly.’

  ‘Good, you’ve been making progress.’ Riskin gave a brief, noncommittal smile.

  Drake glanced at the file under the chief constable’s hand. There has to be more to this visit, Drake thought.

  ‘We visited the home of Nicholas Wixley and Mrs Wixley yesterday.’

  ‘DCC Wixley,’ Riskin corrected him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Which brings us to the DCC indeed.’

  He faced Drake. ‘DCC Wixley applied for the chief constableship of the WPS when I was appointed. She was shortlisted at the time and interviewed. On paper, she was an outstanding candidate and an exceptional police officer. She has dedicated her whole life to her career. Her rise was meteoric through the ranks. She took a master’s degree in criminology in her own time and eventually it led to her appointment to the City of Manchester force.’

  Riskin drew breath. ‘She’d spent part of her early career in Cardiff, which made her the favoured candidate.’

  Drake glanced over at Price, his gaze firmly on Riskin.

  ‘The chairman of the appointments panel made contact with me yesterday. He made me aware of a background briefing they had received on Mrs Wixley. There were concerns about Mr Wixley’s contacts with certain members of organised crime groups in Manchester, which might have made her appointment problematic.’

  Drake could barely believe what he heard. ‘Are you suggesting we treat Mrs Wixley as a person of interest?’

  Riskin made an odd sound as he sucked air into his mouth. This was difficult for him.

  ‘We want her eliminated from the inquiry as soon as possible.’

  Presumption of innocence from the start then, Drake thought. ‘Is her promotion being formally blocked?’

  Riskin shook his head. ‘She has made several unsuccessful applications.’

  ‘So you think she could be blaming her husband. And that without him around she might stand a better chance of a chief constable appointment.’ Drake’s moment of clarity was met with stony silence.

  ‘We need to make certain that because DCC Wixley is such a high-ranking police officer she should not be automatically excluded as a person of interest.’

  Two faces with resigned inevitability looked over at Drake.

  Riskin continued. ‘I know Laura Wixley from various committees and I cannot imagine her being a killer.’ It pained Riskin even to contemplate the possibility. Drake felt like a small cog in a large wheel that he couldn’t see turning. Was the chief constable asking him to seriously investigate Laura Wixley or merely go through the motions?

  Riskin pushed over the folder.

  ‘There are contact names and telephone numbers in the file. And I’m organising to get the minutes of the appointment panel made available for you. I’m sure I can rely on the complete discretion of your team?’

  Chapter 13

  Thursday 28th March

  11.34 am

  Winder jumped to his feet when Drake entered the Incident Room. ‘Boss, the chief’s here apparently. He flew up this morning. The traffic escort from the airport got caught in the roadworks on the A55.’

  ‘I’ve just been in a briefing with him.’ Drake reached the board and stood to face the team, all wide-eyed in astonishment. Drake drew breath. ‘We need to treat Deputy Chief Constable Laura Wixley as a person of interest, if only to dismiss her from the inquiry.’

  Sara uttered the words on everyone’s minds. ‘On what basis – does she have a motive?’

  ‘There’s intelligence to suggest her promotion has been hampered by her husband’s reputation. And without him around her path to a chief constableship is easier.’

  Sara nodded. Winder looked stunned, as though such a possibility was unthinkable. Luned sat heavy-faced, ruminating.

  ‘And she wouldn’t disclose where she had been on the morning Wixley’s body had been found, nor indeed for the day before.’

  ‘We don’t have any evidence…’ Luned said.

  Sara added, ‘I suppose the chief doesn’t want anyone to say we ignored her as a possible person of interest because she’s a deputy chief constable.’

  Drake nodded. ‘Our focus will be on the alphabet killer and finding the woman who was with Wixley the night he died.’ And as an afterthought. ‘And tracing that Jamie character who argued with Wixley.’

  ‘It’s Jamie Eaton, boss. I spoke to Speakman’s Engineering,’ Winder said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘The wholesalers sent me a list of the shops that stock the pink gilet in the northwe
st of England. None in north Wales,’ Luned announced.

  ‘Contact them all,’ Drake said. ‘And any progress tracking the red car on CCTV?’

  ‘Slow,’ Winder replied. ‘It could take hours. How far do you want us to go? I mean, it would take days to check all the footage from garage forecourt CCTV around north Wales.’

  ‘You know the drill.’ Drake sounded sharp. ‘Identify every CCTV on the roads from Wixley’s house. She must have stopped for petrol or diesel or something to eat. It was the middle of the night so that should narrow it down.’

  Winder gave a brief, sullen look at the admonishment.

  ‘But our main priority…’ Drake looked over at the box from the City of Manchester police force. ‘Everyone involved with the original alphabet case needs to be listed. There could be other intended targets. We need to identify anyone at risk.’ He registered the shock on the faces in front of him, the enormity sinking in.

  Back in his room he tried to prioritise, but a briefing on a murder inquiry with the chief constable was a rare event and he disliked the niggle in his mind that suggested he wasn’t being told something.

  He found the contact details for HMP Marchfield and emailed a formal request to see Zavier Cornwell.

  Reaching for Wixley’s second mobile telephone, he copied the numbers down from the screen and requisitioned a search against each, guessing they’d be pay-as-you-go and untraceable, before calling each in turn. The same voice he had heard the previous evening invited him to leave a message. He didn’t bother, and he pushed the mobile to the far corner of his desk.

  Drake digested reports from house-to-house inquiries, reread the pathologist’s report and picked up the preliminary toxicology conclusions that confirmed no trace of any poison in Wixley’s body apart from the cocaine.

  His stomach grumbled by lunchtime and he texted Annie, hoping he could talk to her.

  Despite being a successful barrister, nobody had a good word to say for Wixley. Even his widow seemed unaffected by his death. The CV on Britannia Chambers’ website had details of his school and it reminded Drake that he had read the name before, when he’d scanned the cuttings on Wixley’s computer for Neil Thorpe. On Wixley’s laptop he found images of a smiling Thorpe, with children and teachers all beaming at the camera. Wixley didn’t strike Drake as someone to keep random reports about a former pupil of the same school he attended.