by Carole Pitt
'Let's wait until that happens,' Elizabeth said. My head's started to hurt already.'
* * *
Libby Hall stared through the discoloured net curtains. They weren't actually dirty, just old and needed replacing. Money, she cursed inwardly, when would the nightmare stop?
Bringing up the boys singlehanded hadn't been easy but over the last two years, life had become more difficult. Her two jobs didn't bring in sufficient money and full time ones weren't easy to get. Now she regretted not going to college. Even basic qualifications might have given her half a chance. She wanted a better life for the boys and hoped they would settle down and concentrate on their schoolwork. Getting them into Grasmere had given her hope so she had put up with their demands. With mounting debts, there was no more money for the expensive clothes, phones and computers.
Janet had offered a loan, explaining she'd recently won a few thousand and could afford it. Libby had wanted to accept but was afraid to tell her friend she'd already borrowed from a high interest company and now owed more than she'd originally borrowed. Yesterday she'd received a bailiff's letter and had only ten days to pay the collection agency or they would take action.
If only the boys had found Saturday jobs and saved their wages. Gary was over sixteen and could have easily got a job in McDonald's. Ben was fourteen but had already turned down a gardening job.
Now the police had parked outside her house and she wished she could disappear. People did it all the time and no one ever found them. She didn't want to answer the door in case they took her back to the station and accused her of killing Mr Wilson. Libby wanted to scream at the boys to turn down the music but knew it was pointless. She went to the mirror and brushed her hair, the best thing was to get it over with and then the police would leave her alone. Janet had asked her around tonight to watch a film and have a glass of wine. Maybe she'd take her up on the loan offer after all. Janet wasn't short of money even before she won the competition so could afford to lend her a few hundred. Libby straightened her jumper and skirt before going downstairs.
The pretty police officer showed her a card. 'I'm Detective Inspector Jewell and this is Sergeant Patterson. We've just come from your friend Janet's house and wondered if we could have a few words with you. I did see you briefly at the school.'
'I'm sorry I don't remember,' Libby answered and opened the door wider.
At least the house isn't too shabby inside, she thought knowing she had been extravagant with the two matching sofas. She knew it was important to have a nice home, especially when your children expected to have their friends around.
'I can make a drink if you like. Please sit down,' Libby said pointing to the cream faux leather settees.
'Thanks, could we have coffee?' Elizabeth asked.
Patterson turned to Elizabeth after Libby went into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. 'She's very nervous and doesn't seem well.'
'I wouldn't expect her to feel on top of the world if she's involved in Wilson's death.'
'So where do we start?'
'Whether or not either of them knew Wilson was still in the building. We made a mistake assuming they didn't,' Elizabeth added.
'Janet pointed out that staff often stayed late, in which case they should have known.'
Elizabeth knew the importance of a timeline. 'We need to establish how long they were apart. From the time they went their separate ways to when Libby came running down the corridor.'
'It couldn't have been much more than an hour. Remember they worked at opposite ends of the school and usually stopped for a tea break.'
'Plenty of time for one of them to kill Wilson,' Elizabeth said.
'Or both of them, I mean kill him together.'
'Keep your voice down. It's highly improbable two school cleaners joined forces to murder a teacher.'
'What if he'd tried to rape them?' Patterson said.
'Janet might be in her mid sixties but to me she looks like a physically strong woman. Cleaners generally are after pushing Hoovers around all their lives. They build up good upper body muscles. And Wilson wasn't exactly a Hercules, so if he had attempted to assault either of them they could have easily overpowered him.'
Patterson said, 'She's coming.'
Libby had only brought two cups. 'Don't you want a drink?' Elizabeth asked.
'I'm not thirsty,' she replied, leaning back in the chair.
'I'd like you to tell us everything that happened from the moment you arrived for your shift.'
As Patterson removed a notebook from his pocket, the music above them reached deafening proportions. Libby knew the boys had turned it up deliberately, almost as if they sensed she needed a distraction.
'I'll just go upstairs and tell them to turn it off.' She struggled to stand up. 'Do you want to speak to them?'
Libby could see the two police officers weren't sure. She waited, hoping they wouldn't. It would buy her a little time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday May 15th 6.00 am
Seven was early for a full team briefing and since Morven was due to fly back to Canada late afternoon it could only mean Yeats intended to bring him in for questioning. Last night Elizabeth had been tempted to contact Jessica Oakley, hoping the latest forensic results might have exonerated the Canadian but her intuition had stopped her. Less than an hour later Eldridge had emailed to tell her about the briefing. A sure sign he was closing in on his prime suspect. Yeats had now made his intentions very clear. Apart from the forensic scientists, he would solve the Wilson murder.
Elizabeth read the rest of the email. According to the last surveillance report, Morven hadn't left his hotel room since Saturday so why hadn't Yeats hauled him in before now. Because, she decided, he was an adrenaline junkie who liked living on the edge, the type who'd go for high drama. Waiting until Morven left for the airport before apprehending him was a risky strategy for any police operation. Was he looking for accolades, dramatic headlines praising him for his actions? Elizabeth didn't think so. Since taking over, Yeats had kept a low profile even with their local newspaper. Elizabeth suddenly stopped buttering her toast, so why do it? It made no sense.
She decided to break her rule and call in at the local newsagents to pick up the Cheltenham Echo. The paper had recently employed a graduate called Will Crosbie. Assigned to the crime beat he had followed her during the Faraday case hoping for more details. Elizabeth remembered one occasion when she'd finally lost her temper and threatened to arrest him for harassment. To describe him as determined was an understatement. Like any police station Park Road was susceptible to leaks, albeit very rarely. What worried her about Crosbie was he probably already knew some details, but hopefully not sufficient to jeopardise today's procedure. Thinking about the reporter reminded her of another incident. Yeats had repeatedly refused an interview with Crosbie, which had seemed odd at the time. After Crosbie's boss took over and pestered him, Yeats compromised and wrote a carefully worded biography for their "Welcome to the Cotswolds" column. Eldridge, keen to suck up to Yeats, had cut the article out and pinned it to the whiteboard in the incident room. A couple of days later DC Johnson had asked Yeats why the editorial hadn't included a photo. Elizabeth hadn't attended but heard the gossip after the event. When Yeats saw the press cutting, he'd stormed out and disappeared for the rest of the day. A trivial incident soon forgotten by all, including Elizabeth, now seemed significant. Remembering small inconsequential details was one area she often excelled in, but neither was she naive. Uncovering the real reason Yeats came to Park Road would rely on more than that.
Tomorrow she was due to see Calbrain. Before she set off to meet him, she would arrange for Patterson to have a couple of hours away from Park Road. He could go back to his apartment specifically to print off any photos of Yeats from the internet, past or present.
Elizabeth checked the time, six-fo
rty. She had ten minutes to get to Park Road via the newsagents. She fed Bagpuss, finished her coffee and hurried out to the car. Traffic was light and she made it with enough time to to spare. Reluctant to go straight to the briefing, she headed for the extension at the back of the police station. Clutching the Cheltenham Echo, she pushed open the door and went inside. The old storage facility was due for demolition, but like everything else at Park Road, it didn't happen.
She rummaged in her bag, found a cigarette and lit it. The front page headline focused on more criticisms of GCHQ. The latest scandal had brought the Director in front of a government select committee to answer serious allegations. Elizabeth quickly scanned the text to find a junior MP had accused the covert institution of breaking more rules by widespread snooping on the public.
'Oh for God's sake,' she cried, 'bloody stupid politicians. They've probably given the orders in the first place.'
She found Crosbie's story on page three. It was short but informative under the heading. "Grasmere Killing. New Suspect."
Crosbie had very few factual details, so like most hacks had decided to invent them. He'd referred to the suspect as a Canadian but didn't mention any name. According to Crosbie's narrative, this suspect had previous convictions and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had him in their sights. She screwed up the paper and tossed it into an ancient galvanised dustbin.
Yes, she thought, this rapid result in the Wilson case was unusual. Why was Yeats convinced of Morven's guilt? Building a case against a murder suspect usually took time, unless someone witnessed the crime or confessed. As far as she knew, no one had pressured Yeats to solve the case quickly, other than those worried parents wanting the killer caught before he or she struck again.
Elizabeth clung on to the notion that the mask was the missing link, had it actually ever existed or did Wilson fabricate the story for a reason? He was a lonely man who had craved attention. Broadcasting he was about to become very wealthy would guarantee him that. Elizabeth's brain was in overdrive, if the mask was a marketable commodity and potentially worth a fortune, it opened up the possibility of more suspects. Janet for one; she was the more intelligent of the two cleaners. What if Libby had seen or overheard Janet discussing this mysterious mask with Wilson. Janet had already hinted at Libby's financial crises, the mask could have solved all of her problems, presuming that is, she could sell it. However, that hypothesis could apply to any number of other people. The mask was the intangible thread, floating around in the atmosphere with little substance. Did it exist, or was it deliberate misinformation to confuse the investigation.
Patterson disturbed her thoughts, 'Hiding from someone?'
Elizabeth jumped. 'One of these days you'll give me a heart attack. Why do you insist on creeping up on me?'
'You should be more alert if you're in hiding. It didn't work because I saw cigarette smoke billowing out.'
'Don't be bloody stupid, why would I hide?'
Patterson smiled. 'Sometimes Liz you confuse the hell out of me. Come on, or we'll be late.'
Elizabeth stood on her half smoked cigarette refusing to pick it up and put it in the bin. She felt rebellious, almost as if Daly was back and they were about to have one of their spats.
Patterson headed towards the main entrance as Elizabeth lagged behind. The incident room was crowded, stuffy and untidy. No one had bothered to open a window. She looked at her colleagues. Each time she'd considered packing the job in, she always asked herself what would she miss the most, the work or the people. Part of her still believed justice must always prevail but the most important aspect was teamwork. A group working together, determined to make it happen.
Concentrate, she told herself. All this negativity was pointless; she needed to be alert, to figure out the man who had usurped Daly's place at Park Road. Maybe that was what was fuelling her. For once, it wasn't the current investigation, which would take its course one way or the other. A new theory had begun plaguing her. Yeats replaced Daly for a more specific reason other than to shake up lazy attitudes at Park Road. She needed to figure it out, and quickly.
Yeats had started talking, his accent more pronounced as he explained the CPS had agreed charges against Morven were in the public interest. 'Until then, no press statements,' he stated. 'Otherwise we'll attract even more media interest. I want all of you to view this subjectively and not from a knee jerk reaction. Just because Morven is a visitor to this country, does not preclude him from committing a crime. One thing's for sure, once this gets into the Canadian press, Morven will attract huge sympathy and support. We've all seen what happens when Americans and Brits go abroad and end up arrested. Remember the Italian and Portuguese cops, how the British media slated them for months. Not forgetting the South African Police force, they too were severely criticised. I saw this appalling journalism plenty of times in Ireland when the army and the Royal Ulster Constabulary were condemned for arrests. Take the British out of British Columbia and what have you got? A Canadian territory, no more British than Northern Ireland is. Believe me, this is what we're up against, constant attacks and criticism. Not trusted by our public never mind abroad. Police reputations are currently in the gutter. We do this properly or they'll be gunning for us.'
For the first time Elizabeth had agreed with Yeats. He shared one of her long-term gripes about the British press. However, her concerns made her more determined to keep up the pressure. 'Why arrest him then, if you're so worried about a backlash?'
'It seems Inspector Jewell has succumbed to another of her conspiracy theories.' Yeats stated to his audience. 'Perhaps her relationship with an ex newspaper editor has affected her judgement. As for her remark about the lack of evidence, I suggest she studies it carefully before asking pointless questions.'
Elizabeth was shocked he'd mentioned Calbrain in front of everyone. She raised her voice. 'Don't bring my personal life into a public discussion.'
'Then I suggest you don't accuse me of a cover up.'
Elizabeth knew she was on the verge of making a fool of herself. If Yeats, his superiors and the Crown Prosecution Service wanted Morven charged with Wilson's murder, there was bugger all she could do to prevent it.
As she stormed out of the room, Elizabeth repeated his words. "Take the British out of British Columbia."
No, she thought, he couldn't possibly be. Yet the idea wouldn't leave her. Could Liam Yeats have been an IRA sympathiser? Even if he had, proving it would be a logistical nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A beautiful place, Gloucestershire, Jacob Morven decided as he drew back the curtains in his room on the first floor of Westleigh Grange, a fifteenth century hotel close to Cheltenham racecourse and the Cotswold countryside.
John McAllister, Professor of Canadian Native Art, had booked flights and accommodation for the trip to the UK a month early. John was a wealthy man and always appreciated luxury, hence the five star hotel. Morven had long admired John's determination to continue his travels. At sixty-eight his energy and enthusiasm impressed both his colleagues and his students at Vancouver's UBC campus. He was rarely ill so he was surprised when a common virus had left him too debilitated to travel. Morven hadn't wanted to visit the UK on his own but John had insisted; now he must ring John and explain his situation.
Gazing at the landscape had a soporific effect and his eyelids felt heavy. After a sleepless night, it wasn't surprising. He turned away from the window and wished he could go back to bed. A mug of coffee lay untouched on the bedside cabinet, he drank half and emptied the remainder in the sink. He knew drinking coffee wouldn't keep him alert therefore he'd have to resort to something else.
As a distraction, he pictured other landscapes. Over the past few years, he'd visited many countries to meet with representatives of indigenous peoples. Apart from learning more about their diversity and culture, he had seen some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. People and pla
ces flashed through his mind as he remembered. He was so immersed in his thoughts he didn't hear the first knock on the door. The second time it was much louder. As he approached to open it, a sense of foreboding enveloped him. Morven knew he had a special gift, although he wasn't quite sure how it worked. He placed his right palm against the wood and left it there for a few seconds. His hands were large with long tapering fingers. Often people remarked about them and asked if he was a musician. Sadly, he told them no, then explained that woodcarving was his only talent, it too required strong agile hands.
Morven felt the heat build across the fleshy area. Whoever was behind his apartment door had brought bad news, yet when he grasped the brass handle, he felt no fear.
Two uniformed police officers stood either side of a tall redheaded young man. Dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt, Morven realised he was the junior detective he'd seen at the school.
He produced his police ID. 'I'm DC Eldridge from Cheltenham HQ. I'm part of the team investigating Keith Wilson's murder and I have a warrant to search your room and belongings.' Eldridge handed Morven a document and entered the apartment with the two uniformed officers.
Morven acknowledged them but neither responded. They were here for one reason and quickly started their search. When they had finished in the bedroom they moved into the bathroom. He heard them lifting the toilet cistern and opening the wall cabinet doors. Years of dealing with intimidation had taught him to stay calm. He'd anchored his whole being to the earth he stood upon, and his affinity to it had taught him many things. The most important lesson he'd learned as at little child was to maintain the balance. The young detective appeared uncomfortable and Morven almost felt sorry for him. Someone in higher authority had sent him. Rather than come himself.
DC Eldridge's face remained impassive. He spoke quietly. 'I understand you visited Grasmere Academy on May the tenth.'
