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  Making contact with the school would be the next step, but before he could get started his mobile rang and he recognised Annie’s name. Lightness filled his chest and he smiled to himself.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier,’ Annie said. ‘I had a tutorial.’

  ‘I won’t be able to make it over tonight and it looks like I’ll be working tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh… I can come over to Colwyn Bay. I’d love to see you.’

  The prospect of seeing Annie that evening washed over him. ‘That’ll be lovely.’

  A Google search brought up the contact telephone number for the Moreton-Pritchard High School. He’d be lucky to track down anyone in the office at this hour in the middle of the school holidays, and he steeled himself for the inevitable answer machine, surprised when his call was answered.

  ‘Moreton-Pritchard High School.’

  ‘I’m trying to trace the family background of a former student.’

  ‘Let me put you through to the bursar.’

  The line went dead and Drake hoped the call had gone through. A tired voice responded. Drake made the introductions and the man’s voice perked up once he realised he was assisting in a police investigation.

  ‘Wixley, you say?’

  ‘He probably left the school in the early 1980s.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ the man said, sounding distracted as though his attention was focused elsewhere. ‘We computerised all our records years ago and I think we should be able to find what you need. You’re lucky to catch me here. I’m working late as I am going on holiday next week and there’s a pile of paperwork to complete.’

  ‘Is there anyone working at the school who might remember pupils from that time?’

  ‘That would be going some.’ Another pause. ‘I’m into the main database now.’

  Drake heard the faint sound of a mouse being clicked.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t find any record.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The voice sounded irritated. ‘I’ll check again but…’

  ‘Can you search by Christian name?’

  ‘There are bound to be many boys with the name Nicholas, Inspector.’

  ‘It would help with our inquiry.’ The usual standard reply and Drake sensed that he sounded unconvincing.

  ‘The records might be wrong, and I don’t have the time to do a full search now. One of the admin assistants has been here a long time and she might remember who you’re looking for. She was in earlier – I’ll ask her to call you.’

  Drake gave the man his contact details and rang off.

  Sara stood in his doorway and rapped two knuckles on the door. ‘I’ve done some preliminary work on the alphabet killings.’

  Drake gestured her in.

  She sat in one of his visitor chairs. ‘How do you want us to prioritise? Dozens of police officers were involved and then several lawyers at the Crown Prosecution Service as well as the jury and the judge. And, of course, the press that covered the whole trial.’

  Sara was right. The prospect of prioritising possible targets for an accomplice of a psychopathic killer would be daunting.

  ‘If Zavier Cornwell’s victims were random then we haven’t got a hope of establishing who might be the next victim.’

  For a moment, Drake stared at Sara as they both realised the consequences of what she had said.

  The telephone rang and interrupted them.

  ‘DI Drake.’

  ‘My name’s Iris. Mr Jacobs at the Moreton-Pritchard High School asked me to contact you.’

  Sara made to leave but Drake waved a hand for her to stay.

  ‘Iris, thanks for calling. Do you remember a Nicholas Wixley at school?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was a nasty piece of goods even then. He was one of the most selfish and unpleasant boys I have ever met.’

  Drake scribbled on his notepad.

  ‘But he wasn’t called Wixley back then.’

  Drake stopped writing. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He changed his name. He didn’t want anything to do with his family after he left. Mind you, they were an odd pair who hated mixing with people.’

  ‘Was he related in any way to Neil Thorpe, the rugby player?’

  ‘Maybe… There were two or three Thorpe brothers and I think Nicholas was the son of one of them.’

  Drake sounded a sympathetic tone. ‘It must have been difficult for Nicholas when he lost his parents as a boy.’

  ‘Come again?’

  Drake heard the incredulous edge to her voice.

  ‘They are still alive. I saw Mr Thorpe in Tesco’s last week. He was walking with a stick, mind. So I don’t know where you’ve got the idea they were dead.’

  ‘My mistake,’ Drake said. ‘Do you know where they live?’

  She reeled off the name of a suburb but no street or house number. ‘They’re probably in the phonebook.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  Drake finished the call and flopped back in his chair. ‘Wixley’s parents are still alive.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It means a trip tomorrow to Manchester.’

  ‘At least we’ve found someone who loved him.’

  Chapter 14

  Good Friday 29th March

  08.34 am

  Annie’s perfume hung in the air like an early-morning mist on a warm summer’s day.

  A dreamless sleep followed their lovemaking the previous evening and Drake woke that morning with his passion renewed. He leaned over and ran a hand over her naked shoulder. She warmed to his touch, turning under the duvet to face him.

  She scratched the stubble on his chin.

  ‘Good morning,’ Drake said.

  Annie smiled and reached a hand to squeeze him tightly and grinned. ‘Do we have time?’

  Afterwards, they showered together. Drake pulled Annie close, allowing the hot water to run down their bodies. Using a sponge, he lathered her shoulders and each breast in turn, thinking she was the most beautiful person he had seen.

  Breakfast in the small kitchen of his apartment had a quiet, relaxed, holiday feel. Annie drank tea with a bowl of fresh fruit while Drake enjoyed two cups of Americano. Working that Easter bank holiday was the last thing Drake wanted. But Annie seemed content to share him with the inquiry and his work.

  ‘When do you leave?’ Annie said.

  ‘Sara is collecting me in an hour.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  Drake gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘She’s been with me for less than a year. It’s taken a bit of time to get into the swing of working with her. She can be aloof, but she is clever and dedicated.’

  ‘It makes me feel quite jealous.’ She managed a light tone before reaching over and squeezing his hand. ‘We should invite her over one evening. What time will you be back tonight?’

  ‘Hopefully it won’t be too late. Sara cancelled a weekend away with some friends in Dublin.’

  Annie rolled her eyes as she finished the last of her tea. ‘I think you’re all very dedicated.’ She got up, moved over to the sink and rinsed the dishes.

  ‘Will you still be okay for Monday?’ Annie turned to Drake.

  Drake stood and walked over to Annie. He threaded an arm around her waist and she turned to face him. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting them. But don’t book anything just in case.’

  Annie nodded. Her father’s recent ill-health must have had an impact on her and he hadn’t wanted to interrogate her too much about the prognosis but her reticence suggested she feared the worst.

  She left soon afterwards, and Drake returned to the kitchen, fussing about, making certain the dishcloths hung at exactly the same length from the oven handle and stacking the dishes away carefully. Surely Annie had noticed his obsessions? But having her around always made him more relaxed.

  Bang on time, a text reached his mobile from Sara telling him she was outside. He left the apartment after finding his jacket, staring in the mirror, adjusting his tie a f
ew millimetres and dragging a comb through his hair.

  ‘Good morning, boss.’ Sara stood by her car in the warm spring sunshine and she tilted her face skyward. ‘At least it’s a nice day.’

  Drake punched the postcode into the satnav and Sara navigated to the A55 and then east. When the M56 turned into the Manchester inner ring road the satnav bleeped and the disembodied voice directed them through various junctions.

  Sara slowed as the voice took them to a park near a school. Its gates were locked, the building deserted. And then Fox Lane started, a well-maintained terrace with small front gardens. At the end they reached their destination and Sara parked the car at the kerbside opposite Thorpe’s Emporium. The woodwork badly needed painting, and the special offers advertised in the window were neglected and ancient. A large ‘closed’ sign hung in the middle of the door.

  Drake walked over to a gate that led to a rear yard. He joined Sara by the front door and pressed the bell on the door frame. A few moments passed before the door creaked open. A woman in her Sunday best stood looking at Drake and Sara as though they weren’t expected.

  ‘Mrs Thorpe? I’m Detective Inspector Drake. And this is Detective Sergeant Sara Morgan of the Wales Police Service.’ The previous evening a text from the civilian support staff notified Drake that Mr and Mrs Thorpe would expect him and Sara. ‘Somebody from our headquarters made contact with you yesterday.’

  ‘Of course, dear, come in.’

  Drake tried to guess Mrs Thorpe’s age. She was thin, her face lined and her hair scraggy, unhealthy and greying. Drake guessed late seventies, based largely on assuming she had been a mother in her late twenties, knowing Nicholas Wixley was in his early fifties.

  Sara closed the door behind them and they trooped through a cold corridor towards a room at the rear of the building. A man with sunken cheeks and penetrating eyes stood by a fire, its weak heat only barely taking the edge off the chill in the room. A jet-black tie had been knotted up to the collar of a ragged white shirt.

  ‘This is my husband, Jack,’ Mrs Thorpe said.

  Mr Thorpe was a couple of inches shorter than Drake when he got up, and he gave a lifeless handshake with bony fingers.

  ‘I wanted to extend my condolences on your loss,’ Drake said, uncertain exactly how to react to Mr and Mrs Thorpe. He would be able to gauge their reaction once he learned more about the family.

  ‘Thank you. I’ve just got back from mass.’ The cheeriness in Mrs Thorpe’s voice felt oddly out of place. ‘I’ll go and make tea.’

  ‘You had better sit down.’ Thorpe pointed to two armchairs. ‘You can say your piece once the missus is back.’

  Drake shared a glance with Sara and from the frown on her face she shared his unease. They sat in silence for a few minutes listening to the clinking of china cups and an electric kettle boiling water.

  Mrs Thorpe bustled in with a tray that she plonked on the dining table in one corner.

  ‘Have you driven all the way from north Wales today?’

  ‘It’s not far, Mrs Thorpe,’ Sara said. ‘The satnav is handy for directions.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this modern technology.’ Mrs Thorpe handed Drake a cup and saucer. He gratefully accepted the chance of stirring sugars into the milky tea he was offered.

  ‘I know this is a difficult time for you,’ Drake said once Mrs Thorpe sat down next to her husband. ‘But we need to learn more about your son Nicholas. You’re aware that we’re investigating his murder.’

  Drake searched for a reaction, an awkward swallow, eyes blinking, but Mrs Thorpe gazed towards the meagre fire while her husband stared at Drake.

  ‘How often did you see him?’

  Drake addressed both Mr and Mrs Thorpe, anticipating one or another would fill in the family background. Mrs Thorpe cleared her throat.

  ‘Nicholas was always an independent lad. Once he was at school, we knew he was too clever for us, that he would want to leave us behind. We were always proud of his achievements. I’ve got a scrapbook. I can show you about all the cases he was involved with.’

  Drake wondered why she’d avoided answering his question. ‘Why did he change his name?’

  ‘He wanted a fresh start. We all knew he’d be a big success,’ Mrs Thorpe said again.

  She ran out of steam, as though finding excuses was difficult, and moved uncomfortably on the sofa, giving Drake an insincere smile.

  ‘He didn’t want anything to do with us,’ Jack Thorpe continued. ‘He was so busy. He had such an important job.’

  Drake allowed a pause to develop.

  ‘That’s why he changed his name. And he told us he was going to marry this woman who wanted to lead a private life; she wanted nothing to do with us either.’

  Drake thought he noticed the cup and saucer in Mrs Thorpe’s hand start to shake. ‘I’ve got photograph albums I can show you.’ She stood up and rushed over to the table, placing the crockery on the tray before it fell from her grasp.

  ‘Did you ever meet Nicholas’s wife?’ Drake said. If Laura Wixley had lied to them there had to be a reason, a motive, and this strange family set-up troubled Drake.

  Jack shook his head. A fisted hand and a tight jaw suggested a hatred and tension Drake found hard to understand.

  ‘Mrs Wixley is a senior police officer in the City of Manchester force.’ Drake made it sound like a statement and a question. Jack Thorpe nodded knowingly; he probably knew all about his son’s wife.

  ‘He told us she was dead quiet and that she couldn’t deal with other people, had no social skills.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘She believed him of course. But they had this big fancy wedding. You can’t keep much private these days.’

  Either Laura Wixley had lied, or her husband had lied to her. Drake favoured the latter as he looked over at Jack Thorpe. It would have been absurd for Laura Wixley to have lied, Drake concluded. An officer of her seniority would know that basic police work would uncover the truth eventually. But people did lie, even clever people, when they couldn’t confront the truth.

  Mrs Thorpe bustled in with several photograph albums in her arms and resumed her seat, flicking through them as though she were partaking in the familiar activity of a normal family sharing photographs of everyday domestic events. The physical act of opening the albums reassured her, calmed her.

  ‘I have an album here of cuttings from the newspapers; some of them were the national newspapers that covered Nicholas’s cases.’ Mrs Thorpe showed Drake and Sara the faded newspaper extracts about various murder and rape charges her son had prosecuted and defended. Drake made courteous, polite comments and Sara did likewise until they passed them back to Mrs Thorpe.

  Jack Thorpe looked on, unimpressed, saying nothing, a darkness settling over his presence.

  Mrs Thorpe went through each photograph album in turn, the tone of her voice oscillating between admiration for her son’s achievements at school, disappointment they had little contact with him and boasting of his eminence as a barrister. Sadness tinged everything she said, imbued every word.

  ‘This last one is about his time at university.’ Mrs Thorpe forced enthusiasm into her voice. She pushed it over at Drake, who sensed she could well be on the verge of tears.

  ‘He had lots of friends when he was at university.’

  ‘He was still Thorpe back then,’ Jack Thorpe interjected.

  Mrs Thorpe ignored him. ‘We were so pleased when he got a place to read law at university. We’ve only ever run this shop and nobody from our families has ever been to university or done anything of note so we were so proud of him.’

  ‘He could be bloody difficult.’ Jack Thorpe stopped her in her tracks. ‘He didn’t like people very much. Unless you were useful to him.’

  Drake flicked through the images in the album on his lap. One caught his attention – Nicholas Wixley and his parents smiled at the camera in a park outside a stately home. They were ordinary family holiday snaps. Sara engaged Mrs Wixley with conversation about Ni
cholas’s childhood, and it pleased her to recount his achievements at school.

  Drake reached the photographs of Wixley at university and recognised the distinctive features of a much younger Justin Selston.

  ‘This is Justin Selston; was he friendly with Nicholas at university?’

  ‘Is he some lawyer?’ Jack Thorpe didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Nicholas never brought any of his friends home. He always went to visit them.’

  ‘Do you know the others in this photograph?’

  ‘Look on the back, dear,’ Mrs Thorpe said. ‘I wrote the names of everybody on every photograph. Just in case.’

  His interest piqued, Drake studied the names on the back. As he did so he recalled his own university days when friends would camp in tents on his father’s fields and his mother would make enormous fried breakfasts before they’d go trooping off into the hills of Snowdonia. Drake glanced at Mr and Mrs Thorpe, wanting to share their pain that their son wanted nothing to do with them.

  ‘Can I take some of these photographs?’ Drake said.

  Mrs Thorpe nodded briskly. ‘We will get them back, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course.’ Drake smiled.

  After another hour Drake had established that Neil Thorpe was a rugby league player and was Jack Thorpe’s great-nephew. The old man brightened as he discussed his great-nephew’s sporting career, telling Drake that there was a good chance he would be picked for the Great Britain test squad. Neil lived nearby, with a wife and three children, all of whom pitched into family events. It was as though Jack Thorpe were pining, Drake concluded.

  As Drake and Sara left, Mrs Thorpe showed them their shop. Pride filled every word when she described the strength of the local community and how they had enjoyed running the place for fifty years. Things were different now, of course – fewer customers, and most people went to the supermarkets instead of corner shops.