by Carole Pitt
'You're saying someone walked it in.'
'Shoes act like magnets and are a fantastic source for microscopic trace evidence. Unless you have OCD and clean them every five minutes using a magnifying glass you'd never know what had embedded into the sole. Having said that, however well adhered, they can still work their way off. This one did.'
'Hang on a minute. Morven and the cleaners have already had their clothes and shoes examined. From the shoe print analysis your first report stated they had all stepped in red paint and blood mixture.'
'I didn't discover this fragment on their shoes. It came from the floor samples.'
Elizabeth was constantly amazed at what scientists could do. Forensics were becoming even more sophisticated, and at a dramatic pace. Police officers often had a job keeping up. 'So what's your theory?'
'Any number of people could have trodden it into the building and it ended up in the art department. I presume you know how accurate paint matching is. We can identify which car, the model and the colour. Your report states Morven didn't have a car until McAllister arrived and they moved to Bibury. How did he get to Cheltenham from Heathrow?'
Elizabeth went through the facts. 'His plane landed at one thirty on the afternoon of May 9th. He didn't come straight here. He caught a train from Paddington to Bath and met with Professor McAllister's academic friends, a married couple who both teach at Bath University. They confirmed he stayed overnight at their house. He left there early the next morning and travelled by train to Cheltenham. He was at Grasmere well before ten o'clock the following morning. He took two taxis, which we've confirmed. One to Bath railway station, and one from Cheltenham station to Grasmere. Jessica, your fragment could have originated anywhere. I'm trying not to be too negative, but this could end up a monumental task and cost a fortune.'
Jessica replied. 'We all know how many murderers never see the inside of a courtroom. Years go by and we hear only a small percentage of cold cases are solved. Microscopic pieces of evidence are difficult to analyse and often controversial, giving defence lawyers an edge. I haven't said this before Liz, but the evidence against Morven might not be enough to secure a conviction. If I was a prosecutor, I'd tell you to come back when you had a cast iron case.'
Elizabeth suddenly felt depressed. 'I've no idea what he did or where he went prior to his arrest.'
'I'm not saying definitively that Morven couldn't have killed Wilson. You need to begin eliminating who or what, left this paint chip at the scene. Start by compiling a list of vehicles belonging to everyone who works at Grasmere.'
'Come on Jessica, and after that. What about casual workers, parents? How many pupils own cars?'
Jessica sounded exasperated. 'Liz, I can't tell you how to do your job, but I can make suggestions. Start with the staff and ancillary workers. I wouldn't have thought many pupils had their own vehicles.'
Elizabeth looked at the time. 'Okay. One more question. Did you get a chance to look at the mask images from Sotheby's?'
'Pete compared them to the ones the students did. He wants to talk to you.'
'Did he say why?'
'He's the photographic expert, you'd better ask him.'
The damage to the papier-mâché masks on the afternoon of Wilson's murder still troubled Elizabeth. That and the deliberate paint spillages seemed more like an act of vandalism than a killer wasting time trying to confuse the police and the CSI. Serial killers usually liked to collect trophies but Wilson and Harper's deaths didn't match a serial MO. Unless, God forbid, there was a third murder. Jessica was still talking and Elizabeth had to ask her to repeat herself.
Why don't you drop by tonight? We can catch up.'
'I won't finish until late,' Elizabeth said. 'I have an appointment with the ACC. If that's not enough to send me crazy, two RCMP officers arrive tomorrow. More back up for Morven, more shit for me.'
'Wow, Mounties. You're a lucky woman. I'll work on a good excuse to turn up while you're chatting to them.'
Elizabeth laughed. 'They might be fat and ugly.'
'Only tall handsome guys are allowed in the Mounties. I realise you have your hands full, but it would be nice to socialise.'
'We will. Tell Pete I'll ring him tomorrow.'
While she was on the phone Elizabeth's coffee had gone cold. She wanted a refill and something more substantial in her stomach before her meeting with Reynolds. When she walked back into the canteen there was a long queue waiting to be served. She spotted the only vacant table and made a beeline for it, but three uniformed officers beat her to it.
She gave up and made her way to the vending machine, passing Daly's old office. On impulse, she tried the door handle and felt her heart thump when it opened. She checked there was no one else watching before going inside.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Elizabeth didn't immediately recognise the man with his back to her. He dropped the file he was holding and spun around.
Neither of them said anything until Elizabeth summoned up the courage. 'I'm awfully sorry Sir. I didn't realise anyone was in here.'
Assistant Chief Constable Steve Reynolds bent down, retrieved the papers and placed them on the desk. 'I should have locked the door,' he said.
Elizabeth waited. She could hardly scurry off like a guilty pupil.
'Now you're here, we may as well bring our meeting forward. Sit down and don't look so alarmed Jewell. I don't bite.'
Elizabeth pulled up the old Lloyd Loom chair before it registered. She gripped it tightly trying to figure out why it should suddenly reappear. To make sure it was the genuine article she ran her hand over the seat and located the sliver of bamboo. It was in exactly the same position. She sat at an angle to avoid it and told a half lie. 'I was on my way to the coffee machine. The canteen was busy.'
Reynolds pulled out a chair. 'You and Daly were very close. It must feel strange,' he looked around at the office. 'All this renovation is definitely not to DCS Daly's taste.'
'DCI Yeats is responsible for the improvements. I want to apologise again. I shouldn't have come in.'
'Why did you?'
Elizabeth knew the real reason. With Yeats away she knew she could. To remember the good old days and have a rummage, she thought.
Reynolds waited, he knew she was lying.
'I intended to rifle through DCI Yeats' files,' she admitted.
Reynolds nodded. 'In one way I'm glad you decided to snoop. I wanted to confirm a rumour. You're recent visit to Anita Fleming.'
Elizabeth wondered why Reynolds should be interested in her visit to Anita. 'I went to ask her advice about DCS Daly. His sudden departure made no sense. He's not the type to disappear, especially when we were holding a party in his honour.'
Reynolds smiled but didn't answer. Uncomfortable with the silence she stared at Daly's coffee machine.
'I could do with a cup, but haven't a clue how to operate it,' Reynolds said.
Elizabeth was glad of something to do. She inserted the sachets and found the expensive mugs Yeats had bought to replace Daly's chipped and stained ones. While she dealt with the drinks, Reynolds got up and went to the filing cabinet. He slid the papers into an open drawer and locked it. Thank God, she thought, that I made the decision to own up.
She carried the coffee to the desk and sat on the wicker chair. Reynolds stirred sugar into his mug and for the first time since she'd disturbed him he seemed apprehensive. She watched as he spun the wet teaspoon on the polished surface. 'In a way,' he began, 'this chance meeting is fortuitous. I'm forced into a decision, whether I like it or not.'
Elizabeth searched for the right answer. This was her only chance to engage him. 'I know Yeats isn't in Belfast, if that's any help.'
'I expected you to contact Belfast earlier. You've shown remarkable restraint considering the current situation. You're correct. DCI Yeats is not in Belfast. Unfort
unately, I can't disclose his present whereabouts but what I can tell you is he's facing a serious historical accusation.'
She felt no shock or surprise. Only hours after Yeats had taken over in mid February she'd soon formed an opinion of him. Granted, she'd had no factual evidence to back it up, just her typical hasty character evaluation. Thank God Patterson always listened to her theories; dissecting them until he was satisfied she was on the right track. Often he would scoff, telling her politely not to venture into the realms of fantasy but where Yeats was concerned he'd felt the same vibe. Fortunately, for her, his reticence to break more rules had saved her from ending up in the mire. If Reynolds had caught her snooping she would have faced disciplinary action.
'I didn't like him Sir. Call it a gut feeling.'
Reynolds stood up closed the window and pulled down the blind. Summer had arrived early and the late afternoon sunshine had turned the office into a sauna. Elizabeth dreaded the heat building up in the small room. Already she could feel sweat under her armpits and down her back. Reynolds too had started to perspire. He took out a tissue and wiped his brow, his actions reminding her of Daly. Then she remembered the fan.
She glanced across the office. The door leading into a cloakroom and toilet was open.
'Excuse me Sir,' she said, and went over. Just inside the toilet door, she spotted a battered box underneath a shelf. She was surprised Yeats hadn't thrown it out.
'What's that?' Reynolds asked as he removed his jacket.
Elizabeth lifted it out of its box and stood it next to a socket. She plugged it in hoping it still worked. When she flicked the switch, the fan started whirring, scattering small dust motes across the room. Thin rays of sunlight shining through the blind highlighted the tiny specks. Elizabeth watched them, hoping she was about to hear the truth. She didn't have to wait long.
'How much do you know about the troubles in Northern Ireland?'
Elizabeth's knowledge was limited. She racked her brain for the relevant dates. 'Bloody Sunday was at the end of January nineteen seventy-two. The Good Friday agreement was signed in April nineteen ninety-eight. I don't remember all the atrocities; Brighton and Omagh stand out for me.' She pictured the headlines. 'So many people died.'
Reynolds got up and walked towards the fan. He stood in front of it, his back to her. Elizabeth got the impression he would rather be somewhere else.
He turned to face her. 'Thousands of families both here and in Northern Ireland lost loved ones. Many of them raised questions about specific incidents. Unfortunately most never received answers.'
Elizabeth sipped her coffee and knew whatever this man was going to tell her would be worthwhile. 'Are you saying there were a lot of cover ups?'
Reynolds loosened his tie. 'Don't put words into my mouth Jewell. I can give you the facts as I know them, nothing else. From the mid-eighties Yeats was in the RUC's Special Branch, working undercover gathering intelligence on the IRA. Like all Special Branch officers, he had his informers. One particular character he'd blackmailed into working for him. As you're well aware, we try not to do that these days. For legal reasons I can't name this informer, even though he died years ago. Not a big deal in the normal course of events except he'd made an unusual will. The solicitors acting for him discovered he'd deposited a dossier at a bank, which now belonged to his heir. In his will, he explained why he'd kept it hidden, as an insurance policy against his enemies. His beneficiary was a distant relative living somewhere in Connemara. This deceased informer's instructions were very specific. If he ended up murdered, his relative was to pass the dossier to a journalist friend who would expose the contents. However, his relative, who was broke at the time, decided to sell his inheritance to the highest bidder. The chief executive of the newspaper group who bought it knew he had an explosive story on his hands and wasn't renowned for having a conscience. Imagine the shock when he did the unthinkable and contacted the Belfast police. To this day, I find that the strangest part of this story, a newspaperman with morals. Had the distant relative not seen pound signs every time he read through the memoir, Yeats' involvement would never have surfaced.'
The old fan was so noisy Elizabeth almost didn't hear the knock at the door.
'See who it is,' Reynolds ordered.
Patterson was leaning against the wall. 'No one knew where you were. I had one of my famous visions which showed me the way.'
Elizabeth wasn't sure what to do but before she had a chance to ask, Reynolds moved towards them. He acknowledged Patterson. 'Inspector Jewell, I need to make a few calls so I suggest you and your sergeant go and eat. I'll be busy for at least an hour.'
Elizabeth knew she'd only heard a part of the story. Surely he wasn't going to end it here.
'Does that mean you don't need to see me again?' she asked.
'I have to warn both of you. Anything I disclose is protected from the freedom of information act. It cannot be repeated or the consequences will be harsh.'
He turned to Elizabeth. 'I'll have to trust your discretion. Find a quiet place where you won't be overheard. Then you can update your sergeant.'
'I can keep my mouth shut. He doesn't need to know,' Elizabeth said.
'He does now that you're senior officer at Park Road. It's my duty to explain why.'
Elizabeth felt shocked, and could feel her body shaking. How long was she supposed to carry on without a superior officer? Reynolds had intimated Daly wasn't coming back. If that was the case, she couldn't see a future at Park Road. She'd have to leave.
Patterson took her arm. 'We'll see you later Sir.'
Reynolds gathered up his belongings and Elizabeth watched as he locked the office, double-checked and pocketed the keys. 'A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,' he said quietly. 'It's better if both of you know the facts.'
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Back in the incident room Elizabeth asked for any updates.
'Right, last sighting of Jade Harper anybody?'
Eldridge put his hand up. 'I've gone through CCTV footage from Grasmere Road and nothing comes up remotely suspicious. Uniforms are stopping drivers on Hart Lane but no one remembers seeing anything.'
Elizabeth tried to hide her frustration. 'You need a vehicle to dump a body. It might not be a car, so concentrate on other forms of transport.'
'There are two farms off Hart Lane. Maybe the killer used a tractor,' said one of Yeats' new recruits.
Elizabeth despaired. 'Tractors don't go more than ten miles an hour. No killer in his right mind wants a traffic jam behind him, anyone else with a stupid idea?'
'Well she didn't get there by herself,' Johnson offered.
Raucous laughter followed. Elizabeth sensed none of them were taking anything seriously and she knew why. No senior male officer. This was the first time in Park Road's history that a woman was solely in charge and they weren't happy with the idea. She thought about the many high ranking women in the force. Had they come up against pockets of opposition as their careers took off, she suspected they had. Her position was different, she hadn't earned it.
Eldridge smirked as he spoke. 'He must have used magic to get her there.'
'What an unusual piece of deduction.' Elizabeth couldn't wait to give him a piece of her mind. Why had she stupidly believed he was on her side? What the hell was the matter with him? Confronting him before meeting Reynolds was out of the question, she didn't need any extra stress.
'Honestly, we've thought of everything,' Eldridge added.
'Well go through it all again until you figure it out.'
Knowing Eldridge as she did Elizabeth doubted he would. She glanced at the whiteboard showing the Academy's layout. 'What about the rear access?'
'Only through Cresswell woods and you can barely ride a bike through there, let alone drive a vehicle,' Patterson said.
She thought for a moment. 'Eldridge, what did you say e
arlier, something about spirited?'
'I said magic,' Eldridge said. 'You need your ears checked.'
More laughter but Elizabeth ignored it. She felt as if her brain was trying to dredge something to the surface, but whatever it was kept slipping away. 'There's nothing wrong with my ears DC Eldridge, but I'll check them before I see you first thing tomorrow in Yeats' office. 'Now, what other words do we associate with magic?'
Eldridge had the good grace to say sorry first. 'Conjuring. I got a conjuring set for Christmas once.'
Desperation sometimes spawned ideas. Elizabeth believed the simplest solution was more often the correct one although there were always exceptions. If she sounded stupid, then so be it. 'The best word is an illusion, designed to give a false impression in order to deceive. Maybe we're looking at everything from the wrong perspective. With that in mind you'll all work until ten tonight. I should be back by then.'
Out in the car park Patterson asked, 'Are you okay?
'No I'm not, but I will be once Eldridge's sorted. He's driving me up the wall.'
'I've told you not to let him get to you.'
Elizabeth's headache had started up again. 'If he's not careful, I'll arrange for a transfer.'
Patterson started walking. 'Come on, we haven't got much time. Where are we headed?'
'That old pub tucked away in Grey Street. The Viaduct,' Elizabeth answered.
'I've never set foot in the place.'
'Then you're in for a treat. It's very cosy and quiet. The best part is they do a fantastic range of sausages, so we can eat while we talk.'
Five minutes later, they were away from the main drag and ordering from a menu displaying twenty sausage varieties and the pub's famous iced fruit juice. They found a table and sat down among the mismatched wooden furniture.
'There's a secluded garden if you'd rather sit out there,' Elizabeth said.
