by Carole Pitt
'I'd like to move on,' she said. 'Did you have a good relationship with Wilson?'
Beresford pushed his hair back and Elizabeth noticed his hand was shaking. 'He wasn't an easy person to get along with. Certain aspects of his personality caused trouble, especially after Jackie took over as head of the art department.'
'Did you mix with him socially?'
'Only during school functions, no other time.'
Elizabeth heard a sound and turned her head. Jane Beresford had crept back quietly and was listening.
'He was an embarrassment,' she said. 'I suppose you think I'm a snob, but we have lots of occasions where I invite my Parliamentary colleagues to this house. He would not have fitted in. Whatever accusations you hurl at my husband, our private life has to be exemplary. Therefore I will ask you to hand over the names of your so called witnesses.'
'I can't do that,' Elizabeth answered.
'Then tell me, is it likely the newspapers will print these allegations?' Jane Beresford asked, 'because, if so we will contact our lawyers immediately.'
'If they do it won't be because of anything we've said. Contrary to popular opinion, not all police officers are in bed with the media,' Elizabeth answered.
The Beresfords regarded each other. Elizabeth could feel the tension and wished she were out of their house. 'I think that's all for now,' she said. 'Please bear in mind we may have to come back.'
Patterson reminded Beresford about the name and address. Once he'd handed it over Jane Beresford showed them the way through the garden. From there, a narrow path led to the back of the house. Parked in front of the garage was a black BMW convertible. Patterson walked around it making appreciative noises. Elizabeth was staring at the modern structure thinking the garage, like the conservatory was also out of keeping with the house. It didn't have any windows, which she found odd.
She checked the time. 'Let's call it a day Tony. I need to go home and have an early night. First thing tomorrow, get back over here and talk to this mechanic. Whoever bought the car forgot to send off the new keeper supplement on the registration form, but the mechanic, would have to fill out the motor traders' section. He'll have the name and address of the person he sold it too.'
'Why bother with it when it's not the right vehicle?'
'So far we haven't come up with the Peugeot, but I still want it checked over. I'm not saying Jessica's wrong, but this paint chip could have come from anywhere and have nothing to do with either murder.'
'The bloke who's just bought it isn't going to be very happy,' Patterson said.
Elizabeth stared at the garage again. Whatever had occurred to her was gone. 'I'm not happy and that's much more important.'
CHAPTER-FIFTY
The phone rang just as Elizabeth stepped out of the shower. She grabbed a towel and padded into her bedroom.
Teresa Lane sounded curt and agitated. 'Jacob Morven has finally confessed to his whereabouts during the time Keith Wilson was murdered.'
Elizabeth slumped on the bed wondering if she'd heard correctly.
'Are you still with me?' Lane asked.
'I am,' Elizabeth said, wondering what was coming next.
'I'm afraid that DCI Yeats has a lot to answer for. He intimidated my client, but we will leave that for the moment.'
'Why has Morven waited so long?'
'He heard that DCI Yeats had gone to Belfast and hadn't yet returned. He says he feels safer knowing he's out of the country.'
Elizabeth needed to stall Lane so she could pull herself together. She suddenly felt cold and began to tremble. 'Give me a couple of minutes and I'll ring you back. I've just come out of the shower.'
While she threw on some clothes, Elizabeth felt increasingly suspicious. Why had Morven used Yeats' absence as a reason to come clean? Had he somehow discovered Yeats was under arrest? If so, who could have told him and how had they come by the information? Apart from her, Patterson and Reynolds no one else at Park Road knew and Anita's operation was leak proof.
Then she remembered the night at the Queens Hotel when their relationship looked promising. He'd opened up and told her more about his past. He'd spoken of his years in Vancouver, working for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. Like any other secret service agent, he'd trained in intelligence gathering, to counter those threats to the country's national security. Elizabeth had listened fascinated as he recounted one or two covert missions abroad. Without giving anything away he'd explained about the dangers and how it had all caught up with him. After the split with his wife he'd suffered a breakdown but had carried on working. Then on one operation he'd made a terrible mistake and a colleague died. He received no sympathy from his superiors, only intense condemnation. Shortly after he was summoned and told his career was over. A year later he moved to England.
Had Nick Calbrain made it his business to find out what had happened to Yeats and used the information to Morven's benefit? She dried her hair quickly, convinced she was on the right track. Her first words to Teresa Lane amounted to a veiled threat. 'Your client may face another charge: perverting the course of justice.'
'I doubt it. Do you want me to continue?'
Elizabeth would have preferred to have talked to Morven at Park Road, but she knew Lane would block any attempt to force him there. She had no choice but to listen. 'Carry on.'
'We knew Jacob had returned to Grasmere at Wilson's request. This constituted the main evidence against him apart from his fingerprints on the weapon and the drugs. One of the major contradictions that Yeats refused to acknowledge was when Jacob saw Beresford leaving the school. However, according to Beresford, he denied seeing Morven. Personally, I believe he lied. Why he did, is for you to find out. From the day of his arrest, Jacob was adamant that Wilson was very much alive when he left him. When he arrived at his hotel, he was annoyed and restless; Wilson had upset him and spoiled his visit to the Academy. He had enjoyed giving the lecture and meeting the pupils. The prospect of being cooped up until he was due to fly home depressed him and on the spur of the moment he decided to get out of Cheltenham.'
Lane paused and Elizabeth realised she was holding her breath. 'When did he tell you all of this and where did he go?'
'He told me after he realised you suspected him of Jade Harper's murder. Yeats had accused him of one crime and he was afraid you would charge him with another. He feared he would definitely end up in prison, only this time for twenty years. As to where he went, he took the train to York and stayed overnight. He wanted to visit another historical city and York was somewhere he'd always wanted to see.'
'Morven told us he hadn't left the hotel, so how come none of the staff saw him leave, or at least wondered where he was the following morning?'
Lane sounded slightly exasperated. 'The hotel was fully booked, the staff were run off their feet and Jacob was in the habit of hanging a do not disturb sign on his door.'
Elizabeth made a guess. 'I assume your investigators have credit card transactions for ticket and hotel sales as well as CCTV at the two railway stations, and in the city.'
'Correct,' Lane said. 'All verified.'
'Then I suggest you let me have them immediately.'
'I'll deliver them personally tomorrow morning. Then you can deal with the paperwork.'
Elizabeth felt like a dog with a bone, so many unanswered questions. 'I still can't wrap my head around why he didn't tell Yeats straight away. We've wasted time and recourses on your client, which amounts to a lot of taxpayer's hard earned cash. In case you've forgotten, Gloucestershire Constabulary isn't awash with funds. Yes, people confess to crimes they haven't committed, but I've never heard of someone professing their innocence then flatly refusing to prove it.'
'DCI Yeats threatened and intimidated my client. He visited him in the cells while he was on remand. He put the fear of God in him. Ask yourself, DI Jewell, why go
to such lengths to prove he was guilty. If you don't know I can tell you. Yeats is a vindictive man, who gets off on mental torture, that's why.'
Elizabeth knew she was right but didn't dare say so. 'I can't see why anyone who was intimidated while in custody would be afraid to speak up. If the duty Sergeant had heard anything untoward, he would have reported it to me.'
'Not if Yeats had put the frighteners on him too. Are you aware that Jacob has the gift of extra sensory perception?'
'I know he told Yeats he was clairvoyant.'
'Precisely, and after Harper's death he had a premonition which he acted on.'
'I take it you believe people have these psychic abilities?' Elizabeth asked.
'In my profession, I believe it's best to keep an open mind.'
Elizabeth felt suddenly apprehensive. 'What if he hadn't experienced this vision? He could have gone to prison for a long time?'
'Jacob was certain his situation would be resolved. He's a spiritual man who believes in balance. He explained how if you rely on spirituality to guide you, waiting for the exact moment is fundamental. Yeats leaving gave Morven his time.'
'You sound brainwashed,' Elizabeth said and immediately regretted it.
'For a police officer, I find you very naive Inspector Jewell. You, more than anyone must have been aware of Yeats' unorthodox methods. As for me being brainwashed, I take that as an insult. I intend lodging a complaint with the Independent Police Complaints Commission.'
Elizabeth sat down, feeling completely shattered. How on earth could something like this happen? Yeats had deliberately set out to nail Morven and now they were in an even bigger mess than before. It was clear that Lane had no idea about Yeats' present predicament. But if she did find out and demanded to see him, a Home Office official would fob her off with some cock and bull story. Was that the reason Walsh and Adams showed up, to help her private detectives?
Elizabeth held the phone away from her ear. Lane was still talking. 'We'd like all of the charges against Jacob Morven dropped. He's anxious to return home to Canada as soon as Professor McAllister is fit to travel.'
Elizabeth came out of her fugue and managed a question. 'How is the Professor?'
Teresa Lane's voice lost its hard edge. 'Doctor Burgess phoned not that long ago. According to him the Professor's made a remarkable recovery. He's out of intensive care and in a private room. We're going to see him shortly.'
'What time can I expect you at Park Road?'
'I'll see you at ten o'clock prompt,' Lane said and disconnected.
Elizabeth went straight to the kitchen and instead of wine, poured a double whisky. She wandered into the garden and spotted Bagpuss curled up on the grass asleep. She'd forgotten all about him and knew he'd be starving, unless wherever he'd gone had included a meal. She stroked his head hoping he'd wake up but there was no response. He was out cold, his nocturnal adventures had finally caught up with him and she had no one to talk to.
Thinking over what Teresa Lane had said about Yeats, Elizabeth had to accept Morven's story. What would she have done in the same position? Yeats had certainly scared her on occasions and had systematically demoralized her team until no one dared challenge him. It was easy to imagine how Morven felt after Yeats arrested him. He was in a strange country confronted with a corrupt police officer. All those years working undercover must have warped Yeats' mind to the point where he only ever saw guilt and didn't recognise innocence. However well intentioned Teresa Lane was, complaining about the way he'd treated Morven would get her nowhere. Compared to his other crimes it paled into insignificance.
Elizabeth headed back indoors for another whisky, hoping it would put her to sleep. Her fingers hovered over the kitchen phone willing them to pick it up, even though she knew she'd regret it. Bagpuss saved her. He stood by the door and meowed loudly.
'Well hello stranger,' she said. 'Where have you been?'
He stared at his empty bowls.
'Oh Bagpuss,' she said. 'Let me know the next time you decide to go missing and I'll dish up double portions when you decide to return.'
Elizabeth sipped her whisky, her mind focused on the evening's revelations. Liam Yeats facing a prison sentence, Jacob Morven about to be exonerated, and the responsibility for finding whoever had killed Wilson and Harper all hers.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Following morning, May 30th
Half a mile from Winchcombe town centre, Patterson pulled into a large trading estate. Beresford had sold his car to a small garage tucked away at the end of the first row of units. He pulled up in front and cursed when he saw the closed metal doors. It was coming up to eight am and Patterson had always assumed garages opened early to deal with a never-ending backlog of customers. Last time he'd needed a mechanic, every garage he'd tried were fully booked and he'd ended up going to Kwik Fit.
He looked across the narrow road and noticed lights on in the pet food outlet. A woman in her late sixties stood behind the counter. She smiled and asked how she could help.
'What time does Chris' garage open?' Patterson asked.
She walked to the door and peered across the road. 'He's usually here by seven. Sometimes he's late, but not that often.'
Just my luck, Patterson thought, wondering what to do next.
'I've got his home number,' she said. 'But I've got strict instructions not to give it out unless it's an emergency.'
Patterson wasn't sure whether to show his warrant card. He didn't want to embarrass Chris, small trading estates were often targets for the police after they'd received tip offs about stolen goods. 'Can you ring him for me and say a Mr Beresford suggested I speak to him.'
The pet food lady nodded. Her eyes were decidedly suspicious. 'Hold the fort, I'll go out back and use my mobile.'
Patterson leaned on the counter and scrutinised the goods on offer. Stacked on broad shelves was every conceivable brand of dried dog food, ranging from the cheap basic products to a much higher priced selection. The latter, no doubt, a recipe from some celebrity chef who'd expanded into the hugely profitable dog business. The unit wasn't large but the owner had used her ingenuity with the available space. Patterson found the accessories section fascinating. Never having owned a dog he had no idea of the vast number of toys, beds, leads and countless other products the conscientious owner required to keep his four-legged friend happy.
The pet store lady returned. 'Chris says to wait. He's just about to drop the kids off at the child minder. They're a hard working couple, him and his Mrs. It's such a shame women have to leave their babies to go out to work. In my day, our husbands wouldn't let us.'
Patterson didn't fancy a long drawn out conversation on nineteen seventies childcare. 'I've just remembered I've left some documents in my car. Thanks for all your help.'
'You're welcome,' she replied, her eyes narrowing with distrust. Patterson didn't look back but he knew she'd be watching him until Chris arrived. He'd often wondered if he might have a suspicious air about him, now he'd had it confirmed.
Chris Smith was tall and well built. He opened up the garage and headed for a tiny office at the rear.
Patterson started by showing his identification. 'I believe you recently bought a car from a Mr Beresford.'
Chris was already going through a pile of receipts. He pulled one out and handed it over. 'You'll see everything's above board. He asked for cash, here's a copy of the receipt.'
'Mr Beresford told me the cost of getting the car through the MOT was astronomical and you offered to take it off his hands.' Patterson checked the amount. 'You certainly got a bargain.'
Chris sounded sullen. 'It cost more than that to fix.'
No the wonder Chris didn't hesitate. Mechanics weren't stupid. Seven hundred quid for a car worth two grand seemed too good to be true. 'Did it really need that much work?' Patterson queried.
'Don't accuse me
of being dodgy. I'm a legit bloke trying to make a profit and that's bloody hard these days. The heating system was knackered, that costs a fortune and takes ages. Beresford said it had played up during the winter then packed in altogether. Apart from the electrics, there was welding and other bits and bobs.'
'You sold it straight on.'
'To my mate, he lives next door. He'd asked me to keep a look out for something half way decent.'
'Okay,' Patterson said. 'Give me his address and I'll get out of your hair.'
Chris was subdued as he wrote details and directions down on a business card. 'You lot think all garage owners are criminals. Try starting one up then you'll understand. You better hurry, Al will be leaving for work soon.'
Patterson pulled away wondering why Beresford hadn't haggled over the price. Why sell the car so quickly, if he had nothing to hide. There had to be another reason.
He pulled up at the curb just as Chris's mate was coming down the path. Patterson was pleasantly surprised at the neighbourhood, a small estate of ex local authority houses. 'Can I have a quick word?' he shouted.
Al had already pressed the remote key and was sliding into the driver's seat.
Patterson went over and inspected the Peugeot. From his perspective, it looked in pristine condition. He held up his card for the third time that morning. 'Sorry to bother you mate but I need to confirm a few particulars about this vehicle.'
Al seemed an okay guy and showed no animosity. 'As long as you make it quick,' he replied.
Patterson didn't fancy trying to impound the car there and then. Al hadn't committed any offence and was going about his business. He tried not to give too much away, just that they were looking for a similar car and there was a possibility they would need to examine it.
Al's attitude changed immediately. 'No chance,' he asserted. 'I've got to drive up to Sheffield and won't be back until tomorrow night.'
Patterson knew he was stuck. If he insisted, Al could claim harassment, or worse. If Al didn't take up his offer, he'd have to leave it. He offered an incentive. 'I could arrange for a hire car.'
