 
The Cedar Face

By

Carole Pitt
The Cedar Face

Carole Pitt

Copyright 2010 by Carole Pitt

Smashwords Edition
This book is dedicated to Iain Charles Pitt

1949-2013
Many thanks to Amy Pitt and Jenny blood for all their help.

Thank you to Dhansolo Designs for the cover
PROLOGUE

Three hundred years ago.

Nass Valley.

Northwestern British Columbia. Canada.

The Wolf Chief bent over and looked closer. His vision had become noticeably weaker and he knew when it came to harvesting the Sockeye he would be blind.

The piece was almost complete; one more day should see it done. Then he would don his regalia and call everyone to witness the ceremony. Afterwards he would explain gently to the villagers. Tell them of his faltering skills and the light fading from his eyes. How, from now on he would spend his time teaching the children. Make sure they learned the ways to pass on to their own children and grandchildren. He would explain why they needed more discipline and how he hoped to persuade them from taunting the animals. It was imperative they heeded his warnings, upsetting the balance would bring reprisal, but not all would listen. Some who had reached the brink of adulthood often laughed at his old ways. He understood that every new generation had the right to question their elders, that new ideas and progress were instrumental in maintaining stability. What he would never accept was mans cruelty to man and his fellow creatures.

Once the leaves started to flourish again and the days grew warmer, the children would be his new eyes, helping him through the darkness. Suddenly he heard their voices; he stood up and listened, the wind had strengthened from the north. Turning his head, he sensed they were near the river, and from their high-pitched shrieks, playing games. The children were free spirits and allowed to roam. Sometimes though, he felt they had too much freedom. His people worked hard and supervising the children was not always possible. Parents had little time to chastise, which meant childish unruliness often led to erratic behaviour.

Leaning into the wind, he heard their voices echoing. Then an intermittent cry, someone was distressed, a young girl. Straightening up, he made his way to the river. His pace was slow and it took a while. When he came to the river's edge, he felt fearful. Many of the children had waded too far and the fast moving water was already reaching their shoulders. He shouted to them and they looked up, one held up a salmon, others were throwing the fish around as they would a toy. He could see the salmon were desperate to escape, and then an older child deliberately killed one with a wooden spike. This game of torturing these precious fish must cease. He had warned them before and the younger ones had given their promise to desist. Now they had broken that promise. He shouted again, told them to return to the riverbank, which they did, but carried on tormenting the frightened creatures.

On weary legs, he turned to walk away and at that very moment, the noise came. The sound in his ears was one he had never heard before, but he knew what it meant. In the distance, his eyes made out a vague, dark shape moving closer. For a brief moment he was deceived and mistook it for a rain cloud, but the smell rising to meet his senses told him no rain would fall.

Then he forgot about the children and the salmon. Before disaster struck, he must rescue his work and find someone to take it to safety. The old Wolf Chief gained strength in his legs and more light into his eyes. Panic confronted him when he came to the village, he watched people running everywhere, gathering possessions as they headed away from the dense black cloud and the rumbling, thunderous noise. Others seemed unsure how to escape, running wildly in the wrong direction. He shouted to them to stop but no one listened. Desperation hung in the toxic air and time would not stand still to alter the outcome. Returning to his dwelling, he retrieved the mask. He turned it over in his hands wishing he could add the final touches. There was so little of his life left and he must find someone to keep it safe.

He began to chant, hoping to attract attention. A young man approached him and asked if he could help. The Wolf Chief struggled to utter words of gratitude. Instead, he handed over the mask and pointed. 'Go in that direction and you will be safe,' he said.

'Come with me,' the young man said pulling at the Chief's elbow.

The old man shook his head. 'I must stay here, this is my destiny. I must face the river of black. You will survive, as I hope this mask will. I leave a legacy from my culture for future generations to show them the way.

The young man hid the mask under his blanket and ran. The Wolf Chief stared after him until he disappeared.

From Nisga'a oral tradition

When the volcano first erupted, it was like smoke from a burning house. No one knew how quickly their lives were about to change. The poisonous gas drifted ahead as the lava slid slowly down the mountainside. As soon as the villagers smelled this gas, they began to suffocate and their bodies grew stiff. The garound began to tremble and shake, for nature could not restore the harmony.

A scout came to investigate and from the top of Gennu'axwt. He saw smoke and flames and ran to warn the rest of the people of their fiery destiny. Panic followed, some villagers fled up the mountain. Others canoed to the far side of the river but the black lava overcame them. Some did escape and from a distance watched the lava flow over their villages. Gwaxts'agat, a powerful supernatural being, suddenly emerged to block the lavas advance. For days, Gwaxts'agat fought back the lava by blowing on it with it's great nose. Finally, the lava cooled and Gwaxts'agat retreated into the mountain where it remains to this day.
CHAPTER ONE

Friday May 10th. Nine am

'Why the hell did I buy this useless foreign shit,' Jackie Kilmartin shouted at the RAC mechanic after he told her the Toyota Corolla had transmission problems and he couldn't fix it there and then.

'Most cars are foreign these days,' he added, slamming down the bonnet.

Jackie looked at her watch then kicked the nearside back tyre, forgetting her open toe sandals offered no protection. She bent down and tried to rub away the pain. Late again, she thought, and this time I've run out of excuses. She'd blamed her car on the previous occasion, even though it hadn't broken down. Twice in a month sounded suspiciously like lying, except this time it was the truth. Jackie didn't have a problem with lying when life seemed out to defeat her. Recently it had been one damn thing after the other. Pay back perhaps, she briefly considered, for making sure Wilson didn't get the job.

She sensed the mechanic's irritation and was about to remind him about the term chivalrous. A buzzword once used by his company's advertising campaign, aimed at women drivers to describe a modern day knight rescuing them from dark, dangerous roads. Glancing at his expression she realised getting angry wouldn't solve anything. Repairing cars was his job, not placating neurotic women.

She waved her phone at him. 'I suppose I'll have to ring for a taxi. I'm already very late for an important meeting.'

The mechanic gave her a weak smile. 'Sorry I can't give you a lift but I'm headed in the opposite direction.'

'How long will it be until the car's picked up?'

'Twenty minutes max but you needn't wait,' he pointed to the Toyota, 'it's not going anywhere. Remember to tuck the keys behind the sun visor before you go. The recovery driver has all your details.'

Jackie didn't offer any thanks. He nodded and climbed into his van. She heard him turn on the radio before driving away. Jackie paced up and down finding it difficult to concentrate because of the traffic noise. Leckhampton Road in Charlton Kings wasn't usually this busy. Jackie guessed another accident at The Air Balloon roundabout. The renowned bottleneck and crash black spot had resulted in a diversion.

From the moment she'd woken up everything had irritated her. Mornings were never her best time but lately she'd been plagued by depression as soon as she got out of bed. Jackie knew why, too much alcohol. She'd developed a bad habit and couldn't stop. Now the depression was taking hold during the day, and getting worse.

Her first priority was to speak to Giles Beresford, the head teacher. Keeping him sweet wouldn't be difficult, he'd dropped enough hints lately. Only the other day he'd suggested a weekend away together. He'd pestered her for weeks and although she didn't fancy him, she knew refusing wouldn't help her career opportunities. Giles was no ordinary Academy head. His wife was ridiculously wealthy. She was also the Shadow Secretary of State for Education.

Since taking charge of the art department, Jackie's stress levels had increased even more, as had her drinking. Occasionally she wondered if her ambition had become a burden, one she couldn't afford to offload. Her A-level students faced tougher exams this coming summer due to the Government's overhaul of the examination boards. If results were poor, she could expect plenty of criticism. If Giles only wanted sex, she'd be a fool to refuse. Her drinking problem had started as an escape from her dismal prospects. She wondered how long it would be before the exhilaration of her recent promotion would wear off and her depression worsen. Giles would serve as a diversion and future ally.

She scanned the road hoping to spot the recovery vehicle. Phoning a taxi was pointless until it arrived. Feeling thwarted she moved back from the edge of the pavement and leaned against the bus shelter. There was no point getting on the next bus either, it stopped about a mile from the school and now her toe had started throbbing she would have trouble walking. Jackie checked the time; she should have arrived over an hour ago. Keith Wilson would have her guts regardless now. He was the favourite candidate for heading up the art department until three of her most talented students encouraged her to apply for the post. Their reasoning behind this unprecedented support was simple. Wilson's teaching method was old fashioned and they wanted a more modern approach. Jackie realised she should have seen through their selfish motives. The three lobbyists had monopolised her time to the detriment of the rest of the class. Wilson, had he taken over the job, would never have put up with such classroom scheming.

Lost in her own misery Jackie didn't notice a police car pull up behind her Toyota. A thickset uniformed officer got out of the passenger seat and walked towards her. 'Is this your vehicle?'

'Damn,' she muttered under her breath. She stood up and managed a smile. 'I'm not in any trouble, am I?'

The officer smiled back. 'Only that this traffic is going to build up and we need the road cleared, especially near a junction.'

'It won't start. I'm waiting for a recovery firm to collect it. Has there been an accident?'

'Road works on the A40 are causing problems. We're diverting some of the traffic onto the 46.'

A rumbling sound caused both of them to turn around. The breakdown vehicle rattled to a halt in front of Jackie's car. 'Thank God,' she said. 'Is it okay to leave now?'

The officer produced a notebook and wrote in it before he answered. 'Hang on a minute.'

He spoke to the recovery driver and within minutes, the Toyota was winched onto the lifting grid.

'You can go now,' the officer said.

Jackie rang the taxi firm who promised her one soon. Again, she checked her watch, beginning to feel the first waves of anxiety. By now, Wilson would have gone to Giles, complaining bitterly about her not being there to greet their foreign visitor. Twelve minutes later the taxi turned up. The driver apologised for being late. Jackie sank into the backseat, already wishing the day away.

Outside the main entrance, Jackie was relieved no one was waiting for her. Wilson would be busy teaching year seven, which meant one of the other staff members had done the meet and greet. The transformation from the old secondary school to Academy status never failed to impress her. It was double the size and boasted huge plate glass windows looking out onto manicured lawns. She ran along the pristine white corridors until a vision stopped her in her tracks.

He was tall, she guessed about six foot three, and broad shouldered. He was looking out of the window, his face partially hidden by an authentic wolf head angled to the side and back of his head. As she moved closer, Jackie hoped it wouldn't slip off and land at her feet. The rest of the wolf pelt covered his shoulders, the paws hanging over his chest, the rest, including the tail hung down his back. Underneath he wore a highly decorative fringed blanket, the distinctive colourful designs standing out against the neutral background. Leaning against the wall next to him was a tall wooden pole, the top carved into a face. Jackie found the sight amazing and for once in her life was speechless.

The man returned her stare and held out his hands as she approached. 'I've been looking forward to meeting you,' he said.

'Who let you in?' she asked him.

'The lady working in reception saw me hanging about outside. I waited while she phoned your head teacher, but he wasn't answering.'

He bloody wouldn't, Jackie thought, too busy placating Wilson.

On closer inspection, she decided he wasn't traditionally good-looking but his angular face, high cheekbones and dark, intelligent eyes made him a very striking individual.

Jackie softened her voice. 'I'm very sorry I'm late. My car broke down.'

'Then we have both had transport problems. I stayed with friends in Bath last night, and my train was late. I only arrived ten minutes ago. I hope your students are patient.'

Jackie laughed. 'This subject has caught their imagination. As it's not part of their coursework, there's no pressure on them. This is more to do with widening their appreciation of Canadian First Nation's culture and art. Mr Martin and I run an evening class and each term we set a different project. We asked for ideas and one student had visited the Nass Valley in British Columbia while on holiday and suggested we study the Nisga'a people. She read an article in one of our local papers about your proposed visit to four Gloucestershire schools. She insisted we ask you to come here.'

'It's a great Academy,' he stated.

'The original school on this site had a bad reputation and we're doing our best to change it. Cheltenham has some very prestigious schools and the old Grasmere comprehensive was at the bottom of the league tables. Having this wonderful new building and Academy status has changed peoples' perception. We hope it can only improve from now on. All the staff here are very proud of that achievement. I know you will inspire them Mr Morven. We're honoured you agreed to come.'

'I'm honoured to be here and please call me Jacob.'

Jackie almost asked him about his outfit but stopped in time. He might be offended she hadn't bothered to establish his status. She cursed her laziness. All she'd needed to do was look him up on her computer. God knows she wasted enough time trawling the internet. 'We better get going. Ninety students are waiting for you in the lecture hall.'

Morven picked up his carved stick and followed her. They turned left into another corridor and Jackie overheard Keith Wilson arguing with Grasmere's head teacher, Giles Beresford.
CHAPTER TWO

Beresford fell quiet as soon as he spotted her. To begin with, Wilson seemed oblivious to her presence and carried on ranting about how she hadn't tackled the lack of discipline in the art department. Wilson suddenly realised she was standing behind him and quickly shut up. Morven stood perfectly still and from his body language, Jackie sensed he disliked confrontation.

'Why aren't you in the classroom?' she asked Wilson.

Wilson's eyes narrowed. 'I needed to speak to Giles about another urgent problem.'

Jackie didn't want to prolong the argument in front of their guest. Morven's eyes were on her and she experienced an unfamiliar feeling. It wasn't an instant sexual attraction, her usual response to any good-looking man. This was different and slightly unnerving, as if he could read her mind. Jackie knew that at times she suffered from paranoia, which often caused odd symptoms. Dragging her gaze back to Wilson and Beresford, she smiled and said, 'This is Jacob Morven who is here to enlighten us all on the Nisga'a culture.'

Keith Wilson moved forward and held out his hand. 'Great to meet you, I'm one of the art teachers.'

Beresford also shook hands then hurried off. It was clear he wasn't keen on speaking to her today. Bloody hypocrite, she thought, only last week he'd suggested they go away for the weekend. Wilson, intent on monopolising Morven, guided him along the corridor towards the lecture hall. Jackie trailed behind and watched how the Canadian positioned the stick. With each step, he held the unusual walking aid at an angle. The carved faces moved up and down as if they were alive.

Morven's talk was due to last approximately two hours, including a short film on modern day Nisga'a people, followed by questions from the students. Afterwards staff and students would break for lunch.

The audience stood up as they entered the lecture hall. Jackie was suddenly proud; miraculously they'd heard no raucous noise echoing along the corridors. A raised area acted as a stage and Morven sat between Wilson and the other art teachers. Jackie gazed out at her pupils who were mostly responsible kids, all keen to get somewhere in life. Many of them were enthusiastic about a career in the art world and had a common goal, university followed by good jobs. The popular choices were fashion, graphics and media studies. Jackie noticed one lad who she knew wanted a career in photojournalism. The spectrum was wide and as always, she hoped they would succeed, but it was a crowded market and she knew some of them would end up disappointed and disillusioned.

After the preliminaries, she asked them to kick off with general questions about life in North Western British Columbia. One by one, they covered various topics. She watched Morven visibly relax and even Keith Wilson's attitude improved. He'd obviously decided to put aside his grievances for a couple of hours. The Canadian had brought with him examples of carving tools, some quite old and others more recent. He was cautious not to let anyone else handle them, warning his audience they were extremely sharp. While he held each one up, he explained its purpose. Jade Harper, a girl who'd risen to the top of the class, and a few others, left their seats to get a closer look. 'I went into the museum in Laxgalts'ap,' she said, standing as close as she could to Morven. 'I never found out what the name meant.'

Morven laid down one of the more ornate carving tools. 'It means village on village. One village built upon another on a site occupied for millennia. I don't live there all the time; I go back in the summer. I'm actually heading straight there when I leave the UK. Let me tell you all something important. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, many Nisga'a treasures were lost from the Nass Valley. During the struggle for our treaty, Nisga'a elders and leaders fought to ensure this scattered legacy would find its way back home. I help this process along as much as possible by following the trail of captured treasure.'

A tall lad sitting at the front stood up. 'Do you have much success, and how do you find out where these treasures are?'

'That's a good question because it isn't easy. So much passed into the hands of Europeans who held on to huge collections, which are now extremely valuable. For instance, last autumn at Sotheby's in New York, a priceless collection of northwest coast native artefacts went up for auction. From the seventeenth century, explorers and missionaries traded with the indigenous peoples of Northern Canada. One family were responsible for repatriating more than two dozen items, among them a wooden mask. These pieces were from a First Nation settlement near Prince Rupert; a Scottish clergyman named Robert Dundas acquired or stole them in 1863. Ironically, his great grandson put them up for auction and raised five million dollars for two dozen items. The mask set a new record for an individual piece of First Nation art when it sold for one point eight million dollars. So you see how important it is to find our heritage, bring it home and display it in museums for all to see.'

Keith Wilson moved towards him and pointed to a folder he was carrying. Morven flicked through and nodded.

'Before we carry on I just want to say how impressed I am with your project. Designing and carving masks was a difficult choice and those of you who decided to decorate them faced another challenge. Because of this, there will be three prizes, one for each category. Papier-mâché, simple woodcarving and plaster cast. I'll announce the winners after lunch.'

Morven asked Wilson the time before continuing. His tone changed as he outlined the serious historical, cultural and educational aspects of his talk. He began with the great tragedy in the mid eighteenth century. 'First I want to tell you a story.

'Volcano Woman is perhaps one of the oldest and most revered legends about the fate of we mortals should we not treat sacred objects or creatures with respect. To defend her beloved wild creatures, she controls the powerful volcanoes. The story tells of the tragedy that followed the killing of a frog and how Volcano Woman destroyed an entire village. Volcano Woman had supernatural powers, as did her son. He often changed from his human form into a frog. Many, many years ago, a Prince and his two friends went fishing. When they'd cooked their meal, they laid it down on a bed of leaves. The frog was mischievous and jumped on their food and the young Prince threw the frog into the shrubs but it jumped back out. The third time he threw the frog into the fire and deliberately killed an innocent creature. A few nights later, the villagers heard a woman crying and wailing. "Come forward and I will spare your village." This warning went unheeded until one of the female Elders travelled to the village outskirts to see her. Volcano Woman instructed her to send forth the three young men and she would spare the village from volcanic destruction, but again the people ignored her warning. On the night of the eruption, Volcano Woman was heard saying, "I asked for those responsible to take heed and now you will know my vengeance." The village shook. A volcano erupted, destroying the village and all who lived there.'

He told them about The Tseax Cone volcano, the source of the volcanic eruption. How the poisonous gases killed many people and how legends told of the aftermath, a prolonged period of disruption. Villagers dug pits hoping to shelter from the lava flow and gas, but approximately two thousand people had died. The Nisga'a story, he explained was Canada's worst known geophysical disaster and as for my connection to the lava beds,' he concluded, 'my ancestors are buried there.'

From the silence, Jackie could see his story had moved them. Jade, the girl responsible for suggesting Morven's visit used the bottom of her shirt to wipe away tears. Morven was about to continue but hesitated. Jade, realising he was staring at her stood up. 'That's such a sad story.' She glanced around at her fellow students. 'Our generation is so lucky. I think we forget that sometimes.'

Jackie knew Jade liked attention. The girl had confidence as well as looks and talent. Unfortunately, her popularity wasn't as great as she imagined. The crying scenario had worked. She had achieved her goal and got Morven's undivided attention. Jackie hoped he didn't have a thing about eighteen year old girls. Plenty of rumours had circulated about Jade; the most worrying one was that older men fascinated her.

Morven took off his wolf head covering and removed his blanket. Underneath, he had short black hair and wore a dark t-shirt and jeans. 'What's the definition of culture?' He asked walking to the edge of the stage.

Several voices answered. 'Way of life.'

Another student suggested traditions, customs and ethnicity.

'Good answers,' he replied and held up the blanket.

'This is the Chieftain's blanket, worn mainly by Head Chiefs. I'm a Wolf Chief. It might not look like a very cool garment to wear, but where I'm from it can get mighty cold. Does anyone happen to know how far north my village is?'

'Nearly a thousand miles from Vancouver,' Jade said. 'I know because I visited there.'

'Thank you...' he said. 'I'm sorry I forgot to ask your name.'

'I'm Jade,' she said smiling.

Jackie observed the subtle sexual vibes oozing from her precocious student's pores.

'Summers are short but warm. The winter is cold. Who would like to try on the Royal Chilkat Robe? When it's on your back you have authority.'

Rory got to his feet again. 'Does that mean you can do as you please?'

Morven laughed. 'It depends. What were you thinking of?'

Rory focused on a group to the left of him, a slight smirk on his face. 'Like, you know, getting rid of your enemies.'

Morven's expression changed. His friendly openness had disappeared. 'I don't think so,' he said coldly. He turned away from Rory and stared at Jade.

It was time to wrap it up Jackie thought. Exams were looming and that brought all kinds of problems. Petty squabbles often got out of hand. Allegiances changed on a daily or weekly basis resulting in plenty of animosity. By now, she should be used to the machinations but Jade's blatant behaviour needed to stop before it got her into trouble. She looked over at Morven and felt the same earlier sensations. The sooner he was off the premises the better.
CHAPTER THREE

Throughout lunch, Jackie stayed clear of Wilson and Beresford. Instead, she wandered around chatting to her students asking them their thoughts on the morning's lecture. The consensus was that they had really enjoyed it and learned more than they'd expected. An hour and a half later, Jackie began the process of getting them back to work. Some of the students had already drifted away but others decided this was more fun than the remaining afternoon's lessons. The agreement prior to the buffet was that staff members could drink wine but not students, even though many were over eighteen. Those that hung about were waiting for a relaxation of the rules.

Morven and Keith Wilson were having a lengthy conversation. Jackie had checked her watch and realised they must've been talking for more than twenty minutes. Eager to find out what the topic was she walked over and deliberately interrupted. 'Can anyone join in or is this private?'

Morven flashed a genuine smile. 'Not at all, Keith was telling me he has a keen interest in collecting First Nations Art and wants me to take a look at his latest acquisition.'

Wilson looked annoyed at her sudden appearance. 'What do you want?'

'I actually came over to find out when Jacob wanted to leave.' She turned to Morven. 'I'd intended to drive you back to your hotel but my car's in the garage. I'll arrange for a taxi if you let me know what time.'

'Jacob would like me to show him the art department's gallery. I'll drive him myself.'

Jackie tried to conceal her annoyance. Her plan was to ask Morven out for a drink, now thanks to Wilson's interference she'd lost the opportunity.

'I won't be long. Before I leave, I'd like to say goodbye. Where will I find you?'

'In my office, Keith knows where it is.' Jackie wasn't about to give up that easily. 'Tell me Keith, what's this latest piece of artwork you've bought?'

'I'd rather not say. Jacob's offered to help me with the provenance and I'm very grateful to him.'

He's becoming even more pompous, Jackie thought. She decided to stay for a few minutes and follow them to the gallery. As for his new art treasure, she'd find out what it was soon enough.

Wilson checked his watch. 'Excuse us.'

As Morven moved off Wilson made certain everyone heard what he said. 'Not every bloke finds you irresistible Jackie.'

As she backed away, Jackie felt her face burning with anger and embarrassment. Wilson had obviously assumed she fancied Morven and was determined to keep him busy. Knowing Wilson's frustration with women and sex, he was determined to spoil her chances with Morven. Well to hell with both of them, she thought. As it was after one thirty and she had no further lessons she would bugger off home. She wasn't that interested in his stupid piece of art anyway. The prospect of picking up a bottle of gin at the supermarket cheered her up. No need for tonic, there was plenty in the fridge. Jackie stood at the door and watched in case anyone was watching her. When she was sure no one was, she left the dining room and hurried along the corridor.
CHAPTER FOUR

May 10th. Seven-thirty pm.

Janet felt weary. She opened the storeroom and pushed the vacuum cleaner inside. Only three weeks left before she retired from the Grasmere Academy. Seven years she'd worked here and on many occasions had almost left, until her friend Libby needed an evening job and she'd recommended her to Mr Beresford. After barely tolerating the previous cleaner, she'd found Libby a joy to work with. Now she looked forward to her shifts, especially the tea breaks when they always had a laugh.

Because of the buffet in honour of the important guest, Janet had offered to work extra 3time. She'd arrived just after five and made her way to the dining room to tidy up. Then she'd loaded the large dishwasher and mopped the floors while Libby cleaned the science rooms.

As she locked the storeroom door, Janet heard a noise. When she'd first started the job there were occasions when she'd felt scared. The Academy was a big building with several exits and entrances vulnerable to anyone determined to break in. They'd had a few attempted burglaries, but so did most big schools. Back then she'd worried about someone walking in undetected and attacking her. She was used to the noises Libby made and it definitely wasn't her. If a member of staff intended to stay late, they always informed her when she started her shift. Janet had felt safer after the school employed a security guard but cuts in the budget meant he had to go. Thanks to the parents raising a substantial amount of cash, Mr Beresford had a sophisticated alarm system installed.

She listened carefully but didn't hear the sound again. Confident everything was okay she headed off to a small room allocated to the cleaning staff. Libby had cleaned the lecture hall earlier and afterwards had talked excitedly about the foreign visitor. Janet paid little attention to the internal workings of the Academy. She knew all the members of staff but hardly spoke to them unless she had to. Libby's teenage boys attended Grasmere. If she wanted to hear the latest gossip, Libby provided it via her sons. Janet's children were grown up; her own son lived in London, her daughter and children directly opposite in the same square.

Janet took off her overall and ran the brush through her hair. She was about to put her coat on when she heard the noise again. This time she feared it was an intruder. After all the years at the school, she knew every sound, yet the prospect of investigating the source scared her. As soon as Libby finished, she decided, they would go together. Opening her handbag, she checked she had enough change for the bus, it was at that moment she heard the first scream, followed by a series of high pitched screeches that sent a massive jolt through her body. For several seconds she couldn't move until adrenaline propelled her forward into the corridor where she saw Libby stumbling along with her hands outstretched. Janet rushed towards her and it was then she saw the blood. 'Come,' Libby gasped, holding out a bloodied hand. 'Come quickly.'

Janet's legs shook so badly she thought they'd give way. 'I don't understand Libby. Stand still for a moment, take a few deep breaths.'

Libby nodded and slumped to the garound. Janet helped her up trying to avoid the blood. 'Show me what's happened,' Janet pleaded.

Seconds later Libby turned around and headed back the way she had come. Janet followed until they came to the largest art studio. Janet could see blood on the door handle as Libby moved towards it.

'Don't touch the handle,' Janet shouted. She'd read enough murder mysteries to know about crime scenes. She inched closer, the door was very slightly ajar and she pushed it open with her toe. Inside it was obvious there had been a struggle. Half finished canvases lay across the floor. Someone had deliberately knocked them from the wall and trodden on them. Red stains pooled on the floor.

'He's in there,' Libby said pointing to a partitioned office.

At first, Janet felt confused, wondering what Libby meant. Then she saw the body. Even though she was familiar with the office, her brain didn't connect the dots. Janet moved forward carefully amongst the debris. None of this makes any sense, she thought. I'm just a cleaner who leads a very ordinary life. Why should this happen to me? She turned to face Libby who was shivering and realised she was in shock. 'Let's go back to our cubbyhole and have a cup of tea,' she said.

Libby started to cry and suddenly Janet felt very strong. Stronger then she'd felt for a long time. They walked slowly and Janet felt no urgency to contact the emergency services. She wanted to sort Libby out first, because she knew they'd be stuck here for hours. When Libby settled down, she'd keep herself busy until the police arrived and try to forget about the knife sticking out of Keith Wilson's chest.
CHAPTER FIVE

Detective Constable Wayne Eldridge propped his feet on the table and balanced his laptop on his stomach. Apart from a couple of junior detectives huddled together in the far corner, the incident room was empty. He looked up at the wall clock and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. The two rookies would be off home soon and he would have the place to himself. Thank God, he thought, as he clicked on "The Portal of Fate" icon on his desktop. His Uncle Frank had bought him the fantasy role-play game for his birthday at the end of April. Initially Eldridge assumed it was a kid's game and had thrown it into a drawer and forgotten all about it until a few days ago. While he waited for the game to load Eldridge thought about the short romance he'd enjoyed with his colleague Katie Gardiner. It had come to an abrupt end after he had turned up drunk at her mother's house. Afterwards, much to his surprise, depression had set in. On the second night of his new single status, he'd needed a distraction other than alcohol and remembered the game. Now he was addicted, to the point where he'd started to play at work. In a relatively short space of time, he had reached level fifty-three thanks to Park Road HQ experiencing a quiet spell.

Miss Goody Two Shoes and her slave, Eldridge's new name for DI Elizabeth Jewell and DS Patterson, were busy trying to solve a spate of burglaries at a warehouse in Gloucester. From what he'd heard, the company supplied erotic goods, including certain illegal bondage paraphernalia and DI Jewell had vowed that after arresting the owners, she would shut the place down.

For the next twenty minutes, Eldridge was absorbed in fighting an army of Runeroons and didn't hear DCI Liam Yeats approaching.

'Get on your feet Eldridge.'

Eldridge ignored the command. The next thing he knew, a strong hand grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him to his feet while the other one rescued his laptop from falling onto the floor.

'What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at? And I don't mean the rubbish on here,' he hissed, holding the laptop up.

Eldridge had been lucky. Since Yeats' arrival at the beginning of March, he'd had very little contact with him. On Yeats' first day at Park road he'd introduced himself to the squad explaining he was replacing DCS Daly due to unforeseen circumstances. So far, Yeats hadn't interfered in CID's day-to-day workings, spawning speculation that he was too busy pen pushing to take notice of what everyone was doing. Looking into his steel grey eyes Eldridge realised they had all made a huge mistake.

'Sorry Sir,' Eldridge stuttered, worrying about his laptop.

Yeats shoved it into Eldridge's chest. 'Put this thing away and don't let me catch you wasting time again.' He moved away and then as an afterthought turned back. 'Make sure you're in my office in ten minutes.'

Eldridge opened his desk drawer and slid the computer in. Trust him to be the first person to get on the wrong side of the Irishman, the name most of CID had given their new boss. No one knew very much about him other than he came from Belfast.

'Know your enemy,' DI Elizabeth Jewell had told them all after she first met Yeats on Valentine's Day. Her words had encouraged plenty of illicit internet use trying to find out more about him.

Eldridge went into the men's toilets and tried sprucing himself up. He needed a haircut badly and wished he'd put on a clean pair of jeans. Five minutes later, he was on his way to what used to be Daly's office. Eldridge missed his old boss, after a rocky start and several warnings the old devil had given him a chance to redeem himself on the Harry Steele investigation. Underneath the bluster and comedy act, Daly was a fair and experienced officer. Now Eldridge had to deal with this new bloke who he suspected was the complete opposite.

On his way, Eldridge hoped he wouldn't bump into anyone, especially Katie Gardiner. Now she was going to join CID permanently there would be no way of avoiding each other. Apart from any other issue, she was clever and Eldridge could see a problem looming, fierce competition. As soon as he entered Daly's old office, he noticed the transformation. Rumours had circulated about the makeover. Eldridge looked around and was impressed.

Stripped bare of all the old shelves and unnecessary clutter it looked bigger. White walls and the laminate floor had replaced yellowing woodchip and the stained grey carpet. He couldn't see the Lloyd Loom chair anywhere. It too, had gone. Yeats lounged in a black leather armchair behind a solid teak desk. He pointed to an identical one. 'Sit,' he said.

Eldridge decided to take the initiative. 'I'm ready to apologise Sir, it's just DI Jewell didn't leave me instructions before she left.'

'Where is she by the way?'

'Griffith's trading estate in Gloucester, still on those porno burglaries. Apparently she's winding things up today.'

'Why aren't you with her?'

Eldridge thought for a moment. He didn't want to disclose that she'd asked him to do another favour for her out of hours. The lean, hard bloke in front of him made him feel uneasy. The legendary Royal Ulster Constabulary had changed its name in two thousand and one to the less intimidating title of The Police Service of Northern Ireland. The first fact Eldridge could be sure of was Yeats had served over twenty years in the force, a proportion of that as a special branch officer in the RUC. The secret was not to mess with him. Feeling edgy, he racked his brains for a convincing reply.

'Basically, she didn't need me. DS Patterson had to go back into hospital for a couple of days at the end of February. A bit of a scare, you know, from his head injury. Anyway, he stayed on desk duty for a bit and I filled in for him. Now he's back. Those two make a great team, so I'm stuck without a partner again.'

'Leaving you free to play computer games in the incident room?'

'I said I was sorry Sir. It won't happen again.'

'If it does...' The desk phone beeped and Eldridge tried not to sigh with relief. If he was lucky, he thought, Yeats might need to go out, allowing him a temporary reprieve.

Eldridge stood up and signalled he was leaving but when he reached the door, Yeats called out to him. 'Don't go anywhere.'

He replaced the phone. 'Do you know the Grasmere Academy?'

'I know where it is.'

'Good.' Yeats said, throwing a bunch of keys at him. 'You can drive.'

'What's happened?' Eldridge asked, noting Yeats' expression.

'I'll tell you on the way.'

Outside in the car park Yeats pointed to a dark blue BMW. It was brand new and top of the range, his spirits lifted immediately. He opened the driver's door and got in.

Yeats fastened his seat belt and said, 'What puzzles me Eldridge is how you made it into CID.'

Eldridge started the engine and reversed. 'Probably because I've got a first class honours degree in computer science. I fancied a job in software development and worked for a big company back in Devon for a while. Then my best mate applied to join the police force so I did too.'

'Why move to Gloucestershire?' Yeats asked.

'I lived at home all the time I was at uni, and continued to when I started my first job. Mum and Dad didn't like the idea of me moving out. I was going nuts and had to find somewhere further away, a place they couldn't pop in every day.'

'So you're an only child?'

'Three older sisters all married with kids. They left home years ago.'

Yeats nodded. 'I see the picture clearly now.'

Lansdowne Road was busy. The traffic had piled up at the Montpelier roundabout due to a broken down delivery lorry. Yeats hadn't said a word but Eldridge sensed there was something seriously wrong. Once they got onto the Tewksbury Road, it took another ten minutes to reach the school. Eldridge had visited the school after he first arrived at Park Road. Sent there to deliver a cautionary lecture on safety which he'd found embarrassing, as he wasn't used to public speaking. When he pulled up outside the main entrance, a woman in her sixties was waiting for them. She rushed over to the car before they had time to get out.

'Come quickly. Something terrible has happened.'

She practically ran up the corridor and Eldridge wondered why. Yeats still hadn't said anything. Once they caught up, the woman introduced herself as Janet and explained her co-worker was in a state of shock. She led them to the art department. Janet hesitated by the door to a small office. 'Before we go in I want to tell you I haven't touched anything.'

Yeats pushed open the door and Eldridge followed. Keith Wilson lay on his back, arms and legs splayed. Considering this was his first murder scene, Eldridge didn't feel nauseous or about to faint. Playing the fantasy game he'd got used to violent death on a screen, where the blood and gore didn't smell. He stared at the knife standing perfectly straight and wondered why it hadn't fallen over. Anatomy wasn't his strong point and he wished Yeats would yank it out. Blood on the computer screen was a different colour to the pools on the floor and he shifted his eyes downwards wondering why there was so much. Yeats stood unmoved, no sign of any emotion. He glanced across, his eyes cold and unfeeling. Eldridge took one last look. Wilson's eyes were wide open, his expression more puzzled than scared.

'Get in touch with Grayson,' Yeats shouted.

Eldridge went back into the corridor and pulled out his mobile. Grayson wasn't answering so he left a message. When he went back, Yeats was on his knees examining the body.

Yeats turned to Janet. 'So you waited nearly half an hour before contacting us. Can I ask why?'

'Because I needed to make sure Libby was all right. There was nothing I could do for Mr Wilson.'

Yeats paused before speaking. 'What I want you to do now Janet, is to go back to Libby and stay there until I come and talk to you. You might need to let your family know you'll be late getting home. I'll make sure someone drives you. Before you go, I need the headmaster's number. Another question, was Mr Wilson married?'

'No he wasn't but Ms Kilmartin's head of the art department, she'll know who to contact.'

'Did you get hold of Grayson?' Yeats said to Eldridge.

'No answer. What do you want me to do?'

'Find a replacement Eldridge. I've met Dr Oakley who I gather fills in for him. Tell her I expect her here within the next fifteen minutes.'

Eldridge trundled back into the corridor, scrolled through his phone until he found the number. For all he was facing a severe reprimand over the gaming incident he was pissed off with Yeats' arrogant attitude. He wasn't in the army but it was beginning to feel like it. Dr Oakley was at home, and promised to leave immediately. She sounded nice and he realised he'd never met her before. Anyone was better than Grayson, Eldridge decided. Another bloke who thought the world revolved around him. Yeats was coming out of the art room. 'Let's talk to the cleaners,' he said.

By the time they all squeezed into the little staff quarters it didn't take Eldridge long to feel claustrophobic. Janet put the kettle on and Yeats pulled up a stool next to Libby. 'I understand this has been a big shock, but it's important you answer questions now before you forget,' he told her.

Libby lifted up her head. 'I understand,' she whispered.

'Before you found Mr Wilson did you hear anything suspicious, any unusual noises?'

Libby turned to Janet. 'I didn't, which is strange considering I was closest to the art rooms.'

Janet carried on making the tea. 'I heard something, but I've no idea what it was. I wanted to check there was nobody inside the school, but felt scared. With the new security system, I can't see how anyone could get in. Only the staff could.'

Yeats added sugar to his mug of tea. 'Staff knew the code but no one else.'

'That's what I'm told. Not that many of them come back here at night, only if they forget something or need a bit of peace and quiet to work. I'm nearly always gone before nine o'clock, even after working overtime. After that I haven't a clue what happens.'

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door and a slim redheaded woman poked her head in. 'Can someone point me in the right direction?'

Yeats immediately got up. 'Dr Oakley,' he held out his hand. 'Liam Yeats, I'll show you the way. Eldridge, take over here. I want names and telephone numbers for every staff member including the head teacher. Tell him to get here quickly.'
CHAPTER SIX

Elizabeth sat in the Saab and watched as two vans pulled away from the warehouse car park. It was nearly nine o'clock and she'd been stuck in the stifling. grimy building for almost three hours. What had started out as a routine burglary investigation had rapidly turned into a farce when the brothers who owned the business refused them access to the basement as the keys had gone missing. Patterson suspected they were running some kind of scam and Elizabeth had ordered the doors to be removed.

Requesting an inventory for the alleged stolen goods had caused another major problem. Patterson reminded the Faraday brothers they could hardly trace their property without descriptions. Eventually the two men cobbled together an almost indecipherable list which Elizabeth had spent a stupid amount of time translating and discovered to her horror many of the items were bordering on illegal.

Approximately half the products the brothers distributed were sex toys destined for shops specialising in the cheaper end of the market. However, their distribution network did not end there. It was clear to Elizabeth the most profitable goods were those making their way to outlets selling BDSM paraphernalia to private individuals. She knew the term BDSM dated back to the late sixties. The letters were an abbreviation of bondage and discipline with sadomasochism. Over the years, the practise had become more widely known due to the increase in books and films covering the subject.

The fact that their mail-order catalogue didn't include those particular products told Elizabeth all she needed to know.

While she waited for Patterson and the uniformed officers to seal the building she went over what she'd learned during her short spell with the vice squad. Sadomasochism had been around a long time and there had been several cases where certain rituals had resulted in fatalities. From what she remembered of the law, perpetrators of sadomasochistic practises, which resulted in death, faced lengthy prison sentences.

Elizabeth had read enough reports about cruel and sadistic actions causing terrible injuries. Whether the victim consented was irrelevant, police could and would prosecute. Half an hour ago, she had arrested both brothers who were now at Park Road facing interrogation. Asking for their accounts turned out to be pointless. However, forensic searches uncovered several boxes containing contact numbers and unsent orders. She'd given the task to one of her junior detectives to sift through and highlight any inconsistencies. The report on her desk had made interesting reading. The brothers had a more lucrative sideline supplying goods to BDSM parties. One particular party six months ago went tragically wrong. Several people ended up in hospital and one person had died. Elizabeth felt confident she could prove the brothers were culpable due to their disregard of the Public Safety Act. In the meantime, the warehouse would undergo further forensic searches before the rest of the stock was confiscated.

For all she felt tired, she also felt elated. Some people thought they were above the law and could blindside the police. She leaned her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes. What she wanted most was to go home, stand in the shower for half an hour and get into bed with a glass of wine. Not just to rid her body of the dust and grime from the disgusting warehouse, more to wash away some of the images she'd seen in the last few days. Elizabeth knew she wasn't a prude, but there were limits to what she found acceptable human behaviour. A knock on the window gave her a start. Patterson had pressed his face against the glass. 'You can't go to sleep there.'

Elizabeth forced herself to sit up. She opened the window. 'I'm going home Tony to get rid of this stink. Eldridge is working late tonight; collar him if you need a hand.'

'I'd like nothing more than to work him to the bone. By the way, just had a text to say our Wayne was caught gaming on police premises.'

'Quite honestly, the way I feel right now I couldn't care less so I'm passing the buck. Tell him he's an idiot if he thinks he can take Yeats on without serious consequences.'

'I know this is a stupid question but have you heard from Mrs Daly?'

Elizabeth sighed. Now wasn't the time to delve into the Daly mystery. She had her own thoughts on what could have happened but preferred to keep quiet. Speculation over Daly's whereabouts had died down at Park Road the moment Detective Superintendent Liam Yeats walked through the door. Whenever anyone asked about his predecessor, Yeats kept to the same script, repeating it was a private matter and no one's business. Elizabeth had tried to like the Irishman, unlike the rest of the team. The trouble was, she was aware from early on he didn't like her.

Elizabeth sat upright ready to go. 'If I get an early night, I'll make sure I'm in by seven thirty to start the paperwork.'

Patterson patted the roof of the car. 'I better get back and check on Eldridge.' He headed towards his car and Elizabeth fired up the engine.

She was about to turn onto the main road when her phone rang. She pulled up by the barrier. 'Yes,' she said wearily.

'It's Eldridge. Yeats wants you at Grasmere Academy now. There's been a murder.'

Elizabeth's first reaction was shock. For a brief moment, she thought he'd said murders and had felt her heart lurch. Visions of carnage ran through her head, dozens of students shot by some maniac on the rampage. There was only one way to confirm and that was to ask him. 'You did say a murder? Not murders.'

Eldridge didn't answer for a second and Elizabeth guessed something had distracted him. 'Sorry boss. I said one murder.'

Elizabeth let out a deep breath 'Student or staff member?'

'Someone's stabbed one of the art teachers. Dr Oakley's there.'

'Where's Grayson?'

'Don't know, I've tried several times but he's not picking up. I better warn you, looks like Yeats is taking control of this one.'

Elizabeth was pleased Eldridge had sussed out the situation. At one time, he would have done everything he could to cause her problems. His shift in allegiance reassured her, whether or not it lasted, only time would tell. For now all that mattered was she had him on her side. Yeats gearing up to lead a murder investigation was interesting. Surely, he had other more pressing issues to deal with, unless there was an ulterior motive, like trying to undermine her capabilities. Elizabeth knew that whatever happened, she mustn't let Yeats get to her.

'I'm on my way,' she told Eldridge and swung the car back towards the warehouse to catch Patterson before he drove off. He cracked open the window. 'I thought you'd had enough of this shithole.'

'Change of plan.' she said. 'Get in. We have a murder at the Grasmere Academy.'
CHAPTER SEVEN

It was after nine and getting dark when Elizabeth and Patterson pulled up in the Academy's car park.

Elizabeth stood by the car and pointed to four strategically positioned CCTV cameras. 'This area's certainly well covered.' she said.

Patterson took a closer look at the one nearest to him. 'These are night vision, a much higher resolution and even brighter thanTop of For..Bottom of Form the normal infrared LED ones. No expense spared here.'

'Protecting their vehicles is obviously high on their list of priorities. Seeing those, most car thieves would think twice. It's a pity the front entrance wasn't kitted out like this.'

Patterson used his phone to photograph the CCTV camera. 'The trouble is, Grasmere's biggest security problem is at the rear. The playing fields back on to Cresswell woods. Ages since I was last there but I remember it's densely forested. If I wanted to get in here undetected I'd go through the woods. Maybe I should check it out.'

Elizabeth opened the Saab's boot and took out a torch. 'You'll need this.'

Patterson disappeared behind a wall and Elizabeth followed the signs to the main entrance. She walked along a curved pathway lit by two-foot solar lamps. She stopped and concentrated on the surrounding area. Dotted here and there were areas planted with mature shrubs. Some were six or seven feet tall and planted close together, the dense foliage making it an ideal hiding place at night, but not so during daylight hours when Wilson was murdered.

She counted her paces and estimated the path was approximately a hundred yards to the entrance. Eldridge had said he would let her in, but when she climbed the steps and peered through the main doors there was no sign of him. She pressed the security pad and lit a cigarette. In front of her, well-kept lawns stretched several hundred yards down to the busy main road. To her left she spotted paved seating areas and to her right the tennis courts and school playing fields, which according to Patterson, led to the woods.

Her very first visit to the Academy wasn't to do with police business. She'd come with her friend Sally to see a Gilbert and Sullivan production of The Mikado. Even the old Grasmere comprehensive had a great reputation for musicals and she remembered reading about a former pupil who was now a well known actress.

She heard the main door opening and turned to see Eldridge. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Been trying to get hold of Beresford, he's the head teacher.'

'How long before he arrives?'

'He's on his way now.'

'Good,' she said and stubbed out her cigarette. She picked it up and dropped it in a waste bin. 'Where's Dr Oakley?'

'She's in the art department which is situated in the Dali annexe. The victim's name is Keith Wilson and he was killed in his office.'

'Naming a school wing after Salvador Dali is a great idea,' Elizabeth said. 'I've always liked surrealism; it's weird but really makes you think about how we see things.'

'Never heard of him,' Eldridge grunted.

'Instead of playing mindless computer games, look him up on the internet. You might just find it interesting. Years ago I saw an exhibition of Dali's jewellery designs. I don't think I've ever seen so many precious stones in one place.'

'My Mum took me to the Tower of London once. I can remember seeing the crown jewels.'

'Wayne, I know you'd prefer to stand here and talk to stay away in order to keep away from Yeats, but I need you to see Dr Oakley. Tell Yeats I'll be along soon.'

'I can't, he'll go nuts if I go back without you.'

Her first instinct was to ignore Yeats' summons, but Eldridge was in enough trouble over the gaming incident and she could see he was nervous.

'Patterson told me you were caught playing a fantasy game. I'm not going to bang on about it, other than to say you're an idiot.'

Eldridge had the decency not to argue. 'I promise it won't happen again. I'm giving up.'

'It better not. Look, go outside and have a smoke. I've come straight from the Faraday's warehouse and I need to gather my thoughts for a few minutes. Yeats can wait for once.'

'Thanks, he's done my head in since we got here.'

Elizabeth stood by the window and tried to work out why he needed her at the crime scene. It didn't make any sense. If Eldridge was right about him taking over the investigation it was unlikely he'd need her. However with his other obligations there was no way he could give the case his undivided attention.

The reception area was impressive. A curved staircase wound its way up three floors. Above it a pyramid shaped atrium soared several feet into the night sky. She checked the time and moved towards the stairs as Eldridge rushed back in. 'Don't go up there. Yeats is on the ground floor.'

Elizabeth followed him along a wide corridor with classrooms to the right. He stopped outside a door labelled Conference Room One, knocked and waited. Yeats opened it. 'Where the hell is this head teacher?' he demanded.

'He had to wait until his wife got home so she could give him a lift. He should be here any minute.'

'So the headmaster of a prestigious school doesn't own a vehicle.'

Eldridge shook his head. 'I've no idea Sir.'

'Christ Almighty where's the man's sense of urgency. A murder in a big school isn't exactly an everyday occurrence. He could have phoned a cab or started walking.'

Elizabeth barged passed Yeats into the room. Two middle aged women and a younger man were sat at an oval table talking quietly and from their appearance were in shock. The taller of the two women introduced herself as Mavis Brand, the deputy head teacher. The other two explained they taught art and media studies.

Yeats sat down and addressed Mrs Brand. 'Did you witness many arguments between Beresford and his staff?'

'In a school this size you can't escape some tension and differences of opinion. Occasionally tempers would flare, but generally everyone made an effort to get on. We have to try and be decent role models for our pupils. God knows some of them don't have any in their lives, so it's vitally important.'

Seconds later, they heard footsteps outside. Giles Beresford was breathless as he stumbled through the door. 'Sorry, my wife was delayed. There's been an unbelievable traffic problem all day due to road works.'

Beresford was handsome, in an old Hollywood movie star way. He wore a double-breasted black pin stripe suit and his short fair hair parted on one side. Very Gatsby, Elizabeth thought.

'Where's your own car?' Yeats asked.

'In for an MOT, should be ready tomorrow. He pulled out a chair, and sat with his head in his hands. I can't believe such a dreadful thing has happened,' he said. 'It will ruin this school's standing in the community.'

Yeats didn't seem impressed by Beresford's attitude. 'I suggest you prepare yourself, things are going to get much worse. As for the school's reputation, that's not my concern.'

'Keith's murder doesn't make sense,' Beresford whined.

'No murder does,' Yeats answered. 'What I'd like you to do right now is make a list of all staff members, their addresses, landline and mobile numbers. We'll need to interview every single one of them.'

'Are you suggesting a staff member killed Keith? We have six hundred pupils. What about them?'

Mavis Brand stood up and sounded horrified. 'You can't accuse a pupil Giles. That's monstrous.'

'It's happened before, so why not here?'

Yeats repeated himself. 'The addresses and phone numbers please. The first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation are crucial.'

Beresford was struggling to speak. 'How am I supposed to contact them all when I'm in such a bloody state?'

'Leave that to us,' Yeats answered.

Elizabeth could see Beresford was in a state and looked close to tears. She wondered if he and Wilson had been close friends. Yeats' aggressive attitude wasn't helping him.

'You're in shock,' she said gently. 'Why don't you sit quietly for a few minutes?'

Beresford nodded and she glimpsed the tears on his dark eyelashes. 'Could someone make him a hot drink?' Elizabeth asked.

Mavis Brand stood up. 'I'll see to it.' She opened a cupboard and busied herself sorting out crockery.

Yeats threw Elizabeth a contemptuous look then turned back to Eldridge. 'When Mr Beresford's had his drink, go and help him. It might speed things up.'

Elizabeth wasn't prepared to stay for much longer. She needed to speak to Jessica Oakley at the crime scene. 'You wanted to see me Sir.'

'Outside,' he said.

Elizabeth had a bad premonition. Watching Yeats carefully over the last few weeks had enlightened her to the man's real character. He was a seasoned bully who showed signs of some type of personality disorder, one she couldn't readily identify.

They moved into the corridor and Yeats leaned against the wall. 'We need this clearing up quickly.'

'Have you spoken to Dr Oakley yet?' Elizabeth asked him.

'I left her to do her job. Beresford's acting strange. As soon as he's compiled the list I want to know where he was after the Canadian's lecture. Whether he stayed for the lunch party and if so what time did he leave this building. From the state he's in I reckon he's hiding something. A staff member overheard Wilson and him arguing.'

'Did this person hear what it was about?'

'Only that it wasn't the first time. She admitted to eavesdropping until she saw the Canadian bloke walking up the corridor. She didn't want to bump into him so she rushed back to her classroom.'

Elizabeth guessed who the unnamed witness was, the female art teacher inside the conference room.

'Who is this Canadian man?' she asked.

'He's Nisga'a First Nation from somewhere in British Columbia. That's a point; I need to find out which hotel he's in.'

'Surely you don't suspect this man. He came here to educate the kids, not brutally kill one of their teachers.'

'I will decide who the suspects are Jewell. Not you.'

Elizabeth heard the derision in his voice. He was determined to demoralize at every opportunity. 'If you'll excuse me Sir, I need to catch up with Dr Oakley before she leaves.'

Yeats' eyes turned hostile. She wondered how long it was worth continuing their charade. It was evident he disliked her more as the weeks went by. 'Are you and Oakley mates?'

'More like acquaintances, we see each other socially now and then.'

'Then meeting her here is more than a professional encounter.' Yeats snapped.

At first Elizabeth wasn't sure what he meant. Then it dawned on her. 'I don't indulge in idle gossip when I'm working, if that's what you're getting at. Of course I'll ask how she is, but we're both here for a purpose, so you're wrong again.'

'You're known as a time waster. No one gets away with that when I'm in charge.'

Elizabeth had to curtail her fury. Unlike Daly, she couldn't fly off the handle whenever she felt like it. 'Whatever you say Sir.'

'Where's Patterson?' he asked.

She watched his eyes and knew she'd made a mistake. By dragging Patterson along he'd assume she'd added him to the investigation team. 'He's waiting for me in the car,' she lied.

He watched her carefully. 'You're lying and I don't take kindly to liars. You brought Patterson deliberately so you'd have an ally on this case. I asked specifically for you, not him as well. You've just proved to me you're suitability for this murder enquiry is debatable.'

Elizabeth didn't intend to grovel. 'You're the boss,' she said, turned her back on him and walked away.

Yeats grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. 'Don't mess with me Jewell. I'm not Daly. You and Patterson are joined at the hip and I've already figured out your tactics. You want rid of me, I knew that the first time I clapped eyes on you and you'll use as many people as you can to achieve it. Well safety in numbers won't help you. I haven't decided how to deal with you but tell your Sergeant he's back on desk duty. Indefinitely.'
CHAPTER EIGHT

Elizabeth hurried back to the main entrance hoping no one would see her. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Patterson lounging against the Saab.

'I was just about to phone you,' he said.

'It's a good job you didn't. Listen, take the car and go back to Park Road. I still haven't spoken to Jessica.'

Patterson's eyes narrowed, he was no fool, especially when someone was economical with the truth. 'Yeats has upset you, hasn't he?'

'Annoyed me, but then he'd annoy a saint. How did you get on in the woods?'

'I'd forgotten how scary it was. I wouldn't recommend anyone go there at this time of night. As for a method of gaining access, I'd give Cresswell woods five stars. We need Crime Scene in there early tomorrow morning.'

Elizabeth needed to stall. Right now she couldn't face telling him Yeats's decision. 'I'll organise that. Listen, I better get back inside.'

Patterson looked confused. 'Do you want me to come back and collect you?'

'Go home Tony. I'll ring Darren when I'm ready.'

She watched him drive away and dreaded having to tell him about Yeats' ultimatum.

Jessica Oakley was on her knees bent over Wilson's body. Elizabeth stood on the other side of his office door. Jessica heard her and looked up. 'Two ticks Liz, I'm nearly done.'

'I need a coverall,' Elizabeth said.

'Jessica signalled to one of the crime scene investigators. 'Sid, find DI Jewell a flattering outfit. He searched through a plastic container and handed over a sealed package. Elizabeth removed the blue suit from its package and slipped it on.

Jessica peeled off her latex gloves, dumped them into a biohazard bag and came towards her. 'I haven't seen you for ages Liz.'

'I heard a rumour you were moving to Bristol,' Elizabeth said.

'I changed my mind, but it's a long story which I promise to tell when there's more time.'

Although Elizabeth didn't see the pathologist very often, she'd always admired her. Jessica lived in Cheltenham but worked mainly in Gloucester hospital in the laboratories. She was also one the few senior pathologists who covered for Joe Grayson during his holidays or in emergencies. 'I'm here unofficially. Yeats has just told me Patterson and I are not on the Wilson case.'

'Who is Senior Investigating Officer?' Jessica asked.

'Yeats.'

Jessica grimaced. 'I better shape up before he starts on me. I've barely spoken to him and he gives me the creeps. He certainly wouldn't win any charm awards.'

'You'll be okay. He can't alienate everybody.'

'Why you Liz, what have you done to antagonise him?'

'God knows. Since he took over at the beginning of March, I've made an effort to get on with him. He's on edge all the time, as if he's waiting for something to happen. I'm probably overreacting but I think he's dangerous.'

'Be careful, I know a cold specimen when I see one. My advice is stay out of his way.' Jessica looked out into the corridor. 'Get in quick and I'll tell you what I've deduced so far.'

Elizabeth stepped through the doorway and entered the crime scene.

'I've examined the victim and I'm certain he was killed no more than two hours ago. The younger cleaner had copious amounts of blood splatter on her hands and sections of her clothing. Without asking the older woman to strip, I can't be sure how close she got to the body. If these women aren't suspects then it's a miracle neither of them was attacked. Whoever killed the teacher might have killed them too.'

Elizabeth thought for a few seconds. 'Which tells me two things, the killer either didn't know they were in the building, or if he did know, he didn't care. Most teachers have an idea when cleaners come and go which means we have plenty of potential suspects working here. I'll go with two possible scenarios. A disgruntled teacher maybe, or student reaping revenge. Or, Wilson disturbed a burglar.'

'I agree Liz, eliminate an inside job first. Jessica peered through the window and pointed to the headlights. 'The first vultures have arrived. Two media vans have just pulled up. A murder in a big school like this is bad news,' Jessica said.

'Unfortunately it's good news for them.'

Elizabeth gave the immediate area her full attention. She'd attended far worse crime scenes. The killer had trashed Wilson's office and the adjoining studio and gallery giving credence to the burglary theory. It was obvious the killer had searched for something but time had run out. She moved carefully towards Wilson's body. It lay at right angles to a large desk positioned like the letter X, his expression bewildered. As if he was trying to make up his mind about something before he'd died. She stared at the knife. It would have taken a lot of force to push the weapon in up to the hilt.

She stood up and spoke to Jessica. 'That's an interesting handle. I don't think I have seen anything like it before.'

'I can't be absolutely certain until I take it out, but I don't think it's actually a knife.'

'Can you be more specific?' Elizabeth asked.

'I'm no expert Liz. Like I said let's wait until it's out.'

Elizabeth pointed at the stains on the floor. 'I can see plenty of blood has seeped from the wound, but that's a different red, so what is it?'

'It's ordinary emulsion they use for painting scenery. Whoever's in charge certainly didn't deprive the pupils of artist's materials; the storeroom is full. My guess is the killer deliberately contaminated the scene and paint was the only thing available. He could hardly waste time looking for a bottle of bleach. I can't understand his logic, probably panicked and thought it might confuse us.'

'Unless someone tripped over it,' Elizabeth said.

'You mean the cleaner who found him?'

'Maybe Wilson had opened it in preparation for his class and left it on the floor.' Elizabeth suggested.

'Those areas where the paint and blood have merged together will cause problems but we might get lucky once they're analysed. Right, this is what I've surmised so far. Our killer stabbed Wilson while he was standing up. Wilson tried pulling the weapon out and when he realised he couldn't, staggered to the door hoping to alert someone. Then he must've fallen backwards and that's when the killer moved him. There are drag marks on the floor here,' Jessica pointed to the smeared blood.

Elizabeth studied the stains. 'I wonder why he changed Wilson's position.'

'I don't think the splayed arms and legs are significant in any way. He was probably dragged by the elbows and ended up like that.'

Jessica held her arms up. 'Like this,' she continued. 'Libby, one of the cleaners can't remember exactly what she did after finding the body. She says she didn't touch anything, but there was blood all over her hands and clothes so it's possible she moved Wilson too. The other cleaner can't seem to recall much either. Personally, I believe she can remember, but wants to protect her friend. They're a couple of average women. Imagine the shock the older woman got seeing her friend in that state. She might even suspect her of doing the deed.' Jessica checked her watch. 'I'll learn more tomorrow.'

'No post-mortem tonight I guess.'

'I better wait until I contact Grayson. If I go ahead and he's on his way home, I can foresee difficulties. I like to lead a quiet life Liz. And after that scare Grayson had with the suicide, he's a stickler for procedure now.'

'I know what Grayson is like,' Elizabeth stated. 'Will I be in your way if I have a look around?'

'You'll have to be quick. The morgue machine's on the way.'

Elizabeth made a more detailed examination of both the office and studio. If the killer had deliberately damaged paintings and other artwork, perhaps this was definitely a revenge attack. It might explain the frenzied search. She wondered what was so important. Other possibilities came to her. A student unhappy about their grades, looking to get into a top university and for reasons unknown Keith Wilson had scuppered their plans. There was something odd about the studio, but for some reason she couldn't figure it out. When she'd first looked, it had seemed obvious, now her mind drew a blank.

Ten minutes later Wilson's body was on its way to the morgue and Jessica had promised to keep in touch. 'I wouldn't want to get you into any trouble,' she'd said.

Elizabeth had to laugh. 'I'm already too far-gone so what difference would it make?'

Yeats, Eldridge and Beresford were still in the small conference room when she passed by on her way out. The temptation to speak to Yeats was great but she resisted, knowing it would only make matters worse. She was about to ring DC Johnson when she heard Yeats shout her name.

'I want to talk to you in private,' he said leading her out of the building then across the lawn to one of the seating areas. It was much darker now, Elizabeth shivered even though the night was warm. For some reason, she felt vulnerable being alone with him.

'As you've had time to snoop around the crime scene I wondered if you'd come up with any ideas?' he said.

'It's not down to me to put forward any ideas. That's your responsibility.'

'In case you need reminding Jewell, we need this sorted quickly. By tomorrow morning, we will have every parent clamouring for a solution. Most of them won't even want to send their kids back here, especially the younger ones. Because it's a highly emotive situation, the Chief Constable is having a meltdown. He's just rung me and expects a progress report by tomorrow morning. I want to give some of the junior detectives a chance, which will give me a bigger team. Eldridge better shape up or he'll be on the transfer list. You should have dealt with his attitude problems earlier. When I came here, my first objective was to get rid of Park Road's entrenched apathy. Daly allowed discipline to slide into the mud, where it's remained ever since. The situation is going to change, starting with this investigation.'

Elizabeth knew any tactics she'd employed with Daly would never work with this man. He was like a red rag to a bull and she was sure she could see the beginnings of a red mist before her eyes. Yeats looked directly at her, waiting for a reply.

'How dare you fucking criticise us. Cheltenham is not fucking Belfast and I would be grateful if you remembered that fact. You make it sound as if DCS Daly was running a fish and chip shop, instead of a highly organised police station. You accuse us of acting like bumbling, incompetent, amateurish detectives.'

Elizabeth felt a sharp pain in her head and wondered if she was about to pass out. What she wanted to do was walk away, but if she did, she knew Yeats would see it as defeat. Instead, she concentrated on staying upright and defiant. He said nothing for what seemed like minutes, but it was only seconds. When he did, she stepped back as if to protect herself. Yeats had moved forward, his face twisted in anger.

'You're a loose cannon Jewell and one day you'll pay the price. In the meantime, I suggest you deal with the backlog of shit back at Park Road and stay out of my way. You can forget interfering in this case. Lastly, a word of warning, if you try garnering support from the Chief Constable or DCI Daly you will be wasting your time. I have it on good authority that both of them would be glad to see the back of you.'

Elizabeth struggled to hold back the tears after he mentioned Daly. Although she knew he was deliberately lying, his words still cut her to the very core. For all her faults, her colleagues and team still respected her. There was no way she'd ever allow this hard- nosed, bastard to ruin her friendships and career.

'I don't take threats kindly. I might look like a feeble woman, but I've met tougher characters than you, check my records if you haven't already done so.'

Yeats smiled. 'They made good reading on the plane ride over. Let me be blunt. I don't like working with women and just admitting it could land me in the shit. Especially with the likes of you, who the minute I turn my back, will start telling everyone I'm a prejudiced bastard. A bit of advice, slating me will be a waste of time. You've alienated Gloucestershire's Chief Constable, who I can guarantee doesn't give a damn about your petty complaints.'

Elizabeth tried to find a suitable retort but her mind went blank. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and when she opened them, Yeats was gone. She rested her back against the wooden seat eager to get back to Park Road but anger had used up most of her energy. How could she ever work with this man? Why discriminate against Patterson, who had suffered a serious injury in the line of duty. Surely even Yeats was capable of compassion. It was the old trick of divide and rule and Yeats didn't give a damn about seeking justice for Keith Wilson. She knew very little about his history but now she had more time on her hands she could rectify that. Most people, at some time in their life made mistakes. Working for Special Branch, Yeats had more to hide than most. As she'd pointed out to him, Cheltenham, unlike Belfast, hadn't suffered years of unrest and violence. Maybe he was psychologically better equipped to solve terrorist crimes quickly but that didn't give him the skills to solve this one.

Not everything he'd said she'd disagreed with. A teacher murdered on school premises was a horrendous incident affecting hundreds of children and their families. Elizabeth knew she wouldn't sleep at night until they caught the murderer. If she'd had kids, there was no way she'd allow them to return to school. More media presence had started setting up on the main road. Thank god this time she didn't have to deal with them. Elizabeth's thoughts went back to Patterson. How to break the bad news was bothering her. Another spell cooped up behind a desk would certainly frustrate and depress him. Yeats could do what he liked with her, but to punish Patterson in the process was nasty.

Elizabeth hauled herself off the seat and contemplated her next problem. The main road was lit up like a Christmas tree. More media vehicles had squeezed into the pickup bays beyond the school gates. How would she get through without having the press on her back? Many of the local hacks knew her well. They relied on her for a few sound bites but tonight there was no chance. She'd given Patterson her big torch, but she kept a small one in her bag.

'Only one way,' she muttered as she turned on the powerful LED beam. Then she made her way across the playing fields towards Cresswell woods.
CHAPTER NINE

Relieved to be out of the woods Elizabeth stood still until her breathing returned to normal. Her mad idea had taken its toll. She'd expected to see the odd dog walker about, but she'd found herself alone in the dark forbidding woods as dusk had quickly turned to total darkness followed by a short spell of thunder and lightning. Now she was drenched and scared and wondering who to phone for a lift home.

Rather than have to answer questions about where she had been, Elizabeth decided to walk the half mile to Leckhampton High Street where she could pick up a few items from the supermarket. Burger King was open and the thought of food cheered her up. She hurried along on aching feet, went straight into Burger King, ordered, and sat by the window.

After the earlier confrontation with Yeats, what she really needed was a stiff drink and pleasant company, but that wasn't going to happen tonight. Outside, the rain was pelting down, she stood under a canopy and phoned Patterson.

'Where are you?' she asked.

'I had to come back to the warehouse, not enough crime scene guys turned up, and the brothers Grimm hired a shit hot solicitor. He wants the search completed by midnight and this place locked up. As he pointed out, there's thousands of pounds worth of legitimate products in the warehouse. If it's nicked he's going to hold us responsible. The irony of it is we've found more stuff. One of the crime techs literally tripped over a dozen boxes containing branding irons and violet wands. I reckon this little lot hasn't come through customs. I can't wrap my head around all this stuff Liz, it's too bizarre.'

Elizabeth concentrated. 'I've heard of the violet wand things. Don't they produce electric currents? I agree with you. I'm just as bewildered as you are. Why do people need to inflict intense pain in order to make sex better?'

Patterson didn't want to discuss sexual gratification with his superior officer. He heard the strain in her voice and changed the subject quickly. 'I got one hell of a shock when I heard about Keith Wilson. I met him once at a school football match. A few people thought he was a bit weird, but he seemed an okay bloke to me. Even though he was an art teacher, he took a keen interest in sports. Anyway, you sound stressed.'

'I'm depressed and need a lift. Can you pick me up?'

Patterson's surroundings were dim, dark, dirty and claustrophobic. A Scene of Crime Officer stood opposite painstakingly sifting through large hessian bags full of polystyrene chips. 'Hang on a sec,' he shouted over to the crime scene technician. 'How much longer do you need me?'

'We've got another bloke coming in shortly. If I was you I'd bugger off while you have the chance.'

Elizabeth heard the reply and felt better.

Patterson got back. 'Tell me where.'

'Outside Morrisons, pull into the side street. I'm going in to buy wine. Do you fancy a drink?'

'Are you sure you want company?'

'I'll take that as a yes then.'

Patterson went straight to the men's room. He didn't have time to go back to his apartment to tidy himself up. The toilets were squalid, the washbasins black with grime. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and soaked them under the cold tap. It would have to do, he thought, rubbing his blond hair with the makeshift facecloth. While dusting off his jeans with the soggy mess he looked back to the Valentine's night party when everything seemed to change. If he'd paid more attention to Katie Gardiner, she might not have gotten involved with Eldridge and since that relationship ended badly she'd barely acknowledged him. If he was honest he still fancied her, but the atmosphere at Park Road had gone downhill since Daly's unexpected departure. There was an air of mistrust, and the many once solid friendships had fractured slightly. Liz wasn't the same since Yeats took over. He'd noticed her lack of energy and general pessimism. At first, he wondered if she was pregnant, he knew he was looking for a reason to understand her behaviour but asking was out of the question because the subject would involve bringing up Calbrain.

He'd taken Hannah, Calbrain's secretary, out a few times, then one of her former boyfriends returned from his world travels and Patterson had to bow out gracefully.

Driving to Leckhampton, he wished he knew more about early pregnancy. He pulled up outside Morrisons and saw her coming out with a couple of carrier bags. By the time they reached her house the rain had stopped and the ground had dried up.

Elizabeth poured two glasses of red. 'In the eyes,' she said.

Patterson checked out the kitchen. 'Where's that huge cat?'

'Why can't you ever remember his name? I've reminded you often enough.'

'I can't bring myself to say it. Bagpuss is a bloody stupid name. Why didn't you call the beast something more sophisticated? Like Horatio.'

Elizabeth frowned. 'No one criticises my cat. Sit down and listen. Yeats asked me to pass on a message. Not only are you off the case, you're going back to your favourite desk to sort out our horrendous backlog of crimes. He wants us apart, he thinks that way we won't challenge him.'

Patterson didn't react the way she would have expected. Two months of disruption at Park Road had pointed the way to change. Yeats had arrived with an agenda, one he wasn't afraid to implement. At least now, they knew where they stood. He emptied the glass in two gulps.

'He's a bastard and we need to do something about it.'

Patterson refilled his glass. 'I suppose it will be against all the rules.'

'We do background checks on plenty of other people. Yeats isn't royalty or the Prime Minister so as far as I'm concerned he's fair game. Find out everything you can about him. Inside that stiff and uncompromising excuse for a human being are secrets. I want you to find them. You spent plenty of time probing into that doctor, what was he called again?'

'Ursini was a suspect. Yeats is a senior police officer; imagine what will happen to me if he finds out.'

'Forget about him finding out. He's so up his own backside he won't notice. He thinks we're terrified of him and I intend to encourage that for as long as it suits me.'

Patterson leaned his head against the wall. Liz's investigative methods usually got her into trouble. Even though he voiced his disapproval, she could be very persuasive. Experience had taught him that for all her methods were unconventional, she got results. As his future was on the line anyway, he supposed he had nothing to lose. 'So I'm done with the Faraday case?'

'Not until I finish the paperwork for the CPS.' Elizabeth flicked a switch and pushed open the French doors into the garden. 'Let's forget work for a while. Come and see my garden lights. If they still work okay, you'll be able to see what I've done. Bring the wine with you.'

Patterson followed her onto the patio and sat down. 'I thought you'd hired a gardener, so why wouldn't they work?'

Elizabeth flicked a switch by the door. 'I did, but gardeners don't do electrics and I didn't want all solar lights because they always seem to need new batteries. I asked an electrician friend and he's done a great job. What you think?'

Stainless steel lamps lit up most of the garden. All along the back fence, she'd festooned the shrubs with garlands of smaller solar lights. Patterson thought they looked like Christmas trees, except there was no tinsel.

'A bit out of character, I thought you preferred minimalist surroundings. So what's prompted all this?'

'Simple, I copied Mum and Dad's ideas. If you think this is over the top, their garden is ten times worse.'

Patterson refilled the glasses. The wine helped him view his situation with less concern, and if Liz opened another bottle, which no doubt she would, tomorrow morning's hangover would take precedence over everything else.

'So now you're a keen gardener?'

'I need a hobby. I don't see my girlfriends very often since they had kids.'

Patterson tried comforting words, knowing how she felt about children. 'I bet they've put loads of weight on and can only squeeze into those hideous polyester tracksuits.'

'That comment is bordering on discrimination Sergeant. Don't let me hear you be offensive towards new mothers again.'

Patterson emptied the last dregs from the bottle. Elizabeth twirled her glass gazing into the bottom. He knew he would never understand women, at times Liz was a total enigma to him. They had always worked well together and the prospect of their partnership ending upset him. What happened last year had brought them closer. 'Sorry boss.'

She looked up and smiled. 'Yeats won't stay, I promise you.'

'If that's the case, we'd better celebrate. It's Friday night so we can start another bottle?'

Elizabeth Jewell's smile lit up her face. 'Sod work and sod Yeats,' she said and went back into the kitchen for another bottle.
CHAPTER TEN

Saturday May 11th

Jade Harper didn't want to get out of bed. She'd arrived home at three in the morning and fallen asleep in her clothes and five-inch stiletto heels. Struggling to sit up she squinted through swollen eyelids and made out the time, it was almost midday.

Along with six other friends and acquaintances, Jade had gone to the Alcaidesa nightclub in the centre of Cheltenham with one intention, to get blind drunk. By midnight, she'd lost count of the number of tequila shots she'd downed, so when Duncan Mortimer suggested they go for a walk Jade had gone willingly. Ten minutes later, she found herself in a narrow alleyway engaging in frenetic sex. Thinking about her stupidity and any repercussions from it had brought on a panic attack. Even by her standards, the hangover was one of the worst she'd ever experienced in her eighteen years. Added to that, her body ached all over from the previous night's gymnastics.

She eased herself across the bed, rummaged in a cabinet drawer until she found a strip of painkillers. She swallowed three, staggered to the bedroom door and listened until she was sure her parents and brother had left the house.

Negotiating the stairs proved difficult as she'd forgotten to remove her shoes. Twice she had to sit down to stop herself falling. When she reached the hall she made straight for her father's office. Jade unlocked the drinks cabinet, removed a bottle of vodka and filled a crystal tumbler to the brim. She drank half and immediately replenished the glass. Feeling marginally better, she wandered into the garden and slumped onto a padded recliner. The sky was a cloudless blue and the noon temperature had reached twenty-two degrees.

Jade closed her sore eyes as her headache began to ease. She turned onto her side, shaded her eyes with her hand and tried to think clearly. Yesterday had been a nightmare, which was why she had needed the alcoholic oblivion. Now the police were at the Academy so it wouldn't be long before they came knocking on her door. The prospect of losing her university place didn't bear thinking about. On top of that, if her parents discovered half of what she'd done they would probably throw her out onto the street. She gazed back at the eighteenth century house set in an acre of garden and imagined living in a disgusting bedsit on the edge of town.

The kitchen phone started its annoying ringtone. Swigging the last of the vodka, she stumbled across the grass and reached it just before the answer machine kicked in.

'Morning gorgeous,' Duncan Mortimer said.

'What the hell do you want? I've got a blistering hangover so piss off.'

'As it's going to be a hot day, I thought we could find a secluded spot and carry on where we left off.'

Jade didn't want to antagonise him, nor did she want to encourage him. Too many friends had deserted her over the last few months. As her popularity dwindled, more had followed suit and hanging on to the last of her supporters was proving difficult.

She switched to her baby voice, as her father called it. 'Seriously I feel yuk. Why don't we leave it until tomorrow? I'll call you in the morning.'

'Okay babe. Make sure you do. Jed took some explicit shots of us on his phone. You wouldn't want your dad to see them.'

Jade was horrified. Now she was in even deeper trouble. The culture of videoing or photographing friends indulging in sex was common, but naïvely she'd never thought it would happen to her.

'Don't threaten me Duncan or you'll regret it. Remember my father is well connected.'

'It depends on what you call connected,' he laughed. 'Rumours suggest your daddy mingles with unsavoury types. Although I guess he might have a few friends in high places. I've seen him in the Queens Hotel drinking with a cop. That's probably how he stays out of jail.'

Jade desperately wanted to end the conversation. 'All right, pick me up tonight about seven and make sure you bring a bottle with you.'

Before going upstairs, she filled up the glass again and changed into a black bikini. If she had to lie down she may as well improve her tan. Stretched out under the hot sun Jade wondered why she'd chosen to study at Grasmere Academy. Her parents had insisted she enroll at Cheltenham Ladies College. Even at eleven years old Jade had showed a rebellious streak. She'd attended a state primary school where her popularity began. When the time came to move to secondary education, all of her close friends chose Grasmere. The last thing she wanted was to spend seven years with girls who were richer and more beautiful. At Grasmere she would stand out. Her father had warned her that one day she would bitterly regret her decision. If only she'd listened to him. She closed her eyes and tried to make sense of why things seemed to be going terribly wrong, but facing up to reality bored her and she dozed off.

Half an hour later, the sound of a car door banging disturbed her. Jade opened her eyes to see her mother rushing across the lawn. 'Go and put some clothes on right now. There's a youngish man at the door asking to see you.'

Jade felt the panic again. Duncan must have come over to cause trouble. He was a rotten bastard and she vowed for the umpteenth time to stop seeing him. The trouble was he excited her, unlike the other two guys she was sleeping with. 'I'm not feeling too good, tell whoever it is to go away.'

Christine Harper grabbed her daughter's arm and yanked her to her feet. 'You're not ill. How many times have I warned you about binge drinking? One of these days you'll end up in hospital, or worse. You're nothing better than a nymphomaniac Jade Harper. No wonder you have no girlfriends left.'

Jade turned on the tears, which was hardly difficult considering her state of mind. 'Stop it Mummy or I'll end up having one of my panic attacks.'

'Stay there and I'll send him over,' her mother capitulated. 'Why waste my breath on a common slut and why should one extra bloke seeing you half naked matter?'

'Who is it anyway?' Jade asked and got to her feet but it was too late, her Mother was beckoning to a tall redheaded bloke who was walking towards her. She wished she wasn't wearing the bikini or had brought a towel to cover up.

'He wasn't smiling as he approached. 'You're Jade Harper?' He asked.

She nodded, and sat back down.

'I'm DC Eldridge from Park Road police station. I believe you attend Grasmere Academy.'

Jade nodded again, and wondered why she couldn't speak.

'I need to question you about yesterday afternoon. I'm assigned to the investigation into the murder of Keith Wilson.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sunday 12th May

Elizabeth turned up the radio to hear the one o' clock news and weather forecast. If yesterday was unseasonably warm, the temperature today was set to rise even more. She opened the French doors leading into the garden and noticed Bagpuss, her adopted marmalade cat, sunning himself on the lawn. Because it was a beautiful day she filled his bowls and took them outside.

'Room service,' she mimicked and stroked his large head. 'When you've scoffed this lot you might consider going for a long walk across the fields, or climb a few trees. On second thoughts don't climb any trees; I wouldn't want to lose my friends in the Fire Service.'

Sleeping until ten had left her feeling energised despite the scary run through Cresswell woods. From the moment she'd set foot inside the creepy dank atmosphere Elizabeth had regretted her crazy impulse to avoid the press. The night had clouded over and with no moon to break up the forbidding darkness she'd started running immediately. By the time she reached the street she'd had to stop for five minutes to get her breath back. One or two pedestrians had given her odd looks as she leaned against a wrought iron fence clutching her chest. She was glad Patterson had rescued her.

Rather than lie in and waste her day, Elizabeth set to. The bird feeders needed filling up and the birdbath cleaning out. It was a good day to tackle mundane jobs. She spent half an hour on bird maintenance then sat on the patio and scrutinised the garden. Her own efforts the previous summer had been disappointing. Then in early March she'd overheard two of her neighbours complaining about her overgrown hedges and piles of rubbish so she'd hired someone to do the heavy work, a local gardener called Gerry Redwood. Not that they'd complained to her.

'Because I'm a cop,' she'd told Gerry, 'they daren't say anything to my face.'

Now she was tempted to invite them over to see the transformation. She prodded the soil in one of the pots and dutifully filled up her new watering can. The cost of the plants and Gerry's wages had made a dent in her household budget but the results were well worth it. Last year she'd tried planting up patio containers but hadn't bothered to feed or water them. Having Gerry to remind her made a difference.

She wandered over to Bagpuss. 'I might cut the grass later.' she told Bagpuss, who opened one eye to confirm he'd heard.

Back indoors, Elizabeth noticed the sitting room door was slightly open and she could hear snoring. She poked her head in and saw Patterson sleeping on the sofa. When she'd gone up to bed, a little the worse for wear, he'd assured her he would ring for a taxi. At two in the morning she'd come downstairs for water to stave off the inevitable hangover and saw Patterson fast asleep on her sofa.

She'd just unhooked a large frying pan and placed it on the stove when the phone rang. Her first instinct was to ignore it but too many years policing said otherwise.

When she heard the voice at the other end her heart lurched.

'I want you and Patterson in my office in half an hour,' Yeats said.

'I'm taking the day off. Check the rota, I have at least a month's leave owing.'

Yeats sounded furious. 'Wilson's murder is headlines in the national press. Everyone comes in unless they're seriously ill and Patterson's not answering my calls. Where he is?'

Sorry, I don't know, I've just got out of bed, you'll have to keep trying,' she replied.

'Half an hour Jewell,' he ordered.

Elizabeth allowed herself a smile. 'I'll think about it,' she said and hung up.

While she cooked the bacon and eggs, Liam Yeats dominated her thoughts, but this time with no ill effect. His criticism of Park Road's morale had some justification, not that she would ever admit he had a point. There had been occasions when even she'd despaired, especially during January. Daly had seemed unusually preoccupied and it wasn't necessarily about the Steele investigation. However, for the most part her team had pulled together despite a limited budget. Gloucestershire might have its fair share of wealthy residents, but it was still a predominantly rural county and couldn't command large amounts of government support unlike big cities.

Why the powers chose Yeats to take over from Daly baffled Elizabeth. Redeployed officers were common enough if there was a temporary gap to fill. Or even a permanent one. She'd worked alongside officers from all over the UK without any problems. The Daly situation had shocked and surprised everyone. Yes, he'd constantly prevaricated over exactly when he intended to retire. Elizabeth had become so accustomed to his indecision she assumed he would hang on until the brass kicked him out. Leaving without any warning had fuelled plenty of conspiracy theories. The official explanation was worse than vague. DCS Daly had a family crisis, which only he could sort out. Since the middle of February, no one from Park Road had seen him, or if they had they'd kept quiet about it. Each time a solution occurred to her no amount of analysis resulted in a logical answer to the mystery. Out of respect for her previous boss and his wife, she'd refrained from using her usual scheming methods to locate his whereabouts. She glanced in the pan and moved it away from the heat before the breakfast burned. Last night she'd listened to Patterson's justified hostility against Yeats and the indignity of returning to a desk job. In the past, he hadn't always taken kindly to some of her wild ideas. When she'd outlined a plan, he hadn't uttered one word of protest. As he pointed out, research was one of his talents and he was clever at covering his tracks. Whatever olive branch Yeats was offering she was determined to dig into his past. Everyone had something to hide, and Yeats was no exception.

The smell from the kitchen had obviously drifted into the sitting room and woken Patterson. She heard him sorting himself out before shuffling into the kitchen. 'That smells great. I was lying there feeling miserable about my new status. Then I smelled the fry up, the best remedy for severe depression.'

'I don't think the bacon and eggs will cure it this time. Yeats wants to see us in half an hour.'

'What for?'

'My laptop's on. Check the online news.'

Patterson punched a few keys. 'I see what you mean. Typical alarmist headlines, "SPA TOWN DEMANDS ANSWERS. KIDS TO STAY AT HOME. MURDER AT FLAGSHIP ACADEMY", and so they go on.'

'That'll do it.' Elizabeth said as she transferred the contents of the frying pan onto plates. 'We can always defy Yeats,' she suggested.

'Yeats has given Katie Gardiner a lot more responsibility. Watch her lord it over me from now on. Then Eldridge will follow suit. The two of them will make my life a misery.'

'Okay, we'll go. I can't have those two bossing you about.'

'I don't trust her now. She's ambitious and will hitch her wagon to anyone who can advance her career. She's not likely to put a foot wrong with Yeats.'

'You forget I recommended her for CID. Only the other day she thanked me for my support.'

Elizabeth looked at him carefully. Apart from his bleary eyes he appeared well. He'd lost his bulk due to the ban on playing rugby. She knew he missed the game, but after his head injury, the consultant had forbidden any sport for a year.

'There are hundreds of girls in Cheltenham Tony. For God's sake, go out and find one. You had your chance and didn't take it.'

Patterson had wolfed down half of his breakfast. 'Can I use your shower? I don't want to look like a quivering wreck in front of Yeats.'

Elizabeth grinned. 'Let's hope he'll be the quivering wreck one day. Then he'll be glad to get back to Belfast.'

Twenty minutes later Patterson knocked on Yeats' door but there was no answer. 'He's deliberately keeping us waiting,' Elizabeth moaned.

'I need another coffee and a Twix. Do you want anything?' Patterson asked.

'How can you manage a Twix after the breakfast I laid on?'

'Sugar Liz, it keeps the tremors away.'

'Okay.' Elizabeth rummaged in her bag and retrieved her purse. She handed Patterson three pound coins. 'Make that two Twix bars and I'll have a Cappuccino.

Patterson was about to go when Yeats stormed along the corridor. He ignored them and barged into the office. They followed him in and waited for him to speak. Elizabeth studied the man's body language carefully. He appeared tense and irritable as he sat down in front of his laptop. 'I can't spare very much time. We have a major development in the Wilson murder.'

Elizabeth experienced the familiar adrenaline rush. 'Do you mean a suspect?'

'Yes Inspector Jewell, we have a suspect. Why should that surprise you? Don't tell me, I know, because this has happened within twenty-four hours. Not a scenario you're familiar with.'

'Less than twenty-four hours in this instance is surprising, Sir. May I ask who the suspect is?'

Yeats tapped a key on his laptop then stood up. 'Listen. I'm willing to meet both of you halfway but you have to accept Daly ran a sloppy HQ and I want everything tightened up. He should have retired and left without tarnishing his service record. But he was too stubborn, let that be a lesson.'

'Who's the suspect?' Elizabeth asked

'A Canadian called Jacob Morven, here on an educational exchange to talk about First Nation culture. He arrived in the UK three weeks ago and is due to fly back to Vancouver next Wednesday. He's spent the time touring a few Gloucestershire schools. Yesterday was the Grasmere Academy's turn. According to a witness statement, he was the last person to see Keith Wilson alive. We have probable cause to warrant bringing him in for questioning. I'm expecting an email from Dr Oakley soon on the initial post mortem results. Until we have confirmation on the other forensics, I've got Morven under surveillance. If he decides to leave the country before Wednesday, we'll stop him.'

Elizabeth gritted her teeth. 'I hope you don't mind me saying, but aren't you jumping the gun?'

'Let me repeat, Morven, by all accounts was the last person to see the victim. What does that usually signify?'

'We rule them out or rule them in,' Patterson said

'Did you check for any criminal record?' Elizabeth asked.

Yeats glowered and Elizabeth realised her mistake. A man with a history of dealing with terrorist attacks wouldn't overlook such basic procedure.

'I phoned and spoke to a senior officer in his hometown. Morven's a high profile political campaigner for the Nisga'a peoples. Two fines for minor offences, probably traffic. He's sending me the details.'

'How did they take the news?'

Yeats seemed reluctant to answer her question. 'Extremely surprised and talking about sending two of their officers over here.'

He handed Elizabeth a folder. 'This is an interim report on common failures at Park Road. Study it carefully. I want a plan for implementing improvements by Monday. We'll look at the more serious statistics next week. My overall impression is that your team doesn't seem to understand the meaning of the word target. Maybe it's time you enlightened them.'

Elizabeth knew it was pointless defending her position. 'I'll start on it tonight. I had plans for today.'

He couldn't object and he knew it. If he'd hauled most of the squad in, she wouldn't be needed.

'As long as I see changes by the end of the month.'

Elizabeth took a sideways glance Patterson. She wondered why he hadn't said anything else. She looked down at her feet encased in black suede court shoes. They weren't exactly stiletto heels and certainly not as lethal but would do the job. She inched closer to him, slid her foot towards his, and stood firmly on his toe.

Patterson didn't even flinch, but he got the message. He leaned against the wall and wiped his hand over his eyes. 'I knew a few staff members at Grasmere. I didn't go there but loads of my mates did. Wilson was a nice bloke and it was a shock when I heard what happened. I hope you've got the right person.'

'I'm not obliged to keep you up to date Sergeant if that's what you're after. Hasn't it sunk in that you're not on the case?'

Elizabeth had had enough. 'Why did you ask Tony to come in just to humiliate him. You've given us our orders, so if that's all, I'm off back home.'

She made for the door and Patterson followed. Yeats had remodelled Daly's office well but had overlooked the broken door hinge. She remembered slamming it on numerous occasions after they'd rowed. Looking back it was a miracle it hadn't fallen off long before now. Patterson went out first and Elizabeth grabbed the handle tight. This time, with a bit of luck, it would.

'Wait,' Yeats shouted. Someone overheard Morven arguing with Wilson at around two thirty that afternoon. And the murder weapon wasn't a knife, it was a carving tool used by Nisga'a people. Wood carving tools are easy to buy here but I checked it out and this particular one isn't available in the UK. I tracked it down to a Native American gallery in Vancouver. So add this up. Morven resides in British Columbia. He flew from a place called Terrace to Vancouver where he stayed for two days before boarding a flight to Heathrow. You're detectives, work it out.'

Elizabeth had no answer as Yeats seemed to have tied what little he had quite neatly together. Did he have absolute proof the Canadian was the last person to see Wilson alive? If Yeats arrested a high profile foreign national without concrete evidence, he'd face diplomatic repercussions. However, she wasn't about to leave without having the last word. Elizabeth moved back into the office. 'What about the all-important question, a motive?'

Yeats fell silent for a moment too long which Elizabeth interpreted in the only sensible way. As yet he hadn't come up with one. She watched him search for a suitable answer.

'We all know what can happen when an argument spirals out of control,' he offered.

Yes, Elizabeth thought, and often leads to murder, only not necessarily in this case Detective Chief Inspector Yeats. But you're the one who has to prove it, I don't.

She didn't slam the door after all. Not now she'd partially regained the upper hand.
CHAPTER TWELVE

May 13th 8.30 am

Elizabeth cursed as she pulled into the car park behind Gloucester and Cheltenham County Court. According to a large advert, a food festival was taking place at Gloucester docks which accounted for the lack of spaces. With only a few minutes before her meeting with one of the district crown prosecutors she reversed back to the rear court entrance and waited. Leaving the engine running she quickly checked the paperwork. In her mind there was sufficient evidence to take the case to court. However the Crown Prosecution Service followed a strict code issued by the Director of Public Prosecutions, setting out the general principles they must follow when deciding which cases ended up in a courtroom. Elizabeth hoped she'd met the two main considerations, a public interest to prosecute and sufficient evidence likely to lead to a conviction.

She looked up and stared at the busy docks. Right now she'd prefer to join the crowds wandering past the food stalls or stopping to buy kitchen equipment. What she most wanted to do was relax, but that state of mind and body seemed as elusive as ever. She went back to the file. On paper the case against the brothers looked good. Even so, experience had taught her not to be overly optimistic. Plenty of grey areas existed within the law and a good defence lawyer knew exactly how to breach them. Her appointment today was with a new district prosecutor, a woman called Francisca Montero. Elizabeth checked her first name. Francesca was obviously the English version; the surname Montero gave her origins away. She was probably Spanish.

A knock on the driver's window startled her. The car park attendant wanted her to move. She opened the window and flashed her ID. 'I've got an important meeting in the court.'

'If you hurry there's a space. One of the judges is just pulling out.'

Elizabeth thanked him and quickly moved the car forward. Then she waited patiently until the elderly driver manoeuvered his Bentley out of the bay. She hurried up the steps and pushed open the double glass doors into a busy reception area. Reorganisation inside the courts had taken place since her last visit and she wasn't quite sure where to go. She spotted a security guard and he directed her to the third floor. Instead of waiting for the lift she ran upstairs and surprisingly wasn't out of breath by the time she reached Ms Montero's office.

Francisca Montero stood up as she entered the room. 'I see you managed to get a parking place,' she laughed, pointing out of her window. Judge Hollins is a terrible driver. I've only been here a few months and already I've heard him bump into other vehicles. One of these days I'm going to have to report him to the police.'

'Only if he kills someone,' Elizabeth replied. 'I'm sorry I'm late.'

'And I'm sorry I can't offer you coffee. My machine gave up yesterday'.

Elizabeth remembered another coffee machine, but put it out of her head. 'I'll get one on the way out.'

'I've heard about you Inspector Jewell.'

'Nothing bad I hope.'

Francisca Montero focused her beautiful brown eyes on Elizabeth. 'Quite the contrary, you're a Cheltenham legend. Now, I don't want to rush you but I do have another appointment, so can we get on.'

Elizabeth handed over the file. She went through the procedure in her head hoping not to have missed any crucial points. Before determining a case should go to court the CPS ask the police to consider the evidential stage and the public interest stage. Both must pass a specific code first, otherwise the prosecutor will not submit the case to court. The vital test was not to waste taxpayers' money.

Elizabeth felt sure she'd prepared the report carefully. The Faraday brothers both had previous convictions none of which would be admissible in any future trial. To save the prosecutor's time the first page of her report outlined a précis of the case for an initial opinion. As Ms Montero turned the page Elizabeth noticed a square cut diamond on her engagement finger. Probably just as well, she thought. Men outnumbered women in this branch of the CPS and the elegant Ms Montero wouldn't go unnoticed. Elizabeth guessed they were about the same age, although the woman in front of her was far better groomed. She wore a simple grey nineteen forties style suit and her glossy black hair hung straight to her shoulders.

While Montero concentrated it gave Elizabeth time to rehearse what she wanted to say. Having a woman prosecutor might sway the decision. Much of BDSM philosophy focused on female domination and although this particular case didn't involve women, it still highlighted those practices dangerous to the female anatomy.

Francisca Montero stopped reading. 'You have a very good case Inspector. However, whether we can bring a charge of manslaughter is debatable. I see you mentioned defrauding the Inland Revenue. I advise you to concentrate on this side of the Faraday's business. As soon as you have conclusive proof, bring it to me. We can't always prevent unscrupulous dealers distributing dangerous products but we can prosecute them for tax evasion.'

Elizabeth had prepared herself for disappointment so was heartened by Montero's objective viewpoint. Now she could focus on putting the Faraday brothers away, rather than obsess about Yeats and the Wilson murder investigation. She liked the Spanish woman's positive attitude and hoped they'd continue to get along.

'I'll do that, and thank you. We see the worst side of human nature in our jobs.'

'We also see justice served, which is why I do this one,' the prosecutor replied and slipped the file into a briefcase.

Back in reception, Elizabeth searched for the vending machine. Why keep moving them, she thought, I'm desperate for a cup of coffee. Eventually she spotted it tucked away in an alcove. She had just enough change to buy a chocolate bar as well. Although the reception area was less busy she only spotted one vacant seat right at the back of the room. Fortunately it was at the end of the row. She placed her cup of coffee on the floor and took out her mobile to check for any messages. A sense of relief came over her, and she decided to stay there for a while and watch the world go by. Courts were fascinating places. The legal system affected everyone one way or another during their lifetime and often people felt nervous on their first visit. From bankruptcy to murder, Elizabeth pondered, and everything in between.

As individual's names were called she tried to guess why they were there. Two disgruntled youths didn't pose any problems. A middle-aged woman wiping her eyes and blowing her nose seemed slightly more difficult. Either here to apply for divorce papers or appear in court on a shoplifting charge. Her eyes moved to a tall elderly distinguished man who she thought she recognised. While she wracked her brain trying to remember his name she stared in disbelief at another man standing behind him.

'Oh my God,' she whispered.' What's he doing here?

Of course, her brain had frozen and she'd forgotten Calbrain freelanced for an insurance company. He was probably in court as a witness. Elizabeth picked up her coffee and made her way to the alcove where she knew he wouldn't see her. I'd rather not have to face you right now Mr Calbrain, it's not convenient. She was almost there, when over the babble of conversations she heard her name called. It was no good, the alcove was a dead end. In order to exit the building she had to cross reception.

'How are you?' Calbrain asked.

'Been to a meeting with the CPS. What are you doing here?'

Calbrain's face changed. Suddenly he appeared uncomfortable and Elizabeth was puzzled. 'I'm meeting someone.'

At that moment Francisca Montero approached and slid her arm through Calbrain's. 'Inspector Jewell, I thought you would have left by now. Anyway it's nice to see you again so soon.' She turned to Calbrain. 'You know each other?'

Elizabeth couldn't speak and her legs had turned to jelly. Their body language said everything. This was a situation where she had to pull herself together.

'Yes we do,' Calbrain said. 'Inspector Jewell and I met during the Lily Jerome investigation.'

'I remember the case. I was still in London back then.'

Elizabeth finally found her voice. 'Are you in court Nick?'

Before he could speak, Francisca interrupted. 'We're going out to celebrate.'

'Did he help you with a case too?' Elizabeth couldn't help herself.

'No, he suggested a different partnership.' She held up her left hand where the diamond sparkled under the lights. 'He asked me to marry him.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After they left Elizabeth felt dazed. Her legs moved automatically but she couldn't feel them. This is stupid, she thought, especially after all these months. Granted, her feelings for Calbrain had chopped and changed depending on her mood and workload. That aspect she understood. Resentment towards him had lingered like a sickness until recently. So why feel shocked, no, outraged even? Calbrain had pursued her and the simple answer was she wouldn't commit, so he'd given up and found someone else.

One thing she was certain of. He wouldn't have looked twice at Francisca Montero if she'd said yes more often. The one night she'd stayed in his Bristol apartment had stayed fixed in her memory. She had every opportunity to repeat the experience but had always resisted. Is this why I feel as if an express train has just hit me? When will I learn my lesson with men?

Moving as if in a dream she made it back to where she'd left her coffee and bent to retrieve the cup. The contents were cold but she drank it anyway, hoping a caffeine hit might cure her addled brain. She sat for ten minutes until the craving for a cigarette overcame her sluggishness. Everything appeared blurred as she dropped the empty paper cup into a bin. Her eyes always bothered her when she was upset or stressed and although she kept reading glasses in her bag, the distance pair stayed in the car because she couldn't drive without them.

Outside the court a strong wind whipped her hair across her eyes. The temperature had dropped and she sheltered against the wall before lighting a cigarette. By the time she reached the car she felt slightly better. Her first instinct was to drive straight to Park Road and find Patterson. She'd confided in him about Calbrain and wanted to tell him this latest news but knew she would probably change her mind. Her personal life was constantly under scrutiny and if Yeats discovered a weakness he'd use it to further undermine her. Patterson had made his peace with Calbrain and often called by his business premises to see his part time secretary, Hannah, so would find out soon enough about the Montero woman. Elizabeth trusted his discretion; he probably wouldn't even mention he knew.

She glanced at the quayside again. A place she'd never had time to explore. Overhead the ominous dark clouds were breaking up to allow brief spells of sunshine. Elizabeth crossed the car park and headed towards the well-preserved example of a Victorian port where renovated warehouses and other dock-related buildings had become thriving museums and retail outlets. Ships had once discharged their cargoes alongside the historical buildings. Now the water was busy with visiting narrow boats and smart motor cruisers. Further along, the waterways museum caught her eye. Occupying three floors of the old Llanthony Warehouse, the museum featured life on Britain's inland waterways. Outside by the quay, Elizabeth spotted an old steam dredger. She turned her head to the south of the main docks area and saw the new shopping mall. According to an old friend who was forever buying clothes it was worth a visit. When she'd had enough of culture, she'd try a little retail therapy.

For the next hour the museum held her attention preventing Calbrain from dominating her thoughts. The initial shock and hurt had started to ease and the need for another coffee drove her to the shopping mall. Cut-price designer outlets lined the wide arcade; she stopped to glance in several windows but wasn't tempted to go inside. Instead, an independent cafe offering homemade soup and simple meals seemed a better option. While she waited for her order, she checked her phone and noticed three missed calls from Patterson.

He picked up quickly. 'I was beginning to think you might have handed in your resignation without telling me,' he said, sounding stressed.

'Don't be stupid Tony. Why would I resign and then keep an appointment at the CPS? I switched the phone off while I was with this new district prosecutor. She took her time over the file and isn't optimistic on the full charge unless we can prove they've falsified their business accounts. So we'll start with the Inland Revenue and request information under the Proceeds from Crime Act. Then I want you to contact Philip Younger.'

'Who's he?'

'He's a forensic accountant working for that big outfit in Montpelier.'

'Yeats won't like spending that kind of money.'

Elizabeth wondered why Patterson sometimes put a dampener on her decisions. 'Well he's going to have to; otherwise I'll ring up my best friend the Chief Constable and warn him of an imminent BDSM scandal, possibly involving some of his cronies.'

'How will this Philip Younger bloke go about spotting inconsistencies in their accounts?'

Elizabeth continued. 'A forensic accountant concentrates on quantifying losses or spotting cover ups. Then he looks for unusual transaction patterns and odd similarities. From what I've read, if this points to coincidental figures it can indicate fraud.'

'Where are you now?' Patterson asked.

'I'm having a coffee in the mall.'

Patterson said, 'I've just thought of another angle. I bet the Faraday's bribed people to keep quiet about the parties.'

'Start on that straightaway.' Elizabeth was about to hang up when she remembered he'd tried to contact her three times. 'Sorry, I forgot to ask why you phoned.'

'Katie Gardiner's managing the incident room and I'm relegated to the coalbunker, but the main reason I called is Eldridge says Yeats is keen to charge Morven for Wilson's murder.'

Elizabeth was shocked at the speed of events. 'Did Eldridge mention if all the forensics are in yet?'

'I didn't get the chance. He was in a hurry and full of himself as usual.'

'It's too soon. What the hell is Yeats playing at?'

'He's under pressure. There are more damaging headlines.'

The bastard, she thought. Kicking Tony into the dingy claustrophobic office meant Yeats was determined to keep up the pressure. She finished the coffee and tried to stay calm.

She heard Patterson shout in her ear. 'Speak to me Liz.'

'Sorry, I was miles away. 'I'm on my way back to hand in the start of my report on meeting targets. I did some last night yesterday, for all the good it will do.'

Elizabeth left the shopping mall and headed for the Saab. A clear blue sky and the sun's warmth lifted her spirits slightly. She unlocked the car and opened the driver's window to clear the condensation. Gulls swooped across the car park in search of food, their raucous cries unsettling her. The question of Calbrain's defection had crept back into her mind. Simply put, he'd moved on rather than stick around hoping she'd forgive him. Elizabeth had no choice but to acknowledge she'd made a fatal mistake, assuming he'd wait forever.

'I'm pleased for you Nick.' Elizabeth said out loud as she negotiated her way out of the busy car park. 'And I won't wish your marriage plans fall apart.'

At the roundabout on the A46, she stopped for petrol. As she approached the counter to pay, she caught sight of her face in an overhead mirror. Elizabeth stopped and smiled at her reflection.

Not worried about anyone watching her, she smiled and said. 'He's her problem now, not yours.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The phone rang seconds after he'd ended his previous call. Yeats was surprised to hear it was Belfast's Chief Constable and for a brief moment felt a surge of panic.

'Yeats. Calling to see how you're settling in. I haven't spoken to you since you took over. I realise it's early days but I'm keen to know how this school murder case is going?'

Yeats was quick to reply. 'Everything's fine Sir. We're making progress.'

'No one giving you a hard time, I hope.'

'Not so far,' Yeats lied. 'A decent bunch, albeit slow at times, but then in this area everything goes slow, even the supermarket queues.'

He heard the familiar chuckle. 'That's how it is in rural parts.'

Yeats realised he'd forgotten his manners. 'How are you Sir?'

'Extremely well thank you. Let's go back to you, no problems to report, and you're settled? Not home sick I hope?'

'No Sir,' Yeats said. 'You have nothing to worry about.'

'That's good to hear. I know you're busy but keep me updated from time to time.'

Afterwards Yeats felt agitated. He hadn't expected Belfast's Chief Constable to keep in touch, only his immediate boss. Maybe the CC regretted his decision to send him to Gloucestershire, and that could only mean one thing. Someone who'd gone off the radar for a while was back on the scene. His head whirred with possibilities, most of which he didn't want to think about. Yeats opened the desk drawer and took out a slim white box. He removed a single foil strip and pressed the raised area to release the pill then swallowed it. His energy level had dropped and he wished he could go for a gruelling fifteen-mile run. The problem was he couldn't do that, not today or at any time while he was stuck in Gloucestershire. Even if he'd known the area like the back of his hand, it was still out of the question.

After they told him about the move, he'd familiarised himself with every snippet of information on his future colleagues. Knowing they'd view him as an unwelcome outsider he'd prepared for a hostile reaction. The reasoning behind his shift to the mainland focused on Cheltenham's CID needing a shakeup.

'It will do you good to get away from this city after everything that's happened,' the Chief Constable had told Yeats.

To date Yeats hadn't suffered any physical or mental problems during his nineteen year career. He'd always prided himself on his strength of will, his fearlessness and very rarely doubted his own judgement. Moving to England would definitely pose a challenge, but not one he relished. His familiarity with the UK extended to London and Yorkshire. He had never visited the West Country. Cheltenham, to him was home to the Gold Cup and as he wasn't a betting man had no desire to visit the place.

At first he'd balked at the idea and demanded. 'Why send me to a country backwater? If I have to go England, make it a big city where I can utilise my experience and skills. Deal with crimes I'm experienced at solving.'

The Chief Constable's answer hadn't convinced him. 'This is not about solving crimes; it's a caretaker's job, so see it as a different kind of challenge. You'll have time to recharge your batteries before you totally burn out. By the end of the year you'll be ready to move up and take on more responsibility here.'

'What's happened to force this vacancy?' he asked.

'DCS Daly's suffered family and health issues. Apparently he burned out. It's easily done, so be warned.'

'Did you know him personally?' Yeats had asked.

'No. He was due to retire then turned stubborn. Gloucestershire's CC had a long-standing battle with Daly. I imagine he wanted shot of him and found a sideways move. This is probably why Daly hasn't contacted any of his colleagues, he's too ashamed. The thing is, CID doesn't seem to know where he is either. Whether or not it's a deliberate ploy so Daly can free himself from the place once and for all, I'm undecided. All I know is they need someone urgently, someone entirely different to Daly and that's where you come in.'

Yeats had thought of refusing, but as time wore on and the pressure increased, it seemed he didn't have a choice. On a bad day, paranoia overtook him and suspicions about the real motives for sending him here played on his mind. Was it a case of simple blackmail? If you don't go we'll have to think again about your future. So far he'd been lucky, so in the end he hadn't argued, instead tried to focus on this new but temporary life.

A month before he was due to leave Belfast he started to feel impatient to go. He spent time researching Cheltenham and the surrounding areas. He was a city man and the countryside held no appeal. Finding a place to live proved difficult because he needed an isolated spot for obvious reasons. After a thorough search of the local estate agents he'd found a two hundred year old detached Cotswold stone property surrounded by a six foot perimeter fence. The garden was like a forest, overgrown trees and shrubs protected the house from prying eyes. Once he installed an up to date security system it would suit him perfectly. He'd lived on his own for so long that isolation didn't bother him. It also meant if anyone in Northern Ireland came looking for him, they'd find it difficult.

Ten minutes later Liam Yeats closed Elizabeth's personal police file. The week before leaving Belfast he'd checked her out. His first impression of Jewell wasn't favourable. Reading about her he came to the conclusion she was weak. One of those officers easily swayed and with questionable judgement. What he did find strange was although she was undoubtedly an extremely attractive woman he felt no sexual pull. Looking at the photograph he appreciated her beauty but it left him cold. As for the Wilson case, he'd already decided to bring both her and Patterson back on board. The Chief Crown Prosecutor wanted her on the case and her handling of the Faraday business would bring a newsworthy conviction for which he could take full credit. Regarding the BDSM angle, she'd built an excellent case in an area of crime where the laws were ambiguous. Although he didn't trust her, where Jewell was concerned the old adage, keep your friends close and your enemies closer made sense. If the last nineteen years had taught him anything, it was never to totally trust anyone.

Yeats glanced at the ship's clock, the only item belonging to Daly he hadn't replaced. He hadn't broached the subject of Daly's whereabouts with anyone yet, that could wait for a while. In the meantime, he looked forward to playing games with Jewell. Creating confusion was a powerful psychological ploy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The reception area at Park Road police station reminded Elizabeth of a chaotic doctor's surgery.

What the bloody hell is going on? She thought, as she squeezed through the crowd of Grasmere Academy pupils causing mayhem.

She heard them all firing questions at Tom, the Desk Sergeant. 'How long will this take?' 'We all have stuff to do.' 'The police are useless.'

Other insults echoed around the room as Elizabeth remembered it was coming up to exam time or mocks, as they were referred to in her day. The poor sods had come in not realising Park Road police station wasn't big enough to accommodate this many in one sitting. For a moment, Elizabeth wasn't quite sure how to handle the situation.

Tom shouted over to her. 'This is nuts, who decided on this method?'

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. 'Take a guess.'

Tom murmured quietly. 'Yeats I suppose.'

Elizabeth nodded. 'Maybe this is how it's done in Belfast.'

She manoeuvered out of the throng and was on her way upstairs when an attractive dark haired woman stopped her. 'Do you work here?'

'Have you come to make a statement?' Elizabeth replied.

'I'm Jackie Kilmartin, head of art at Grasmere. This morning, uniformed officers were asking staff and students to voluntarily come here and make a statement. Surely the pupils should have been interviewed at home with their parents present?'

'I'm afraid I can't comment on this decision,' Elizabeth answered.

'I really can't stay any longer. I've been here an hour.'

Where was Yeats and why had he allowed this madness? Elizabeth thought. 'Give me a couple of minutes and I'll come back to you.'

Elizabeth went behind the desk. The phone hadn't stopped ringing since she'd arrived. 'Tom, unlock the vending machine and give these people a drink. I know you've got a spare key squirreled away.'

'I'm not sure where I hid it.'

'Don't expect me to fall for that. See to the kids first. It might keep them occupied until I find Yeats. I'll mind the phone while you do it.'

Tom nodded and disappeared into a back room where Elizabeth knew he kept Park Road's duplicate keys. She answered two calls and placated two sets of neighbours complaining about loud music coming from a house next to the railway station. Tom returned, opened the machine and found himself surrounded. Elizabeth watched him as he handed out the freebies. It reminded her of a foreign aid worker distributing food to starving refugees. Within minutes, an eerie calm descended on the shabby reception area.

She scoured the room for Jackie Kilmartin but couldn't see her. Impatient to confront Yeats, she stomped up the stairs and entered his office without knocking. He glanced up at her and pointed to a chair then went back to studying his computer. Instead of sitting down, she positioned herself directly in front of him and placed her palms on the edge of his desk. Daly's presence hung in the air and the thought of never seeing him again filled her with dread.

'What do you want now Jewell? You can see I'm busy.'

'Not nearly as busy as Tom is downstairs. Reception's heaving. Whatever possessed you to suggest everyone came here?'

She expected him to throw her out, but he surprised her by answering. 'I was very specific. Eldridge was instructed to make appointments.'

'This isn't a dentist's,' Elizabeth said.

'Processing this lot in one day made sense. We're back to the target word again. Does it mean anything to you?'

Elizabeth ignored his question. If she embarked on a debate about targets, they'd be here for hours. 'Tell me, just who is going to interview them all? Why don't we ask the canteen staff and the cleaners to help out?'

'I suggest that if you've nothing better to do then sort it out yourself. Before you go, I believe you were at the CPS this morning. I'd like an update.'

Elizabeth gave him a précis of her meeting, emphasising the forensic examination of the suspect's accounts.

Yeats was complimentary for once. 'Good work. I'm in the middle of a crucial review report. I'll be down as soon as I'm finished. In the mean time perhaps you could interview Ms Kilmartin. She's asked for a female officer. Tom informed me she didn't want a man to interrogate her. Those were her exact words.'

'I was about to visit a firm of accountants in Montpelier. I also need a couple of crime scene techs to go back to the Faraday warehouse for a final check.'

'Organise Ms Kilmartin first. As head of the art department, she's our first priority. Most of those kids only came here to escape revising for their exams.'

So no empathy directed at the Grasmere students, why wasn't she surprised? Since his arrival at Park Road, his arrogance seemed to be getting worse. He expected other people to treat him with respect, but wasn't prepared to reciprocate. From the beginning it was a matter of pride, defending her position and that of her colleagues against someone who didn't give a shit about anyone. Now that he had a prime suspect, she expected him to bulldoze his way through the Wilson case.

Elizabeth took stock. For all she disliked Yeats intensely, maybe it was in her best interests to co-operate from now on. If there was any chance of changing the status quo, she was going to have to work at it. Not continually bitch about the situation. Due to the constant disruptions, morale was at an all time low. They all needed a stable period.

'I believe the students came here because they respected Keith Wilson. Some of them are visibly upset about his death. They're also scared because we haven't caught his killer.'

Yeats moved closer, too close. For the first time Elizabeth became fully aware of his height and strength. As she backed away he tried to narrow the gap, his voice and body language threatening. 'I'm trying to work and you still bang on about trivialities while Ms Kilmartin is waiting to impart important information about Wilson. Don't keep her waiting.'

She steadied her breathing before speaking. 'Does this mean I'm back on the case?'

Yeats checked his watch. 'Unfortunately, I've no choice. Start by recruiting anyone capable of taking statements. As for the CPS suggestions, find someone else to follow that up.'
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Elizabeth found Patterson moving into his minute office space. She told him about Yeats's change of mind and asked him to organise the interviews while she dealt with Kilmartin.

The head of Grasmere's art department was heading for the main exit when Elizabeth caught up with her. Rather than subject the woman to one of the miserable interview rooms she suggested they walk to Montpelier. At Wetheralls wine bar Elizabeth chose an outside table and went inside to place the order.

When she got back, Jackie Kilmartin took out her cigarettes and offered one to Elizabeth. 'I shouldn't,' she said, but took one anyway.

'That was badly organised,' Jackie said.' I thought the police usually kept everything under control.'

Elizabeth took a drag from her cigarette. 'I'm not defending our reputation but we have had problems. We got a new boss in March who operates differently to his predecessor.'

'Is he the tall Irish bloke?'

Elizabeth nodded and sipped her coffee.' I don't mean to intrude but I sense you're bothered about something.'

Jackie wiped away a tear.

'Were you close to Wilson?'

Jackie shook her head.

'No romantic involvement? I meant with you working together, it sometimes happens.'

'He wasn't my type. Our relationship was actually quite bad. He'd worked at Grasmere longer than I had. When the post for the head of art came up, I applied for it knowing Keith wanted it badly. Now I feel so guilty about the way I treated him. He wasn't a bad person, he had some strange ideas but he was patient with the kids, he was a good teacher. He was devastated when he lost out to me. I came along and took away his last opportunity for promotion.'

'It happens,' Elizabeth stated. 'You got the job because you were the right person. I wouldn't dwell on it too much.'

Jackie wiped away another tear. 'Can we get on?'

'This isn't a formal statement, more of a chat. We can do the formal stuff later. I thought it was better to get you away from your students. My boss says you have important information about Wilson.'

Jackie fiddled with her bag then stubbed out her cigarette only to light another. 'Keith collected unusual art. He had many interests, being an art teacher you would expect that, but he was obsessive about his collection. He was a competent artist himself but not a commercially viable one. He believed in painting for spiritual release. We had plenty of arguments about art and career choices in the art world. Keith wouldn't accept students needed commercial talents to get anywhere. He believed you were born an artist and no amount of teaching turned you into one. I think differently. Those who choose to follow the fine art path without any talent have no chance of doing well.'

Elizabeth needed to steer Jackie back on track. 'So what's this information?'

Jackie's hand shook as she picked up her coffee. 'It all started after I invited Jacob Morven to Grasmere.'

Over the years Elizabeth had learned how to interpret witness statements. Whether it helped solve crimes was another matter but in the field of forensic linguistics recent progress had helped officers identify individuals who consistently lied. Elizabeth was no expert, but had learned from experience. Studying body language wasn't a difficult science. If Jackie lied to her, she would know.

'Towards the end of the six weeks project on First Nations art everyone who took part had to do a five minute presentation about their work. Keith asked me if he could talk to them afterwards as he had something to show us. He seemed excited and upbeat, which was unusual for him. He brought in a box and made a performance about opening it and unwrapping what was inside. To me the object looked very unremarkable, a wooden mask with no eyeholes. Jade Harper made a big fuss about it, telling the rest of them how she'd seen a similar one in a museum during her trip to the North West area of British Columbia. She's a girl who likes to take centre stage, and boasted that she knew exactly where the mask originated from and how old it was. To be honest the rest of the students were fascinated and waited for Jade and Keith to tell them more, but he just clammed up and put the mask back in the box. Then the subject came up as to whether the mask was valuable. Keith wasn't going to answer but the kids pressured him. He admitted he didn't know which I thought was strange. Keith liked to brag when he had a captive audience so I assumed the mask was worthless apart from any intrinsic value. Jade kept badgering him, insisting it was worth quite a lot, which made me wonder how she really knew. Then Keith started to bang on about how his life was about to change and how he would give up teaching and bugger off. We all thought he was talking nonsense until he hinted it was to do with Morven. I suspected he was lying because he didn't even know the man. Anyway, it all blew over until the day before Morven's talk. Jade came to my office and told me the mask was very rare and I should make sure Keith had it valued. I asked her how she knew and she explained she'd seen a similar one on the internet, listed in one of Sotheby's auctions in New York. Someone had paid almost two million dollars for it. I should have spoken to Keith straightaway, but didn't and that's why I feel guilty.'

Elizabeth paused before answering, hoping to strike the right balance. 'You shouldn't feel guilty. There was nothing you could have done to prevent his death.'

'You don't understand,' she said. 'I believe Keith did show the mask to Morven, and Morven killed him for it.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Elizabeth typed up Kilmartin's statement, asked her to sign it and decided to deliver it to Yeats personally. Any qualms over Morven's possible guilt were beginning to fade. Elizabeth had always tried to maintain an impartial viewpoint, a person was innocent until proved guilty but the circumstantial evidence was stacking up against the Canadian. Yeats was walking down the corridor looking smug.

'I think you should read this immediately,' she told him.

'Bring it in,' he said and marched ahead of her into his office. She wondered if he had any more post mortem or forensic details to share. Unless they found the mask and confirmed it was hugely valuable they couldn't use it as a motive for murder.

Elizabeth had thought through the possibilities. Wilson had intimated his life was about to change, which in her mind nearly always had something to do with money. If so, Wilson probably couldn't believe his luck when he heard about Morven coming. Here was a chance to ask an expert's advice on its provenance and value. What didn't make sense was why Wilson hadn't already let other experts see it. Cheltenham had a branch of Sotheby's, although all auctions were still held in London.

Yeats looked up and smiled. 'Sit down Liz, is it okay to call you Liz, or do you prefer Elizabeth?'

The smile and the words shocked her, she'd seen halfhearted ones on a few occasions but this was genuine. The man was a chameleon. 'Everyone else calls me Liz so I don't see why not. Does that mean I can drop the Sir, and use Liam?'

She expected his smile to fade but it didn't. 'Of course you can.' He held out his hand. 'Let's have a look at this statement.'

She sat quietly while he read, suspicious of this sudden change towards her.

Yeats placed the document on his desk. 'No one found a mask matching that description. The only masks there belonged to the students, part of their Native American project.'

'Do you believe the rest of it?'

'I always keep an open mind regarding witness statements. We all know how time distorts reality. Most of it makes sense, except for the missing mask.'

Elizabeth pushed her alternative theory. 'Kilmartin also had a strong motive. Wilson obviously hated her for beating him to the job and everyone knew he did. They argued a lot and you said it yourself, rows can escalate rapidly into violence.'

'No trace evidence to link her to the scene, as yet,' Yeats stated.

'Considering she worked in the damn place, I find that hard to believe.'

'Liz, think about what you're saying. Dr Oakley is an excellent pathologist. I wouldn't accuse a scientist of her calibre of shoddy work practices. That's a conspiracy theory too far. From Grayson's records, I doubt he's as thorough. I've heard him described as slap-dash.'

'Who said that?'

'You know I can't reveal sources, it's confidential.'

He'd spouted the usual crap to cover himself. Elizabeth realised she was wasting her time. His overtures at friendship weren't genuine. Yeats got his kicks from mind games and she'd let down her guard. It wouldn't happen again. 'I've no issues with Dr Oakley. As for Grayson being incompetent, if I was you I wouldn't repeat that statement.'

Again, he ignored her and changed the subject. 'I'm not happy with the statements from the two cleaners. They were both upset at the time and weren't thinking straight. Go and talk to them. The older woman was very reticent. Considering she has worked at Grasmere for a long time and probably watches what goes on, I got the impression she was keepings things back. Where's Patterson?'

Elizabeth stood up. 'He's still interviewing. You told me to recruit, so I did. How conclusive are the forensics?' she asked feeling suddenly defeated.

'Morven has to account for the results. His fingerprints are on the murder weapon and Wilson's DNA is a perfect match to bloodstains found on his t-shirt. The lab used the latest techniques for lifting DNA from fabrics.'

She felt none of her usual euphoria at apprehending a killer, just more doubts about Yeats's integrity. Despite his friendly words, she knew he still didn't trust her. In one way, that was a victory for her. She'd research Morven when she got home. Having personal information on him as an individual rather than as a suspect was important.

Bloody Calbrain, she thought. If he hadn't got engaged to the Spanish lawyer I'd be on the phone right now. 'Any more in the local papers?' she asked Yeats.

Elizabeth wasn't a great newspaper reader. If she spotted one or a magazine, lying around she'd pick it up and glance through it, but very rarely bought either.

'Only what I authorised. It won't take long for them to come up with a name then the nationals will run with it. Morven's known to certain civil rights groups in the UK campaigning for Native Americans. Cheltenham, to my knowledge has no active groups.'

Elizabeth's opinion was that the police often overlooked gathering intelligence on small political groups unless they took to the streets. She almost mentioned Stroud, a town where allegiances to high profile causes were widespread, especially environmental issues. He'd find out soon enough once the story spread to the national media.

'Why rule out other people? Anyone of the staff or students could have killed Wilson.'

Yeats sneered. 'Seven hundred pupils aged from eleven to eighteen plus the staff. The statistics for a pupil killing a teacher are extremely low. We work with facts and those facts tell us Morven had motive, means and opportunity. All we have to do now is prove it.'
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tuesday May 14th.

The shabby indistinguishable streets caused Patterson to curse Elizabeth. 'What's this sudden aversion to the sat nav all about?'

'I hate using it, that's why I gave you a piece of paper with the address on. Then you send me in the wrong direction.'

'Come on, we've driven around this maze for ten minutes with no luck. You must have made a mistake. Libby Hall lives on the Tewksbury Road, let's go there.'

'No. I want to talk to Janet Baker first. Libby found Wilson and Yeats is convinced the older woman didn't tell everything. Imagine what he'll do if I don't follow instructions.'

Patterson spotted a cul-de-sac, tucked away behind mature beech trees. 'This looks as if it could be the place. Did you ring ahead?' he asked.

'No, we're using the surprise visit tactic. Morven might be the prime suspect but Yeats wants more. He's the type who would plant evidence to get a conviction.'

Patterson sighed as she pulled on the handbrake. 'Cops don't do things like that in this country.'

'Don't be so bloody green Tony.'

'Okay, I'm too trusting but it sounds like he's got a good case. Why get all worked up over this Canadian bloke. If I didn't know better I'd say you fancy him.'

'I barely saw the man. In fact I don't even think I got a proper look at him, so quit making stupid remarks.'

Patterson tried a different approach. 'As soon as I've got some time I'll start on your project. We need a juicy sex scandal, proof that Yeats uses prostitutes.'

'We should be careful where we discuss Yeats in future. I wouldn't put it past him to bug my car and house.'

'When did your paranoia surface again? Why don't you tell me what's wrong? I'm a good listener.'

Elizabeth knew he was right so she told him about Calbrain.

'Bloody hell, I wonder what prompted him to get engaged so quickly?'

'I haven't a clue. I was under a stupid illusion he still fancied me.'

'Be honest. You didn't exactly encourage his attentions.'

Elizabeth slumped back into her seat.' I know it's my own fault, but as they say in all the songs, it's too late now.'

'If it's any consolation, I doubt he'll go through with it.'

'What makes you think that?' Elizabeth asked.

'I reckon he's done it to make you jealous.'

'You're wrong,' she pulled up, got out of the car and walked off.

Patterson sighed. Next time he dropped by Calbrain's place to see Hannah he'd find out more. The keys were still in the ignition. He locked the Saab and checked the house numbers. Elizabeth was standing on a grassy area in the middle of the square talking to a small child. Patterson could never understand why parents allowed children as young as two or three to go outside unsupervised. He glanced at the gardens; they were fenced off and large enough for youngsters to play in safely.

Elizabeth held the little boy's hand and led him onto the pavement. 'Wait there until I take this child back. He says he lives in the next road.'

Patterson bent down and tried a friendly smile.

The boy had closely cropped hair and was wearing the latest designer tracksuit. He looked nearer to three. 'Go away mister,' the child shouted at him. 'Or dad bashes you up.'

Patterson stood up. God help the kid's mother when she's confronted with Liz, he thought as he watched her disappear around a corner.

Ten minutes later Janet Baker invited them into her kitchen and switched the kettle on immediately. As always, when they visited people's homes tea was on offer. Even police officers found it difficult to refuse a cuppa and a selection of biscuits. At first glance, Patterson thought she was hard faced and unfriendly. According to their records she was sixty-five but appeared much older, the kind of worn down weariness caused by a tough life with no prospect of it ever changing. Although from the interior, he could see she aspired to better things. The place was immaculate, so whatever she'd earned, she'd spent wisely. The furniture and fittings were chosen carefully. She had good taste.

Her inflexible edge was probably more to do with living on this estate, renowned for social problems. He guessed she didn't like it here; hence, the inside was a reflection of her ambitions. Even to himself he sounded like a snob, hypocritical really, considering he too had lived on a similar estate, except in a better area. His parents had bought the house as soon as Maggie Thatcher decided everyone needed to get on the property ladder.

Elizabeth sat down and eased her way into the interview. She hadn't mentioned the little boy, which meant she'd had no major concerns. Patterson assumed a quiet word with the mother about proper supervision would have been sufficient.

Janet Baker was immediately defensive. 'I don't know what else I can tell you. I thought I'd covered everything last Friday. There's a rumour you've caught the person responsible. Is it true?'

'We can't disclose details about the investigation. I'd also advise you not to believe stories in the papers. They often get their facts completely wrong,' Elizabeth answered.

'I'm not stupid Inspector.'

'I didn't suggest you were. Why don't you sit down Mrs Baker? I'd like you to go through your first statement again. Witnesses to horrendous events often forget important details due to being traumatised.'

Janet pulled up a chair, sat down and gazed out the kitchen window. Patterson watched her lips move as if she was practising what to say. This was a difficult stage in any interview. Often people said more than they needed and at other times too little. Which meant either they thought they were good liars or genuinely didn't know anything helpful. It wasn't always easy to spot which it might be.

Elizabeth took a biscuit from the plate. 'Try and remember.'

'I'm sure what I told you before was correct except I'm still confused over the noises I heard. Whether it was the murderer breaking in, or I imagined it.'

'You didn't see anyone.'

'I don't suffer from hallucinations, if that's what you're getting at. I'm nervous such a lot these days and jump at the slightest sound.'

'Are you poorly?' Elizabeth asked.

'Stress, from family problems, and I'm tired. I want to retire.'

Patterson continued, 'You're leaving Grasmere I believe.'

'I've only got two more weeks.'

'Has the job stressed you out? Has anyone at Grasmere caused you problems?'

'I shouldn't say this but Libby has a hard time with those lads. I've had to listen to all the problems she's had with them for months now. They're a couple of layabouts, they don't do anything to help her and she never has any money. They bleed her dry.'

'Is she married?' Patterson asked.

'The husband buggered off with another woman, and never contacts his kids. They need a strong man to take them on but Libby isn't interested in finding anyone else. She struggles financially.'

'Do you help her out?' Elizabeth asked.

'I lend her money now and again. She's very proud and would never ask.'

'Does Libby do a day job?'

'She works in the pub down by the station four days a week. That causes trouble, those lads get up to no good while she's out slogging. When I think how hard she works, all for them and they treat her so badly. I wouldn't put up with it. My daughter's a single mother and that doesn't please me either.'

Elizabeth wondered about the mask but Janet started describing Libby's screams, then seeing her covered in blood. 'At first I wasn't sure if it was the spilled paint, maybe she'd fallen over and put out her hands. Everything's a blur now.'

'When you entered Mr Wilson's office did it appear as if someone had been searching for something?'

'At first I thought it was a burglary. Money's kept on the premises but I don't know where. There's plenty of valuable equipment to steal, computers, special equipment for science and sport. You're cops; you know these scumbags will steal whatever is easy. Some of them aren't too fussy what they take.'

Did you notice if any of Mr Wilson's personal effects were missing?'

'I would have noticed. I've seen the same things in the same place for years and would definitely know if something was out of place or missing.'

'That's great,' Elizabeth said. 'That helps us a lot.'

'Are all the classrooms and offices locked at night?' Patterson asked.

'Not always because people forget. Grasmere's a big school and should have more cleaning staff. There's only one morning cleaner and she checks the toilets and locker rooms. Her shift starts at six, but she's been away on holiday for about ten days. So she wasn't a work on Friday morning. Libby and me do the evenings. Contract companies come in once a month over the weekend, but they're not due for another two weeks. All those keys floating about, anybody could sneak in and stay overnight without us realising.'

'Janet,' Elizabeth's voice was serious. 'Did you suspect Libby when you saw her running from the scene?'

Patterson noticed Janet's shock at the question. Her face twisted in anger as she moved towards the door. 'Libby wouldn't harm anyone, ever. I've tried to help and this is what I get in return, snide comments about a good friend. I'd like you to leave now.'

'It's normal procedure, 'Elizabeth explained. 'Libby discovered the body. She was the last person to see the victim alive apart from the killer. It's best we eliminate her from any suspicion. Do you know if she's at home?'

'I've no idea Inspector. You'll have to go there and find out.'

Janet hurried towards the hall ahead of them. In the sitting room, a corner display cabinet caught Patterson's attention. He moved towards it just as Janet turned her head. 'If you're so interested in my ornaments I suggest you ask me about them.'

Patterson shook his head. 'I was only paying attention because my great aunt had a similar piece of furniture.'

Janet let them out and slammed the door.

Elizabeth and Patterson stood on the corner watching a group of small children playing on the central grass. The same little boy was amongst them. Patterson checked out the other houses. Most looked respectable enough except for the gardens where rubbish had piled up waiting for the council collection. The cul-de-sac wasn't too rundown; certainly not as bad as the far end where most of the troublemakers lived.

Elizabeth pointed to the children. 'My advice fell on deaf ears. Some of these mothers don't deserve kids.'

'You could always contact social services,' Patterson suggested.

'And what good would that do? That woman is definitely scared of someone or something.'

'If Libby murdered Wilson, Janet would have known,' Patterson replied.

'I don't think we can rule either of them out.'

'The stuff in the cabinet, I caught a quick glance, they're dark wood African carvings. Not cheap looking ones either.'

'She might have relatives in Africa and they send presents. Anyway you can buy stuff like it all over the place. What are you getting at?'

'I spotted a little wooden mask.'

'Tony, it is probably from the pound shop. Come on, we better find Libby's place.'

Patterson turned back to look at the house. 'I reckon she's on the phone right now warning her. What's the bet when we get there she isn't in.'

Elizabeth's mobile rang. She stared at the screen. 'Bloody hell it's Calbrain. I can't speak to him now.'

'I think you should, you don't want another ongoing feud. If he ever splits with the Spanish woman he'll need a friend.'

Elizabeth had pressed the call button and waved him away. He wandered back to the Saab, curious to know what Calbrain wanted.

A few minutes later Elizabeth got into the driver's seat. 'He proposes we meet on Thursday.'

Patterson grinned. 'That was a bloody quick engagement.'

'It's not about him and me. He said it's about Jacob Morven.'
CHAPTER NINETEEN

The southern end of the housing estate was distinctly more downtrodden. Some of the small front gardens were unkempt and used as a dumping site for household furniture or car parts. Patterson pointed to the left turn leading to the street where Libby Hall lived with her two sons.

'I bet she either isn't in, or won't answer the door,' he said.

'The lads might be, though right now I'm not looking forward to tackling teenage boys.'

'Leave that to me, I was a teenager once.'

'I can't possibly imagine it,' Elizabeth said.

'I was a pain in the arse,' Patterson laughed. 'Look at this place. How can people live like this?'

'Stop being such a snob. All big towns and cities have these areas. Cheltenham is no exception.'

'It's like two different worlds only a mile apart.'

'At least we only have one really rough area and the council is changing its old policy of sticking all the problem families together. Now they spread them about hoping that the respectable tenants will influence them.'

Number fourteen wasn't much better than the other properties. The gate was hanging off and the garden resembled a wasteland. Elizabeth looked at the dingy net curtains at the window and wondered why Libby didn't tidy the place.

They walked up the pathway avoiding the litter strewn across it. A torn black bin bag had spilled its rubbish and no one had bothered to pick it up.

'I hope there isn't a dog,' Patterson said.

Elizabeth kicked a lager can out of the way. 'I thought you liked dogs.'

'Not the designer ones. Do we know where the ex husband or partner is?'

'Left the area apparently, he might be worth checking out though.'

Suddenly loud music belted out. Elizabeth looked up at the open front bedroom window. 'Somebody's having a sneaky fag,' Patterson said.

'Someone's turned up the music as an excuse for not opening the door.'

Patterson lifted his hand to the glass panel. 'They're not stupid, they know who we are. What's the plan if they won't answer?'

'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-forty. 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 places 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.'

Morven knew that even if they captured his physical being his spirit would always be free. Like the Sockeye in the net, his instinct to escape was still strong. If he had the remotest chance of catching the afternoon plane, he had to cooperate. 'I arrived about nine that morning, and left somewhere between two thirty and three o'clock.'

'From witness statements already taken it appears you were the last person to see Keith Wilson alive.'

Morven had known what was coming but still felt the shock waves. 'Then your witness is mistaken. When I left, he was very much alive and I'm very sorry to hear he is dead.'

'He was murdered Sir,' Eldridge stated.

Morven needed time to think. 'Do you mind if I sit down. For all I'd only just met Keith Wilson this news is a dreadful shock. The poor man, did he have a family?'

'I can't disclose details. It's in your best interests to come with us and make a statement.'

One of the uniformed officers handed Eldridge a ziploc bag containing three small pill bottles.

'I take offense at you removing my medication. I need it.'

Eldridge pushed the bag into his jean's pocket. 'It will be returned once we have an analysis. We can leave now. Please come as you are, and leave everything as it is. We have a forensic team arriving shortly and we need to vacate these premises.'

Morven sat quietly in the back of a patrol car speeding towards Cheltenham. For all he had anticipated a visit from the police, he hadn't expected it so soon. He cursed his stupidity for leaving his medication in the bathroom cabinet. If it compromised him in any way he would refer the police to his doctor in Terrace. He could rely on him to provide an adequate explanation.

He felt disappointed with his first glimpse of Park Road Police Headquarters, a non-descript five-storied building needing serious renovation. To him the shabby structure looked incongruous stuck between white stucco mansions. Surely, a place like Cheltenham with a reputation to uphold deserved a better HQ. He'd read about the large reduction in police numbers in the UK, made worse by successive government policies. He was about to find out whether it would affect his own situation. DC Eldridge had mentioned a senior officer would conduct the interview, that prospect was reassuring, even if nothing else was.

The car stopped outside the rear entrance where he was hustled through the door and along a dank corridor. The reception area was empty apart from an elderly lady reporting her missing dog to the desk sergeant. She glanced up from filling in a form and smiled. That one gesture lifted Morven's spirits. She had lost her beloved pet, yet took a moment to connect with him. He wished he could speak to her. Ask her to describe the animal so he could try visualising where it was. The two uniformed officers disappeared through double doors leaving him alone with Eldridge. They looked on as the sergeant reassured the elderly lady.

'If anyone brings a dog matching your description I promise to ring you immediately.'

She thanked the sergeant and as she passed by Morven sensed another presence. 'I hope you find him,' he said to her.

'Thank you,' she said and stopped to adjust her shopping bag.

Morven spoke to her. 'There's a park close to a famous building. Do you know it?'

The woman nodded. 'We go there a lot.'

'I'd go back there. There's a monument set in a pool. I'd take a friend with you.'

When she reached the exit, she stopped and called over. 'How did you know my dog is a he?'

The desk sergeant waited for Eldridge's instructions.

'This is Jacob Morven Tom. Can you organise a drink for him.' He turned. 'Not much choice I'm afraid, tea, coffee, or a can of coke?'

The desk sergeant looked a friendly sort. Morven guessed he was probably nearing retirement. He had an honest face and spoke softly. 'Coffee's definitely your best bet.'

'Then I'll go for coffee,' Morven said.

Eldridge headed towards the double doors then stopped. He shouted across to the Sergeant. 'Which interview room?'

'Number three. At least it's cheerful in there since it was painted out.'

Morven followed Eldridge along another dreary corridor that was in sharp contrast to the bright airy spaces at Grasmere Academy. The place seemed eerily quiet as if no one else worked there until a striking dark haired woman rushed passed him. She'd appeared preoccupied and he found it strange she ignored both of them. As he entered the small claustrophobic room, her image lodged in his mind.

'Take a seat. The senior investigating officer is DCI Yeats. He'll be here shortly.' Eldridge said.

There was a knock at the door. It was the desk sergeant carrying a mug balanced on a plate. He placed them on the table. 'I found a couple of mediocre biscuits.'

Morven nodded and his mouth suddenly felt dry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

DI Eldridge was going through the motions of setting up the interview when the older man came in. He was curt and unsmiling. 'I'm DCI Yeats. First off we'll start with your name, date of birth and address in British Columbia.'

Morven furnished him with the details while he drank the coffee. He waited until the two detectives were concentrating on form filling before taking his first defensive action. Perhaps,' he emphasised the word, 'I should have hired a lawyer before I came here.'

Yeats frowned and tapped his pen on the table. 'You're entitled to a duty solicitor. Do you want one?'

Morven already knew he'd require a firm who specialised in foreign nationals arrested in the UK. No doubt palming him off with a rookie duty solicitor would suit Yeats better. He wasn't about to let it happen. 'I don't want to waste time hiring a local person if they're unable to help me.'

'I'd rather not waste time either. I'm a busy man right now.' Yeats stated. 'So take me through the events prior to your meeting with Wilson?'

Morven realised he was referring to him. There was only one interpretation for his use of the word busy.

In less than ten minutes, the hardened Irishman had managed to antagonize with his harsh Belfast accent. The veiled threat behind the words 'I'd rather not waste my time either,' had shown him the path Yeats was about to take.

Morven was surprised when his body trembled. He had no idea how long any forensic analysis would take. Was it hours, or days? He tried forming the words, but for some reason they would not leave his mouth.

'We don't have all day,' Yeats said.

'Detailed recollection isn't always one hundred percent accurate, but I'll do my best. I met Mr Wilson shortly after I arrived at the school. The head of the art department, Ms Kilmartin was late meeting me due to her car breaking down. We made our way to the lecture theatre and bumped into the head teacher and Keith Wilson. My first impression was a definite feeling of animosity between the three of them. I learned later that Wilson resented Ms Kilmartin because of her recent promotion. The head teacher's reaction was the opposite because I sensed they are having an affair. After my talk finished we all headed for the dining room to have lunch. It was afterwards Wilson approached me and asked me an unexpected question.'

'What was that?' Eldridge asked, scribbling on a sheet of paper.

'Was I an expert on native art?'

'Are you?' Yeats continued.

Morven knew it would be pointless to lie; anyone could view his credentials on the internet. He'd authenticated many rare and valuable pieces, all above board and all documented. 'I consider myself competent. Whether or not other so-called experts would agree is debatable. When it comes to a provenance for an artefact, my knowledge base is sound, better than most experts working for big auction houses.'

'What happened next?' Eldridge asked.

'He asked me to take a look at a piece of artwork he'd inherited. I'd already made plans to meet up with an old friend and was running late. I apologised and said I didn't have time. I told him to take it to an auction house for a valuation. He said he didn't want to, which seemed strange but I didn't ask why. It wasn't my business and I was keen to get going. He gave me his cell number and it was only after I got back to the hotel I changed my mind. I rang him and he answered. If Wilson was determined not to have them appraise the piece, there had to be a reason. I began to wonder if I'd misjudged him and was intrigued as to why.'

'So you went back?' Yeats asked.

'He refused to talk over the phone and said to come back to his office. That he'd wait for half an hour and if I didn't turn up he'd assume I wasn't coming. The head teacher was coming through the main entrance just as I got there at six pm. He seemed in a hurry and didn't stop to talk to me. Again, that was odd. Surely he, of all people, should have asked why I needed to go back inside the building.'

Why didn't you tell us you went back?' Eldridge asked.

'You didn't ask me.'

Eldridge smirked. 'You seem to believe Ms Kilmartin and the head were having an affair. How could you know, you'd only just met them.'

'I have certain abilities. Some people call it clairvoyance, or perceiving things beyond the range of human senses,' Morven answered.

Yeats laughed. 'And you expect us to believe you?'

'That's up to you.'

Yeats rubbed his forehead. 'The headmaster didn't mention seeing you in his statement. Now why would he forget to tell us something so important?'

Morven had started to sweat in the airless room. 'He was in a hurry, perhaps he was preoccupied.'

Yeats got up, opened the door and leaned against the frame as if he was waiting for someone. Eldridge kept his head down and scratched his pen several times across the paper. Yeats didn't move apart from turn his head slightly left and then right. Without turning around to face them he said. 'So Wilson showed you the item.'

Morven knew he had little time left. He would exercise his right to decide which questions to answer. 'He did.'

'Then what happened?' Yeats demanded.

Morven weighed up his options. If he'd judged Wilson correctly, he might have spoken of the mask, but as yet not shown it to anyone. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume no one at the school had ever seen it. Whatever he said, Yeats couldn't prove or disprove it. He steadied his breathing and answered. 'Only after he made me promise to keep my mouth shut and not to tell anyone. Wilson was behaving strangely. He was obviously putting off showing me his treasure. I told him to hurry up. I reminded him I'd come back. It was then he turned angry and started shouting at me. I told him to calm down. The man was ill Inspector, stress, depression, call it what you like, he was ill.'

'Tell us what this item looked like,' Yeats ordered.

'Unless you're an expert, one mask looks very much like any other,' Morven began. 'Neither of you would have a clue. Wilson's wasn't a genuine artefact; it was a copy and not a particularly good one. The students had made better efforts. It certainly wasn't worth a fortune, maybe a few hundred dollars, but definitely no more. I told him so and he became abusive. I left and hoped another member of staff would help him.'

Why didn't you try and find someone to help?' Eldridge asked.

'Because he was unstable and I wanted to leave.'

'I'll ask you again. Describe this mask.'

If you give me a piece of paper I'll draw you a rough sketch.'

Eldridge handed him a blank sheet and a pen. Morven was more than a half-decent artist. While he drew, he sensed their surprise at his talent. He hadn't only excelled in carving; his paintings were now sought after and fetched high prices. He added the detail and handed it back to Eldridge. 'Like I said, it was nothing special. God knows where he got it from but someone had definitely misled him about its worth. Maybe you should look for that person instead of wasting your time with me.'

'Yeats stood up. 'I told you earlier I don't waste time.'

It was then Morven realised there was no chance of catching his flight. He'd cooperated, hoping all his intuition was wrong and they'd let him go. He'd come to make a statement, not be subjected to a hostile interrogation.

A phone rang. Yeats fished a mobile out of his trouser pocket. 'Yes,' he grunted.

He got up and left the room taking the sketch with him. Eldridge sat quietly avoiding any eye contact. The ominous silence continued for over five minutes until Yeats returned. Morven stood up, ready to demand his rights, ready to make the necessary phone calls.

'Please sit down Mr Morven,' Yeats ordered.

'I'd rather stand.'

I've just received a preliminary report on the medication found in your hotel room. I'm not totally familiar with the drug laws in your home town in BC, but I assume they are similar to ours. You have been found in possession of two class A drugs, which in this country is a chargeable offence. As to the other medication, I've been advised it's another type of hallucinogenic substance.'

Morven was shocked. Whoever had done these ridiculously fast tests was wrong. Or Yeats had altered the report to suit his own agenda.

'I object to this. You're totally wrong about me.'

Yeats looked straight at him his face unreadable. 'I'm arresting you for the murder of Keith Wilson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Thursday May 16th

From Princess Beatrice Way Elizabeth turned onto the Evesham road and headed towards Pittville Park, Cheltenham's largest ornamental park situated two miles from the town centre. She tried to remember the last time she'd visited, five years ago at least, she thought.

Elizabeth also knew why Calbrain had chosen to meet there. The park had sufficient secluded areas making it unlikely anyone would see them together. Therefore, it seemed likely that Francisca Montero had already laid down the rules and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. She wouldn't appreciate Calbrain meeting another woman, especially one he'd previously worked with. Not that she had any reason for jealousy. She was the one wearing a diamond ring.

As a former crime journalist, Calbrain wasn't renowned for secrecy, not when the public had an insatiable interest in real life murders. From first meeting him, she'd admired his openness, down to earth approach and analytical mind. Had it not been for his impulsive and irresponsible behaviour during the Jerome case their relationship might have reached the point where she wore the diamond ring.

After he left his editorial job, he'd vowed never to work in the industry again, but he still had contacts and sources which must be how he knew about Morven.

She eventually stopped in a side street and accessed the park from the Evesham Road. Elizabeth checked the time. Calbrain wouldn't arrive for another ten or fifteen minutes and she wondered why she'd rushed to get here. The western side of the park's layout had a natural feel with small woodland areas and lakes where you could fish during the season. Elizabeth passed a children's play area, tennis courts and a pitch and putt golf course. She sauntered along the pathway leading to the cafe he'd specified. Most of the outdoor tables and chairs were unoccupied. Inside a group of people sat together deep in conversation. Satisfied she didn't recognise anyone she bought a Panini and a cup of coffee then went outside again. While she ate, she took in the view, glad she'd made an effort to learn some of the town's history.

George III and Queen Charlotte had actually put Cheltenham on the map as a spa town. Later, a banker called Joseph Pitt commissioned an architect to design the new Pump Rooms to enhance its reputation.

She lifted her head and warm sun shone directly on to her face. Images of nineteenth century Regency Cheltenham flashed through her mind. She visualised elegant carriages dropping the fashionable women on the Promenade, their parasols twirling, their taffeta skirts swishing across the pavements. Totally immersed in another world she didn't hear anyone approach. It was only when he spoke she opened her eyes.

He seemed taller, but was that because she was sitting down. He seemed thinner and that was probably because she'd put on weight. His deep tan indicated he'd spent time abroad.

'Elizabeth,' he smiled, white teeth contrasting with his bronzed face. She stood up too quickly and knocked over her coffee. They stood looking at each other for a few moments and when he spoke again whatever had passed between them was gone. 'I'll get another one.'

'Thank you,' she said.

She watched him walk the few yards to the cafe thinking how he was about to leave her life forever. Rather than dwell on the fact she focused on a hypothetical connection between him and Morven. Both were Canadian with links to Vancouver, however knowing each other was pushing any coincidence too far. Then he was back, carrying a tray with one hand and suddenly she felt awkward. He placed the tray on the table and she saw two large slices of chocolate cake.

'You look like you need feeding up again,' he said.

'I've actually put on weight and I've already eaten a Panini,' Elizabeth replied, wondering whether to read his observation as a compliment.

'I'm sure you can manage the cake.'

Elizabeth picked up the fork and caught him staring at her. He reached over and touched her hand. 'It's good to see you.'

'You too,' she mumbled. 'Why do you want to speak to me about Morven?'

'I met him a few years ago. Morven is one of the world's good guys, there's absolutely no way he's a murderer.'

Elizabeth pondered on her earlier thought about coincidence. Life threw them at you when you least expected it. 'How do you even know he's a suspect?'

'Coming from you that is a stupid question.'

Elizabeth was flabbergasted, even though she'd speculated on a link. His expression gave her no cause to think he was lying. Calbrain, had met plenty of criminals. She remembered him telling her about the many crimes he'd covered and how he could spot the bad guys a mile away. She'd watched a recent documentary exploring the crocodile tears syndrome. How those killers who craved the limelight always gave themselves away. Calbrain was a self-taught expert.

'Where did you meet him?' she asked.

'The first time was in Auckland. He'd gone there to verify some piece a group of archaeologists unearthed. I'd heard of him of course, he'd written several books on the search for lost First Nation treasure. You've got the wrong man Liz.'

She could see his belief in Morven was genuine. What surprised her was he'd overlooked a well-known fact, that the least likely people often commit murder.

'You're lucky they haven't run any stories yet. I can guarantee when they do Morven will be portrayed as the victim and you lot as incompetent.'

The word incompetent angered Elizabeth and she fought the urge to shout him down.

'So on the basis of one brief meeting and perusing a few books you've decided he's innocent and feel duty bound to tell me to disregard any evidence. Come on Nick, what's in it for you? Are you out to prove a serious injustice hoping one of the broad sheets will offer you a job? Or are you just fed up because the private detective business isn't doing well and you need a fat salary to keep your fiancé in diamonds.' Elizabeth stood up. 'I'm leaving. I shouldn't even be discussing this with you.'

'Believe me, your evidence is wrong.'

'I'll make my own mind up about Morven and if you're harbouring any ideas of helping on another police investigation you can forget it.'

'I'm going to see him now. I had a phone call from one of his associates, who has asked me to act as an intermediary with embassy help.'

Elizabeth wondered why one of Morven's friends, who she presumed also lived in Canada happened to know Calbrain's phone number. That was too much, even for her. 'I'm sure no one will object to you liaising with the embassy. Morven will receive what help he needs. What's the point of asking to see me when you know there's no chance of influencing the outcome.'

'I'm doing it for your own good. What I'm saying is that the publicity surrounding this case won't do yours or Gloucestershire Constabulary's name any good. You had one bad case, surely you don't want another.'

'I won't be railroaded into believing we deliberately arrested a high-profile person on a whim. You've got a bloody nerve after what happened.'

Calbrain looked away. 'I tried for months to open up a dialogue between us. You didn't want to, now I've found another woman you can't stand the idea.'

'I didn't remember you having such an inflated ego. What's happened Calbrain, has the Spanish woman successfully moulded you into husband material? If she has then you're trapped and it's your own lousy fault.'

'Maybe I want to be trapped, what the hell's wrong with that? It's a shame you don't fancy the idea. If you're not careful you'll turn into a lonely resentful woman.'

'So what if I do. Once I stop obsessing about finding the right bloke I'll definitely end up a better detective. Men are no more than fucking horrendous distractions and I've proved I can do without them, but thanks for the concern. Talking of hardnosed coppers I suggest you get around to Park Road and ask to see DCI Yeats, he's in charge and he's from Belfast. Don't say I didn't warn you.'

Elizabeth waited, hoping he'd ask about Daly but he didn't. Why should he, she thought, after Daly had wiped the floor with him. Her need to see and speak to Daly surfaced again. The feeling was so strong she decided to forget about his privacy or the half-baked rumours about what he was or wasn't doing. She would begin searching for him as soon as she'd figured out where to start.

Before going off Calbrain repeated his warning. 'Check the evidence. Morven has influential friends and supporters who will never believe he's guilty. I'm going straight to Park Road. If you want to avoid bumping into me I suggest you stay away.'

'How long will you be there?'

'As long as it takes,' he said and walked off.

Calbrain had changed and in certain respects seemed like a stranger. How does that happen she wondered after they'd become so close? She knew the reason why but her pride prevented her from admitting it. What she had to accept was their relationship was over. She watched him until he disappeared from view. Then she surprised herself. She rang Yeats to tell him Calbrain was on his way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Nearly nine months had elapsed since Calbrain last stepped through Park Road's entrance. He recognised the desk sergeant and introduced himself.

'I'm here to see DCI Yeats,' he explained.

'Name, address and contact details,' the sergeant demanded. Calbrain was under no illusions the sergeant remembered him.

He gave him the information, feeling like a criminal. Why was he so surprised after Daly had ordered him never to set foot in the place again? He'd kept his promise until today. This time he had no choice.

'DCI Yeats isn't available,' the sergeant mumbled.

'I'll wait,' Calbrain said and sat down. He studied the reception area. Nothing had changed since his last visit; the move to CID's new premises was obviously still on hold. Calbrain sympathised with everyone working in a building that was way past it's sell by date.

He closed his eyes and remembered his first encounter with Elizabeth Jewell. If only he'd stayed away from her, but back then he'd needed a challenging woman. Had she not quickly become an obsession, he might have avoided a lot of heartache. They hadn't stood a chance right from the beginning and after she was seriously injured, her colleagues had condemned him and sealed their fate. He'd understood what a difficult choice she'd faced. By continuing their relationship, she might have lost their respect.

Now he was committed to Francisca. He checked the time and wondered how long he'd have to wait. Three youths and a teenage girl staggered through the main entrance. Two uniformed officers steered them to the counter.

'Who's on?' The taller officer asked nodding towards a door in the far corner.

'Gareth,' the desk sergeant said and grinned.

'Right you lot, follow me, we have the best crime deterrent in the world downstairs in the shape of one Sergeant Gareth Harris. Some good advice until we contact your parents. Be nice to him.'

Calbrain watched as the officers escorted the group towards the stairs leading to the custody suite. He remembered the shabby dark narrow corridors well. He stood up and wandered about to ease his anxiety. Professor John McAlister had begged him to intervene and Calbrain knew he could have refused, but he owed him. One way to repay his debt was to help Jacob Morven find a suitable lawyer.

Ten minutes later the sergeant shouted his name.' You can go up now. DCI Yeats is in Daly's old office.'

Calbrain nodded. Was the sergeant's reference to Daly a reminder of his fall from grace, or worse, a shot across the bows? He would soon find out.

He hurried up the stairs, memories of the last time filling his head until he stopped outside the office. The door was ajar; he pushed it slightly and saw it was empty. Then he heard a voice behind him.

'Go on in,' Yeats said.

They were of a similar height and build and Calbrain estimated they were also about the same age. When Yeats turned to face him Calbrain had the feeling he'd seen him before. Elizabeth had said he was from Belfast, a city he'd only visited twice. He tried to remember where else he might have bumped into him but drew a blank.

'Take a seat,' Yeats said.

'DI Jewell tells me you're from Belfast,' Calbrain said.

'Correct, and why would you be interested in that?'

Before answering, Calbrain recalled a couple of facts. The Royal Ulster Constabulary had changed to the Police Service of Northern Ireland in two thousand and one after a big shake up. He recalled how constant accusations by certain Catholic communities and human rights groups had played a part in the reorganisation.

'I researched the history of the troubles for a television documentary.'

Yeats bent his head pretending to examine a document. Calbrain felt the tension in the room and decided not to pursue the topic. Yeats looked up, his face strained, his eyes wary.

'Before we start Calbrain, I know all about you. I thought I'd better make that clear. My first requirement long before I came here was to read a mountain of paperwork. Familiarise myself with future colleagues. Your name came up in relation to a botched rescue attempt.'

'I'm not here to discuss that period, or my relationship with DI Jewell.'

'I'm sure you'd rather forget it, I would if it was me. It's hard to live down an incident like that. So what can I help you with?'

For a few seconds Calbrain felt like smashing his fist into the man's face. He unclenched his hands and calmed his thoughts. He could hardly say, by the way, you've arrested the wrong man. 'Can you confirm Jacob Morven has been charged?'

Yeats reverted to businesslike. 'Until we issue a press release I'm unable to confirm any details on Morven's status. Go home Calbrain, unless you have a lawyer waiting outside in a fancy car.'

'Not yet, but I'm working on it. A colleague has asked me to liaise with the Canadian Embassy. As you should know, any foreign national arrested abroad is entitled to consular help. I've arranged to meet someone at the embassy tomorrow, then a firm of solicitors. That's why I'm here, to take Morven's instructions.'

'You're not a relative or his lawyer so I can legitimately refuse. He can organise his own representation, or use the duty solicitor. That is until such time you do bring in the big guns.'

Calbrain ignored the sarcasm. 'If you have arrested him then I will remind you of consular requirements. He must appear before a magistrate's court within twenty-four to thirty six hours. The consular official will also monitor his detention. I'm sure you know how embassies operate from your experience in Ireland. They are specific about treatment, conditions and equality with local prisoners. They will also follow the case through the legal system.'

Yeats tapped a key on his computer and appeared thoughtful. 'Excuse me while I authorise your visit, I'll be back in a while.'

Calbrain hoped Yeats had thought twice about refusing his request and was clearing the way with the duty officer. Police work was straining from the burden of political correctness. He cast his mind back to Daly, famous for ignoring such trivia yet he still commanded respect. He wondered what had become of him and wished he'd asked Elizabeth while he'd had the chance. Perhaps Daly was seriously ill. If something awful had happened to him, surely she would have mentioned it. Daly's sudden departure had all the hallmarks of a mystery. His prying journalistic mind wanted to dig around and find out more.

Yeats was gone for ten minutes. Fed up with hanging on Calbrain left the office, he was only a few yards from the stairs when Yeats appeared with a uniformed sergeant. 'You've got forty minutes.'

Calbrain followed the silent officer. He'd never forget the cell's claustrophobic feeling and wondered how Morven was coping. A man brought up in wide open spaces then suddenly incarcerated, might crack. The officer opened the cell door and the clanging of metal against metal gave Calbrain a jolt. Instead of finding a man sitting with his head in his hands, Morven was standing up and appeared calm.

'Yeats told me you were on your way, thank you for coming.' Morven said.

Calbrain felt the full force of Elizabeth's hypocrisy. Why alert Yeats when she obviously hated him? He had to put her out of his mind. He had come to help a fellow Canadian. 'Are you coping?'

'It isn't easy but neither is it a burden. We have met before but forgive me for not remembering where.'

'It was a long time ago,' Calbrain replied. 'In New Zealand, but I'm not here to reminisce. I only have a short time to talk. John asked me to help you in any way I can.'

'How do you know John?' Morven asked.

'That's another long story. I've an appointment at our embassy tomorrow, after that a meeting with a firm of solicitors in Chiswick. Yeats is adamant you should find yourself a local solicitor, but John's instructions are clear. Do not allow them to pressure you.'

'I'm not bothered who represents me as I won't be here much longer. I didn't kill this man and they can't prove it. Eventually they will realise their mistake.'

Calbrain didn't believe Morven was naive, yet within the next few hours he would become a big media story and the man appeared unfazed.

'I'm not here to discuss what happened. John asked me to liaise because he didn't know anyone else in England he could trust. I need a list of items you might need. I also have to ask if you want to choose your own lawyer, or leave it to me.'

Morven's face changed. Calbrain noticed an element of stress creeping in. 'I don't know any lawyers in the UK unless the embassy can suggest someone suitable.'

'They can't advise or recommend legal representation. Their role is to make sure the cops in England don't stitch you up,' Calbrain answered.

Morven rubbed his temples. 'I've read about some of their catastrophic mistakes.'

'It happens in every country, not just here. If you write down the things you want, I'll collect them for you.'

'I'd like my computer returned, but I don't suppose they'll let me have it.'

'I'll ask but don't hold out too much hope. What books do you read? Give me a few ideas.'

'Not fiction. While I'm stuck here I might as well familiarise myself with English history. One section I know very little about is the ancient Druids.'

'Apart from the legends neither do I,' Calbrain said. 'They were Pagans who allegedly practiced human sacrifice. You must have heard of the wicker man. That's about as much as I know but I'll see what I can find.'

Morven nodded, 'Thanks. I can't pay you yet.'

Calbrain was about to broach finances. 'John's provided a substantial cash deposit for bail and whatever else you require.'

'Is it certain I'll get bail? Morven asked.'

'I honestly don't know. During my days as a crime reporter, it varied from case to case. You're not a flight risk and you have plenty of funds, so there's a fifty-fifty chance.'

Calbrain's back began to hurt again. A few weeks ago, he'd woken up with severe pains and had gone to see his GP who suggested physiotherapy. The sessions had relieved the symptoms for a while, but the pain had started up again. The wedding, scheduled for August would take place in Francisca's hometown in Southern Spain. A big affair, her father had informed him. Calbrain had never worried about his health, but Francisca loved sport and had insisted teaching him to sail. He'd spent a gruelling holiday on her sailing yacht, Odyssey, which he knew had caused the problem.

'Can we sit down?' he asked Morven.

They sank onto the bunk. 'Those items I need. Have you got a pen and paper?' Morven asked.

Calbrain twisted his back as he took a notebook and pen from his pocket. He winced as he handed them over. 'Jot down what you want.'

'You're in pain, ' Morven said.

'Bad back. I'm feeling old.'

'I sense you have emotional problems as well,' Morven said as he wrote.

'I'm about to be married,' Calbrain winced again and stood up.

Morven handed the list back. 'Thanks, I appreciate what you're doing. Tell John I'll be in touch when I can.'

'I better make tracks.' He offered Morven his card. 'My home and cell phone numbers, in case you need to reach me urgently.'

'I hope your back improves.' He stared at Calbrain then closed his eyes. 'There are two women in your life. One of them will make you very unhappy.'

Calbrain didn't fall for psychic predictions. Morven was certainly a strange man; the short time he'd spent with him had certainly had a weird effect. As he left the building he realised his back pain had suddenly eased. His phone beeped and he stopped in the car park to read a text. It was from a van driver who collected biological waste from the pathology labs in the area. He knew many of the staff and Calbrain occasionally paid him for any information he came across. The text referred to overheard conversations by various lab technicians. Calbrain didn't care which method his informer used, as long as he got the goods.

According to the text, certain staff with firsthand knowledge of the Wilson case had voiced opinions during a lunch break. It seemed they had questioned certain results.

Thank God, he thought. He was glad he didn't have to prove whether Morven was innocent or guilty, just make sure the evidence against him was disputable. Having spent the last half hour with him, he found it difficult to believe he'd killed a perfect stranger in a foreign country. Why would he do that? Yet Yeats couldn't wait to lock Morven up. Did Yeats need to impress someone? No, that idea made no sense.

As Calbrain hurried away, he decided to utilise the software the insurance company had provided. Car accident fraud was big business and he'd recently uncovered a gang who made it their speciality, thanks to huge advances in compressing information and making it more accurate. Now he'd put it to a different test and see what surfaced.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Cheltenham town centre was always busy and today was no exception. Elizabeth wandered aimlessly in and out of shops oblivious to her suraroundings. More than an hour and a half had passed, she hoped by now Calbrain had left Park Road.

Patterson had gone to meet Philip Younger, the forensic accountant and Eldridge, for some reason was avoiding her.

Whenever she thought about her work colleagues, there was no doubt Yeats had a lot to answer for. He'd completely distorted Park Road's dynamic with his military type rules and regulations. He'd stamped on the slightest dissent and banned any light-hearted banter. The mere mention of his name reduced everyone to a resentful silence. Often Elizabeth felt she was living in a battlefield. Then to add to her misery, another bulletin had arrived about the new HQ building, explaining the current delay. The architects were currently suing the building company for costly mistakes. It all began over a year ago when a major problem with the roof design had caused the first hold up. Now a wall needed rebuilding. Elizabeth wondered why the construction of the new HQ had ended up a complete farce. Granted it was much bigger, but with all the money thrown at it, she still couldn't understand why it was no further forward. No one probably cared much about the actual building, just the monetary reward and their reputations. She looked up at the sky, another lovely day but one more winter in Park Road might prove too much for CID, especially if Yeats was still in charge.

She retreated into her fantasy world. This time she was evacuating Park Road before blowing it up.

Tom, the desk sergeant, waved as she walked through reception on her way to the incident room. Katie Gardiner looked over and smiled. She noticed one or two new faces and wondered where Yeats had found them. He didn't acknowledge her presence and carried on lecturing everyone about a glitch in one of the witness statements and insisting whoever was responsible to come to his office afterwards. No doubt for a rollicking, Elizabeth thought. I'm supposed to be part of this investigation she reminded herself, so when can I expect a little more responsibility. Did he intend continuing his autonomy until once again she ended up totally surplus to requirements.

She found a chair and compared the present situation to when Daly was in charge. Back then, everyone knew what was going on.

Yeats had worked on plenty of terrorist investigations; at least Patterson had unearthed that snippet. Finding out more damning information about him was proving impossible. It explained why he operated differently, but at the same time, his methods shouldn't compromise the case. She closed her eyes and listened to his orders. Then he abruptly dismissed everyone, waited until the room emptied and walked towards her. 'You're timekeeping is shit,' he said.

'I told you why. Calbrain was here and I didn't want to see him. What's all this about a new witness?'

'A second person insists he saw Morven hanging around outside the school. Meaning he lied about going back to the hotel straight after lunch.'

'Rubbish, the hotel receptionist swore she saw him come in.'

'Take those blinkers off your eyes Jewell. Some women go for types like Morven. We only have her word for it, strange no one else at the hotel did.'

Patterson turned up just as Elizabeth was about to disagree. She was glad to see him.

'Excuse me Sir. I need to discuss the Faraday case with Patterson. The forensic accountant is preparing a report for the CPS.'

'Any ideas when we can expect a court date,' Yeats asked.

'When we can prove tax evasion, unless you decide they're innocent.'

Yeats ignored her blatant rudeness and smiled as he spoke. 'Your old friend Calbrain is off to the Canadian Embassy. Morven has a rich benefactor who is keen to bankroll his defence.'

Elizabeth wondered why Calbrain hadn't mentioned this. 'When is he due in court?'

'The consular help won't kick in until tomorrow, so I'm not sure. What I have learned is Morven has massive support in Canada.'

Patterson spoke. 'I noticed a short article in the Telegraph Sir; the news is already starting to circulate. I suggest we organise more uniforms for Morven's court appearance.'

Elizabeth saw that Yeats wasn't happy with the possible developments. She made sure her tone sounded confident. 'Morven will definitely get bail, there's no other option.'

'Not necessarily,' Yeats stated with a grim look.

Patterson added his bit. 'Why worry. He can't do a runner without his passport.'

'Don't underestimate any murder suspect determined to evade justice,' Yeats said. 'Believe me I've seen every trick in the book. So instead of gloating and praying this case will finish my career, I suggest you both get out there and consolidate the evidence.'

'You mean only in one direction, no deviation from the guilty path?' Elizabeth said.

'That's exactly what I mean,' Yeats replied.

Elizabeth turned to Patterson and grinned. Winning a small victory had lifted her spirits and the Patterson /Jewell partnership was back in business.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Following day May 17th

If a lorry hadn't broken down right under his bedroom window Calbrain probably wouldn't have woken up. He'd arrived back home just before two am and didn't get to sleep immediately. It was not yet eight-thirty so he could take his time. Yesterday, in London, everything he'd planned took longer than expected. The last straw was missing the train and having to find a taxi driver willing to drive to Cheltenham. Chiswick High Street had produced an affable cabbie up for the job.

The crashing and banging drew him to the window where he saw a delivery van bumped onto the curb. The bonnet was open and the driver was lugging a large metal can across the pavement. Calbrain threw on the same clothes he'd worn yesterday and went downstairs to the kitchen. While he boiled the kettle, he went over the previous day's events in London. At least he had achieved everything he'd set out to do. He'd phone John before dropping by Park Road, by then it would be nearly time to pick up the consular official at Cheltenham station. The solicitor, Teresa Lane from the Chiswick firm, was driving up and arriving early afternoon. His visit to the embassy had seemed laborious and tiring but the staff had been very hospitable and in great diplomatic tradition had fallen over themselves to help.

Teresa Lane, the senior partner, was optimistic about Morven's chances of acquittal. She worked with a high profile QC and was confident she could secure him for the defence. Calbrain then called at the city bank, where John had deposited the cash, and spent an hour filling in forms.

He returned to Chiswick weary and hungry and Teresa Lane suggested they had dinner together to discuss the case. She chose a small restaurant on Chiswick High Street and they spent the best part of three hours eating, drinking and talking. Teresa was an attractive woman in her mid forties and Calbrain had enjoyed her company. She was easy to be with, and able to exude professionalism without boring him.

He picked up his coffee and cut through his office to check on the lorry. By some miracle, the middle-aged driver had managed to start the engine just as the traffic had built up behind him. From the earlier efforts and the ominous noises, Calbrain hadn't held out much hope.

'You woke me up,' he shouted over to the driver.

'Sorry mate. I've been driving all night and didn't realise the bloody petrol gauge was on the blink. I ran out.'

'I'm amazed, from the racket I thought the engine had blown. Fancy a coffee, I've just made some?'

'Thanks for the offer mate but I only live in Wolverhampton. I just want to get home and have a kip.'

Calbrain felt sorry for him. 'Take it easy then. Next time you feel like breaking down, don't do it outside my place.'

The driver laughed as he steered the lorry away from the kerb.

Calbrain went back inside, refilled his coffee and was ready to ring Vancouver. John had emailed that he was on the mend and eager to get back to work. His health scare had been nothing more complicated than a flu virus.

Calbrain started by giving him an update on his London visit, emphasising he was satisfied they'd hired a decent firm.

'I'm thinking about coming over,' McAllister said. 'I'm feeling a lot better.'

Calbrain wondered why. John McAllister was a clever man in his field but like many academics wasn't particularly practical.

'Not sure that's a good idea John. Why don't you stay put and see how you feel in another week. I can handle everything at this end and believe me they can't hold him for much longer.'

'It's my fault Morven's in this shit. If I hadn't accepted the invitation to Oxford none of this would have happened.'

'Don't blame yourself,' Calbrain answered. 'How could either of you have predicted this?'

'Jacob's a loyal friend. I feel responsible.'

Calbrain wondered about their relationship. Living in the UK for all these years he'd lost touch with many people but John had religiously phoned two or three times a year.

John had never married, fuelling rumours within the academic circle that he was gay. He knew otherwise but John had done nothing to quell the speculation. John had found it amusing and allowed the idea to flourish, hoping it added to his eccentricity. Calbrain guessed their relationship had a deeper and more meaningful angle, kindred spirits in the quest to uphold First Nation culture. John dedicated to passing on his knowledge to the next generation, Morven determined to preserve his peoples' heritage.

'Let's see how things go in another week,' he repeated.

'I can't help thinking the worst case scenario. Jacob goes to trial and is convicted.'

Calbrain was surprised at John's negativity. 'Listen to me. Don't believe everything you read in newspapers. Since I came over here to live, I've met a broad cross section of police officers. I can only remember a handful I didn't like and respect. DCI Yeats is in my opinion a rogue cop but I've no evidence to prove it. Have any Vancouver papers covered the story yet?'

'A very short piece in the Herald but I guess after Jacob's court appearance we'll see a glut of them.'

John sounded tired and Calbrain wanted to wind down the conversation. 'I'll ring as soon as the hearing is over. There's no reason to oppose bail, he's handed over his passport.'

'If you need more money,' McAllister said, ' there's plenty.'

'There's more than enough already John.'

'Don't forget to deduct your expenses.'

Calbrain laughed. 'I'm a well-paid freelance PI John, not Philip Marlowe without a dime to my name. If it makes you feel better I'll make sure I eat in Cheltenham's best joints.'

Calbrain heard the older man sigh. 'Whether Jacob gets bail or not I'm booking a ticket. Expect to see me soon.'

'Okay, as long as you realise how serious this situation is. They have evidence against him, probably just enough to take it to a trial and that won't happen for several months. If Jacob's refused bail, he's on remand until then. The last thing you need is more stress. I have to go but I'll ring you tomorrow,' Calbrain said and rang off.

On his way upstairs to change, he wondered why John was so determined to come over. The man was still not well and risked having a setback. Calbrain checked his appearance in the mirror. Another new suit, this time dark grey, teamed with a shirt and tie Francisca had bought him while they were in Spain.

He heard the front door to his office open and Hannah shout, 'It's me.'

Hannah was already working on the computer as he prepared to leave. Francisca, he'd forgotten to ring her. 'Do me a favour,' he asked Hannah.

She looked up and pulled a severe face, 'Not again.'

'Tell her I'll ring later.'

Hannah got up and peered through the blind. Calbrain was standing by the bus stop with his phone clamped to his ear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Monday May 20th

Wetheralls wine bar was quiet. The day was muggy, overcast and the weather forecasters had predicted more heavy rain for the rest of the week. Elizabeth collected her coffee and sat at the far end of the room so she could watch out for Patterson. Until he collected the report from the forensic accountant, the Faraday case was on hold and there was nothing more she could do.

Morven was due in court tomorrow morning to answer the murder charge to which he intended to plead not guilty. Calbrain had paid a second visit to Park Road yesterday afternoon to meet with Geoffrey Goddard, a consular official from the Canadian Embassy and Morven's solicitor Teresa Lane. When Eldridge first mentioned he'd seen them in the canteen, Elizabeth had decided to stay away. Half an hour later she changed her mind.

Calbrain had acknowledged her but hadn't introduced his companions. Elizabeth had felt she'd a legitimate reason for her presence in the canteen because she was hungry. She'd bought a sandwich and sat by the window. Occasionally she'd glanced across at the trio. Teresa Lane was talking on her on mobile while Calbrain and Goddard sifted through paperwork. Elizabeth understood why they'd made use of the station's canteen. Morven was close by should they need to speak to him. Teresa Lane had finished her call and opened up a laptop. The defence team in action, plotting to defeat Yeats and the CPS.

This is how wealth can alter the course of justice, she'd thought. Whether the Canadian was innocent or guilty didn't matter, Elizabeth was prepared to bet Morven wouldn't end up in a British prison.

Patterson rushed through the door looking flustered. He sat down and unusually he was out of breath. Elizabeth still worried about him. 'You sound like you're hyperventilating. Take a few deep breaths and tell me what's wrong this time.'

'I'm sure I've just seen Daly,' he gasped.

Elizabeth could barely move. Her whole body felt rigid. 'Keep your voice down,' she whispered. 'Tell me where.'

'Not far from the Air Balloon roundabout.'

'What were you doing up there?'

'Our forensic accountant rang me and asked if I'd meet him at the Prince Albert pub on the A40. He was on his way back from London en route to Birmingham and wouldn't be back in Cheltenham for another week. He wanted me to collect the report.'

'And you're saying Daly was in the pub?'

'I saw him as he was leaving, with a woman and she wasn't Mrs Daly.'

'Did you recognise her?'

Patterson gulped in more air. 'She was getting into a car, very elegant but she was wearing a headscarf and dark glasses so I couldn't tell.'

Elizabeth forced a laugh.' This all sounds a bit cloak and dagger to me. Are you absolutely sure it was Daly?'

'Would I be in this state if I wasn't sure? Bloody hell Liz, you can't mistake the man. At first, I thought I was hallucinating because he's lost weight and was kitted out in a fancy suit.'

'Perhaps the rumours were right and he did run off with another woman. I remember being suspicious when he joined a gym.'

Patterson sighed. 'I find it hard to believe he'd do that to Mrs Daly.'

Elizabeth paused, trying to think logically. 'Hang on a minute, we're jumping to conclusions. Just because he's with this woman doesn't mean he's having sex with her. Think about it. Yes, there was plenty of gossip about an affair, but that idea seems to have died away. These days it's impossible to keep affairs a secret. Someone always knows and eventually tells somebody else. And, more importantly where is Mrs Daly? No one's seen her either.'

'Well it was definitely him, either with a new woman or a friend. Who knows?'

Elizabeth hadn't disclosed her snooping to Patterson. With this sighting, maybe she should. 'I've done a bit of checking. The Daly's rented out their house and the new tenants don't have a forwarding address because I checked. When I went to see the letting agent he told me any information about Mr and Mrs Daly was confidential and not to come back unless I had a warrant. My instinct tells me it's not Daly you saw.'

Patterson pulled a face. 'Yeah, because I had a serious brain injury I'm gaga.'

Elizabeth looked into his eyes and could see he was telling the truth. She badly wanted to believe in his powers of observation but at the same time didn't want to build her hopes up. 'I'm sorry. Start from the point where you went into the pub to meet Phil. Pretend you're a witness to a crime, you know how difficult total recollection is so take it slowly, step-by-step.'

Patterson's breathing had eased. 'Can I get a coffee first?'

'You sit there and I'll fetch it.'

When Elizabeth returned to the table Patterson was writing notes. She waited until he'd finished. 'Is it any clearer in your head?'

'Have you ever been to the Prince Albert?'

'No, or if I have, I don't remember.'

'There are two car parks at the Albert. The larger one is at the back, the smaller one at the front. When I arrived, I drove around the back and went into the bar through the rear entrance. Daly definitely wasn't in there, so he must've been in the restaurant. Phil was waiting and had ordered a couple of mugs of tea. We were together no more than fifteen minutes. I went to the toilet, took a wrong turning and ended up walking out of the front door. That's when I saw him.'

'Did he see you?' Elizabeth asked.

'Not a chance. The moment I recognised him I went back in and looked through the window. I saw him face on for at least ten seconds.'

'Did you get the number plate?'

Patterson fished a scrap of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. 'DVLA says it's a customised fake, normally used to evade detection and prosecution.'

'Remind me how they can tell,' Elizabeth said.

'We all know the letters and numbers on all plates must be a set size and be the mandatory font with the correct spaces between letters and numbers. Anything else is illegal and always picked up by roadside cameras. Certain customised plates are difficult to read because of background patterns and if the font isn't legal it's even more confusing.' He pointed to the piece of paper. 'That one was in italics, so we won't get anywhere.'

'What type of car?'

'I had to look it up. It's a popular Russian saloon. Remember the old Ladas, built like tanks but no style. Daly's was the Lada Kalina and very nice too. It resembles any other mid-priced stylish motor.'

'He's had a couple of different cars in the last three years and they certainly weren't Russian,' Elizabeth said. 'So it must belong to the woman, or he borrowed it.'

'Whichever way you look at it Liz, he doesn't want to be recognised. With the weight loss, not many people will. The question is, why?'

'I haven't got a clue,' Elizabeth said rubbing her brow. 'The more I think about it, the worse it gets. Much as I don't want to accept the idea, he must be having an affair. Well, he can't lie low forever. When I catch up with him...'

Patterson interrupted, 'I think we should just forget about him. It's his life and he is getting on a bit. I reckon he's decided to rebel before he snuffs it.'

Elizabeth didn't agree with Patterson but she kept quiet. Now wasn't the right time to argue with him. She checked her watch and realised that if she wanted to fit everything in today they'd have to make a move.

'You're right. Let's not talk about Daly. First stop is at Sotheby's in Imperial Square.'

'Have you found a Rembrandt in your attic?'

Elizabeth removed an A4 envelope from her shopping bag. She handed it to Patterson. 'I printed these images off last night; they're all masks originating from North Western British Columbia. Some of them are old and very valuable and reside in museums. The rest are a cross-section of what is available to buy on the open market. Jackie Kilmartin is convinced Morven killed Wilson for the mask but Morven tells us the mask wasn't worth much. Either Morven is lying, in which case where is the damn thing? It wasn't in his hotel room or with his personal effects. The only other possibility is after he killed Wilson he hid it somewhere and unless he confesses, we can forget finding it. Without another motive for Wilson's murder, we're stuck with the mask. We can't eliminate it until it's found and as we've no idea what it looks like I'm hoping Sotheby's might point us in the right direction. We have an appointment with a Natasha Samuel, expert in tribal masks from all over the world.'

'I presume this Natasha will keep quiet about our enquiries.'

Elizabeth yawned. 'These Sotheby types are used to keeping secrets. Some of their clients are billionaires. After that, Les Harper is next on my list. But I've got to be careful as he drinks with some of the top brass.'

'You're going to interview Jade Harper's dad?' Patterson asked looking concerned.

'No you are.' Elizabeth removed a file from a bright red shopping bag. 'Witness statement from the The Crow's Nest pub where Jade Harper was seen drinking with Wilson on several occasions. This will be your main topic of conversation with her father.'

'Thanks a lot,' Patterson said.

'That girl has a reputation and so has her boyfriend Duncan Mortimer. He's on record for a couple of burglary offences. The evening Wilson died, Jade's parents provided alibis for both of them, saying they didn't go clubbing until late. Unfortunately, we can't prove or disprove it yet. Okay, so Morven is our prime suspect. He's charged with Wilson's murder and is about to appear in court. I'm not saying he's innocent or guilty but what I am saying is this investigation is flawed. I need to start at the beginning and take my time. Everyone on the team is aware of the gaping holes. Certain people we overlooked need scrutinising again to eliminate them. If in the end we're only left with Morven, then I'll concede.'

Patterson stood up. 'Harper senior will be straight on to the Chief Constable shouting harassment.'

'I don't care, think of the latest scandals. Newspapers paying cops for information, bribery and corruption is endemic. If all this results in people getting away with murder then I'm prepared to put my job on the line, and so should you. We can't eradicate this behaviour but what we must never do is condone it.'

'Who else is on the list after Harper?'

'Duncan Mortimer and Rory Cook.'

'Isn't Cook a Grasmere student?'

'I did some digging into Cook. I talked to a couple of people who knew him well. I spoke to them separately and they both said he suffers violent episodes caused by too many drugs and has a monumental chip on his shoulder. He's managed to stay under the radar which tells me he's crafty, cunning and worthy of our interest.'

Patterson sounded weary. 'Is that it for today?'

'Depends,' Elizabeth said.' I haven't done any overtime for a while. Now we're back together we can start catching up.'

'On the subject of Yeats, I still haven't come up with anything concrete.'

'Don't worry Tony. Listen to the words of popular sayings. Patience is a virtue and everything comes to those who wait. I'm sure there are plenty of others, but I've forgotten them.'

'Do you want to come back for a drink later?' Elizabeth asked.

Patterson shook his head. 'No thanks, not after that crushing hangover the other day.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It was only a few minutes' walk from Wetheralls to Imperial Square. Elizabeth had parked opposite the Town Hall and hadn't any change for a ticket. As always when she ran out of change, she stuck a police notice on the dashboard, which didn't always impress the traffic wardens. Luckily, the Saab's windscreen wasn't harbouring a plastic envelope containing a demand for seventy pounds.

Elizabeth and Patterson cut through Imperial Gardens. Built at the beginning of the twentieth century the gardens provided a venue for concerts and other cultural and social events. Their original use was as the pleasure grounds for the Montpellier Spa and the current layout dated back to after the Second World War. Elizabeth loved the place especially during the summer months when it became a venue for many outdoor events and festivals. Her personal favourites were the Literature and Jazz Festivals.

They found a bench close to the tennis courts. The skateboard park was busy and Elizabeth wondered if some of the teenage boys had bunked off school. Droves of skateboarders headed there at weekends and she remembered standing watching them one summer evening after having dinner with Calbrain. She brushed away the memory as quickly as it came.

Sotheby's did business from a converted four-storey magnificent grade two listed town house. Imperial Square had many private residents as well as businesses and Elizabeth knew you needed at least one and a half million pounds to live there. They opened the ornate door and stepped into an elegant hallway. A receptionist looked up and asked whom they were here to see.

'Natasha Samuel,' Elizabeth stated.

A minute later they were ushered towards a wide staircase leading to the first floor. Ms Samuel greeted them while talking on her mobile phone. When she ended the call, she held out her hand. 'I don't deal with the police very often.'

She was a tall willowy redhead with the appropriate green eyes. She watched as Patterson stared at her and Elizabeth knew they'd both noticed the uncanny resemblance to the murdered model Lily Jerome.

She handed Natasha the printouts. 'These images are based on what the students at Grasmere created during their project. The mask we're keen to identify originates from North Western British Columbia. Maybe the Nass River Valley area, but we're not sure. It could be old and very valuable, or a cheap imitation.'

'Please sit down,' Natasha said and picked up a pair of glasses. She studied the print outs slowly until one held her interest. She didn't speak and Elizabeth sat back content to be patient. A few minutes later, the expert laid down the printouts and removed her glasses. 'I must say I'm intrigued. You must think that's rather ghoulish.'

Patterson smiled and said, 'I imagine you deal with plenty of works of art, works that have a dubious history.'

'You'd be surprised how many. All antiquities require a good provenance so we tend to ignore lengthy complex stories from owners and find out for ourselves. Sometimes we have to because sellers often lie about the object's history. For instance telling us it's been in the family for generations when it clearly hasn't. Fraud is rife these days and unfortunately, we have to deal with it. In this case, if the mask is very old it might be difficult to trace its life story.' She flicked through the images again. 'What makes you certain the mask belonged to the Nisga'a people?'

Elizabeth explained about the Grasmere student who had holidayed in the Nass Valley. How she'd discovered a Nisga'a Wolf Chief was visiting the area and why the art department head had invited him to the school. She was careful with her disclosure. Natasha Samuel's job required discretion but Elizabeth wasn't taking any chances.

Natasha pointed to one. 'The mask could also be Tsimshian, so that gives me a bit more to go on,' Natasha said. 'Let me give you a little historical background. The early explorers came to the Pacific North West mainly for fur. For instance, the black pelt from the sea otter fetched a high price. George Vancouver, a captain in the British Army was sponsored to survey the area beginning in seventeen ninety-two. His orders were to encourage trade with the indigenous people and collect artefacts to take back for European museums. There are still many records of transactions instigated by the early explorers. Unfortunately, a proportion of these treasures never made it back to Europe and no one really knows where they ended up. Piracy could account for plundered treasures finding their way into American or European families who began huge collections. Since the mid twentieth century, many pieces have found their way back to their rightful owners. But those that don't make it home sell for enormous sums.'

Elizabeth didn't have time for an extensive history lesson even though she found it interesting. What she needed was an image they could work on. 'Let's say the mask is a couple of hundred years old. I assume it would be very valuable.'

'Yes it would,' Natasha stated. 'And it's likely its people would want it back. I'm busy for the rest of the day but I'll have time tomorrow. I need to consult some reference books for accurate images.'

Elizabeth was grateful for her help. 'You're also a historian I believe.'

'I did a Masters on the Plantagenet dynasty, from 1154 to 1485.'

'History wasn't my best subject at school, so I don't know much about that period.'

Natasha smiled. 'There's been quite a resurgence of interest since those remains buried underneath a car park in Leicester were confirmed to be that of King Richard III, the last Plantagenet king.'

'I did follow the story and thought how lucky we are to live in this era. Forensic science has advanced even in the last five years, but unfortunately, it doesn't always solve a crime. Detectives rely on experts, which leads me to my next question. From a historical point of view, do many people kill to acquire a piece of art?'

'Plenty have throughout history, so it's possible, but until I have some idea of why, I'm as stumped as you are,' Natasha answered.

Elizabeth felt more positive. She was beginning to believe the mask had to be the real motive. 'Ring me if you come up with anything.'

'Natasha showed her out. 'Thanks to the Antiques Road Show, the public think studying antiquities is a glamorous job. It's actually very much like your occupation. You have to be a damned clever detective.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It turned out Jade's father was the Les Harper of bookmaker fame, who currently owned a chain of shops throughout the South West. Before setting off Patterson had found out more about his backgaround. Apparently, his grandfather had been a bookie and had taken the young Les with him to racecourses in the days before it was legal to open shops. Apart from Harper's twenty-five outlets he had other business interests, but surprisingly wasn't a racehorse owner. Early on in his career, he'd had a brush with the Inland Revenue over a betting scam. Considering Harper now mixed with high-ranking police officers, he wondered how he'd escaped prosecution. After digging into the Faraday brother's finances Patterson had realised that even these days it was still possible to hide large sums of money.

Harper was entertaining friends at Cheltenham racecourse. There was no race meeting but the restaurant with its panoramic views across the racecourse had a reputation for corporate dining. Surprisingly, Harper hadn't objected to Patterson's request to see him but had insisted it was at the racecourse or not at all.

Patterson took the Evesham Road and pulled into the car park twenty minutes later. He sat for a while enjoying the peace that hung over the famous landmark. He'd only been here a few times and three years ago had come for the Gold Cup. Horse racing to him was an enigma. Elizabeth liked horses and would love to own one but had confessed she wouldn't be able to look after it properly. She constantly complained about never having the time to hire one and go for a ride. Plenty of ordinary people enjoyed going to the races but the real power and money was in that small percentage of the population who lived and breathed the sport. Horses were magnificent animals and Patterson could remember the excitement he'd felt watching them gallop to the finishing line, feeling their power through the thundering noise. He got out of the car hoping he'd dressed appropriately. Recently DI Jewell had ordered her team to smarten up, telling them it was one less thing for Yeats to complain about. Patterson didn't feel comfortable in a suit but he straightened his tie before heading towards the main buildings.

Work on the new forty-five million pound grandstands was still in progress. He'd read an article in the Cheltenham Echo stating the completion date was on schedule. It also highlighted the other improvements, to include a new Royal Box and hospitality suites.

Situated on the fifth level of the grandstand overlooking the winning post, Les Harper's restaurant of choice had stunning views across the racecourse. Patterson negotiated his way through the tables and chairs and saw Harper engaged in conversation with three men. From the sound of their voices, they were definitely inebriated.

He sat at an empty table and decided to be polite and wait. He looked over and wondered how Harper got on with his daughter, considering she was a self-confessed rebel. He assumed she'd caused her father a fair amount of trouble during her teenage years. As her father seemed in a genial mood, confirming a few facts might be easier than he'd anticipated. Patterson moved towards the Harper's table and introduced himself. The other two men staggered to their feet and wobbled away.

'What can I do for you Sergeant Patterson?' Harper asked, as he removed a cigar from his pocket. Patterson spotted the no smoking sign but Harper was already on his feet and guided him onto a balcony.

Patterson chose his words carefully. 'We have new evidence in the Wilson investigation. I'm hoping you can help me.'

Harper didn't look concerned. He obviously wasn't worried about his daughter's possible involvement. He smiled and said, 'What's that got to do with me, or Jade?'

'Did you go with her on the Canadian trip?'

'Good God man I'm too busy to take a holiday. She went to stay with her Aunt Betsy in Calgary then according to her, got fed up and fancied sightseeing up in Alaska. In the end they didn't make it that far. I can't remember exactly what happened but they were stuck in some godforsaken place up in British Columbia. I guess that's how she knew about this chap you've arrested.'

'He's out on bail and if I might point out, presumed innocent until proven guilty.'

Harper took a sip of his drink. 'I overheard a conversation the other night in the Queens. Seems everybody's satisfied he's the killer.'

This was unexpected news to Patterson. Yeats had done a good job if the brass were convinced.

'Did your daughter ever mention a mask?'

'Not to me. Talk to her mother, they like their little secrets,' Harper said puffing on his cigar.

'This mask was probably very old and valuable. Maybe from the same area your daughter visited in BC. We're trying to find it.'

Harper seemed disinterested and signalled the waiter to fetch him another drink. 'Can I get you something?'

'That's very kind of you Sir. I'll have a coffee.'

The cigar smoke wafted in Patterson's direction and he resisted the impulse to waft it away. 'So Jade didn't mention anything about a mask?'

'I knew they messed about trying to make them in the art class. Papier-mâché she said, but as she didn't bring her effort home I haven't a clue what it looked like. Can't help you there I'm afraid. That school she's at is a complete waste of time if you ask me. What these kids need is to learn more science and mathematics. They're all thick at that Academy. Jade had a place at the Ladies College but flatly refused to go.'

'Did you know the victim, Keith Wilson?'

Harper thought for a minute. 'I probably met him at one of the parent's nights, but can't say I remember him. Listen Sergeant, I feel sorry about this teacher, it's a terrible thing, but believe me my daughter is not involved. She runs with a wild crowd occasionally but she wouldn't hurt anybody.'

There was no way to spare Harper's feelings so Patterson launched straight in. 'An anonymous telephone caller to the police station told us they'd seen your daughter several times in a pub with Wilson. According to this witness, they appeared intimate.'

Harper looked shocked. 'Christ he's nearly as old as I am, if not older. What was she doing out with him?

'It could have been perfectly innocent,' Patterson said, 'or maybe not.'

Harper's face turned red and Patterson could see he was furious.

'Your daughter's association with Wilson is important since his death. I'm sure you can guess what I'm leading to. He might have stalked her. On the other hand, she may have been the one who started their relationship then got tired of him. There are all kinds of permutations as you well know and it could have led to violence.'

Harper shouted for the waiter. Patterson noticed his hand shaking.

'Half the time I've no idea what Jade gets up to. That's my wife's responsibility. I'm too effing busy working my balls off. I provide the cash; apart from that, they don't give a shit about me. My wife has her own problems Sergeant and neglects her maternal duties. I'll talk to Jade later, assuming she's coming back tonight.'

Patterson said, 'We need to talk to her. This is why I came to see you first. I didn't want to turn up at your house without you knowing why. If Jade was having an affair with Wilson, she has to be honest about her exact location when he was murdered.'

Harper looked scared. 'I thought she'd already done that. Maybe I should talk to some of my mates, get someone else to interview Jade.'

Patterson had been waiting for him to mention his police cronies. The inference was clear. He didn't want a jumped up sergeant interviewing his wayward daughter. The old boy's network in action.

'That's your privilege.'

'Surely to God this investigation is over now you've got the right bloke?'

'I can't comment. An investigation is never finished until a trial starts. All the witnesses are reinterviewed as a matter of course.'

Harper retreated. Patterson could tell he wanted rid of him. 'Okay, I'll make sure Jade goes to the station voluntarily, it's about time I talked some sense into her. Shock her out of this rebellious shit. She needs shaking up and to be honest with you I've had it with that girl. She's caused me nothing but trouble since the day she was born.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Patterson said, thinking if he'd showed her more attention, things might have been better.

'One of these days, I'm going to cut off her allowance and make her get a job. Get her out of my hair for good.'

It was time to drop the bombshell. Patterson took a deep breath. 'I checked our records and you haven't given us a complete statement other than an alibi for Jade and her boyfriend. You say you didn't know Mr Wilson personally, only by association through your daughter. I find it a little difficult to believe you didn't know about her seeing Wilson. You're a well known man and I'm sure someone out there would be happy to tell you. Or perhaps you hired someone to find out.'

Harper started to laugh. 'So now you're saying I must have killed Wilson because some idiot tried blackmailing me.'

'If you look at it from our perspective it's a possibility,' Patterson stated. 'The reason we interview people is to rule them out. Do you remember where you were on Friday May the tenth?'

'I very much doubt it,' Harper answered and turned away to summon the waiter again.

'Your wife might.'

It was then Harper turned nasty. His face had turned puce, and his arm came up threateningly. 'Listen laddie, one word from me and you'll end up pounding the streets. No more promotion. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

Patterson took a step back to avoid a spray of saliva. 'I understand perfectly Sir.'

'I'd bugger off if I was you. I have clients to see. I'll give my statement to the Chief Constable.'

Patterson watched him stagger away. He contemplated waiting outside in case he decided to drive home but it wasn't worth the effort. He could just imagine the repercussions if he breathalyzed him.

He left the restaurant and hurried down the stairs. Once he was outside an idea occurred to him, having the guts to go ahead with it was the only problem.

Liz is right, he thought. Since his injury, he'd played it safe. It was time to toughen up and this was a good opportunity to prove he could.

Harper's money and influence wouldn't help him if the Jade / Wilson affair was accidently leaked to the press, a story guaranteed to tempt any journalist. For him, direct contact with the mainstream media was likely a step too far but they'd sniff this story out eventually. Patterson left the racecourse and headed back to town. He remembered that Will Crosbie hung out in The Retreat wine bar.
CHAPTER THIRTY

Jessica Oakley pushed back her hair and rubbed her sleeve across her brow to stop the sweat running into her eyes. Four o' clock in the afternoon and the temperature had peaked at eighty degrees.

'Far too hot,' she grumbled and moved over to the portable air conditioning unit. The laboratory needed a proper system, not this makeshift machine with a hose stuck out the window.

She'd looked through the microscope four times, double checking the result. It had to be correct and that meant she'd missed a crucial piece of evidence. Thank God Grayson hadn't witnessed her mistake or he'd have gone ballistic. For all she found him difficult at times, right now she wished he was here. She pulled off her gloves and pushed open the double doors. Graham, the new lab assistant was lounging across her desk reading a Formula One magazine. 'You wouldn't dare sit on your arse if Grayson was here,' she said.

Graham jumped to his feet and blushed. 'You didn't tell me what to get on with.'

'If you want to keep your job I suggest you use your initiative. There's plenty to do and I'm knackered.'

'I'll make you a coffee if you like,' he offered.

Although Jessica felt furious with herself, taking it out on Graham was unfair. Everyone had to start somewhere and he needed her support not criticism. Her tired brain couldn't even decide whether to have tea or coffee.

'Do you like it strong?' Graham said.

'Go easy on the strength, I don't want palpitations.'

'Right boss,' he said and shuffled off to the cupboard-sized space they used to make drinks.

Jessica flopped down onto a chair and propped her aching feet on another one. She estimated it would take at least three hours to split the sample and prepare the slides. It was imperative she kept one test result in a safe place before handing over the others to a commercial forensic testing laboratory in Bristol. The tests would involve chemical analysis and determining the elemental constituents of the material and matching it to a specific metal. Processing the samples single-handed would take ages. Graham was still relatively inexperienced, but she would have to make use of him. She checked the time. Depending on how they got on, she could send him out for a takeaway.

Her hair was damp and the back of a neck itched from sweating. Jessica opened a drawer, took out a packet of baby wipes and used them on her face, neck and arms. While she waited for Graham, she was tempted to ring Elizabeth. She was about to pick up the phone when she changed her mind, what if her hunch was wrong? Although she was optimistic, preempting the results was unprofessional and tempting fate. Her lack of concentration had caused the problem in the first place, so best not push her luck. In murder investigations scientists were often weighed down by the burden of responsibility. Careless work could lead to catastrophic events, like sending an innocent person to prison, or allowing a guilty one to walk free.

Graham arrived back holding a plastic tray. He set it down in front of her. 'I made a couple of sandwiches to keep us going. If you want me to, I can run down to the Indian place later on.'

Jessica grabbed one and took a bite. He'd obviously listened and wasn't expecting to go home. 'So you're happy to work late.'

'I wasn't doing anything special tonight. My girlfriend dumped me the other day.'

Jessica was glad she was older and wiser. 'Never mind, watching me tear my hair out will cheer you up.'

'Any idea how long this will take?' Graham asked.

Jessica finished chewing and took a swig of coffee. 'Graham, in this business we don't consider time so I don't know.'

'I thought you'd finished with the Wilson case.'

'It's a murder investigation, until the trials over we're never finished. Before we start I'm issuing you a strong warning. No information leaves this lab, either verbal or written. If you blab, you're out of a job. Think back to your mate, he won't work as a technician again.'

Graham looked away as he spoke. 'I wasn't involved. I know the rules. I'm not like that, not even for money.'

'There are people out there determined to pervert the course of justice, remember that. Now, what do you know about paint matching?'

Graham shook his head.

Jessica went to the sink to wash her hands before continuing. 'I'll talk you through it as we go.'

They made their way to the newest lab at the far end of the complex. 'The murder took place in the art department at the school. What I'm uncertain of is whether the killer trashed the place afterwards or someone did it beforehand. Then we find out about this missing mask, which from hearsay is allegedly valuable. I find that ironic, because the students had recently completed a project on masks and had used a variety of different media and paints. So here we have plenty of confusing samples, one in particular arose when blood and red paint merged. Scraping this grunge off the floor didn't help either as tiny bits of the flooring had worn in certain areas. What we ended up with was difficult to separate. In any crime scene, it's easy to assume any red stain is human blood, but in this case it could also be paint. While I was screening samples I identified tiny chips from the floor, but when I went back to them I found this one and it isn't a piece of floor.' Jessica removed a slide from the microscope.

'And you're not sure what it is,' Graham said.

'I know exactly what it is. It's paint. The problem is I don't know which kind of paint nor do I know where it came from. It's definitely not from any of the emptied cans or the huge selection of acrylics, oils and watercolours used by the students. Just my luck to get a well funded department with plenty of top-quality equipment.

Jessica placed a slide back under the more powerful microscope and pointed. 'We examine each sample and document the chemical comparison. The flow charts can guide us until we find the manufacturer. We only have a single reference sample and we must preserve it.'

They both got to work on the chemical analysis. Jessica explained which method was best to isolate the components used in the binders, pigments and additives. She isolated the silicone, used to make a paint surface more resistant to marking and scratching.

They worked in silence. Jessica was tempted to play music but knew it would distract Graham. With such miniscule amounts to play with she wasn't taking any chances.

Just before ten Jessica peeled off her protective clothing and sighed. 'I'm not too confident about this. It's too complicated, bearing in mind I'm not an expert in this field.'

She opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and quickly flicked through. 'I'm sending the first sample to GR Austin Forensics in Bristol. Then I need an outfit that specialises in commercial paint analysis. Trouble is, I'm not sure where the nearest one is. I seem to remember there used to be one close to Didcot.'

'Let me look,' Graham suggested. He reached up and removed a box file from a shelf. Within a minute he'd found what he was looking for. 'This is it, and you're right. It's on an industrial site on the outskirts of Didcot.'

Jessica thumbed the pages then checked the time. 'It's too late to ring now. I'll have to contact them first thing in the morning.'

Graham checked the address. 'I'll deliver them if you don't want to drive all that way. Save you two journeys which are in the opposite direction. I can take the slides home with me and set off early tomorrow.'

Jessica shook her head. 'An hour down the M5 is hardly a great distance then straight onto the M4. As for taking the samples, there's absolutely no way.'

Graham started the cleaning up process. 'I'm only trying to help, but if you...'

Jessica was tired and couldn't wait to go home. She interrupted before he started to annoy her again. 'I'm not saying I don't trust you, but I have to deliver these in person. Too much depends on it.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

'How did your meeting with Les Harper go?' Elizabeth asked Patterson who was tucking into tagliatelle.

'He swears blind he didn't know his daughter was shagging Wilson.'

'Be careful Tony. Until Jade Harper admits to having a sexual relationship with Wilson, we can't state it as fact.'

'I called in at the pub on the way back and spoke to the landlord. He confirmed she definitely came in with Wilson. He said they were into each other. His words, not mine.'

'Like I said, we need to hear it from Jade. By the way, Eldridge just phoned to tell me Yeats had to go back to Belfast. He emailed Eldridge last night and didn't come in this morning. He should have contacted me first. My God, the penny's just dropped that I'm now Senior Investigating Officer.'

Patterson grinned. 'We better make the most of it.'

'No senior officer should bugger off without any pre-warning. He must have left straight from home, wherever that might be. After all this time I still haven't a clue where he lives.' Elizabeth said.

Patterson finished chewing a mouthful of pasta. 'No one does. He told us from the start he liked his privacy.'

'Let's hope Belfast wants him back,' Elizabeth said and turned her head. The canteen was filling up. If she didn't get in the queue soon, the tuna bake would sell out.

'We could always try a few prayers. Strange he didn't mention he was going,' Patterson said.

Elizabeth wasn't convinced Yeats had gone anywhere. 'What if he hasn't?'

'Why would he concoct an elaborate lie when he knows we can easily find out?'

'Maybe I should ring the station and ask to speak to him,' Elizabeth suggested.

'That's asking for trouble. Just be glad he's gone.'

Elizabeth grabbed her purse and stood up. 'I'm starving. Do you want seconds?'

'I haven't got any cash.' He glanced down at his empty bowl. 'I put this one on my tab.'

'I'll get it if you make sure nobody nicks my chair.'

On the way into work Elizabeth had decided to cease looking into Yeats' life. It was a stupid idea and she'd risk Patterson's career for her own selfish whims.

'Tony. This business of rifling through his office is a waste of time. We wouldn't find anything incriminating, so let's forget it. I've decided to quit obsessing about him.'

Patterson nodded his head in agreement. 'For once you've arrived at a sensible decision.'

Elizabeth accepted his friendly criticism knowing he was right. 'How did Harper senior react when you told him about his daughter?'

'He's a crap actor. He pretended to be all shocked and upset. He's not stupid and would realise we'd see it as a motive to get rid of Wilson.'

'I can't see him risking everything just because Jade was promiscuous. Why would he care who she had sex with?'

Patterson scraped up the last remnants from his bowl. The noise made Elizabeth flinch. 'Wilson might have tried a spot of blackmail. Maybe this money coming to him had nothing to do with a valuable mask.'

Elizabeth thought Patterson had a good point. Wilson might have made up the mask story to cover himself. 'Right, if Jade doesn't come here voluntarily you'll have to bring her in, but not tonight. Loads of people are staying on for Katie Gardiner's birthday bash. It's in the old conference room and I've promised I'll look in for half an hour. Are you coming?'

Patterson's sounded miserable. 'Eldridge is back in favour. To be honest, I don't fancy watching him swan around trying to impress everybody.'

Elizabeth checked the time. 'I must go and show my face at Katie's little party. Then I'm going out tonight.'

'Where are you off to then?' Patterson asked as he peeled the wrapper off a Mars bar.

'To the cinema with an old friend, it's been planned for ages so I can't cancel. Make sure Eldridge doesn't cause trouble later on. He can be aggressive when he's had a few. Where is he anyway?'

'I believe he's dealing with a couple of yobs who nicked a very expensive car. Don't fret, if he acts up I'll lock him in a cell.'

'Don't forget, with Yeats away I'm responsible for what happens here and petty arguments won't help the situation. So forget the macho talk.'

'Fine, whatever you say,' Patterson grumbled.

'I need you to locate the rest of the student's masks. Jessica Oakley left me a message. 'She wants four more.'

'I thought she'd processed everything from the scene.'

'She only had room for a few at a time because of storage. Papier-mâché is vulnerable to temperature change and she needed to keep an eye on them. What if I send Eldridge over with them and while he's gone you can wish Katie a happy birthday?'

Patterson picked up his plate. 'I need a slice of lemon meringue pie first.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Sunday May 26th

Plenty had happened since Monday yet Elizabeth felt she was no further forward. Natasha Samuel had kept her promise and emailed several images of what the missing mask could look like. She had also written.

Not knowing the mask's exact age makes it difficult to be precise. However, having researched museum exhibits from the mid eighteenth century to early twentieth century I've narrowed it down. Obviously the older the artifact, the more valuable and on that basis I suggest the earlier exhibits are more representative. However, as with all works of art you will need a second opinion on authenticity.

Contact me should you need more help.

Since her visit to Sotheby's Elizabeth had read up on Morven's birthplace in the Nass River Valley and printed off the sections she thought the most relevant. She closed her email account and switched off her computer. The A4 sheets were stacked neatly on her desk.

Masks, she'd learned were symbolic and often depicted animals or supernatural beings. These highly elaborate examples accentuated the eyes, allowing the wearer of the mask to see with greater understanding. The eyes, as the windows of the soul had to search for hidden spirits in the material world.

One in particular caught her attention. The expression was melancholy, as if the carver had experienced a great tragedy and the cedar wood had absorbed his grief. For hundreds of years cedar and salmon was the mainstay of the early Nass River Valley settlers who had fought long and hard for the rights to their lands and everything upon it. Elizabeth imagined their struggle reflected in the wooden faces and felt moved by their eternal quest for justice. She stopped reading and thought about her own search for the truth and the complex nature of modern police investigations.

Daly crept back into her consciousness, not that he'd ever left. Occasionally he might have slipped away, but not for long. For Elizabeth to discover more facts about Wilson's murder she needed to see beyond the circumstantial evidence. Wearing a mask was out of the question. However, the shamanic message was simple; use your eyes to find the truth.

Jacob Morven had made his court appearance and as expected pleaded not guilty to all charges. His foreign national status and ample funds resulted in the court granting him bail, with several conditions attached. No trial date was set and his next court appearance was two months away. He gave the undertaking to appear and with his passport revoked, he was free to go. Teresa Lane had successfully argued he posed no danger to the public and bail was set at seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

Elizabeth had worried about local reaction to the news but fate had intervened in the form of widespread news coverage of a notorious people trafficker. This man's lawyer had also secured bail for his client, so those who wished to voice their opinion, targeted him instead of Morven.

Elizabeth had no illusions. She knew that in order to beat the judicial system you needed money. Top lawyers, injunctions and reputation managers did not come cheap. Anyone worried about a dodgy past resurfacing usually employed certain organisations to rewrite their history.. If the media rebelled and printed detrimental articles about you, a libel suit would stop them. With enough money, a person could cover up anything, even murder.

Teresa Lane had stood outside the court and used a well known quote. "It's a wise judge that errs on the side of caution." She'd spoken briefly to reporters briefly putting emphasis on her client's innocence. When asked, she confirmed that his trial was unlikely to start until the autumn. Morven had the usual restrictions placed on him. He could not leave the country, had to register an address and was obliged to regularly report to the police station. What did surprise Elizabeth was Morven's friend and colleague, John McAllister, had finally arrived from Canada. Following advice from Teresa Lane they'd rented a secluded country cottage to protect their privacy.

Media reports had escalated after the court appearance. Morven had unwittingly achieved celebrity status. Stories about him had appeared not just in the UK, but also in Canada and the US. Elizabeth despaired, what the papers lacked in facts they had made up for with sensationalism. If Morven's picture was on the front page, the paper sold. He was dubbed an enigmatic First Nations advocate, cruelly detained by a bungling police force. Similar international headlines brought him more public sympathy. This fuelled a greater interest in anything Native Art and sales doubled.

This wasn't the first time someone accused of a serious crime had attained celebrity status. Even those who felt he was probably guilty pointed out he was still a figurehead for his oppressed people and no different from Nelson Mandela.

Elizabeth had experienced bad press before. Both personally and as a Gloucestershire police officer, but this time it was a tidal wave that threatened to drown her.

At least Patterson had submitted the forensic accountant's report to the CPS and had a positive result. The Faraday brothers were re-arrested and held on remand.

The weather had alternated between cool showers and hot sunshine. Elizabeth dressed in a simple black linen shift and rope wedged sandals to keep cool. She also took care applying her makeup. As soon as she was satisfied with her appearance she picked up her bag and sunglasses and headed for the Saab, she was on her way to see Anita Fleming.

Elizabeth's old friend lived in Uley, a village not far from the M5. Instead of taking the motorway, she headed onto the A46 to Nailsworth. From Sainsbury's she headed south and turned off onto a narrow country road. For once, she wasn't in a hurry and kept her speed down. Thinking about Anita made her feel guilty; she hadn't visited her for nearly six months. At one time they'd met up regularly for a day out in Cheltenham or Oxford. Anita had recently finished writing her biography, and encouraged by the book's success the publisher had asked the retired Oxfordshire Chief Constable to write a true crime novel. Elizabeth knew it was about one of the UK's most notorious murder cases, one Anita had worked on.

Elizabeth's parents had lived in the same street as Anita. Around the time she'd moved there she was promoted to Detective Inspector. As a regular visitor to the Jewell home she took an interest in the eighteen-year-old Elizabeth, who hadn't a clue what she wanted to do. With no desire to go to university, the older woman had suggested joining the police force. Elizabeth hadn't realised she possessed the right characteristics and it wasn't until five years later she took her advice. Anita could have easily used her senior position to influence Elizabeth's progress through the ranks, but she didn't. Instead, Elizabeth threw herself headlong into a career she wasn't convinced would get her anywhere.

It was much later when Elizabeth discovered DCS Daly and Anita Fleming knew each other. Curious about their friendship she'd asked too many questions and he'd clammed up, refusing to discuss the topic further.

Elizabeth reached the steep hill leading to the village and as she negotiated the sharp bends, she hoped arriving unannounced would be okay. She turned off the main road and pulled up outside the cottage her friend had bought years ago. A modern apartment in the centre of Oxford was her permanent home. This place was her retreat, a country cottage for her retirement.

Anita's car wasn't in the driveway and Elizabeth wondered if she'd finally given up driving. Perhaps it was the reason she was reluctant to meet up as often, or had suffered another health problem. She'd had a cancer scare and had recovered well, but realistically there was always the chance the illness could come back.

Elizabeth rang the bell. When there was no answer, she unlatched the side gate leading to the back garden. She watched as Anita carried a brightly coloured shrub and dropped it into a prepared hole in the ground. The colour and shape reminded Elizabeth of bougainvillea and her last trip to Portugal. Careful of frightening her, she shouted first. Anita stood up, a tall striking woman, her long grey hair hidden under a baseball cap. As usual, she wore old jeans and a baggy t-shirt. As she moved closer, Elizabeth was relieved at how healthy she looked.

'My God,' Anita said, pulling off her heavy duty gloves. 'This is a surprise.'

She threw the gardening gloves onto a small circular table and held out her hands. Elizabeth grabbed hold of them. 'I should have rung but I felt ashamed for not keeping in touch.'

Anita put her finger to her lips. 'No need for all that nonsense. We lead busy lives and that's why I'm out here in the sunshine. I'm almost finished the new book so I deserve a break. Don't feel guilty for not visiting. I've turned into a recluse lately, so much for me longing for a sociable retirement.'

Elizabeth followed her through the old French doors into a large spacious kitchen. From the front, the cottage appeared deceptively small yet it had two reception rooms and three bedrooms. Anita filled the kettle and switched it on. 'First of all I want to say sorry for not informing you about Ted Daly.'

Elizabeth's heart flipped and she wondered if she'd heard correctly. 'What do you mean, you're sorry?'

'Let me make the tea first.'

Elizabeth felt like a thunderbolt had struck her. 'What's happened to him?'

Anita smiled and placed two mugs on the kitchen table. 'Don't be alarmed, he's recuperating nicely.'

'God Anita, I've been worried sick not knowing where he'd gone.'

'I couldn't say anything before now because that was the way he wanted it. He hated the idea of everyone knowing he was ill. Jean had to keep her mouth shut as well, the old sod made it very difficult for us. The doctor's weren't sure of the outcome and Jean wanted them to stay away from Cheltenham for as long as possible. He didn't need the kind of stress that goes with everyone knowing and wondering if you're about to croak. Believe me, I know just how bloody awful that situation is and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. As your superior officer, he didn't have to inform you, only his immediate boss. Who thankfully kept his big mouth shut.'

Elizabeth presumed by his boss she meant the Chief Constable. 'It's over three months Anita. When can I see him?'

'I spoke to him about visitors only last week. He wants to wait until he's completely better.'

'What's exactly wrong with him?'

'I gave my word I wouldn't disclose any details. It will be up to him to explain, if or when he comes back.'

'I bloody well hope he does. Please pass on the message from me.' Elizabeth stated. 'I hate DCI Yeats and still can't understand why we ended up with him.'

Anita frowned. 'You needed a temporary replacement and Yeats was probably a sensible choice. Or maybe no other suitable candidate fancied relocating to Cheltenham. It's hardly a metropolis.'

'You're right, no conspiracy. Just bloody bad luck we ended up with the bastard.'

'Try and relax Elizabeth. Three major crimes in a year would tax most senior officers. Clusters of complex murders can happen anywhere, to any force. Think about all the recently reopened cold cases due to the huge advances in forensics.'

'Yeats was quick to arrest Morven. Then he buggers off?'

Anita sat down at the table, reached across and squeezed Elizabeth's hand. 'Stop worrying, you'll make yourself ill. Try and relax more and promise me you'll stop obsessing about Ted Daly.'

Elizabeth had always trusted Anita, but this time she sensed she was wasn't telling her everything. She wanted to know more but staring into Anita Fleming's eyes, she saw the warning. Don't even go there.

Elizabeth thought about her answer for a few seconds. 'I promise,' she said, hoping she could keep it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Two hours later Elizabeth left Anita's house and drove into the village. The revelation about Daly hadn't eased her mind; it had done just the opposite. Her brain was in a turmoil trying to figure out how to keep her promise to Anita yet still find Daly. Knowing him as she did, if he was on the mend, he'd be bored and keen for distractions. The chances were good he'd read the papers and already knew about the Wilson case. In fact, ill or not, it was unthinkable Daly wouldn't know about what was happening at Park Road. Whatever mysterious illness had taken him away Elizabeth had to convince herself he'd make a full recovery. She had to believe it would happen. Without Daly to point her in unorthodox directions, she'd flounder. Years of experience had taught him to look beyond the obvious. He was old school and knew the importance of dogged detective work. She quoted out loud quote one of his rules, elimination rather than speculation. Since DNA testing had landed on the planet it was easy to dismiss the old tried and tested police methods. Fingerprinting seemed to have lost its allure, as had many other police procedures essential to solving crimes. Elizabeth used to despair of the armchair sleuths who populated internet forums. Every week emails arrived at Park Road from those amateur detectives instructing CID on their latest findings. Right now, she would welcome any information from the public. On reflection she regretted keeping the mask business under wraps. If there was no progress in another week, she'd review the decision. In any case she intended to find Daly before the week was up. He'd advise her, mysterious goings on didn't sway his black and white viewpoint.

Elizabeth's head had started to hurt. She needed somewhere quiet to think, decide on her next move. A pub on the corner of the High Street attracted her attention. It was one Elizabeth had never been in before. She pulled into the car park and wondered whether to ring Patterson. Resisting the temptation to tell him about Daly was going to be nigh on impossible, but a promise was a promise. A niggling little voice repeated. If you do, you might endanger Daly. It sounded farfetched but Elizabeth felt a familiar paranoia creeping in. Why would seeing him put him in harm's way? It was a stupid notion but Anita's cool stare had told a different story.

The barman carried on polishing glasses as she approached the counter.

'I need a cup of tea,' she said.

He hung up his tea towel and gave her the once over. 'Whatever the lovely lady wants, one cuppa coming up.' He stared more intently. 'Do I know you from somewhere?' he asked.

'I doubt it,' Elizabeth sighed. Surely he could have come up with a more original chat up line. She decided to play the game. 'If you want my life story you may as well tell me your name.'

'Dean's the name. What's yours?'

'Listen Dean, I'm here for a cup of tea, not a grilling.'

'I've just remembered where I've seen you before,' he stated and Elizabeth didn't mistake the admiration in his eyes.

The last thing she needed was a hit, especially by a shaven headed and heavily tattooed beefcake but curiosity got the better of her. 'Enlighten me.'

'I saw your picture in the paper. I never forget a pretty face.'

Elizabeth tried her usual sarcasm. 'So now you know I'm a detective you don't fancy me anymore.'

'Suddenly he looked sheepish and she felt sorry for him.

'Doesn't matter to me what you are. There's a great band playing here tomorrow tonight. Come over and I'll buy you a few drinks.'

That was quick, she thought. Actually, he's polite and not bad looking. She could do worse. 'If you hurry up and get that cuppa I'll think about it. Is there a garden with a shady tree?'

He pointed to a doorway. I'll bring it out. Do you want something to eat?'

He passed her a menu and Elizabeth realised she was hungry. Anita had offered to make food but she'd temporarily lost her appetite after hearing about Daly.

She scanned the offers for a healthy option. 'Chicken salad,' she couldn't help a grin.

Dean smiled back at her. Elizabeth saw the transformation, from possibly handsome into definitely handsome. They stared at each other for a few seconds before he hurried off into the kitchen.

A silver birch provided shade. She sat under it on a wooden bench and tried to think logically. She listened to the breeze rustling the leaves and remembered last summer's scorching days and warm nights. Life had seemed promising, even before the split with David. Now she felt adrift and desperately needed a diversion from her working life.

She studied the garden. A box hedge gave it privacy and the well-stocked flowerbeds surrounded her with a musky fragrance. The adrenaline in her system began to subside. She leaned back in the padded chair and stretched out her legs. As she closed her eyes, her phone rang. Dappled sunlight obscured the caller ID but she still answered. A second later, she cursed her carelessness.

'It's Calbrain. If you want it, I've got information.'

'I'm not interested right now.' Her finger hovered over the phone ready to end the call but something stopped her.

She heard Calbrain take in a breath before answering. 'Where are you?'

Elizabeth kept quiet. She wasn't up for an argument but he'd piqued her curiosity. 'Tell me then, but be quick. I'm about to eat.'

'I heard you need all the help you can get.'

'Don't listen to gossip Calbrain. As for your info, it depends on whether the source is reliable. And, in case you've forgotten you don't have an arrangement with us anymore.'

'For fuck's sake will you just hear me out?'

'Don't swear at me. I've given up talking to pushy reporters.'

'You seem to have forgotten I quit.'

'That's what you tell people,' she replied.

'I can't do this over the phone. So if you don't want it, fine.'

'Email it to me,' Elizabeth said, hoping Dean would appear and interrupt the conversation.

'I might,' Calbrain said.

'Usually when the public have important information, they either phone or go to the police station. I suggest you do that.'

'Let's hope you won't regret this conversation,' Calbrain hissed.

Elizabeth didn't need this. She felt like yelling at him, but hung up instead.

Dean brought her food. 'Don't forget about tomorrow night.'

When he disappeared into the pub, she rang Anita and mentioned she had an admirer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Monday 27th May

As soon as she arrived home from work, Elizabeth started weeding her back garden to keep her nervousness at bay. Most people felt apprehensive before a first date, but this is ridiculous, she thought. She threw the trowel to one side and walked up and down trying to calm her nerves. Deep down she realised it wasn't just about meeting Dean. Anita was correct; she was obsessing about Daly too much.

Having a drink was out of the question so she searched the kitchen junk drawer until she found a half-empty bottle of Calms. She'd used the valerian based homeopathic medicine before, taking it occasionally to help her sleep. She swallowed three pills with a cup of chamomile tea, another relaxing remedy and willed the combination to work. Then she rang Anita and told her she'd made a decision. She would meet up with Dean but was worried about turning up on her own. 'Will you come with me for moral support?' she asked.

Anita sounded pleased. 'I will, but won't stay long. At my age, I draw the line at playing gooseberry.'

'Please don't leave me straight away.'

'This is not like you, worrying about having a few drinks with an attractive man.'

Elizabeth felt the need to justify her decision. 'I'm only going because I'll go nuts staying home. He isn't really my type. He's a bartender.'

Anita chuckled. 'You're sounding snobbish Liz, it doesn't suit you. Dean Westlake is no ordinary bartender. He owns the place and is very well respected. The pub isn't his only business interest.'

'Why didn't you tell me this last night?'

'You didn't ask me.'

'Do you know anymore about him?'

'He's not married, never has been. No children and he's not a criminal because I checked. Will that do?'

'I suppose his appearance gave me the wrong impression.'

Anita added, 'I can't blame you for that. We, more than anyone else know appearances are very often deceptive.'

Elizabeth was immediately reassured. Whether she was truly attracted to him, or craved male company to fill the void left by Calbrain, she didn't know. The point was it wouldn't do any harm to strike up a friendship first, and see what happened.

Anita carried on. 'I'll come and have a drink. I don't know about tonight's entertainment, except I've heard Dean has an eye for local talent. Bring your overnight things in case you want to stay.'

Elizabeth rushed to change her clothes, threw a few items into a bag and arrived outside Anita's just as her friend walked out of the house. They gave each other a brief hug then set off for The Fountain, a much larger establishment than Elizabeth had first realised. Anita led her into a spacious function room complete with stage. Dean was behind the bar dressed in a white shirt and narrow black trousers.

He seemed surprised to see her. 'I didn't expect you to come.' Then he turned to Anita. 'Hello stranger.'

'I'm a busy woman these days. No time to socialise,' Anita said.

'Give the computer a rest and come down here more often,' Dean said.

Anita kept a straight face and spoke seriously. 'I'm acting as Elizabeth's chaperone as you didn't waste any time pouncing on her.'

'A chance meeting,' Dean replied. 'You know the Casablanca movie. "Of all the bars etc she had to come into mine."

'Elizabeth looks nothing like Ingrid Bergman.'

'She's far more beautiful. Why don't you ladies find a table and I'll bring you a bottle of wine.'

Anita chose one close to the stage. The band hadn't finished setting up their equipment but a quiet expectation permeated the room. As Elizabeth sipped her drink, she began to relax. Just before the band started up, Anita got up to leave. She handed Elizabeth a key.

'Come back when you like and don't worry about waking me. I sleep like the dead.'

'Stay a bit longer,' Elizabeth pleaded.

'Having me as a chaperone is alright for half an hour. Any longer is a bad move. You'll be fine, so try and enjoy yourself.'

More people had turned up and surprisingly she felt comfortable sat on her own. Dean served a handful of customers then came and sat beside her. At first he didn't say much and she knew instinctively he wouldn't pressure her. As the evening wore on Elizabeth was glad she'd made the effort to come.

The band finished the first set and everyone made for the bar. Dean apologised and went back behind the bar promising he'd only be five minutes. Elizabeth sat watching the activity and didn't notice a tall slim woman approach. 'Excuse me,' she said. I was just wondering if Anita's all right. I saw you coming out of her house earlier today.'

Elizabeth had the distinct feeling she'd met the woman before, or seen her somewhere. 'Are you a neighbour?'

'I live further down the street, towards the farm.'

Elizabeth wondered why the woman hadn't just knocked on Anita's door. 'She's fine. Why do you need to know?'

'I thought you were her doctor but didn't want to disturb her. Anyway I'll leave it tonight and call in tomorrow and say hello.'

The woman's tale seemed plausible enough but Elizabeth was suspicious. Any close neighbour would have recognised Anita's GP. He worked at the village surgery and had frequently visited Anita at home. Something about the woman's mannerisms bothered her.

Elizabeth switched to interrogation mode. 'I don't understand. Why would you assume I was her doctor?'

'I've been away on holiday. I only got back last night and that's why I was worried when I saw you. I just thought her usual doctor wasn't on duty and the surgery had sent a locum.'

The band was about to start up again and Elizabeth wished the woman would go. She caught Dean's eye and he came straight over. As soon as the woman saw him approaching she made a hasty exit without saying goodbye.

'Who's that?' he asked.

'One of Anita's extremely nosy neighbours wondering what I was doing in her house. She thought I was the doctor. She knew she'd been ill, but I guess most people did.'

'You can't keep anything secret in this place. Anita still has her place in Oxford, but spends more and more time here. To answer your question, yes, people knew she was poorly and offered to help. Hang on a minute, what did you just say about that woman? That she was a neighbour.'

'She said she was Anita's neighbour.'

Dean frowned. 'I've never seen her before; believe me I know everyone living in this village.'

Elizabeth's senses were giving her odd signals. Something was wrong. She could tell Dean was positive the woman had lied about knowing Anita. So why would she do that?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It was well after midnight when Elizabeth decided to head back to Anita's house. Thanks to Dean securing a late license, the last few customers were leaving. Elizabeth was physically tired yet strangely energised from her conversation with Dean. Her earlier inhibitions had vanished, thanks to the wine. The mood between them had changed and Elizabeth wondered whether she'd regret encouraging him. If tomorrow's hangover would bring doubts.

Elizabeth rubbed her temples. 'I better go otherwise I'll never get up in the morning.'

'Come on, I'll walk you home,' he said.

'I need Anita's key but I can't find my bag. Maybe I left it behind the bar.'

Dean searched for a few minutes and came back. 'Sorry, not there. I didn't see you with one when you first got here.'

Elizabeth suddenly remembered. 'Damn, I left it in the car and forgot to lock up.'

'Don't worry. Not much crime around here.'

'Knowing my luck there will be tonight,' Elizabeth said.

Dean looked at his watch. 'If Anita's gone to bed you can stay here.'

Her phone was also in the bag. She put her head in her hands and groaned. 'I never leave my phone behind.'

Dean sounded slightly annoyed. 'Surely you're entitled to an occasional night off.'

Elizabeth was surprised he'd referred to her work hours. She hadn't expected it so soon and her immediate reaction was disappointment. Her expression must have worried him, he turned away. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.'

Her career had already ruined her love affair with David. Calbrain, who she'd unexpectedly fallen for had intervened in a police investigation with disastrous results. From the day she'd first worn her police uniform most of her relationships had ended because of her job. She knew plenty of married female officers with children. Most seemed to cope well, juggling their family life with a tough profession. The last couple of years she'd started blaming herself, wondering which one of her characteristics had prevented her from forming a steady partnership.

Elizabeth knew her reaction to what Dean had said was petty. He'd made a passing comment and she'd taken offence. Grow up, she thought, this is a nice guy and I'm about to ruin my chances.

'Of course I go off duty, but you work unsociable hours as well. I was trying to figure out how we'd get to see each other.'

Dean poured another glass of wine. 'I'm the boss. I can see you whenever I want. All you have to do is call me.'

'Let's drink to that,' Elizabeth said.

Five minutes later Dean opened up the main doors and Elizabeth stepped out into the cool night air. The street was deadly quiet until the sound of someone running alerted her. She couldn't believe her eyes when she saw Anita dashing towards the entrance. She hurried towards her, already assuming something was wrong. 'What's happened? Why are you running?'

Anita was panting from exertion. 'Patterson just rang my home number. He's been trying to get hold of you for the last couple of hours. He said you weren't answering.'

Elizabeth steadied her friend. 'I'm so sorry. I'm a bloody idiot. I left it in the car.'

Anita looked pale and she was shivering. Dean took her other elbow. 'Let's go inside and you can tell Elizabeth what's happened.'

The two women sat down while Dean poured brandy into three glasses.

Anita took a sip. 'Patterson said to phone him as soon as you get back. He didn't say why but from his tone I'd say he has a problem.'

'Elizabeth couldn't understand why Anita was in such a bad state. She was certain the phone call from Patterson wasn't the reason. 'You seem scared. Did someone frighten you on your way down here? Is that why you were running?'

Anita downed the brandy and held out the glass. Dean refilled it.

'I'm not used to physical exercise, that's all. Stop worrying about me and phone your sergeant.'

'I'm walking back with both of you,' Dean said.

On the way up the slight incline, Elizabeth stayed alert wondering what had spooked her friend. The road was deserted, all the houses in darkness. By the time they reached the cottage, Anita was exhausted. Elizabeth retrieved her bag and locked up the Saab before saying goodnight to Dean. He kissed her on the cheek and said he'd be in touch. Anita went straight to bed without waiting to hear the outcome of her call to Patterson, which was unusual. Elizabeth put her disinterest down to tiredness, but she knew there was more to Anita's sudden panic. Although she didn't need another drink, Elizabeth helped herself to a brandy, lay on the sofa and phoned Patterson.

He sounded agitated. 'Not good news I'm afraid. Jade Harper's dead.'

Elizabeth's heart sank and she took a large gulp from the glass. 'Murdered?'

'Dr Oakley's positive she was strangled.'

'Who found her?'

A taxi driver needed a pee and stopped in Hart Lane, which runs parallel to the playing fields. A new wall is under construction and the builders erected a temporary six-foot, welded mesh fence to stop anyone getting in. He stood right up against it and spotted her.'

'She was found inside the Academy grounds? What time was this?'

'The taxi driver was specific, ten forty-five.'

'You'll have to send a car for me.'

'Liz, it's late. I've spoken to Jessica and she's positive on cause of death and wants to move the body quickly. She believes the killer threw dragged her to that position. There's CCTV on Grasmere Road, none in Hart Lane. I'm going over there right now then I'll start organising the troops.'

'Do her parents know yet?'

'I sent Eldridge and Gardiner.'

Katie Gardiner was new to CID. Elizabeth wondered how she'd cope. 'We need to know when and where she was last seen. Phone Katie, hopefully we'll get a precise time and place. What about my lift?'

'If you trust me Liz then go to bed and get some sleep. There's not a lot you can do and it's stupid both of us staying up all night. You can relieve me in the morning then I'll shoot off home for a couple of hours.'

Elizabeth was beginning to feel woozy and wished she hadn't drunk the brandy. She'd never stay awake and even if by a miracle she did, her brain wouldn't function properly.

'You're sure you can handle everything until tomorrow morning? I'll be there at seven.'

'What should I do about Morven?'

'I hope to God he has a decent alibi. Because if he hasn't we'll have no choice but to bring him in.'

'I've just checked with the custody officer and Morven checked in a week ago. When he was asked about any change in his circumstances, he admitted John McAllister had rented a car. Apparently, staying indoors all the time was getting to them. Morven said they also needed a car to do grocery shopping. I've got the registration to check against any camera footage picking up the number near to the murder scene.'

Elizabeth concentrated on Morven. What were the odds he was responsible. She knew the statistics but somehow the idea didn't ring true. 'As soon as Jessica releases the body and you're sorted, go and check on him. How soon can you get there?'

'At this time of night, about forty minutes.'

'What about Jade's boyfriend, Duncan Mortimer?'

'Uniforms are out trying to find him. He's not at home so hopefully he's out clubbing. Sorry Liz but I better get moving.'

'Any major problems wake me up. Otherwise I'll see you in a few hours.'

Elizabeth switched off the lights and crept upstairs in the dark. The small guest room was at the end of the landing. She closed the door and lay on the bed thinking about Jade Harper and her boyfriend Duncan Mortimer. Jackie Kilmartin had hinted some of her pupils dabbled in sex games. After the Faraday case, her mind didn't want to go there, but she had to cover all possibilities. With any luck, Jessica would start the post mortem early tomorrow and have some answers. She closed her eyes hoping sleep would overcome her. After five minutes she resorted to her childhood game of drawing the alphabet in her mind's eye. A method she'd used for years to empty her mind and drift off peacefully.

She could only have been asleep for a few minutes when a noise disturbed her. Dragging herself off the bed she went to the window, pulled back the curtains and stared across the back garden towards the fields. As she turned away she caught a movement under a solitary streetlight. It was difficult to make out without her distance glasses but she was sure someone was in the back lane behind the garden. She waited until she was sure whoever it was had gone, then she got back into bed and drifted into a troubled sleep.

People came towards her wearing masks, but the masks didn't hide their identity. She knew who everyone was. Jade Harper appeared and spoke to her but Elizabeth couldn't hear what she was saying.

Then Daly walked by and beckoned her to follow him. She ran after him but as soon as she thought she'd caught up with him, he disappeared into an ominous dark cloud.

At that moment she woke. The room was too dark and Elizabeth felt disorientated. She slid out of bed, pulled back the curtains and focused on the lane again. No one was there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Tuesday May 28th 12.50 am

Patterson took the A40 to Northleach and half an hour later turned off onto the Bibury Road. He'd visited Bibury a few times over the years, usually with his mates and as he drove through, he saw the river Coln flowing parallel to the main street. The Coln, a tributary of the Thames was the main reason tourists came to Bibury, to see the famous trout farm stocked with the native brown fish. Patterson remembered reading about William Morris at school and that he'd once said Bibury was the most beautiful village in England.

He pulled up outside the tourist information centre hoping to find a map. The cheap sat nav he'd bought at Christmas had played up for a couple of weeks and foolishly, he'd messed about with it. First thing on Saturday morning, he intended buying a more up to date model.

The glass covered notice board held plenty of information including a brief history of the village and directions to important architecture and local beauty spots. Many Cotswold villages had associations with the wool trade and Bibury was no exception. Their main industry was supplying cloth to a nearby mill. The premises where the weavers hung wool to dry was a place called "Rack Isle". Sounds like a title of a film, Patterson thought as he read through carefully. He realised he was nervous and wasting a few minutes might help calm him down. He looked at the map and judged he was about five minutes away from the address.

Black clouds scudded across the sky obscuring the full moon. At times Patterson struggled to follow the directions to Arlington Mill. The narrow lanes were like a warren and he almost got lost. When he eventually found where he was going, he turned down a pebbled drive and parked the car in front of a stone cottage.

One of Morven's bail conditions was a permanent UK address. He'd insisted he needed somewhere reasonably secure and private. Bearing in mind John McAllister's academic status they had decided to move closer to Oxford.

He parked, walked up to the door and knocked. He couldn't see any lights on anywhere and wondered whether to ring their number. The cottage was one of the honey coloured Cotswold stone almshouses that had once been a monastic wool store. He was surprised they had chosen this location as it was one of the most photographed Cotswold scenes in the area. Less than ten minutes ago he'd seen a postcard of this very house pinned inside a tourist information board. Strange, he thought. Had someone deliberately compromised Morven's privacy? Surely if Morven had seen it he would have asked whoever was in charge to remove it. Leaving it there was like a beacon for anyone hoping to find him.

Patterson banged on the door again and a light went on. McAllister opened it; he was dressed in a thick plaid dressing gown even though it was close to fifteen degrees outside. His Canadian drawl was slightly slurred and Patterson suspected he'd been drinking. He'd only met him once before when he'd accompanied Morven to Park Road.

'Come in,' McAllister said. 'I'll get Jacob.'

McAllister disappeared and Patterson heard muffled voices coming from the room directly above him. He waited, wondering what they were discussing until Morven walked through the door. Considering his predicament the man appeared calm and unruffled.

'I'm not due to come to your police station for two days. It would have been courteous to ring first,' he said.

Patterson felt out of his depth. He wished he could go home and crawl into bed but Liz had trusted him and he couldn't let her down. He tried his authoritative voice. 'I haven't turned up on a whim. I'm here because we have another victim.'

Both men looked up, alarmed. McAllister went to an antique table and poured himself a drink. 'Can I get you one,' he asked.

Patterson shook his head and Morven didn't take up the offer either.

'Jade Harper, one of the students at Grasmere Academy was found murdered approximately two hours ago.'

Patterson could tell by Morven's eyes he knew what was coming next.

'I have to ask you to voluntarily return to Park Road. Before we go I need you to change into other clothes and hand over any other garments you have worn earlier. A forensic team will arrive shortly. I also have a warrant to search these premises.'

'For Christ's sake,' McAllister shouted, 'you can't believe Jacob had anything to do with this.'

Morven moved towards the professor and placed an arm around his shoulders. 'It's okay John, leave this to me.'

'Have you left the house today?' Patterson asked.

McAllister appeared flustered, his breathing became laboured and he slumped onto a sofa.

Morven answered 'We hardly ever go out and when we do we keep to ourselves. So far, only a handful of people in the village know who we are. My lawyers chose this location for a good reason; we had a better chance of remaining anonymous.'

'I asked if you went out today and did you use the hire car?' Patterson asked.

'We drove to Oxford to do grocery shopping. We went this evening,' Morven said.

'What time did you get back?'

Morven turned to McAllister. 'We didn't leave until nine, got back about eleven. We switched on the television as soon as we came indoors. The news had just started.'

'Where's the vehicle?'

'The driveway curves around to the rear of the property. We leave it there so no one can see it from the front,' Morven answered.

'I'd like the keys,' Patterson said. Morven opened a drawer in an antique writing desk and handed them over. 'You're making another mistake. Neither John nor I had anything to do with this poor girl's death. Targeting me will only make you look more foolish.'

Patterson was about to suggest to Morven that he contact Teresa Lane, when his phone beeped. 'Excuse me,' he said.

The two men remained silent while Patterson listened to Eldridge. Les Harper was refusing to cooperate. Eldridge wanted further instructions.

'No point in staying then. He's just lost his daughter so leave it for his brief to organise, that's what they get paid for. But do that right now. Liz will want to start interviewing in the morning.'

Patterson ended the call then turned back to Morven. 'I'd prefer it if you showed me the vehicle you used tonight.'

McAllister refilled his glass. Patterson glanced over and noticed his pallor. He looked ill. The last thing Patterson needed was a sick man on his hands. 'Mr McAllister, I suggest you make that your last whisky.'

McAllister stood up and swayed slightly. 'It's Professor if you don't mind. You have falsely accused a Canadian citizen and I have influential friends here in the UK. I intend to call in a few favours and ask for their help.'

'That's entirely your prerogative sir,' Patterson followed Morven to the rear entrance.

A black BMW sat on the hard standing. Patterson ran his hand across the bonnet.

Morven leaned against a wall, his manner sarcastic. 'Trying to figure out what time I switched off the engine? I've admitted to driving the car, isn't that enough?'

The bonnet felt too hot. Patterson checked the time. It was quarter to two in the morning. There was no way they got back as early as eleven pm. More like just before he turned up. Patterson was shocked his suspicions weren't unfounded. 'A young girl died tonight, some bastard killed her. 'My job is to find out who that person is.'

He removed an LED pen torch from his pocket, bent down and sniffed the front grill; the bitter smell of oil drifted from the engine and caught the back of his throat. Then he lifted the bonnet and inspected underneath. Engines weren't his forte but he knew enough to get by. Over two and a half hours since they got back yet the engine didn't back up their story. The only other explanation was they'd gone out again. He shone the torch on the oil reservoir; the cap was loose and he wondered why. He lifted it off and then replaced it. The engine might have overheated, could that be the reason? Patterson unlocked the driver's door and felt a blast of warmth. He moved the beam over the dashboard and noticed the heating controls were in the on position. Why heat the inside of a vehicle on a warm May night.

He turned to Morven. 'It's pointless lying to me. Either you came home later or you went out again. What's it to be?'

Morven's expression was impassive. 'We came back later than I said.'

'I could arrest you right now for attempting to pervert the course of justice. However, I suggest you ring your solicitor and have her meet us at Park Road in an hour.'

'We stayed in Oxford and I can prove it,' Morven stated.

Patterson knew to be careful. Accusing the Canadian without any probable cause would backfire on him.

'You still have to come back with me and make a statement. So where were you?'

He watched Morven deliberating how to tell him. 'In a brothel on the outskirts of Oxford,' he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tuesday May 28th 6.30 am

Anita was up and dressed when Elizabeth came downstairs. She hadn't intended to sleep at all but the thought of a prowler outside had disturbed her. Anita seemed subdued while she prepared breakfast. 'You're quiet this morning,' she said.

'I slept badly,' Anita said as she took a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

'I'm sorry about last night. You didn't need the extra hassle from me.'

Anita stopped stirring the eggs and looked up. 'I heard the news on the radio. What a terrible tragedy. Is the Canadian a suspect?'

'Patterson just sent me a text. He's requested extra time but his lawyer's objecting. Morven and McAllister insist they were elsewhere so we'll have to wait until their alibis are checked out.'

'If it does then he couldn't killed the girl?'

Elizabeth helped herself to the scrambled eggs. 'I honestly don't know. My brain doesn't want to function this morning. This whole business is weird.'

'Eat up, it will help the hangover.'

Elizabeth needed Anita to explain last night's panic. 'You made light of last night, but you were definitely scared. What happened?'

Anita stared at her. 'I sensed Patterson needed to speak to you urgently. I was proved right. No other reason.'

'Dean noticed. Talk to him if you don't believe me?'

'Wait until you're my age and try sprinting. I'm not fit anymore, as you well know.'

Elizabeth nodded feeling guilty, but not convinced. Something about Anita's demeanour suggested she had been frightened but was never going to admit it. Had someone jumped out at her? Dean had made a point of the low crime statistics in the village but teenagers especially could wreak havoc after a few drinks. They didn't care how their behaviour affected older people. Anita wasn't blasé and years of training don't vanish overnight. She decided not to broach the subject again. 'You should have stayed in bed.'

'I thought I'd drive you to work then go shopping in town. I could do with some fresh air.'

'You don't have to. Once I've had a shower and a couple of headache pills I'll be fine.'

Anita opened a cupboard and took out a small bottle. 'I'll feel happier if I do. You'll still be over the limit. Here, these are strong, so break one in half.'

Twenty minutes later Elizabeth gazed out of the window as Anita drove through the country lanes then onto the motorway. The local radio station played quietly until the news started. Anita turned up the volume in time to hear the breaking story.

The newsreader's voice was typically sombre. 'Late last night a young woman, believed to be a pupil from Grasmere Academy, was found dead in the school grounds. Police aren't releasing any more details for now.'

Anita turned the radio off. 'Why didn't you wake me up and tell me why Patterson rang?'

'There was no point and Patterson said he could handle it.'

Anita turned off the motorway. 'This is dreadful for all the parents. I hope they close down the school, at least for a few days until everyone gets over the shock.'

'I can't see that happening. The kids have GCSE exams coming up. What worries me is alarmist headlines. You know what the media's like. They'll have Cheltenham in the midst of a serial killer crisis.'

'I still can't believe Morven got bail,' Anita said.

'Come on Anita. He's never going to admit to Wilson's murder.'

Anita pulled up outside Park Road and switched off the engine. 'I wish I could help you.'

'Morven's hard to read, but I guess it's the cultural thing. That and the fact he's supposed to be clairvoyant. This is why I need Daly, he'd be my voice of reason. I'm not as logical or plodding. You know me well Anita; I go by my instincts too much.'

'There's nothing wrong with that as long as it's backed up by sensible procedure.'

'Right now I'm neither sensible nor logical. Why don't you come in? Yeats isn't aaround, he's gone to Belfast.'

Anita turned to face Elizabeth a strange look on her face. 'When is he due back?'

'Not sure. I wouldn't give a toss if he stayed there. Why the sudden interest in him?'

'No reason apart from it's good to see you take charge.'

'Promise you'll keep me updated on Daly's progress,' Elizabeth pleaded.

'I will if you promise to keep this to yourself. Don't even tell Patterson. I'll know if you do.'

Elizabeth kissed Anita on the cheek and got out of the car. The time was coming up to seven forty and she hoped Patterson had everyone's day mapped out. Her headache had eased and she checked her bag for the two extra painkillers. It was going to be another endless day and she'd probably need them.

The incident room was in chaos. Patterson seemed to be fending off questions from everyone, added to that Morven and McAllister were still downstairs with their lawyers. Elizabeth dreaded facing them. With no other senior CID officer on the premises, they'd have her guts. They'd also lay the blame of any disorganisation at her feet.

Patterson looked exhausted. 'No sleep?' Elizabeth asked him.

'I could do with a couple of hours, but I think I'm too wired.'

'Go home. Could you get me a coffee before you disappear?'

Patterson was half-dead and she was asking him to wait on her. Elizabeth felt ashamed. 'No hurry,' she added.

Patterson looked disgruntled and she didn't blame him, but she had a valid reason for not going to the machine. She didn't want to bump into Morven's lawyers. By now, any complaints they had dreamt up would be lengthy and serious.

As soon as she walked into the noisy briefing room Katie Gardiner approached her. 'We have a problem that needs sorting,' she said. 'The floral tributes are piling up outside the school and it's causing an obstruction. We need to find another area where people can leave stuff. Do you want me to deal with it?'

'Get a couple of uniforms to help. What about the media? Is there a big turn out?'

'I've heard they're circling. Crosbie's in his element rubbing shoulders with the elite. Are you okay, you look really pale?'

'It's self-inflicted. I always manage to pick the wrong time to go drinking. I shouldn't have given in so easily when Tony said he could manage, I agreed.'

Katie interrupted. 'He's been under your wing for a long time. He needed a chance to prove himself.'

Elizabeth knew she was right. If he was serious about his career he needed a lot more experience. The sound of too many high pitched conversations wasn't going to help her head.

Someone had left an old walking stick propped up in a corner, probably nicked from the lost property cupboard in reception. She whacked it three times on the nearest desk and shouted. 'Everybody shut up and listen.'

Chairs scraped across the floor and then silence.

'Darren, find Eldridge for me and don't take all day. Right you lot, I need to know who's been assigned to what.'

Five minutes later Elizabeth had a clearer picture. She had to admit that Patterson had done a good job. Apart from two new recruits, the rest of them knew exactly what they were doing. She made a few adjustments and dismissed everyone. No sooner had the room emptied, when Eldridge walked in.

'You wanted to see me?'

'Where've you been?'

'To see Dr Oakley, remember. She's starting the girl's post mortem at ten.'

'Did she give you any reports?'

'She's going to email them. Okay if I have a break?'

'Did anyone catch up with Mortimer and Bellamy?'

'In the Alcaisdesa club,' he said and smirked.

'It's taken long enough.'

'That was supposed to be Patterson's responsibility. I don't ever hear him getting a bollicking.'

Elizabeth had an overwhelming urge to slap Eldridge. His behaviour often veered from rude petulance to accommodating obedience. This morning he'd added resentment to the list.

'You don't look particularly tired. I bet while Patterson was busy holding everything together you managed a crafty power nap. Think yourself lucky I'm not asking you to work another nightshift.'

'What's this about an all nighter?' Patterson asked as he rushed through the door.

'I thought you'd gone home.' Elizabeth said and patted him on the arm. 'I forgot to say a big thank you. You did a great job.'

Patterson glanced at Eldridge. 'I overheard what he said about me shirking. So I've decided to go with him.'

Eldridge seemed reluctant to move his feet. 'What about the post mortem?'

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at Eldridge. 'None of us have the time. You're keeping me waiting and I'm keeping Morven's lawyers waiting. Before you go I want you to do something.'

Her bag was under the desk. She knelt down, retrieved her phone and scrolled through the numbers. 'While Patterson's driving I want you to ring this number. It's Yeats's old station in Belfast.'

He picked up a pen and scribbled the number on the back of his hand. 'What do I have to say?'

'Ask to speak to Yeats personally and find out when he's due back. If he's not there keep trying until you get hold of him or somebody who knows what's going on.'

After they left Elizabeth logged on to her email. Jessica's report was long and technical. She skimmed through it and couldn't quite digest its implications. What she did glean was the small paint sample was significant. Jessica had suggested she ring her later on and she'd explain in more detail. Suddenly Elizabeth felt overwhelmed. Dean had left her a text message asking to see her tomorrow night. Calbrain had also sent one reminding her about the information he wanted to pass on. She already had a busy schedule trying to make up for lost time. On top of that she had Jade Harper's boyfriend Duncan Mortimer and his mate Bellamy to look forward to. But right now, Morven and his legal team took precedence over everything else.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Teresa Lane stood up when Elizabeth entered the interview room. An older man struggled to his feet and Lane introduced him as her assistant, Toby Markham. She was surprised; usually paralegals were younger. Elizabeth turned her attention to Jacob Morven and his friend Professor McAllister. She noted their weary resignation and underlying hostility.

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.'

No one spoke. She felt uncomfortable although being on her own had advantages. She opened the file and reread Patterson's initial report. She glossed over his observations about the vehicle's overheated engine. Her knowledge of car engines was limited, but she assumed there was any number of reasons why they retained heat. Call it intuition or what, without his attention to detail, Morven wouldn't have confessed to visiting a brothel.'

Morven's hire car was still being searched for traces of a body. The crime scene coordinator had requested a specialist dog, trained to detect cadaver smell. The animal had an impressive reputation, so if Morven had transported a deceased Jade Harper, they would soon know.

Elizabeth looked up. 'I'm almost finished,' she told them.

The motive with the most credibility had to be if Jade had witnessed Morven killing Wilson. Another possibility occurred to her. What if Morven had taken the girl's attentions seriously and persuaded her back to his hotel? Then events had spiralled out of control. It wouldn't be the first time an adult man had attempted to seduce a teenage girl and ended up facing a rape charge. If she had any criticisms of Patterson, he should have mounted a bigger search for Duncan Mortimer and run both his and Morven's interviews simultaneously.

She checked the time and spoke to Lane. 'Let's start.'

'You do realise we've been here long enough,' Teresa Lane accused.

Elizabeth couldn't feel sorry for any of them. Lawyers were notoriously impatient on police premises. She often wondered why, considering how much they charged their clients. It was their job to represent their interests, not worry about how long it took.

'Elizabeth held up the report and spoke directly to Lane. 'This is a transcript of Sergeant Patterson's earlier interview with your clients.

McAllister looked pale and sounded as if he was hyperventilating. 'I'm not one of her clients.'

'I apologise for presuming. However, Professor McAllister I'd strongly advise you to consider legal representation.'

McAllister leaned across the table, his body language threatening. People addicted to power often believed they were above the law. The Professor was a typical example, an authoritative figure that enjoyed his social standing in Canada. A man, who with the snap of his fingers could summon the best help should he need it.

'Why, when I'm not a suspect?' he argued. 'We could have flatly refused to come here.'

Teresa Lane intervened. 'I believe DI Jewell means you could face an accessory charge if you had prior knowledge of a crime already committed or, that one was going to be. However if you had no knowledge and can prove it you're in the clear.'

Morven turned to McAllister, his expression sombre. 'I begged you not to get involved John. DI Jewell's right, you should return home. There's nothing more you can do to help me.'

Toby Markham spoke for the first time. 'Professor McAllister forgot to give your sergeant the till receipt from the supermarket.'

Elizabeth felt a wave of tiredness wash over her. Had Patterson forgotten to ask for the obvious? She dreaded tackling him about such a clear mistake. She activated the tape recorder. 'I'd like you to verify everything you told Sergeant Patterson, including the fact you omitted to hand over crucial evidence.

Morven ran through the story again. Elizabeth then asked to see the bankcard used to pay the bill.

'I paid cash,' Morven admitted.

Elizabeth knew the receipt was useless unless the itemised bill corresponded with the contents of Morven's cupboards or fridge. 'Did you buy many items?'

'No more than a dozen.'

'I'd like to have the receipt right now,' Elizabeth stated.

McAllister surprised her by handing over the crumpled pieces of paper. She noted the logo. They'd shopped at a Morrison's store on the outskirts of Oxford.

'We also stopped at the garage,' he said, before visiting the brothel.

Elizabeth picked up her reading glasses. The time printed at the bottom of the garage receipt corresponded with their story.

Elizabeth studied Morven properly. There was no doubt the man had presence and anyone susceptible might be drawn in by his charisma. Was that what happened to Wilson and Jade Harper? She still wasn't sure. Morven didn't have the kind of looks she was attracted to, but then neither had Dean Westlake.

Now was the time to find out how good a liar he was. 'On the day you visited the Grasmere Academy we have several people who stated Jade Harper made a pass at you, and you responded favourably.'

Morven lay back in the chair. 'From what I heard about the girl she was very flirtatious with all men, young or old. I don't harbour any desire to have sex with young girls Inspector.'

McAllister stood up and paced up and down. He touched Teresa Lane on the shoulder 'I need to go home and rest,' he pleaded. Then he turned to Elizabeth. 'I don't suppose the Inspector will want to keep us much longer. As soon as I'm out of here, I intend to contact my embassy and speak to the ambassador, who happens to be a close friend. I'll have Ms Lane draw up a list of complaints against Gloucestershire Police and send it to him.'

Elizabeth heard the threat and initially didn't worry. Embassies weren't supposed to interfere in investigations, although she could think of exceptions to the rule. There was one particular unsolved case where the high level of diplomatic involvement was difficult to understand.

She nodded at Lane. 'Same rules apply. I want the forensics unit back at the Bibury house. Once I see confirmation from video coverage from the Morrisons store we can assume your clients are telling the truth.'

'Which poses a problem for you,' Lane said.

'I find that comment insulting. I will find Keith Wilson and Jade Harper's killer.' Elizabeth knew exactly what Lane was implying. That if Morven didn't kill the girl, it was unlikely he'd killed Wilson but she wasn't going to admit it in front of them. Best to let them think Morven was still the prime suspect.

Teresa Lane ushered everyone out of the interview room and Elizabeth rested her head on the wall. She knew the stress was getting to her. She closed her eyes, a few minutes rest, she promised herself, then a strong coffee.

Calbrain suddenly jumped into her thoughts. He hadn't made another appearance at Park Road, probably because he wanted to avoid seeing her.

'Blast,' she muttered to herself. The information he was keen to pass on, the offer she'd rejected. 'Why did I do that?' she asked the empty room. Whatever her feelings were for the man, if he had relevant information she should have listened.

Elizabeth got up and wearily made her way along the corridor. Park Road had quietened down. In reception, she leaned her elbows on the counter and watched as Tom dealt with a customer. He turned his head and smiled. Elizabeth liked the desk sergeant. For a cop, he was reassuring, kind and considerate. He winked and she wondered what he was finding so funny. She looked out of the window. Tom was distracted by Patterson's vehicle pulling up outside the main entrance. Eldridge got out of the passenger seat and opened the rear doors for two young men, Mortimer and his friend Bellamy. Tom watched. 'Double trouble ahead.'

Elizabeth nodded. 'I feel like I'm trapped in a spider's web.'

'A terrible business that young girl, I was hoping my grandchildren might go to Grasmere. I'm not keen now, after what's happened.'

'They're just babies Tom. By the time your oldest is ready to start, no one will remember. And even if they do, they won't want to talk about it.'

Tom sighed. 'Yeah, schools and colleges will eventually end up like fortresses.'

She watched Patterson make for the side door. 'I better go Tom. Don't start worrying about your grandchildren yet. You never know, we could get lucky and this world might change for the better.'

Traces of Teresa Lane's perfume lingered in the interview room. Elizabeth had opened the door expecting to see Patterson. Instead, it was empty apart from a solitary piece of paper on the table. She picked it up and tried to decipher the illegible handwriting. She assumed Toby Markham had left it behind. She folded it carefully and put it into her pocket. She waited outside for a moment wondering where they'd gone. Then it occurred to her, he'd want Mortimer and his mate in the smallest interview room, less comfortable and more intimidating. she made her way there and as soon as she opened the door, she smelled alcohol. What a contrast, she thought. In one room Elizabeth Arden's Red Door, and Jamaican style Red Stripe lager in another. Eldridge was clutching an empty can and had a bruise beneath his left eye.

Elizabeth sat down and spoke directly to Mortimer and Bellamy. 'You're both about to be questioned under caution,' she announced.

'For assaulting a police officer,' Patterson added, unable to hide a faint smile.

Mortimer groaned then smirked. 'You can't get away with that. I asked him to move and he tried head butting me.'

Eldridge leaned over the table. 'And you're a lying bastard.'

Bellamy added his testimony. He's telling the truth. 'You,' he pointed to Patterson, 'had your back to us.'

Elizabeth shouted. 'Shut up whining both of you or you'll end up in a cell.'

She glanced at Eldridge. When he felt like it he'd work well to impress everyone, then, quickly ruin his reputation by some gaffe or other. A short stint back in uniform might put an end to his idiocy. Maybe she could arrange for him to work nights over a weekend scraping drunks off the pavement. He'd soon learn real hardship.

She turned her attention back to Mortimer. Considering his girlfriend had died violently he showed no emotion in his face. He ran his hand through his hair trying to disguise the shaking. Bellamy had begun to fidget too. Elizabeth guessed they were scared of what their parents would say.

'Go and put some antiseptic on that eye,' she told Eldridge.

'Can I get a cup of tea? I need a sugar hit,' he asked.

'If you must,' she answered.

Eldridge couldn't even close the door quietly. The noise made Bellamy shudder and he started whining. 'I want to go home. I haven't done anything.'

'Do you know how many times we hear that when people end up in here?' Elizabeth said.

Bellamy stuck his fingers in his ears. Mortimer closed his eyes.

'It's usually the first words they say. So forget going home until I say you can. This is a police station, one of the few places on the planet where you obey orders.'

'Can we just get on with it then?' Mortimer stammered.

'When was the last time you saw your late girlfriend?' Patterson asked.

'She wasn't my girlfriend,' Mortimer said. 'We just did sex.'

'Answer the question,' Elizabeth said.

'I can't remember exactly, probably a few days ago.'

Elizabeth pushed a pen and sheet of paper towards him. 'That's not good enough. Start writing and it might jog your memory.'

'What about you Mr Bellamy? When did you last see Jade Harper?'

'Ages ago. I didn't always hang out with her and Dunc all the bloody time. I did have other mates.'

'Have you got a girlfriend?'

'Not at the moment.'

'Maybe you shared Jade?' Patterson suggested.

Mortimer shouted. 'She didn't fancy him. It was me she couldn't get enough of.'

Arrogant little bastard, Elizabeth thought. She'd decided not to mention the mask. Right now, she needed them to corroborate their whereabouts. 'Let's make it simple. Where were you between ten pm and the early hours of this morning?'

'I was at home,' Bellamy stated.

'So was I,' Mortimer said.

'So I can phone your parents and they'll confirm you were there?'

Elizabeth waited for one of them to break the silence.

Bellamy checked his designer watch. 'Can I phone my parents now? 'They'll be worried.' Bellamy said.

Elizabeth shook her head. 'I don't care if you sit here all day. We can leave and find a uniformed officer to babysit you. Or, you can start telling me the truth.'

'I saw Jade early evening,' Mortimer said. She called me and demanded I meet her. I thought we were going out drinking, but she had other plans. She said she'd found something out but couldn't tell me what it was.'

Elizabeth looked at Patterson. 'So what was the point in asking to see you? Did you ask what it was about?'

'Jade likes to play mind games. She thinks it's great to wind people up with stupid lies. Then when she has you hooked, she clams up and you can't get anything out of her. It drives me mad. Other than that, she seemed fine. More than fine, she was buzzing, like she was on speed. The last thing she said to me was she'd be in touch, after she was finished whatever she was doing.'

Elizabeth sat quietly, waiting for more.

'She's a stupid bitch. We only ever made use of each other,' Mortimer shouted.

Elizabeth noted he'd referred to Jade in the present tense.

Bellamy added another part to his alibi. 'Mum sent me down to the twenty four hour garage to get fags.'

'That's good news,' Patterson said. 'They all have video cameras.'

Mortimer hadn't written anything down. Elizabeth had the distinct sensation their intention was to bluff it out. Mortimer knew his rights, and Bellamy would follow his example.

The door opened and Eldridge walked in, his swollen cheekbone glistened with antiseptic cream. 'I'm back,' he said.

Elizabeth stood up. 'Sergeant Patterson needs to ring your parents. Then he'll drive you home and talk to them.'

'So you believe us?' Bellamy asked.

'I don't think so, but I'm happy to be proved wrong.'

Eldridge shuffled after Patterson and Elizabeth followed Mortimer and Bellamy. For two young men who thought they were so switched on they had a lot to learn. Neither of them had shown an ounce of concern for the dead girl. However good or bad their parents were, a visit from the police was still a shock, which was in her favour. They might think twice about lying to save their selfish offspring.

Out in the corridor she remembered Yeats. Eldridge was about to disappear around the corner when she called after him.

He walked towards her. 'What's up?'

'You forgot to tell me about Yeats. Did you manage to talk to him?'

Eldridge had a puzzled expression. 'Sorry boss, it went out of my head after I got clouted. I only rang once. He wasn't there.'

'I told you to keep calling.'

'No point,' Eldridge said. 'There was no reference to him returning this weekend because he wasn't expected back until July. Worse still, they had no idea where he'd gone. I got the impression the bloke I spoke to was panicking. He knew your name and said he'd get in touch.'

'When?' Elizabeth asked, trying hard to figure out why Yeats had lied about going to Belfast.

'He didn't say. I thought you wanted rid of him,' Eldridge said.

There's no answer to that, she thought as she made her way across reception.

Tom shouted to her. 'I was just about to ring you. You've got visitors tomorrow morning.'

Elizabeth stopped. 'Tell them to make another appointment.'

Tom grinned. 'Can't, it's too late. He handed her the details. 'Two liaison officers from a place called Terrace in British Columbia are presently on a flight to Vancouver to connect with one coming in to Heathrow. You'll need a welcoming party.'

Not another complication, she thought. Where would she the find time to deal with them? Yeats hadn't mentioned a visit before he took off. It was another one of his manipulative ploys no doubt. Deliberately left her in limbo hoping she'd fall apart. 'Did Yeats mention this to you?'

'No, but everything's above board in BC. I've just taken a call from Terrace. Apparently, Yeats knew exactly what day they were arriving.'

Elizabeth felt exactly like Lee Bellamy had. She wanted to go home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Nick Calbrain poured another glass of red wine. He placed the empty bottle by the kitchen door and took another one out of a cupboard. It was unusual for him to drink during the day but after the argument with Francisca, he felt drained and anxious. She'd returned to Tarifa to help with the wedding preparations and had insisted he join her later in the week. For someone who insisted the UK was home she still went back to Spain at least once a month, usually at weekends.

At the height of the row, Francisca wouldn't accept his decision and resorted to shouting in Spanish. Although he understood some of the language, he was completely lost as her hysteria escalated. He was about to walk out when she stopped yelling and burst into tears. From previous episodes, he knew it would be days before he heard from her. Francisca had a habit of over dramatising situations, which considering her job as a crown prosecutor perplexed him. Apart from their mutual need to settle down, marry and have children, at times he couldn't help but question their relationship.

He had a choice, accept her tempestuous personality or remain single and childless. Looking back over the last decade provided the answer. His life had comprised of too many unsettled and lonely years and he loved Francisca enough to take the risk. At times, he thought she was the most amazing woman in the world. Right now, he was glad to be on his own.

Two national newspapers had printed articles on the Jade Harper murder. There was little information other than the police were studying CCTV footage for any signs of her killer, who was believed to have driven her body to the dump site. Coming so soon after the art teacher's death, several local councillors were calling for more security at Grasmere Academy.

What a mess, Calbrain thought. The tourist season was imminent and Cheltenham's MP was predicting a disastrous summer due to the adverse publicity. Calbrain disagreed. The murders weren't likely to scare visitors away, rather the opposite.

There were plenty of examples, both at home and abroad. The population's fascination with tragedy knew no limits. During his years as a crime journalist and then an editor he'd become accustomed to death. He'd interviewed many grieving families, whether their loved ones were the victims of an accident or crime. Since he'd started a new career he realised he was no longer as immune to the violence. He stared at Jade Harper's photograph, a young girl with no future and here he was obsessing about his own trivial problems.

Francisca took her job seriously and unlike him believed justice would always prevail. To say she was an idealist was an understatement and one of her more endearing characteristics he actually admired. He realised his concentration was slipping and stopped reading. Once they were married, things would settle down. Her demanding job meant she liked her own space. Calbrain also knew how to keep busy and he saw no problem keeping their working lives separate. He knew it wasn't worth battling against her numerous trips to Spain. Her parents were kind and generous people who'd welcomed him into the family. Especially her father, who, according to Francisca, had lost all hope she would ever marry. Calbrain picked up the brochure advertising the wedding venue, a famous hotel in a spectacular setting. This event had all the hallmarks of a society wedding. The Montero's were a well-known family expected to fulfill their obligations.

Calbrain drank more wine and turned his attention to why Elizabeth hadn't responded to his text. He knew from experience the information could be worthless. It certainly wasn't that all-important piece of the jigsaw, rather a questionable snippet from a slightly dubious source. But who knows, he thought. Most major investigations relied on sightings, and Calbrain had learned never to ignore them, however fanciful. He picked up his phone and stared at the screen. His anger had died down and he was feeling more relaxed. Asking her to go for a drink was a waste of time. In a few months, any meeting with Elizabeth Jewell would be out of the question. His fiancée was a jealous woman. Not long after they'd started dating, Francisca had demanded he tell her everything about his short relationship with DI Jewell. Days went by before she finally accepted she had nothing to fear. In reality, he still thought about her and couldn't always understand why. In any case it was pointless trying to figure it out. He'd messed up his life enough in the past and couldn't afford to again.

The alcohol had got the better of his reasoning. He poured another drink, grabbed his phone and tapped out a message.
CHAPTER FORTY

Tiredness drove Elizabeth to the canteen at three pm. None of the remaining meals appealed to her so she settled for coffee and a piece of shortbread. She finished eating and was about ring Jessica Oakley's when her phone rang.

The Assistant Chief Constable spoke curtly and briefly. He was arriving at Park Road at seven pm and wished to speak to her without any interruptions.

Elizabeth hadn't met ACC Steve Reynolds very often. Compared to the Chief Constable he was an easy going, softly spoken mild mannered man. She hadn't asked why he wanted to see her because she guessed it had something to do with Jade Harper. One clear fact no one could dispute was the Assistant Chief Constable socialised with Jade's father. Elizabeth presumed the two men were freemasons and belonged to the same lodge. Les Harper hadn't achieved his success without mixing with the right people, including senior police officers. Whether she approved was irrelevant, even a suggestion that their association was inappropriate would cause too many bad vibes. Because she valued Reynolds for his honesty, she hoped there were no sinister undertones to his friendship with Harper.

Jessica Oakley took her time answering. 'Sorry for not getting in touch sooner,' Elizabeth said. 'I feel as if I'm being tossed about in the middle of a tornado.'

'No worries. Not all the results are sorted yet.'

'If I'm not disturbing anything crucial can you talk me through this new evidence?'

Jessica laughed. 'It's not too technical, even for you. We have a paint chip that doesn't tie in or match with the other paint samples. This isn't something you'd generally find inside a building, other than a garage.'

'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. Unfortunately, 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 earlier, 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.

Patterson looked through the window. 'Better not. It's too hot and a family with three kids has taken it over. I need to concentrate on what you're going to tell me.'

Over their soft drinks and sturdy sausage sandwiches Elizabeth repeated Reynolds' disclosure. 'My main problem is that I don't feel confident to cope long term,' she admitted.

'It won't come to that but in the interim, you'll have to. There's nobody else.'

Elizabeth knew he was right. Bringing someone else in would take time. She'd have to face up to the situation at some point so she might as well start now.

Ten minutes later Patterson licked the ketchup from his fingers and rubbed them with a serviette. 'I can't wait for the next installment.'

Elizabeth couldn't finish her lunch. Apprehension had crept in and taken away her appetite. She saw Patterson eyeing up the remnants of her sandwich. 'Have it,' she offered.

While he ate she hoped he understood why she had questioned Yeats' character and background. The nauseous unease she'd felt on Valentine's night had never left her and wouldn't until she saw Daly again.

Patterson pointed to his watch. 'Let's get back. Reynolds is a decent bloke, I don't want to mess him aaround.'

'I better use the ladies,' Elizabeth said.

A couple of minutes later she stepped outside into the cobbled street and made a promise to herself.

Reynolds was enjoying his own meal when they returned.

'I thought I'd better eat. Have you eaten?' he asked, as he cut up a slice of chicken. A paper plate held a green salad and new potatoes. A jar of Hellman's low calorie mayonnaise stood next to it. He eats healthily, Elizabeth thought, already regretting the greasy sausages.

'We did, thank you Sir. We should wait outside until you've finished yours,' she said.

'No need. I'll keep some of this for later. My wife insists I graze. She believes in the little and often theory and I have to admit she's right. I've lost half a stone since Christmas, though I wouldn't mind another coffee to fill the void.'

Elizabeth set to work while Patterson made small talk. She felt tiredness creeping in and prayed the coffee would keep her alert.

Reynolds went into the cloakroom and washed his hands. When he returned he took up the story where he'd left off.

'I want to go back to the mid-eighties and the relationship between Yeats and his now dead informer. Working for a Special Branch officer wasn't enough to satisfy this informer. He wasn't earning much money and he had expensive tastes so he carried on with his criminal activities. Special Branch didn't care, if informers mixed with the underworld, all the better until they heard they had gone too far and needed to punish them. Yeats was in danger of having his cover blown. He'd heard his informer was double crossing everyone he dealt with, so Yeats planted drugs in his house and the informer went to prison for two years. Taking him out of circulation meant he couldn't ruin any reputations because no one was likely to believe his story and if any inmates did, the prison officers knew how to suppress them. You have to remember prisons were full of people who knew more than was good for them, so staff plugged the leaks. How they did it was questionable, but I'll leave that to your imagination.'

Reynolds paused to take a drink giving Elizabeth an opportunity. 'Surely that defeated their objective, especially for Yeats. He would lose his informer.'

'Yeats wanted rid of him. He felt the relationship had run its course and there were others more than willing to step into his shoes. Yeats continued his mission, trying to split various factions, hoping they'd rat on each other over their gun suppliers. Few people knew what methods Yeats used but he was successful. Then his biggest problem caught up with him, his old informer was out early for good behaviour. The reason, he'd started writing his memoirs. He'd been far too busy writing to get into any trouble.'

'And now you know what those memoirs contained,' Patterson said.

Reynolds nodded. 'He'd spent all his spare time compiling a three hundred page document. His writing skills weren't up to much, but the content would have made a best seller.'

'What happened after he was released?' Elizabeth asked.

'We can only speculate. This man had no real sense of loyalty and prison hadn't persuaded him to go straight. He joined the Ulster Defence Association, the violent loyalist paramilitary group and Yeats ended up resurrecting their partnership. That's when everything went drastically wrong. Innocent civilians were killed because of misinformation and dodgy intelligence.'

'My God,' Elizabeth gasped. 'Are you saying Yeats caused unnecessary deaths?'

'Their relationship had soured but they were stuck with each other, so Yeats executed him and yes, Special Branch covered it up.'

'It's taken all these years to surface, ' Patterson stated.

Reynolds looked embarrassed. 'Fifteen, if you want to be precise.'

'So the paper never published the informer's memoir,' Elizabeth said.

'They didn't because the government intervened. In our business, cold cases have to wait until there is new evidence and forensic breakthroughs. This case was no different, except for the intervention from families of the victims. The questions began immediately after their relatives had died, as you would imagine. Most of the families weren't involved in the troubles and were extremely suspicious of the circumstances surrounding their relative's death. They formed a group to put pressure on the police to reinvestigate and it wasn't until between two thousand and two thousand and three the European Court of Human Rights got involved. They'd received a number of complaints concerning deaths and concluded the state were derelict in their duty by not implementing an effective investigation to protect the right to life. In other words, these victims suffered a violation because of the state's failings. Now all this was out in the open it was increasingly difficult for the British government to deny any demands for a full inquiry into the deaths. So here we are.'

'I don't understand how this relates to Daly,' Elizabeth stated.

'The people investigating Yeats needed to get him out of Ireland. The man had powerful friends, not just in the IRA but other organisations. Some of them owed Yeats favours. If he'd found out what was happening they would have helped him disappear. The unit dealing with these cases kept him under surveillance for almost two years and discovered he still occasionally met up with them. It was imperative to offer him a transfer to the UK. He could hardly refuse, as he knew it would appear suspicious. From what I can gather, they half expected him to leg it out of Gloucestershire. Had it not been for your murder enquiry he might have.'

'The whole thing was a setup,' Elizabeth stated.

Reynolds looked serious. 'Hear me out for a bit longer. It was imperative to bring resolution to the victim's families and to restore confidence to the wider Irish community. Seconding police officers requires a vacant position. As you know, many retired officers return to the force to investigate cold cases. The jurisdiction for the UK came under Operation Clover. Anita Fleming was persuaded to come out of retirement to head up the team. Daly's involvement was twofold, Anita requested Daly join the team because he had prior terrorist experience when he worked for Avon and Somerset. That gave us a vacant position for Yeats, one where we could continue the surveillance.'

'I didn't know Daly had dealt with any terrorism issues,' Patterson said.

'It was a covert operation that resulted in arrests and prosecutions. Daly knew his stuff.'

Elizabeth stared at Patterson trying to absorb the information. Now she knew why Anita appeared edgy, she'd stumbled uninvited into her house asking questions about Daly, ones Anita could not answer.

'So Daly isn't ill?' she asked.

'Far from it, he was honoured that Anita asked him to help and has worked diligently with her to bring this case to closure.'

'What happens to Yeats?' Patterson asked.

'The Crown Prosecution is confident he'll go to trial next year. It was a difficult and complex case. Having said that, we have sufficient confirmation that Yeats knew innocent people would die during the operations he'd directed. Historic offences have to be prosecuted to bring closure to the victim's families. That's the law.'

Elizabeth summoned up the courage to ask the question and held her breath. 'Is Daly coming back to Park Road?'

Reynolds looked straight at her, a slight twinkle in his eye. 'I think that's a question you will have to ask him.'
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Wednesday May 29th

A restless night was responsible for Elizabeth oversleeping. If the phone hadn't rung, she might have remained in her comatose state. Still lying down, she held the phone to her ear and listened carefully to what Patterson was saying. After a three hour delay at Vancouver airport, the two visiting Canadian officers had finally arrived at Heathrow. Eldridge had picked them up approximately an hour and a half ago.

Elizabeth yawned and willed herself out of the fog. 'I bet like me, he didn't appreciate an early start.'

'I sent Katie Gardiner with him.'

'A sensible choice,' she replied, struggling to sit up.

'Hang on, she's just texted me...'

'Where are they now?' Elizabeth asked.

'Just come off the M4. You'd better get a move on.'

'Please don't state the obvious when I'm still in my nightwear,' she said and hung up.

Elizabeth searched her cupboards looking for a suitable outfit. Clothes piled up on the bed until she checked the time. In desperation she discarded the corporate suits in favour of her old comfortable jeans, a t-shirt and a cardigan in case the temperature dipped. She slipped on comfortable flat pumps and dragged a brush through her hair. After glancing in the mirror indecision struck again. Did she look smart enough, was her choice too casual. Other than the fact that two RCMP officers from the City of Terrace in British Columbia were now en route for Cheltenham she'd received no other information. What did these two officers hope to achieve? Elizabeth couldn't decide, only that anything Canadian was rapidly turning into a thorn in her side.

Getting to sleep after the Reynolds disclosures hadn't been easy. To tire her eyes she'd read through a copy of Morven's lecture to the A-level pupils. He'd prepared well for his school tour, which proved he was conscientious. Why would a man of his status suddenly turn into a murderer? If he had, then it could only have occurred through some kind of provocation. She'd read the Volcano Woman legend twice, it fascinated her. The short narrative had exposed more about the selfish side of human nature and the subsequent consequences than any cut and paste news article. She remembered reading a book that had began in Etruscan times. The story revolved around an ancient tablet that over the centuries had caused countless murders and terrible destruction. Could a missing mask be responsible for what had happened in Cheltenham? She still couldn't decide. On the one hand it seemed too fanciful, on the other, the only credible option.

She put the kettle on and thought about last night. Her job dealt in facts, not fiction, a point Reynolds had made clear to her in the pub. Before he went home he'd invited her and Patterson for a drink, except Reynolds only had fruit juice. He explained that his doctor had advised him to cut down on wine and spirits, a policeman's curse, he'd said. He didn't mention Yeats again. Instead he entertained them with quirky stories from his years in the force.

Elizabeth gulped her tea and was ready to leave when she remembered Bagpuss. She quickly filled up his bowl, opened the kitchen window and shouted for him. Either he didn't hear or he'd gone off further afield. She tried again but still no sign, which was unusual, as he never missed breakfast.

The forecast had promised a warmer day with the chance of light showers. She pulled into the car park ten minutes later and left the Saab in her favourite spot, under a solitary beech tree. Park Road was quiet as she crossed reception. Once in her office she checked her email. She'd received one from the Canadian Embassy confirming details about further consulate support for Jacob Morven. Elizabeth read it carefully, noting the date of the next visit from one of their officials. The email also mentioned the International letter of request authorising liaison officers from Terrace to meet with Morven. Today was the first time in her career she'd welcomed overseas police officers. The amount of diplomacy involved was staggering. She knew that they couldn't investigate in the UK without permission from the Home Office, but she still felt apprehensive. The chances are they would arrive with a hostile attitude which might hamper both of her investigations.

Her plan focused on lightening the atmosphere. Take them to the canteen for a cup of tea and maybe a cream scone. Subject them to a typical English tradition. Talk cheerfully about mutual interests, make them feel at home. Elizabeth knew it wasn't very original but it would have to suffice. Park road seemed even shabbier today as she tried to imagine it from their eyes. No doubt back in Terrace, they had a light, airy modern building with a well-equipped restaurant. God knows what they'll make of this place, she thought.

Reading the email's next section she was surprised to learn the Terrace City Chief was a woman, one Inspector Gillian Walsh. Her travelling companion was a Sergeant Stuart Adams from the forensic identification services. Why send a senior officer she wondered. Surely, a couple of lower ranks were capable of compiling a report on the Morven situation. Elizabeth now wished she'd prepared better, but time and lack of relevant information had put paid to that idea. A postscript at the end of the email stated that the direction the Canadian officers intended to follow would remain confidential. So she was none the wiser as to their remit.

Patterson seemed to think they'd want to go straight to their hotel to sleep off the jet lag, but Elizabeth knew what she would do in their place. Suss out the senior investigating officer first. These days police forces from all over the world regularly collaborated, often very successfully. The arrangements were all in place. All she had to do was welcome them to Park Road.

Their imminent arrival meant she must hold on to her authority. Reynolds had made it clear that until the Yeats trial was publicly announced she was absolutely on her own.

DC Darren Johnson knocked on her office door. 'Dr Oakley is holding for you. Do you want it put through?'

'Thanks Darren,' she replied, waited a few seconds and picked up the handset.

'Sorry if you're busy Liz but I wanted to double check something about the papier-mâché masks.'

'Is this to do with the paint chip analysis?'

'Yes, I'm missing three masks. The list I was given states there should be eighteen. I've only got fifteen.'

Jessica's caution was understandable. Even the highly acclaimed government funded forensic laboratory had suffered damage to its reputation due to several blunders including mislaying evidence. Its failure to use the most up-to-date techniques for extracting DNA samples had caused a scandal. Detectives had ended up reviewing cases where samples had failed to provide definitive DNA profiles.

'Sorry Jess. I assumed you had them all.'

'Who dealt with them after I left the scene?'

'Yeats did. He logged eighteen entries into the competition Morven judged. I saw his notes.'

'I'm positive this particular paint chip hasn't come from any of the masks but it's vitally important I eliminate them all.'

An unwelcome thought flashed into Elizabeth's head. 'I'm thinking the unthinkable here.'

'Please no conspiracy theories. I joined Twitter last night, it is mind boggling.'

'You know I don't trust Yeats. He wouldn't be the first cop to have tampered with evidence.'

'That's a dangerous assumption unless you can prove it. What reason would he have?'

'Deliberately frame Morven for a quick fix.'

Jessica sounded outraged. 'It's virtually impossible to do that these days.'

Elizabeth immediately regretted accusing Yeats. Jessica might repeat her words, and if it got back to Reynolds, he would be furious.

'Forget I said that. I've had a bad night.'

'Ring as soon as the masks turn up. I might collect them myself.'

Darren was back, this time looking sheepish. 'Sorry, there's another call on line two. It's a Mrs Fleming.'

'Tell her to ring me on my mobile. I'll turn it on now.'

'I spoke to ACC Reynolds last night?' Anita said. 'I'm relieved he told you. I don't like lying.'

Elizabeth suspected that Anita had probably done plenty of lying in her life out of necessity, but didn't like saying so. 'I want to see Daly, or if that's off limits, talk to him,' Elizabeth stated firmly.

She heard Anita sigh. 'We're a long way off tying this up. I'm not saying you'd forget yourself, but even with the best intentions leaks still happen. This is a big operation Elizabeth, important we get it one hundred percent right. Yeats has kept his nose clean all these years; I'd hate to see him get off on a technicality.'

Elizabeth had just made a stupid gaffe. She daren't push Anita too far. 'So the answer is no.'

'For the moment it is.'

I'm being selfish, she thought. Daly is a busy man. Even if Anita had allowed her to speak to him, listening to her problems was the last thing he needed. She changed the subject. 'Is Yeats looking at a long sentence?'

'That's not my area of expertise. What I will say is people will view Yeats' crimes differently. Some will see him as a cold blooded killer, others as some kind of hero. It's a fact that juries can be swayed and judges don't always deliver the expected verdict. I've talked to Yeats, and I don't think he cares what happens to him. He sees himself as a soldier rather than a cop. All those years waiting for this to happen must have taken its toll. Going to prison will seem the better option. He's still considered young enough to start again after he's released.' Anita paused for a while and Elizabeth sensed she had something else to say. 'Don't be too alarmed but I need to warn you. Please be careful. The other night, when you thought I was scared...'

Elizabeth interrupted. 'I knew I wasn't wrong.'

'Working on these historic cases doesn't come without problems. Recent intelligence tells us we weren't the only ones after Yeats; other people were and likely still are. As I said, he's known for years he was a target. That's precisely why he rented an isolated property in Gloucestershire, so he could install sophisticated security systems. After Patterson rang I came out immediately. As I walked down the path I saw someone watching the house from the other side of the street. I went back inside and peered out of the window waiting for him to leave. I gave it a few minutes and he did. I'm saying he, but I can't be sure. I just got through the gate when he appeared from nowhere and started walking towards me. It was scary Liz, old IRA type disguise, black clothes, balaclava and some type of face covering. I ran back indoors and phoned Reynolds. He told me to stay indoors and said he would send an unmarked car with two armed rapid response officers. Then I was stupid and decided to come down to the pub and tell you about Patterson. I was about halfway when down the road when I heard someone pounding along behind me. I didn't look, just ran as fast as I could.'

Elizabeth couldn't believe Anita's stupidity. 'What on earth were you thinking about? Did the cavalry find him?'

'They trawled the village several times but no sign. There were a few people making their way home from the pub but no one matching the description. Crime scene turned up later and scoured where he was for any evidence.'

'Are you a target because you were instrumental in arresting Yeats?'

I'm ruling out any of the victims' families, they would have acted sooner. It's got to be someone Yeats has seriously pissed off. Grudges can last for years before they're acted upon. So, stay alert, just in case.'

'Why would they bother with me?' Elizabeth asked.

'I'm not saying anyone will, but keep it in mind.'

Elizabeth had almost forgotten about the woman in the pub asking after her. She explained what had happened. 'Someone is trying to frighten you Anita. Dean was adamant he hadn't seen this woman before.'

'I suspected whoever did this wasn't acting alone. In order to really scare the shit out of me, they needed me home alone. Seeing you leave my place scuppered their plan and that's why she came in the pub. I'll need a description of her and we'll generate an e-fit. I'll ring Dean and ask him to do one as well. Are you seeing him again?'

'I might if I ever get any spare time.' Elizabeth felt a hand on her elbow. She spun around and saw Patterson. From his expression, she could see they had a problem..

'Hang on Anita.'

Patterson sat down. 'Message from Teresa Lane, John McAllister's had a heart attack and was air lifted to the Radcliffe in Oxford.'

'Bloody hell, did she say what caused it?'

'Someone sent him a present and it gave him a hell of a shock. According to Lane, this present happened to be a mask.'

Elizabeth went back to her friend. 'Something's come up. I'll have to leave it there.'

'Sorry Liz, but I overheard. Hope you get there in time.'

Elizabeth felt the adrenaline kick in. 'Ring Teresa Lane and tell her not to touch the mask again and that we'll be over there as soon as possible.'

Patterson peered through the window. 'Eldridge has just pulled up.'

'Shit,' Elizabeth said. 'What do we do?'

'No choice, we have to welcome the Canadians and find out what their plans are.'

'Do I look all right?' Elizabeth asked.

'A typical woman question when everything else is in chaos. You look fine.'

'This mask, what is...'

Patterson interrupted. 'There's no time to discuss it now. They're getting out of the car.'

Seconds later, they stood at the top of the stairs like royalty waiting to welcome foreign dignitaries. Inspector Gillian Walsh held out her hand. Sergeant Stuart Adams stood behind her waiting his turn. Elizabeth straightened herself and gave them her best smile.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Elizabeth's first impression of Gillian Walsh was the woman actually looked like a cop. She was about five foot five, well muscled under her baggy blouse and tight trousers. Her dark eyes said she'd seen too many bad things in too short a time. Elizabeth felt like a complete fraud next to her. 'It's good to meet you Inspector Walsh,' she said.

'No ranks please while we're here. I'm Gillian and he's Stu,' she replied pointing to the sergeant. Then she too smiled and her features softened. Elizabeth searched for any resemblance to her native tribe, but her features were European. Unlike Morven, her skin was pale and her shoulder length hair had an auburn tinge. Sergeant Adams did remind her of Morven. He was well over six feet tall and had a striking angular face. Elizabeth estimated he was in his mid-fifties.

'Pleased to meet y'all,' he spoke with a Texan drawl rather than a Canadian twang.

'I hope the journey wasn't too dramatic,' Elizabeth said.

'I've had worse,' Walsh replied, 'the plane had four engines, not exactly what I'm used to.'

'Is this your first visit to the UK?' Patterson asked.

Adams answered, 'It is and very pleased to be here despite the circumstances.'

Eldridge and Gardiner had stood to one side waiting for instructions. Elizabeth moved closer to them and lowered her voice. 'We have another development. Patterson and I are going to Bibury later. I want you to track down three masks that either went missing from Grasmere's art gallery or from the evidence room. Check the evidence room first. If they're not there, go back to Grasmere. Dr Oakley needs them urgently.'

'I'm coordinating house to house. Remember your words, last person to see Jade Harper,' Eldridge said.

'Luckily for you I'm going to ignore what you just said. Just do as you're told for once. If you can't find them, contact the students who entered the competition. See if any of them took their mask home, and why.'

Elizabeth went back to her guests. 'If you like we can go the canteen.'

'I'd love a cup of tea,' Walsh grinned, her face losing its hard edge.

'There's bacon and eggs or teacakes and jam,' Patterson added.

'No bacon and egg, we had that on the plane,' Adams said.

Elizabeth gestured for them to follow her. 'Did DC Eldridge drop your bags at the hotel?' 'We preferred to come straight here. Someone's picking us up later.' Walsh pulled out a sheet of paper with typewritten instructions and handed it to Elizabeth. 'You better have a copy.'

The canteen was quiet and no one stared at them when they walked in. Patterson went to order and came back with toasted teacakes; jam on the side and chocolate cake left over from yesterday.

Elizabeth waited until they'd finished eating before mentioning McAllister. 'I'm sorry but we need to leave you soon. John McAllister has had a heart attack and is in hospital in Oxford.'

Walsh and Adams looked shocked. 'We were hoping to speak to Morven and the professor today.'

'The call came just as you arrived. I take it you know Professor McAllister. He came over here to lend support to Morven.'

Adams sighed. 'Poor guy, I hope he makes it. All we know for sure is he posted bail. I hear it was close on one and a half million Canadian dollars.'

Elizabeth said. 'I presume you've heard about the second murder, a young girl from the Academy where Morven delivered his lecture.'

'We did, Ma'am,' Adams said.

'Up until then, the undertakings Morven gave at his bail hearing have been stringently adhered to. Obviously the situation has changed. He has also been questioned in relation to the Jade Harper investigation.'

Walsh sounded angry when she spoke. 'I hope you don't think he's involved.'

It was Patterson's turn to be defensive. 'We're still checking his alibi.'

Elizabeth wanted to break the sudden animosity. 'I'm sure the professor will pull through.'

'The Radcliffe is one of the best hospitals in the country for heart problems,' Patterson added.

Elizabeth felt awkward. The earlier friendly dynamic had shifted. She stumbled over her words. 'I can guarantee the Radcliffe staff will do everything they can to nurse him back to health.'

Walsh played with her rings. Elizabeth noticed they adorned her left hand. Was she married with children? Wearing them didn't necessarily mean she was. When she spoke, her tone sounded critical. 'He had health problems before he came here. His work colleagues were against him making the journey. They were worried this stressful situation would make him worse. They were proved right.'

'I'm very sorry,' Elizabeth said, accepting she would have felt the same about any of her friends. So it seemed these two knew both men. Neither Walsh nor Adams had commented on whether Morven was innocent or guilty and it was unlikely they would. Protocol dictated they could not interfere in the investigation process but Morven's reputation assured him of certain privileges. The consular staff' had limited powers, unless they overstepped the mark, which wasn't unheard of.

Adams took over. 'Both men are massively respected back home. This arrest came as a big shock so it's not surprising there's a lot of animosity against you Brits. Folks back home want answers to valid questions, firstly, why would a man like Morven need to kill a teacher? We're talking about a guy who's travelled all over the world without any repercussions anywhere. He's hailed as a hero wherever he goes, except here. Unless you give the British press more information, you're in for more condemnation. We're not here to cause trouble, but we'll be grateful if we can come along with you today. Save us getting lost on future trips as we'll know how to get there.'

Elizabeth understood their feelings. Yeats had caused this furore by seizing an opportunity to enhance his own credibility in case he managed to evade justice and needed a new career. If Morven went to prison based on flimsy evidence and subsequently proved innocent, God knows what would happen. Forget about moving to the new premises, Elizabeth thought, we may as well shut up shop for good.'

'Is it okay to come along?' Walsh asked.

Elizabeth had to make a decision. They obviously intended seeing him more than once but for this first occasion, Elizabeth wished she could persuade them to return to their hotel, but she couldn't. She had to agree. 'That's fine,' she said.

'I'll drive,' Patterson offered.

'How far is Oxford from here?' Adams asked.

'About an hour if the traffic's okay,' Elizabeth answered. She didn't want to leave until the atmosphere thawed. 'I need another coffee before we go. Anyone else want one?'

Patterson played waiter again while Elizabeth steered clear of any further conflict. 'I'm interested in your hometown. Terrace is an unusual name for a town,' she said.

'It' a city, Adams said. 'A guy from Ontario called George Little came to the area in nineteen hundred and five. He changed the name because of the geography. Old sediment deposits from glaciers changed the landscape over time and had formed benches or terraces.'

Walsh took over. 'Once it was the cedar pole capital of the world. Every year we manufactured over fifty thousand poles, mainly shipped to the States for telephone and electric power poles. We're famous for the world's tallest pole and it's still standing in New York. These days nearly all wood mills are gone apart from those the First Nations own. Now we mainly rely on tourism, although there's a new spotlight on mineral developments. We also have a great ski resort. You should come over sometime.'

Elizabeth took the offer as a hand of friendship. 'I'd love to. My oldest friend lives in Vancouver but I haven't seen her for a long time. One of these days I might go, but I've been saying I will for years.'

'You should,' Adams said. 'The city's changed a lot in the last ten years.'

'What does your friend do?' Walsh asked.

'She's editor of a fashion magazine called Mode, not to be confused with Vogue.'

Patterson handed out the coffee and checked his watch. 'Better go after this,' he said.

The next twenty minutes gave Elizabeth a chance to repair the earlier misunderstandings. Patterson signed out a Range Rover and pulled up outside the main entrance to Park Road. Less than an hour later, they were knocking on Morven's door.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Teresa Lane ushered them inside. 'Get in quickly,' she said. 'A few journalists have been assembling since I got here.'

'We didn't see any,' Patterson said as they all squeezed through the half open door.'

'Hopefully they've gone looking for something to eat.'

Once they were inside, she turned to Walsh and Adams. 'Sorry I didn't introduce myself. 'I'm Teresa Lane, Jacob's solicitor.

Elizabeth cast her eye over the antique furnishings. Whoever Morven rented the place from wasn't short of money.

'Please sit down,' Lane said. Jacob's upstairs sorting his emails. Can I offer you a drink?'

Gillian Walsh was the first to accept. 'I like your English tea. I want to apologise for not checking it was okay to come but it seemed sensible to drive here with DI Jewell and see you straight away.'

'Jacob's very grateful you've come all this way. It's important he has solid links to home. I've helped him understand how the British legal system works and what he can expect to happen over the next few months. The difficulty now of course is this second murder.' Lane looked over at Elizabeth. 'Have you checked John and Jacob's alibi yet?'

Elizabeth knew she was on the spot. Walsh and Adams were watching her. 'The lady who runs the establishment in Oxford confirmed both Morven and McAllister were there. What she couldn't tell us was what time they left. We're studying CCTV from the Cowley Road and as soon as we get confirmation Mr Morven was driving along that route, we'll have no further reason to question him.'

Walsh turned to Teresa Lane. 'We'd like to meet Nick Calbrain, who I am told was responsible for setting up the consular help from our embassy.'

Elizabeth wasn't expecting Calbrain's name to crop up. Which reminded her, she'd not replied to his text regarding the information he'd offered her.

She shut out the sound of Lane's voice and thought about her short time with Calbrain. He hadn't told her a lot about his life until one night at the Queens Hotel when he'd opened up. Telling her of times he'd tried to forget, and building a new life in a new country. She'd listened and had believed every word. Now she wasn't so sure. Calbrain had come into her life too soon. After breaking up with David she'd had no desire to start a new relationship. Then a chance meeting changed everything. She had loved Nick Calbrain and had wanted to trust him.

Someone was saying her name. She opened her eyes and the room seemed slightly blurred. This occasional trouble with her eyesight, was in her opinion, stress related. One of these days, she thought, I will learn how to relax properly. She blinked a few times and her vision cleared.

Teresa Lane had sat on a green velvet Chesterfield. 'I was just saying Inspector Jewell that Nick keeps in touch most days. He and John knew each other when he lived in Vancouver. When all this happened John asked him to help. I believe Nick and you were also friends.'

Elizabeth wondered why she needed to know. Perhaps she was attracted to him. 'He helped us on a case. I heard he's getting married soon.'

Lane looked surprised. 'He hasn't mentioned it to us.'

She stood up and walked over to a small cabinet, then opened a drawer and handed a card to Walsh. 'Nick Calbrain's number. She glanced back at Elizabeth. 'I assume it's okay for your visitors to speak to Jacob in private.'

Elizabeth nodded. 'I don't like to pressure you, but the main reason for this visit was to collect the mask. I'd like to see it.'

'Can you give me a few minutes?'

The door closed and she heard them climbing the stairs. Patterson was fiddling with his phone.

'You're as bad as Eldridge, always messing with your phone.'

'Talking of phones, has Calbrain been in touch with you?'

Elizabeth didn't want to admit she'd ignored his text, especially when he'd promised information. She knew Patterson would want to know why. She decided to be honest. 'I got a text. He said someone had given him some info on the Wilson case.'

'Was it any use?'

'I didn't get back,'

'Bloody hell Liz, why not? Calbrain's not daft. He wouldn't bother you if it wasn't of interest.'

Elizabeth heard Lane coming down the stairs. 'Not now Tony. We need to retrieve the mask, Anyway, I feel uncomfortable with these people.'

'Have you heard from the hospital since you rang us?' Elizabeth asked Lane.

'No change, they gave him the clot busting drugs immediately but they take time to act. The staff nurse said to ring this afternoon for an update.'

'No chance of any visitors then?' Patterson queried.

Lane sounded annoyed. 'I'm sure it won't apply to you. The mask's in the kitchen. Come through.'

They followed her into an enormous space in huge contrast to the room they'd just left. Modern and minimalist, it felt like stepping from one period of history to another in a few seconds.

Lane reached up and removed a brown paper parcel from a shelf. She placed it carefully on a glass table.

Elizabeth didn't touch it, but observed its size. 'It's too big to go through a letterbox so how did it get into the house?'

'When I arrived yesterday morning John wasn't feeling too well. After about an hour I could see Jacob was fed up and he suggested we go out somewhere for lunch. John came downstairs after a short nap and insisted on coming too. I drove to Blenheim Palace and we wandered aaround there for an hour or so, then we went to a pub in Woodstock for lunch. John enjoyed himself and certainly seemed a lot better when we got back. As soon as I came into the house, I remembered Jacob had asked me to lock the conservatory doors. I'd forgotten. When Jacob went into the conservatory he found the package.'

'Who opened it?'

'Jacob thought I should. So I did.'

'That's interesting. He was obviously suspicious about the contents. Did he seem nervous?'

'I don't think he was suspicious, cautious maybe. He's aware he could be targeted by nutcases. There are vigilantes out there, some of them are dangerous.'

Elizabeth pulled on latex gloves and handed Patterson a pair. Lane had tried resealing the box and she wondered why, to protect it? Like the tissue, someone had carefully wrapped the mask in blue tissue paper. A woman's touch, Elizabeth guessed as she gently prised the blue paper away. She picked up the mask and studied it for a few seconds. It had to be one of the missing masks from Grasmere. She could feel the layers of papier-mâché and when she turned it over, the inside was rough. Something caught her eye, initials written on the bottom left hand corner. She tried to make them out but the ink had spread making the letters blur into each other.

'Take a look. Your eyes are better,' she handed it to Patterson.

'Difficult to see, first letter might be, I, or a T. Not sure.'

She lowered the mask carefully into the box. 'Thinking about it, I don't think the letters are initials. Because Morven was judging, I'm certain I heard that someone in the art department devised a code to prevent any favouritism.'

'That wasn't necessary. Even with their full names on, how would Morven know who was who? It might be worth asking these art teachers why they resorted to codes.'

'We can think about that later. I want to go to the Radcliffe on the way back.'

Lane was listening intently to their conversation. Elizabeth cursed. She was bound to tell Morven what she'd heard.

When they returned to the sitting room, Jacob Morven had positioned himself next to Sergeant Adams. Elizabeth noticed the change in him. His face was drawn and he appeared to have lost weight. 'I assume there was no note with this,' Elizabeth held up the box.

Morven stood up. 'We would have told you.'

Walsh asked. 'Okay if I see it?'

Elizabeth held the box while Walsh and Adams had a look inside.

'Would you say it's an authentic representation of a Nisga'a mask?' Elizabeth asked.

'Who made it?' Walsh asked.

'A sixth form pupil studying at Grasmere,' Patterson answered.

'For English kids who know little about the culture, I'd say it was a pretty good effort.' Adams added. 'It's a shame they hadn't used cedar wood instead of paper.'

Morven spoke quietly 'Too expensive and none of them knew how to carve,' he stared at Elizabeth. 'Show it to John, when he's well enough. He's the real expert.'

Lane directed her question at the Canadians. 'Did either of you know the professor.'

'Walsh answered. 'I met him once when he came up to the Nass Valley. Sergeant Adams was away on holiday at the time and missed him. He'd organised a symposium for a group of Eastern European academics studying the lava beds. He also paid a visit to the First Nation Museum.'

Elizabeth didn't want to discuss Wilson's phantom mask in front of the Canadians. Because she hadn't told them immediately, she didn't want them to think she was hiding important information. In any case it had nothing to do with them. She turned to Walsh and Adams. 'Patterson and I need to go to the hospital. Do you want me to arrange your transport back to Cheltenham?'

Walsh held up her phone. 'We've got access to a driver from the embassy. I didn't want to take advantage, but I think I will now.'

'Are you hoping to talk to McAllister?' Adams asked.

Elizabeth was ready to leave. 'That wasn't my intention. I need a report from his doctor confirming there were no other injuries.'

The room went quiet as everyone digested what she'd said.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Patterson took a minor road out of Bibury then turned onto the A40. Elizabeth hadn't spoken since leaving Morven's place. He turned his head and saw she was dozing. To break the silence he turned on the radio but kept it low.

Classical music filled the confined space until he fiddled with the tuning and picked up the local radio station. The hourly news bulletin was due in five minutes and he wanted to check whether the media was still running the Harper story. Patterson skirted Oxford and followed the signs to Headley Way and the John Radcliffe Hospital situated three miles from the city centre. It was an Oxford University hospital, one of the largest teaching trusts in the UK with an international reputation. The Harper story had been usurped by a minor earthquake in California.

He knew he couldn't risk parking just anywhere even if he was on police business. He spotted the signs to the trauma unit and cardiac services. The allocated area was car park one. As he slowed to negotiate the ramps, Elizabeth woke up.

'Here already,' she said, rubbing her eyes. She sat up and yawned.

'What do you want me to do while you see the doctor?' Patterson asked.

'What do you want to do?'

'Order a strong coffee and try and turn my brain off for half an hour.'

* * *

Patterson parked and went off to buy a ticket. Elizabeth hurried to the hospital's main entrance.

She stopped at reception, introduced herself and asked to see Dr Burgess. When she reached the cardiac department, a junior nurse guided her through the maze of corridors until she stopped and knocked on a door. 'Mr Burgess is the consultant in charge. He's looking after the professor.'

Burgess was probably in his mid sixties, a small slim distinguished man. 'I didn't realise you would be here so soon, otherwise I would have been more polite and met you at reception.'

'You're a busy man and I don't intend wasting your time. I need information on Professor McAllister's condition and what might have caused his heart attack.'

Burgess seemed astonished at her question. 'Are you conducting an investigation into a simple cardiac arrest?'

'I need confirmation for my reports. Professor McAllister is by association connected to a criminal investigation. I wouldn't be doing my duty as a police officer if I didn't follow this up.'

Burgess visibly relaxed. 'He's doing all right, stable for the moment. As soon as he was admitted we got his medical records. He has a history of hypertension, associated with acute stress. Otherwise, he's not in bad shape. Personally, I think his long-term anxiety and stress combined with his sedentary lifestyle has contributed to the problem. Take into account he's also getting on a bit. The journey from Canada and concern for his friend's situation will also have played a part. I don't know the whole story, so perhaps you could fill in the gaps.'

Elizabeth went on to tell him about the parcel but didn't disclose its contents. 'That's as much as I can tell you. This is an ongoing inquiry.'

'I understand your suspicions but I assure you there's nothing untoward about his medical condition. If that's what you want to know.'

'Extreme fear can cause heart attacks,' Elizabeth said.

Burgess smiled. 'It's not impossible but extremely rare. I do agree a severe shock can cause cardiac arrest but a good proportion of patients survive these serious attacks. Come on Inspector, are you insinuating an attempted murder.'

'I disagree, what if someone knew he was susceptible to a specific trigger. It's like any severe phobias, arachnophobia for instance. Each time I set eyes on a house spider my blood pressure shoots up and my heart pounds.'

'It's a bit hit or miss. Why not use a more reliable method.'

'Exactly, and murderers do. Think of poisoned chocolates sent through the post. It has happened. The professor was profoundly distressed by this parcel arriving.'

'Won't forensic analysis throw up clues?'

'I hope so.' Elizabeth suddenly remembered she'd locked the parcel in the boot and needed to get it to the lab quickly now Burgess wasn't going to alter his opinion on McAllister's diagnosis.'

'Why do you think this was an attempted murder?'

'I'm covering all angles, if someone sent it deliberately to cause harm I need to know who that person is.'

Burgess looked uncomfortable. 'His friend has been charged with murder, yet the professor came to England to offer support. What if...?'

Elizabeth realised he'd stopped before making an accusation. She finished the doctor's sentence. 'What if Morven deliberately frightened the professor. Is that what you were about to say?'

Burgess shook his head. 'Of course not, it's a ludicrous idea.'

'We all have suspicious minds, but police officers are paid to think that way. We'd never solve any crimes if we always believed everyone was honest and good. Personally, I'd be very surprised if Morven had tried to harm his friend.'

Burgess sounded relieved. 'I'm glad to hear you say that. I heard the professor is well-known at Oxford University.'

Elizabeth said, 'I'm told he's a very well respected man, especially at UBC, sorry, the University of British Columbia.'

'Before he leaves here, I'm going to suggest he retires, but I doubt he'll thank me for it. Would you like to see him before you go?'

'That's very kind if you,' Elizabeth weighed up the extra time involved, but knew she'd feel better afterwards. She followed Burgess to the IC suite and as soon as she entered McAllister's room, it brought back memories of Frenchay. Seeing Patterson and wondering if he was going to make it. She stood at the bottom of McAllister's bed, pleased to see his colour appeared normal. He was sleeping peacefully.

'Are you alright?' the doctor asked. 'Policing is a stressful occupation. I've seen the consequences many times.'

'I'm sure it's not half as stressful as yours,' she said and handed him her card. 'Please get in touch as soon as Professor McAllister is well enough to hold a conversation.'

'Don't you mean an interrogation?' he asked.

'If it's necessary,' she answered and made her way back to the cafe where Patterson was engrossed in a newspaper.

'Time to go,' Elizabeth said. 'I keep having visions.'

'What kind of visions?'

'Mutiny back at Park Road, Morven dressed in his regalia, and Jade Harper trying to tell me who killed her. I'm not capable of handling two investigations Tony. We need someone else at the helm to keep us on course.'

'We're like a ship without a captain,' Patterson said. 'Sailing the high seas with no idea where we'll end up.'

'Only until we find a replacement for Daly,' Elizabeth added.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

While they were on the road, she made a few decisions. The more time she and Patterson spent away, shoring up the Morven case, the less time she had to deal with the Harper case. She was expecting her team to find the breakthrough. Yes, they'd started out fine but without regular briefings and tangible leads to follow up they'd lose the impetus and stagnate.

She compiled a list of immediate things to do in her head. For starters, Eldridge and Gardiner could re-interview the other art teachers while they paid Beresford a visit. Elizabeth had only met him briefly and regretted not talking to him sooner. As she climbed the stairs, she heard a massive argument going on in the incident room. Patterson was coming up behind her.

'Quietly,' she said, pointing.

Eldridge was shouting, 'You fucking bastard,' to someone, at which point Elizabeth flung open the door and saw Darren Johnson taking a swing at him with a golf club. Katie Gardiner was trying to move Eldridge out of the firing line while a young DC called Lawrence Richmond held a metal chair over another junior detective's head. A group of uniforms had gathered around and were encouraging the violence. Katie Gardiner turned her head and spotted them.

Elizabeth yelled as loud as she could. 'I thought this only happened in schools when the teacher disappeared out of the room. Why the hell are you all behaving like juveniles?'

Johnson swung the golf club again narrowly missing Patterson. 'We're pig sick of him.' He pointed at Eldridge.

Patterson grabbed Johnson's arm and tightened his grip until the club crashed to the ground. 'Try that again Johnson and you're out of here, for good.'

'Shut up, all of you,' Elizabeth shouted, and paced up and down trying to resist the urge to scream. If she lost control now, they'd see it as a weakness. She'd witnessed plenty of fights over the years, nearly always due to long hours and a buildup of stress. How to deal with it effectively was her immediate problem.

Patterson's analogy of the ship without a captain was true. Some people were born leaders, she wasn't. The secret was finding the balance between the likes of Yeats, who was power hungry and someone like herself who at times lacked confidence. After her promotion to Detective Inspector, she hadn't considered whether she was suitable for the job. Her euphoria at passing the exams had clouded any misgivings about her capabilities. Looking back, without Daly's help and patience, she might not have merited her rank. At times, she knew she'd made hasty judgments and when she'd broken the rules, it was from stupidity and lack of experience. Yet Daly had tolerated her naivety, had seen her potential and said as much. Whether she liked this present situation was irrelevant, she was stuck with it.

She was aware they were all staring at her. How long had she been pacing up and down, seconds, minutes? She heard quiet laughter and stopped.

'What's so damned funny?' she asked.

'You're turning into Daly,' Patterson said. 'He always paced to stop himself blowing a fuse.'

Eldridge had to go one better. 'You'll be wiping your face with a tea towel next.'

She stared at them, trying hard not to smile. 'That's the best compliment I've had in years. As Patterson has just mentioned DCS Daly, I'm prepared to give you an update, on one condition. You start pulling together and stop this nonsense.'

A murmur of agreement went around the room.

'Okay, back to Daly. I realise there's been much speculation and confusion about his absence. That I'm pleased to say, is over.'

All eyes focused on her. She'd never had such a captive audience. 'Back in early February, he wasn't feeling well. I actually noticed he wasn't himself, but didn't dare mention it. His doctor sent him for tests and initially the prognosis was poor. I've promised not to divulge his illness for various reasons. However, I'm pleased to say he's on the mend and will make a full recovery.'

'Any idea when he's coming back?' Eldridge asked.

'I don't think we should build our hopes up yet. Remember Daly's been going to retire for over a year and he may feel it would be better for his health if he does. In any case DCI Yeats is theoretically still in charge, and until we know his plans, it's all up in the air.'

'About DCI Yeats,' Katie Gardiner said. 'I don't know whether I've told you about my uncle. He retired from Thames Valley Police and now works for a big security firm. He was telling my mum about his latest job at one of the national papers. He's heard there's a big story ready to break about the old Royal Ulster Constabulary. Maybe that's why he had to go back to Belfast.'

Elizabeth kept her expression neutral. Any sign that Gardiner's story had affected her would give the game away. 'It's possible Katie, but we need to concentrate on our main objectives. I'm now solely responsible for the Harper investigation and tying up the Wilson one. As of yesterday, the CPS has decided to raise the stakes. They're asking us to put forward more evidence before they make a final decision.'

'Surely the evidence is watertight?' Johnson said.

Elizabeth accepted that some of the younger members of CID were still a bit naive. She couldn't criticise them because she'd been no different. The legal complexities were overwhelming at times, even to her.

'As it stands at the moment we have circumstantial evidence against Morven, but not enough to back up the assertion of guilt. What we lack is direct evidence. As you know, going to court with just circumstantial evidence doesn't guarantee a guilty verdict. We have no reliable witness to Morven acting suspiciously. All we have are his fingerprints on carving the tool, which as it belonged to him is no surprise. Everyone who attended his lecture saw him handle it. If he left it in the hall before going to lunch, anyone could have taken it. Morven admitted physically bumping into Wilson so that proximity could account for fibre exchange.'

Elizabeth pointed to the white boards. 'See these. It's a joke, wiping them clean before logging any information onto the computer. Actually it's worse than a joke. It's a dereliction of duty. I won't ask which fool is doing this, because you're all staying here until...,' she banged on the board, 'is covered with everything you've collected either physically, mentally, or you found scrunched up in the waste bins. We could have lost a significant piece of the puzzle because you're too bone idle to collate reports. So get on with it now and I'll let you know when you can go home. Patterson, you come with me.'

They trooped back to Daly's old office. Elizabeth sank into the leather chair and stretched out her arms and legs and weariness crept over her.

'Bit of a close shave there,' Patterson commented.

'It's not their fault, it's the circumstances.'

'I wonder how Walsh and Adams got on with Morven. I thought one of them might have rung to let us know what happens next.'

'They don't believe he did it,' Elizabeth said.

Patterson seemed surprised. 'How can you possibly say that? If they do it means they know something we don't, and that's unlikely.'

'Not if Morven's confided in Lane to the point where she's certain of his innocence. Do you know something Tony? I've had a lingering thought that he's playing games with us.'

'Why would he do that?'

'Think about it. In his situation he's got nothing to lose. He is either exonerated or he goes to trial. If he's found guilty, he'll appeal. Meanwhile he'll only serve the first couple of years here in the UK and then the Canadians will want him back for the remainder of his sentence. The he'll appeal again. All the time he's in jail he'll remain a high profile figure and people will campaign to have him released.'

'I'm sorry Liz but that's not a reason to mess us about.'

'I know. But there's another reason, and that's the one I've got to figure out.'
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

May 30th 8am.

Even after the previous evenings truce, tempers had flared the minute everyone assembled in the briefing room.

Last night she'd spent two hours bringing together all the salient facts. Satisfied she hadn't overlooked anything she opened a bottle of Merlot. After two large glasses, she'd phoned Calbrain. 'You wanted to pass on information. I've been busy, hence the delay in getting back to you.'

'It could well be out of date by now,' he replied, sounding uncharacteristically bad tempered.

'Whatever, I don't want to see a newspaper report saying I've dismissed an important clue.'

'That wouldn't help your reputation,' he said with a hint of sarcasm.

'Calbrain, just give me the story. I haven't got all night.'

'It's about Giles Beresford. Head teacher at Grasmere. '

'What about him?'

'How well do you know Will Crosbie?' Calbrain asked.

'I try to steer clear of him. He's a persistent little creep. How come you know him?'

'In case you'd forgotten I still investigate insurance fraud. I've seen him in court a few times.'

'According to him, Beresford's been seen with other women. You would think the man would have more sense than conduct his affairs in public places. Mrs Beresford won't withstand the scandal if this gets out.'

'Good God everyone's at it, Wilson drinking with Jade Harper, and now Beresford.'

'That's not all. Will Crosbie told me he heard a rumour that Wilson was blackmailing Beresford, threatening to tell his wife about his extra marital activities. Beresford's got a lot to lose if she divorces him.'

'Of course he has, but if this is true, how did Crosbie find out Wilson was into blackmail? Did he give you a name?'

'He's admitted badgering some of the teachers and other staff. He also confessed to paying for information, but he refused to name his source.'

'I bet he did, that's because he's making this shit up to get attention. If this is all you've got Calbrain, I'm sorry but I'm not convinced.'

'Hear me out for a minute. Let's say it's true and Wilson was up to no good. Beresford waits for the right moment to try and deal with Wilson's threats. Call it coincidence, but it happens to be the day Morven turns up, which is good, as there's plenty of distractions. He tries to reason with Wilson, but things get out of hand.'

Elizabeth thought for a moment. Jessica had established that the only fingerprints found on the murder weapon were Morven's and Wilson's. The only reason Wilson left his was because he'd tried pulling the tool from his chest. When Morven had showed the pupils the carving tool he'd told them not to touch it, and before going to lunch, he must have left it unattended in the lecture hall. Anyone could have taken it, including Beresford, except he insisted he was elsewhere.

'Crosbie should have come to me with this, not you.'

'He wants a major scoop to practice his bargaining skills. There's only one reason he didn't, he knew damn well I'd pass it on to you. Now he'll think you owe him,' Calbrain said.

'You'd better tell him he's mistaken, playing head games with me won't wash. Is he hoping to publish the Beresford scandal?'

'No chance, no one will, not even the nationals. No, what Crosbie's after is the Jade Harper story,' Calbrain said.

'I can see why the press will be gagged. She's not just any government minister is she? Aren't Jane Beresford's family a powerful lot?'

'They are, the super injunctions will be flying about.'

While they were on the topic of journalism, Elizabeth decided to broach Katie Gardiner's revelation. 'One of my officers tells me there's a big story brewing about the demise of the RUC. Do you know anything about it?'

'Now why would you be interested in that?' Calbrain asked.

'Don't you think as a police officer it's my duty to be? That particular force has undergone a lot of changes over the last couple of decades. We're learning all the time how to clean up our act. I suppose it will be another police corruption exposé.'

'You're probably right. I haven't heard anything through the usual channels, but if I do I'll let you know.'

Elizabeth suddenly felt tired and didn't want to prolong the conversation. 'I'm off to bed now but thanks for keeping the Beresford thing under wraps.'

'I won't ever harm your investigations Elizabeth. I owe you that much. Can I buy you a drink sometime?' Calbrain asked.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. 'I'm seeing someone at the moment but it's nice of you to offer.'

She heard Calbrain's low whistle. 'I thought you'd had enough of relationships.'

'I changed my mind,' she said, ended the call and went upstairs to be

* * *

The vague hangover had sharpened her wits. It was seven fifty-five am and the turnout was encouraging.

Elizabeth took up her position next to the recently updated whiteboard. 'Okay. I want someone in the CCTV suite going over the footage again. The other night I walked through Cresswell woods around nine thirty just as it was getting dark. If you've ever been there, you'll know how creepy it is. From Grasmere's playing fields, it takes twenty minutes to get to the main road. A woman was just going in with her dog as I came out so I stopped her and asked if a lot of dog walkers use the woods. According to her, they do, and the fields further up Hart Lane. But she did tell me something interesting. Since the nights have warmed up, groups of teenagers have started to congregate there. Several walkers had witnessed them acting out some fantasy role-playing game and drinking. One Saturday night she had a friend staying and they took the dog out much later. Normally she wouldn't contemplate going in the woods after ten pm, but as her friend was with her, she felt safe. They came across, what she termed as an orgy, and someone was videoing the proceedings. I asked her if she'd reported this to the police, to which she answered no.'

'Anyone know about this?' Patterson asked.

Katie Gardiner replied. 'I've heard rumours but unless things get out of hand or someone complains, uniforms won't act.'

'Okay, here's my theory. A hundred yards further along from the entrance to the woods, there's a parking area where dog walkers can park their vehicles. It's very secluded. Harper's killer could have parked there, which means we were wrong to focus on CCTV for Grasmere Road. I believe Jade Harper was forced into a car, driven to this secluded lay by. Her killer then walked her through the woods to Grasmere's playing fields. The question is, did this person intend to kill Harper, or just frighten her? The area where she was found bore some similarities to the Wilson crime scene. A scuffle took place and there were drag marks indicating the body was moved closer to the hedge.'

Elizabeth waited for a response.

'Sounds good,' Eldridge said.

'Anyone else?' she asked.

'We need to identify the vehicle used in the abduction,' Eldridge said.

'Obviously,' Elizabeth's sarcastic tone received subdued laughter.

'If there are these similarities,' Katie Gardiner said, 'What happens if Morven's alibi checks out?'

'What I'm saying is, the same person killed both Wilson and Harper. What I'm not saying yet, is who? I'm still waiting for confirmation from the CCTV footage; it seems to be taking ages.'

Patterson stood up. 'If Morven's alibi stands up then we have a murderer on the loose.'

'Who might already have his sights on another victim,' Eldridge added.

Heavy sighs echoed around the room and Elizabeth reached for a folder. 'Try not to despair, Dr Oakley's come up with another potential piece of evidence. Amongst the crime scene debris she discovered a miniscule paint chip. Because it wasn't gooey or flaky like the other samples, she questioned where it had come from. The analysis showed it was from a vehicle. We don't normally pick up bits of car paint on our shoes or clothes unless we're driving a rust bucket or work in a garage. This chip originated from a Peugeot 208 with white pearlescent paint.' She passed around photocopies from a Peugeot brochure. Gardiner, I want you to get onto the DVLA and request the vehicle registration documents for all of the Grasmere staff. You all know how accurate this technology is. What we need is someone with a connection to Grasmere to own one.'

Eldridge didn't sound convinced. 'That's a big wish. Shouldn't we have a wider focus?'

Thank you again Eldridge for your amazing perception, but we have to start somewhere.'

Elizabeth continued. 'Gibbs and Turner, you'll be responsible for contacting these people. Find out exactly where they were during the time lines for Wilson and Harper's murders. Staying with Harper, we still don't know who was the last person to see her alive. Eldridge and Gardiner, uniforms have finally caught up with Duncan Mortimer and his mate. Keep them here until Patterson and I get back. Now to Wilson's mask. I'd like a volunteer to log any thefts of First Nation artifacts anywhere in the UK. Use the police database first, and then use your imagination. Hang on I nearly forgot something. We need any CCTV coverage of the northern end of Cresswell Street.'

Elizabeth went on to tell them the information she'd received concerning Beresford although she didn't mention the source. 'Please be aware these are unsubstantiated allegations and do not repeat them. Patterson and I are off now to pay Giles Beresford a visit to find out if they're true.'

Elizabeth went off to the ladies to freshen up. She was about to meet up with Patterson when her mobile rang. She ignored it until Patterson pulled out of the car park. Then she checked the number.

It was Teresa Lane's mobile. Elizabeth wondered what she wanted, but didn't have the time or the inclination to return the call. Speaking to Giles Beresford was far more important.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

It was eight miles to the ancient Saxon town of Winchcombe. Elizabeth sat quietly and gazed out of the window. Patterson drove past Sudeley Castle where its most famous resident is entombed, Queen Catherine Powell, the sixth wife of Henry the eighth.

Beresford and his wife lived in a Cotswold stone mansion dating back to the seventeenth century. Elizabeth had read in a magazine that Mrs Beresford had inherited a fortune from her grandfather, who was also a politician. Elizabeth got out of the car and admired the property. If Crosbie's gossip was true, why would Giles Beresford risk his luxury lifestyle for sex with other women? Why not do what Morven and McAllister did and pay for it. Even a head teacher's salary would cover such encounters.

Patterson had phoned the school to see if Beresford was staying late. The deputy informed him that he'd left the premises shortly after the end of lessons. Rather than make an appointment they'd opted for the surprise element. Elizabeth knew it would take time for the DVLA to produce all the relevant names and addresses. They'd identified the make and model and she intended to confront Beresford with this new line of enquiry giving him the opportunity to clear himself of any involvement. It wasn't unknown for teachers to have affairs with their students and with Jade Harper's reputation, that scenario was also a possibility.

Patterson banged on the door and they heard a dog bark, then a woman's voice, shouting. They waited a couple of minutes before she opened up. She was attractive rather than beautiful, and Elizabeth immediately thought she must be several years older than her husband. She looked at them wide eyed. 'I'm sorry but the dog jumps up at strangers so I lock him in the dining room.'

She ushered them into a large square hall. In the centre stood a magnificent dining table surrounded by ten chairs. The walls were lined with carefully arranged bookshelves and a wrought iron chandelier complete with fake candles hung from the ceiling. Elizabeth felt as if she'd been transported into the famous board game and was playing the part of Miss Scarlett. Mrs Beresford didn't offer any drinks but suggested they sit at the table. It was highly polished, very dark oak pitted from centuries of use. Elizabeth glanced down at the intricate cross stitch seat covers and pictured ladies in waiting from the Tudor era bent over their embroidery. Everything shone, the brass, the silver, the picture frames, nothing was out of place.

Elizabeth introduced herself and Patterson. 'We need to speak to your husband about Keith Wilson's murder.'

Mrs Beresford's smile vanished, 'My husband's already been interviewed and is unlikely to be of any further help.'

'I'm sure you realise obstructing a police investigation can be construed as perverting the course of justice. You have a very responsible job with the government, I suggest you cooperate.'

Jane Beresford's mouth pursed with anger. 'He's busy in the garden. Shall we go out or shall I fetch him?'

'We'd prefer to talk to him privately,' Patterson said.

Jane Beresford didn't appear to like that idea either. Elizabeth assumed she was used to having her own way.

'We've nothing to hide from each other. This is a blatant intrusion of our privacy. I don't honestly see how you could possibly imagine either of us had anything to do with the deaths of these two people.'

Referring to the victims as she did made Elizabeth wonder if Mrs Beresford suffered from a type of dissociative disorder, or even a form of narcissism. Her reluctance to recognise Wilson and Harper by name suggested she preferred a state of denial rather than face any unpleasantness. Or was she just a typical narcissist, lacking empathy? Either way Elizabeth found her attitude interesting, as prolonged detachment from reality resulted in amnesiac episodes.

A thought crossed her mind. Was this pillar of society capable of murdering two people? Now she'd met her Elizabeth changed her mind. It would be better if she stayed. Observing how husband and wife interacted might reveal other aspects of their relationship.

'If you prefer, we can always go back to Park Road.'

Jane Beresford didn't reply but headed through an ornately carved arch into a dark passageway. Elizabeth and Patterson followed until they reached the entrance to a reproduction Victorian style conservatory.

Elizabeth could never understand why planning permission varied so much. How come the owners of a grade two listed building had been given permission to build what amounted to a monstrous extension? She'd had to beg the council to erect a tiny garden shed, but a cabinet minister's job obviously guaranteed exemption from building regulations.

The garden was huge and as they stepped onto a paved patio Elizabeth spotted Beresford bending over a rose bush. He put down secateurs and walked towards them.

'Shall we sit down?' Beresford said, and pointed to the ironwork patio furniture.

Jane Beresford's face was twisted with anger. 'I don't care if you drag me to your police station, I refuse to be humiliated,' she said.

Elizabeth waited until she was back in the house. They heard a door slam inside.

'She's upset,' Beresford said.

'It's not surprising if she's aware of the gossip. This is about your private life. Several witnesses claim to have seen you with other women.'

Beresford avoided her gaze. 'Jane already knows,' Beresford stated.

Patterson used his confidential tone. 'A man in your position is a prime target for blackmail. Wilson had lost the job he'd coveted to Jackie Kilmartin, making him extremely upset. Maybe he wanted revenge and didn't care who was in his sights, as long as he felt better. Like threatening to tell your wife what you were up to. From our point of view it would explain why he bragged about coming into money,' Patterson said.

'Wilson wasn't blackmailing me. If he'd tried I would have owned up. Our marriage has been rocky for a while. I've had affairs with several women. Rather than get divorced, she pretends it isn't happening.'

'I gather your alibi for the nights in question is one of your lady friends?' Elizabeth asked.

'Jane was away abroad, and yes I took the opportunity to make the most of it.'

Patterson stood up. 'We need her name, any phone numbers and address.'

Beresford's expression was hard to read. 'I didn't abduct Jade and move her dead body in my car, if that's what you're hinting at. I told Inspector Yeats it was having an MOT test.'

'The trouble is,' Patterson continued, 'I asked your deputy when I rang up earlier today, the make and model of your car. She gave us the same details you gave to DI Yeats. Unfortunately, this vehicle you claimed was having its MOT is not the one currently registered to you.'

For the first time, Beresford seemed alarmed. 'It went to the garage to be tested. When I went back to collect it they told me there were a few problems and gave me an estimate. The cost of the repairs was stupid money, so I queried it. The mechanic said I'd be better off spending it on a newer car and I agreed with him. We all know when a car is not worth fixing, so what do you do? You get a new one. The mechanic offered me cash there and then, so I took it.'

To Elizabeth's ears, it sounded like a scam. Lie to the gullible customer and get the car at rock bottom price. 'So what happened to it?'

'I assume he's sold it by now.'

'He'll confirm what you've just told us?' Patterson said.

'Of course he will.'

'Do you know who took it off his hands?'

'I've no idea. These young mechanics always have mates on the lookout for a cheap vehicle. I gave him the registration documents to sort out. The next day I went straight to the BMW dealership and bought another car, which I presume isn't the model you're after.'

'Nor is the one you've just sold,' Patterson said. 'Do any of your children drive?'

'The two youngest ones aren't old enough. Jane has an older daughter who does, but she's at university and hasn't got a car at the moment.'

'That would be your stepdaughter then?' Patterson said.

Elizabeth could see Beresford was struggling to stay calm. He raised his voice. 'Correct.'

'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.'

'Sorry mate. Get back to me about eight tomorrow night and I'll see what I can do.'

* * *

Elizabeth was at odds with herself when Patterson returned to Park Road. He'd sat in her office for a couple of minutes and all she'd done was clock watch. He hadn't spoken to her since last night but he could tell by her face something had changed.

He broke the silence. 'The guy who bought Beresford's motor was on his way to work and wouldn't cooperate.'

'Great, and I bet he's had the damn thing cleaned up by now.'

'Forget the car for a minute and tell me what's going on.'

She stood up, went to the window and stared out. 'Morven's off the hook as from this morning.'

Patterson felt surprise more than shock. 'Has someone else confessed?'

'I wish. Morven's playing the victim, but it's not a good performance,' Elizabeth explained why he'd kept quiet about his visit to York. Then she added, 'Lane will be here soon with a suitcase full of corroborative evidence.'

'Give me a quick run through. I need a breakfast.'

Elizabeth repeated what Lane had told her the previous evening. 'So there you have it. We'll have to start again.'

'Don't be so bloody pessimistic.'

'I can't help feeling anything other than pessimistic this morning. I seem to have been abandoned, no one wants to know me, yet I'm expected to solve two murders.'

'Then get onto Dr Oakley. We need her final reports on this paint chip thing, before we hurtle down another blind alley.'

'I'm about to do that. 'We're two thirds through the registration document list and so far, no one with any solid links to Grasmere owns a white Peugeot 208.'

'It's a long shot Liz. Could Oakley have got it all wrong?'

Elizabeth shook her head. 'Jessica saw the importance of the paint sample, and made the right decision to have it tested. I refuse to accept the results are wrong, if we don't find the car then we start considering other explanations. I keep mulling over this clairvoyant business.'

'Morven's weird, even if he isn't a murderer.'

Elizabeth pulled a brush out of a drawer and raked it through her hair. 'Lane will be here soon. I need a bit of moral support, so I'd like you to come straight back from the canteen.'

'Do you want a bite to eat?'

'I've no appetite for food, but plenty for coffee. Bring one for Lane as well.'

Five minutes later, he was on his way back. Lane was hurrying along the corridor pulling a trolley bag. He did the courteous thing and offered to help.

'Thank you, Sergeant,' she said.

Patterson took the opportunity to ask after Walsh and Adams. 'We haven't seen them since Oxford. What are they up too?'

'Clearing up a few discrepancies and keeping Professor McAllister company until he's well enough to leave.'

Patterson wished he knew what the discrepancies were but didn't ask. Babysitting McAllister was obviously a cover for protection duty. He kept his stone friendly. 'Will they all fly back together?'

'I expect they might, but don't quote me on it.' Lane looked up at him and smiled. 'This is an excellent outcome Sergeant, whatever your boss might feel.'

Again, he wondered what her remark meant. All he could think was Lane had sensed Liz's uncertainty regarding Morven. As his solicitor, she was undoubtedly privy to a lot more information, and as she showed no intention of sharing, it was pointless trying to wheedle it out of her.

Lane stopped outside the office and retrieved her trolley. 'We know the statistics Sergeant. Over eighty percent of all murder victims, are either related to, or friends with their killer.'

Patterson opened the door for Lane. As he followed her in, he experienced a revelation moment.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Sunday June 2nd

The knock on her door came at exactly six twenty three am.

'Got a shocker for you this morning Liz. Grasmere Academy's on fire. 'Patterson blurted out as she opened the door. 'I got there just after the fire crews, and it looks like they're still struggling to control the flames at the rear of the building. I've spoken to the station commander and he thinks it must have started in the early hours of this morning. A passer by noticed flames in a ground floor window and alerted the emergency services.'

'Oh my God,' Elizabeth cried as she ushered him into the kitchen. 'Is anyone trapped inside?'

'Don't know yet. The search teams are only half way through the building.' Patterson picked up a burnt slice of toast and started eating it. 'As soon as the fire is under control the investigators are going in.'

'Grasmere again, you have to wonder why?' Elizabeth said. 'It's starting to look as if someone has a massive grudge against the place.'

'Let's wait and see what the experts come up with,' Patterson answered.

* * *

A crowd had gathered along the perimeter fence and the air was filled with the smell of acrid smoke. The area from the school gates to the main entrance and beyond was slick with running water. Islands of fire retardant foam drifted slowly over the burgeoning sludge. Elizabeth watched as the fire crews attached two more high pressure hoses to the engine and a standpipe, then hauled them towards the Dali Wing.

Elizabeth spotted the crew commander, a six-foot veteran of the fire service by the name of Mitch Francis. She'd known him since she first came to Cheltenham.

Francis smiled when he saw her. 'Hi stranger, haven't seen you in a while.'

'It's must be a few months,' she replied. 'Mitch, I realise it's too early, but any ideas?'

'It definitely started in the art department, plenty of combustible material in there to keep it going for hours.'

'Deliberate?' Patterson asked.

'We'll know soon. Are you thinking this is connected to your murder investigation?'

'Remember the old adage,' Patterson said. 'How many coincidences before it's no longer a coincidence.'

'Once the heat dies down they'll establish the point of origin. Funny thing though. I was on call all night and tuned in to the radio. It was about that Canadian guy who was the prime suspect, but isn't any.'

'What time was this?' Elizabeth asked.

'On the three am news bulletin.'

Elizabeth grimaced. 'Great. I'm beginning to see Teresa Lane in a different light. The bitch is determined to control the publicity and screw up my damage control.'

'Who's Teresa Lane?' Mitch enquired.

Patterson gave Elizabeth a warning glance. 'We shouldn't discuss this in the open Liz. The hacks are out in force.'

'She's the Canadian's solicitor and is determined to make my life a misery.' Elizabeth shouted.

Patterson ignored her outburst and spoke to Francis. 'If anyone is trapped in there, what are their chances?'

'It depends. Sometimes people hide in small spaces thinking it's safer. That's usually when they succumb to the smoke. So far, there's no indication that anyone is in the building but it's a big area to search and the art department is in a hell of a mess. Storing all that paint and especially stuff like fibreglass is a big risk, especially as the automatic sprinkler system malfunctioned. Someone's head will roll for that.'

'There were problems with Grasmere from the start. The builders rushed to meet the deadline. You don't do that without compromising safety,' Patterson said.

Francis pointed to a heavy vehicle approaching. 'Fire investigation unit, I better go and talk to them.'

Patterson watched the specially trained experts exit the van. He was surprised to see the investigation dog, wearing fire wellies, to protect its paws from the hot material. He knew how capable these dogs were. How they could detect minute quantities of hydrocarbon accelerants within minutes. The same procedure could take hours to do in the laboratory. He hoped they wouldn't have to wait long for a result, if it was arson, then Mitch Francis may well be right. He checked the street and noticed the crowds had steadily increased. Several police vans had also turned up and uniformed officers had set about keeping the onlookers under control.

Elizabeth was talking to one of the fire crew who had just lugged a small generator out of a support vehicle. Patterson turned his attention to the main body of the building, which so far was escaping the worst of the flames. His scanned the roof and was momentarily blinded by the sun glinting off the pointed glass atrium above the main reception area. His worried, should the intense heat travel that far, the panes would explode, sending huge shards in all directions.

He checked the roof area again and was about to turn away when he saw something move. The glare from the glass had dimmed his sight, so he closed his eyes for a few seconds until they readjusted. When he opened them, whatever he'd seen was gone. He went through the options. The shape had appeared crouched over as if it was crawling. Yet it was too big for a cat or dog. Although his eyes had indicated an animal, his brain was telling him otherwise. But why were they on the roof. Was there no other means of escape? If the figure was a child or small adult crawling along the roof, they were risking their life. Patterson ran towards the nearest fire officer.

'No further mate,' the man shouted above the roar of water and foam hammering against the building.

Patterson shouted back and pointed upwards. 'There's someone on the roof.'

The fire officer raced towards his colleagues who immediately maneuvered an aerial ladder platform into position. Four fire fighters clambered inside and Patterson stood rooted to the spot as his eyes followed their progress until they reached the top. Two crew members attached safety harnesses before hauling themselves onto the roof.

Elizabeth had caught up with him. 'What the hell's happening?' she asked.

'I saw something up there and they're checking it out.'

'Where the hell are the fire escapes?' Elizabeth asked.

'Internal, I guess,' Patterson answered. 'Think about it, the only safe option with such a high number of pupils to manage. You couldn't have hundreds of kids hurtling down external metal ones.'

'The damage doesn't look as bad from here,' Elizabeth said.

'Most of it is around the side, next to the car park. The Dali Wing will need rebuilding.

Mitch Francis came up behind them, phone clamped to his ear, his face solemn. 'You two will have to move back to the main gate. We need to clear this whole area.'

'Have you found someone?'

Francis nodded. 'It's a sod of a problem. We have ourselves a jumper.'
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

'What?' Elizabeth groaned. 'You mean a suicide attempt?'

'You'd better get your crisis negotiator here as fast as possible. This one sounds unwavering.'

'Male or female?' she asked.

'Female, but so far won't tell us her name,' Francis said. 'My guys daren't get too close in case she takes off. She's crawled on to a damaged section of the roof and it could collapse at any time so we've got to get her down quickly. Falling through the building's interior she'd burn up and wouldn't survive. She'd stand a better chance jumping into the car park.'

Elizabeth turned to Patterson. 'Raise Christine Evans on the blower and if she doesn't pick up, get someone around to her house.'

By the time they reached the school gates, Sergeant Evans was already on her way. Patterson was glad to see some of the crowd had dispersed. He felt someone tap him on the shoulder. Will Crosbie was holding a digital recorder right under his nose. Patterson shoved him and his device away.

'Would you care to comment Sergeant? I hear there's someone on the roof threatening to jump.'

He wasn't in the mood for Crosbie. 'Bugger off. I don't know any more than you.'

'I'll hang on then until you do. Remind me sometime that I owe you a pint for the info you gave me.'

Patterson spun around, hoping Liz hadn't heard. 'My boss is over there so watch what comes out of your mouth.'

Elizabeth moved closer and Crosbie sidled away. 'I can't understand people's mentality, gathering like this to watch someone kill them self.'

Patterson kept an eye on Crosbie's position in case he came back to harass him. 'Uniforms have shifted a fair few, but they'll be back. I hope to God Christine can get through to this woman.'

Patterson had worked with Sergeant Evans once before. An elderly man had doused himself with petrol in his own home. His wife of sixty years had died suddenly and he couldn't cope without her. For three hours, Evans had sat in his tiny sitting room talking to him while the gasoline fumes built up. One strike of a match or flick of a lighter might have seriously injured her, but eventually she persuaded him to leave the house. 'She's good Liz.'

'I'm dreading this. What if it turns out it's one of the sixth form girls. You know, pressure from imminent exams, or boyfriend trouble.'

Patterson shrugged and decided to change the subject. 'I had a brainstorm about Beresford's garage.'

Elizabeth perked up. 'Why didn't you say sooner? Something about that garage has bothered me since we saw it. I decided it was because there were no windows.'

'Lots of garages don't have windows. Think doors instead.'

'I haven't got time for riddles Tony. Explain.'

'Beresford's new BMW partially hid the garage door. I had to squeeze through the gap to get a closer look. Nothing wrong with that if there's limited space, but the Beresford's have enough room to park ten cars. So you have to wonder why the car wasn't further away. And the answer is, to hide the damage on the garage door.'

Elizabeth smiled, 'And why would anyone want to do that?'

'In case the cops came by and noticed it.'

'So what you're saying is you think there's another car in there.'

'I am. That door is a remotely operated electric roller type. In the left hand corner near to the ground it looked badly buckled. Also, some of the paint had peeled off but there wasn't any rust underneath which meant the damage is recent. Whoever tried to drive the car into the garage was in a hurry to hide it. Maybe it was during the day and they were worried someone would see them. They pressed the remote to open the garage door, which didn't work. At the same time something else distracted them and their foot hit the accelerator causing the car to lurch forward and crash into the unopened garage door. The impact wedged it shut and they had to force it open, causing even more damage.'

'Get someone out there now,' Elizabeth said, just as Christine Evans drove through the gate. 'Uniforms can canvas the Beresford's neighbours to find out if any of them heard or saw anything.'

Patterson finished his call and watched as Sergeant Evans stepped into the ladder platform. When it drew level with the roof another two fire crew helped her over the precipice.

'What do we do now?' Elizabeth asked.

'We wait,' Patterson said.

An hour later, a mobile food van turned up, its driver hoping to exploit the situation. A uniformed Sergeant had allowed him to park the vehicle in a side street off the main road. Within minutes, people began to migrate towards it. Patterson couldn't deal with this hunger pangs any longer. He left Elizabeth with Mitch Francis and joined the line of people waiting for sustenance.

Ten minutes later Patterson was back inside the school grounds. The atmosphere had changed dramatically and as he looked scanned the deserted area he wondered where everyone had gone. A uniformed officer was standing guard outside the entrance leading to reception. He walked up to him. 'Has something happened?' he asked.

'There's been a development right next to the car park.'

Before Patterson reached the end of the pathway, his eyes darted to the Dali wing. A woman's silhouette was perched precariously on the ledge below the roof. This was his first encounter with a potential suicide and his heart seemed to beat faster as he stood transfixed unable to turn away. Then he saw Elizabeth running towards him, she was breathless and sounded panicky. 'How did she manouevre into that position?' he asked.

'She crawled across the supports. Christine and two of the rescue crew followed her and now they're stuck too. They can't reach her because it's dangerous. I want Christine down now. Staying up there any longer is pointless.'

They walked back to the car park where preparations were in progress to attempt to break her fall should she jump. Inflatable mattresses were piling up in the area they had marked out. The fire crew in charge of the operation looked confident for all they knew there was still a slight margin for error.

'I can't face watching this play out. I need to sit down,' Patterson said. Elizabeth followed and they both slumped on a bench anchored to the car park wall.

Mitch Francis is going up. He's done this a few times before,' Elizabeth said.

'Do you think she'll do it?' Patterson asked.

'I thought Jackie might after telling everyone she'd killed Wilson and Harper.'

Patterson wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. 'Jackie Kilmartin's confessed.'

'As soon as she started screaming at everyone I knew who she was. One of the rescue guys who had spoken to her said she was a mess. Bruised all over, skin and clothes black from the smoke. No the wonder no one else recognised her. She's coughing a lot and that's why Mitch decided he'd had enough. Everyone has done their utmost and now the stupid woman isn't listening to anyone. If Jackie Kilmartin is determined to kill herself rather than go to prison that's up to her.'

Discovering the woman's identity hadn't sunk in. Patterson had kept an open mind regarding the teachers and other staff working at Grasmere. They knew that Wilson had waged a relentless tirade of verbal abuse against her for usurping the position he wanted. Had Kilmartin snapped, and decided to put an end to it all?

'Did she say why she killed both of them?' Patterson asked.

'No, I don't suppose she's bothered about that right now. You know something Tony. I can't make my mind up about her. Maybe this suicide attempt is a fake and all this palaver is to evoke sympathy. I'm hoping Christine might wheedle more out of her, but somehow I doubt it. Kilmartin is as hard as nails.'

'What if she's said she killed them just to get attention and hasn't actually done it? When she's questioned she might change her mind.'

Elizabeth rubbed her neck to ease the tension. 'No chance of that. She did it, and we'll prove it.'

Now the adrenaline had subsided a little, tiredness washed over Patterson. He stretched out his long legs and yawned. 'I'm taking some leave as soon this is all sorted. What about you?'

'I'll be taking time off, but not for a holiday. I'm going to find Daly.'

'I feel rotten now you've mentioned him. He's been gone so long I can't even picture him anymore.'

There was a loud bang and sounds of falling debris followed by clouds of masonry dust drifting towards them. Elizabeth pulled her cotton t-shirt over her mouth and nose then stood up. 'Christ, this is worse than a dense fog,' she said, coughing.

'Sit down until it clears,' Patterson ordered.

It took a few minutes before the dust settled and they could see again. Patterson pointed to Mitch Francis who was lowering a limp Jackie Kilmartin into the platform. There was too much peripheral noise to hear what he was saying.

They moved through the haze and waited until the platform ladder came to rest on the ground. Mitch Francis looked exhausted. 'She passed out through lack of oxygen. I've done what I can and she's breathing a lot better now. I reckon she'll probably make it.'

* * *

'The hospital won't allow any questioning until tomorrow at the earliest,' Elizabeth said. Uniforms will work a rota outside the Intensive Care unit. Until we hear her story, I'm not taking any chances. Beresford lied and he and his wife could possibly be a danger to her.'

'You mean by going to the hospital to finish her off. Come on Liz, that sort of stuff only happens in the movies.'

'I'm not taking any chances,' Elizabeth stated. 'Desperate people do desperate things.'

'I suppose it's over to Kilmartin's place next.'

'I'll drive,' Elizabeth said.

Patterson's adrenaline level had dropped almost to zero. As Elizabeth clambered into the driver's seat, he felt the first fluttering of anxiety.

Jackie Kilmartin lived on a new housing estate in Brockworth. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up outside a modern, smart semi-detached house.

'Nice place,' Patterson said.

'This estate's only been built for about two years, and it's not cheap. I'm guessing Jackie had financial problems, add that to her mental instability and it's not surprising she had to find a way out.'

'What did she have to be depressed about? Good job, posh house. She's also a very attractive woman.'

Elizabeth sighed. 'She seemed odd the very first time I interviewed her. To be more precise, she sounded completely paranoid.'

'Better go around the back,' Patterson said. He climbed over the six-foot wooden gate and unlocked it.

A young woman hanging out her washing in the next garden asked what they were doing. Elizabeth showed her ID, but didn't say why they needed access to the house. Patterson waited until the neighbour went indoors, then he fiddled with the back door. Within a few minutes, they were inside. He searched the upstairs, Elizabeth, downstairs.

'I've got her computer and a phone,' he said when he came down. 'I don't think it's her current one. Maybe they'll find another one at the hospital?'

'If she had it with her on the roof no one has found it yet. Or she dropped it trying to escape the fire. I've found credit card bills and mortgage documents and done a quick calculation. She owed nearly seventy thousand.' Elizabeth handed Patterson a letter dated the previous week. 'The building society had threatened her twice with repossession.'

'Wonder what she spent all that money on?' Patterson said.

'Maybe her computer will give us the answers to that question.'

Patterson secured the house and Elizabeth contacted the crime scene manager and gave him directions to the property. She was about to get into the Saab, when her phone rang.

After a few minutes Elizabeth ended the call. 'You're a genius. Beresford's garage contained a white Peugeot. He confirmed the vehicle belongs to his stepdaughter.'

'Did he say anything else?'

'No. Mrs Beresford was busy phoning her lawyers while Giles Beresford was drowning his sorrows.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Two days later. Tuesday June 4th

Elizabeth and Patterson had arrived at Cheltenham hospital over two hours ago and waited for half that time before a doctor allowed them to speak to Jackie Kilmartin.

Elizabeth's first reaction after seeing her lying in bed was shock. She bore little resemblance to the attractive woman she had interviewed at the start of the investigation. Kilmartin had lost weight and her face was drawn, she looked ten years older. Patterson sat quietly while Elizabeth quickly scanned her prepared notes. 'Are you ready to answer questions?' she asked her.

The woman propped up in the bed nodded; her eyes dull, her hands plucking at the sheets.

'You told Sergeant Evans that Wilson didn't buy the mask, he was given it?' Elizabeth stated.

Jackie Kilmartin's voice sounded raw from the smoke inhalation. 'He didn't steal it if that's what you'd hoped for.'

'Let's get this straight Jackie. After the lunch in honour of Morven, Wilson invited him to his office, presumably to show him the mask. You already knew about his so-called treasure and you wanted to eavesdrop on their conversation. You followed them and listened outside the door, heard an argument and saw Morven leave. Then what happened?'

Kilmartin struggled to sit up and asked for a drink of water. Patterson passed her a glass.

'I went into his office and asked why he was shouting at Morven. He was very upset because Morven wasn't interested in the mask, so I suggested he let me have a look at it. I knew that despite our feud, Keith fancied me, so I put my arms around him and gave him a hug. Afterwards he unlocked a drawer and showed it to me. It looked old, but not that special. Then he produced a fragile sheet of paper detailing its history from the beginning of the twentieth century. He said this was when his great-grandmother had inherited it from a friend. The provenance looked authentic and I asked Keith how much he thought it was worth. He said at least a quarter of a million, probably more. He wanted to sell it but was suspicious someone would rip him off over the valuation. That's why he'd wanted Morven's advice.'

'So you'd already decided to seduce Wilson to get your hands on some of the proceeds,' Patterson said.

'I was in the shit financially. It was a way out, and Keith was easy to manipulate.'

Elizabeth could see how this had all panned out. 'I'm sure he was, until he mentioned he'd also shown the mask to Jade Harper. My theory is that her intentions were similar to yours. Lure Wilson into a satisfying sexual relationship so he'd reward both of you from the proceeds of the sale. Harper was also in the shit. Her parents were pissed off with her antics and threatening to throw her out. The one thing Jade liked even more than sex was money. You waited around at Grasmere on that afternoon hoping Wilson would go home so you could steal the mask, but he didn't. Then later, you got a shock when you saw Morven had returned. Then, you bumped into Jade Harper, who you mistakenly assumed was after a brief encounter with the handsome Canadian, but she wasn't. Wilson was her target, because she'd seen a similar mask in a museum in British Columbia and had a good idea of what Wilson's was worth. What you weren't aware of was that Morven had shattered Wilson's dreams completely. He'd lied to him. Told him the mask was a fake and then walked out.'

'But it couldn't have been a fake,' Kilmartin moaned. 'Why would I have...?'

'Killed two people,' Elizabeth finished her sentence for her. 'But it wasn't a fake. Morven did a rough drawing that we passed onto an expert who knew about Nisga'a' masks. She matched with the one in the museum and agreed that Wilson's could be very valuable.'

Kilmartin remained silent for a few minutes. Elizabeth's body felt wearier than ever. She wished the day was over with. 'So tell me what happened then.'

'Jade had a go at me. She went to great pains to explain what she and Wilson got up to in bed. I didn't see her after that. I was furious with Keith, but then he disappeared too so I assumed he was enjoying himself somewhere with Jade. Giles Beresford was about to leave, I stopped him in the corridor and asked if he'd give me a lift home. He was revolting towards me and refused because his wife was picking him up. Then I threatened him. I said I'd tell his wife all what he was up to. At first he laughed at me, but thought about it and said I could borrow his car. He threw me the keys and I shoved them in my pocket without checking them. I watched Morven until he reached the school gates and wondered whether or not to go home. If I hadn't seen Jade and Wilson come back together laughing their stupid heads off, I would have. When Jade left not long after Morven did, I couldn't control my feelings anymore and by the time I got back to Keith's office I was out of control.'

Elizabeth marvelled at the woman's acting ability. It was obvious she intended to play the victim right up to the end. 'You went to get the mask but it had already gone. Am I right?'

'I searched for what seemed ages, literally everywhere. Keith came back and went berserk. He grabbed hold of me and bent me over his desk. I thought he was going to strangle me so I felt behind me and picked up the nearest thing. It was the carving tool Morven had left in the lecture hall. Keith must've taken it back to his office so he could return it to him.'

'And we know the rest,' Patterson said.

Kilmartin started to cry, but Elizabeth's sympathy had run out. 'You guessed Wilson had asked Jade to take care of the mask. What did you do? Demand she give it to you?'

'I threatened her too. Jade is a very strong-willed girl. I made it plain that I'd tell everyone I'd seen her stab Keith. She was terrified and pleaded with me. Once she knew I was serious, she promised to hand the mask over. We arranged a meeting place.'

'You still had Beresford's step daughter's car. We retrieved it from his garage and all our tests prove you drove that vehicle with Jade's body in it. Did you tell Beresford or did he guess what you'd done? I think he did, otherwise why did he try and hide the vehicle?'

'I didn't tell him. The only reason he would do that is because he's in love with me.'

'And knew what you were capable of,' Patterson added.

Elizabeth found it hard to understand Jackie's lack of remorse. 'Jade had no intention of relinquishing the real mask, so she made a copy of it. We thought you were responsible for stealing the student's masks, but we discovered them at Jade's house.'

'You met up in Cresswell woods. How did you persuade her to go further, into the school grounds?' Patterson asked.

'I lied and told her Beresford wanted to see her. That he was prepared to give her money, if she kept quiet. When we got there and she realised he wasn't coming, she started to panic. I took the mask from her and knew immediately it was a fake. I couldn't understand why she thought her copy would fool me. I saw red and we fought physically, unfortunately I gripped her neck for too long.'

Kilmartin was making Elizabeth weary. 'You're implying both murders were accidents and the result of fierce arguments.'

'Of course,' she said. 'I never meant to hurt either of them.'

'Why did you send Jade's fake mask to Morven?'

'I wanted to scare him. Let him know I was coming after him too, in case he had the real mask. There was no one else more likely to have it. I was about to pay him another visit when I found out about the professor but you lot beat me to it. His heart attack had nothing to do with me. He must have realised it was a copy and not the real one.'

Patterson stood up. 'I don't agree. McAllister was also an expert. He'd taught Morven. His reaction to the fake tells us something important. That Jade's copy was a good representation of the original.'

'You can't blame me for his heart attack.'

'If he'd died I certainly would,' Elizabeth argued. 'What's more, I don't believe you intended to kill yourself, so why did you go back to Grasmere.'

'I had to wait until I knew the place would be empty. We had an extra two days tacked on to the half term holiday. There was still things I hadn't dealt with and I didn't set fire to the place, it was an accident.'

No Jackie,' Elizabeth said. 'You lit a cigarette and then forgot where you'd left it.'

'I was so stressed trying to cover my tracks. Everyone deserted me in the end. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I never found out what Jade did with the mask, and neither will you.'

Elizabeth stared at her until she turned away. Kilmartin's eyes were half-closed; a smile lingered at the corners of her mouth. A few seconds later, she was asleep.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Thursday June 6th

A black Jaguar limousine drew up slowly outside Jacob Morven's rented property in Bibury. Consular official, Geoffrey Goddard wound down the window and checked there were no onlookers before making the call. The uniformed chauffeur exited the car and opened the rear doors in readiness for his passengers.

Morven and John McAllister had already brought their luggage down from their rooms, when the phone rang. It wasn't necessary for Morven to speak. He picked up the handset and immediately replaced it. Only then did he take a final look at his temporary prison. He watched as John McAllister slipped a photograph of his long dead wife into his case.

'How do you feel about going home?' McAllister asked.

Relieved, apprehensive, it's been a long time. I know one thing, I won't ever come back.'

'You'll be fine the moment we get off the plane. And, better still, the heat wave continues. Temperatures have hovered aaround thirty degrees for over a week,' McAllister said, smiling.

'What about up North, is it still warm there?'

'McAllister was checking his passport. 'Mid twenties, no rain, that deck of yours might see some action this summer and when it does I hope I get an invitation.'

'The doc said no more travelling.'

'Come on, I don't call flying up to Terrace travelling,' McAllister zipped his case up and wheeled it to the front door. 'Sorry to bring the subject up but I was laying awake going over Wilson's claim about the mask. You're still sure what you saw was a fake?'

Morven looked out of the window. 'Goddard will be knocking on the door if we keep him waiting any longer.'

'You haven't answered my question Jacob.'

'What I saw was a very good fake, but then I didn't stay long enough with Wilson to hear the rest of his story. He knew he couldn't convince me.'

McAllister checked his luggage. 'Hey, that old Wolf Chief didn't want the mystery of the mask solved after all. So long ago, who knows? Do you ever wonder about that Jacob, where it ended up?'

Morven closed his briefcase and locked it with a small key. 'I've wondered for the past twenty years. I always hoped the legend had an element of truth, that the young guy the old Chief gave it to survived.'

'He probably did. By the way I've only got one carry on, what about you?' McAllister said, holding up his cabin bag.

'Just this one,' Morven pointed to a briefcase. 'From now on we'll concentrate on more findable items, except you'll have to stay home, thanks to Doctor Burgess. He's the only person I know you've taken any notice of. Finally, someone knocked some sense into your brilliant brain.'

McAllister was pale and had lost over a stone thanks to a rigid diet. For the first time since his twenties, he'd given up drinking whiskey. Morven knew the heart attack had scared the hell out of him. Considering he'd been at death's door, he'd recovered extremely well. His plan was to carry on teaching part time and lead a quieter life.

McAllister went into the kitchen. 'I've lost a pair of specs. I can't find them anywhere.'

'Come on, we haven't time. They'll probably turn up here in three hundred years time.'

The Jaguar pulled away smoothly and headed for the M40. McAllister sat in the back seat next to Goddard. Morven had elected to sit next to the driver where he could see in the wing mirror. Not that he expected anyone to follow them.

Goddard glanced at his Rolex. 'It's exactly three-thirty gentlemen. Your plane leaves at seventeen hundred hours. As both of you have diplomatic clearance we don't have to be there the statutory two hours before the flight leaves.'

'Does diplomatic clearance include waiting for us if we get stuck in traffic?' Morven asked.

'I can assure you the flight will not leave without you. I've checked the route and we should have a clear run, barring accidents,' Goddard stated.

'How do we avoid the reporters at Heathrow?' McAllister asked.

Goddard's cultured voice spoke with authority. 'We leaked a statement to all of the media informing them you were leaving tomorrow on the evening flight.'

The drive to Heathrow's terminal five went as planned. Goddard directed the driver to a private car park from where he escorted them into the airport through a VIP entrance. He suggested they do some shopping while he attended to their passports and asked them to meet him at the gate in forty-five minutes.

They wandered around the shops picking up souvenirs they didn't really want, but it made the time pass quickly. McAllister looked longingly at the bottles of Scotch until Morven dragged him away.

Morven was acutely aware of his mounting anxiety. Even with the diplomatic protection, he still kept glancing over his shoulder anticipating problems. Realistically, at this late stage it was unlikely anything could go wrong but until flight AC312 was airborne, he knew he wouldn't relax. He spotted a small bar, where only a handful of people occupied the tables.

He ordered two glasses of red wine and sat down opposite McAllister. 'A toast,' he said. 'To Canada.'

'To Canada,' McAllister echoed.

Morven sipped his wine and looked back to how it all started. Up until this point, he knew he'd made the right choices and could leave the UK without any regrets. He was about to return to the bar for a refill when his phone rang. Ignore it, was his immediate thought but the ring tone was attracting attention from the people closest to him. He pressed the key, then realised to late he hadn't checked the caller ID.

'Is that Jacob Morven?' A woman's voice asked.

Yes,' he replied.

'It's DI Jewell here.'

Morven's heartbeat increased. 'I'm about to board my flight. What can I do for you?'

'I needed to check on something before you leave the country.'

McAllister tapped his arm to get his attention and whispered. 'Who is it?'

Morven shook his head, stood up and moved away. 'Sorry can you repeat that?'

The voice at the other end continued. 'Two days ago, a fire started in the art department at Grasmere Academy. Fortunately, the damage to the school was limited. The reason I've called is one of the fire crew found a slightly singed wolf pelt. Giles Beresford insists it belongs to you. I assume you left it behind after your lecture. I wanted to let you know we will store the item at Park Road should you want it back.'

Morven hadn't forgotten he'd left it behind. Somehow he'd misplaced it, or someone had taken it. That same afternoon he'd asked if anyone had found it, but no one had. After he was charged, he assumed one of the kids might have borrowed it and didn't want to make a fuss in case the culprit was punished.'

In the background, he heard their flight called. He turned to McAllister who was eager to get going.

'Thank you Inspector Jewell, I appreciate you taking the time to let me know. I don't want it back, but I met an interesting young man at the Academy. If I remember correctly, his name is Rory. Please give it to him. I'm sure he won't mind the damage.'

'We didn't know if it was valuable, that's why I rang.'

'About this fire, was it an accident?' Morven asked.

'It wasn't an accident, 'Elizabeth Jewell answered. 'It was deliberate. I have to go now. I hope you have a pleasant flight.'

Morven heard the click as she disconnected. McAllister was tugging at his sleeve. He drained his glass and they made their way to the gate to find Goddard waiting for them. He was at the head of the first class queue. He handed over their passports and other documents. Morven gave his a cursory glance, his mind wandering. Why hadn't he asked her more about the fire? Because even though he knew the answers, he hadn't wanted to know the details.

'All in order,' Goddard said and shook McAllister's hand. 'Have a safe journey home.'

Thank you,' McAllister replied, eager to hand his documents to the smiling flight attendant.'

Morven was next to shake hands. 'If ever you're in BC...?'

Goddard smiled and walked away. He did not look back.

Twenty minutes later Morven looked out of the window of the Boeing 767, his last view of the UK. Once they were airborne, he would try to forget. He had meant his words to John. He would never return.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Elizabeth woke up the following morning feeling unsettled. Yes, she realised it would take a while to wind down. As usual she was too impatient, expecting to feel less stressed, more relaxed.

She couldn't stop wondering about the mask and where it was. Last night she'd fallen into the trap of analysing her life and which direction it might take. She'd ended up feeling miserable and switched her focus back to the case. One or two possibilities occurred to her. Not anything she could act on, because it was far too late and she'd never be able to prove it. As it was pointless pursuing her theory she would keep her ideas to herself. Patterson wouldn't thank her for more far-fetched claims. The saga had reached its end, and as far as she was concerned, whatever happened to the mask would remain a mystery. In the end no one, not even Natasha Samuel from Sotheby's had managed to cast much light on its origins or where it had been for nearly two centuries. Who had carved it and how far had it travelled. How many lives it might have touched?

Elizabeth had flirted with the idea that Jacob Morven had actually come to the UK for a specific purpose, one unconnected to his school lectures on the Nisga'a culture. Now, as she looked back, it seemed a much too insignificant pursuit for a man of his standing. Or perhaps she was being overly suspicious and he was a genuinely unselfish person, who only worked for the good of his people. She had found it difficult to categorise Morven. He didn't fit any criminal profile, but the nagging doubts wouldn't leave her. Strange that she had questioned his guilt from the beginning, and now he was gone, she still wasn't sure.

She went downstairs and opened the back door. It had rained solidly for a couple of days but now the sun was out. It was the beginning of June and she wondered if the next spell of good weather would last. Patterson had suggested she took a holiday, go abroad, but Elizabeth didn't want to stray far from home.

Bagpuss, as usual was sat in the middle of the lawn. Elizabeth thought he'd caught a bird and she rushed over, but it was a child's toy, soft and black with a smooth fake fur pelt. It was minus a head and she wondered where he'd found it. At least he looked happy, she'd never thought about buying him a toy. She knew dogs liked them, but thought cats weren't that interested.

She glanced over the garden and for the first time in ages, felt as if the house actually belonged to her and wasn't just somewhere to sleep. Anita had called at Park Road to confirm Yeats had finally confessed to his crimes and was hoping to do a deal for a lighter sentence. He had to face the consequences, yet strangely Elizabeth felt no animosity towards him.

Before Anita had left she'd handed over Daly's number. Elizabeth took the card out of her pocket and looked at it again. 'When would be the right time?' she'd asked Anita.

Anita had smiled and told her to figure that one out for herself.

Back in the kitchen she switched on the coffee machine. Bagpuss was meowing for a second breakfast when she heard a bang at the front door. She sighed, wondering who had decided to visit during her first few hours of freedom. When she went into the hall the post had arrived. Apart from the usual bills and junk mail, she picked up a white embossed envelope. The writing was stylised, as if whoever had addressed it was proficient in calligraphy. She studied it, then took all of the post to the kitchen and sat down at the table. After she had dealt with the bills she picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside was a card made from exquisite paper. She turned the page and read the text inside

Senor and Senora Montero invite you to the wedding of their daughter Francisca to Mr Nicholas Calbrain on the 28th of August.

Elizabeth stopped reading right there. She stood up, pushed it back inside the envelope, collected up the junk mail and dropped all of it into the pedal bin.

The coffee machine beeped. She stared at Daly's card lying next to the phone. There was no need to check the number, she had memorised it. Carrying her coffee and the handset, she went outside to sit in the sun.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The flight to Vancouver touched down early.

Going back to his village, Laxgalts'ap, the name that meant village on village seemed daunting. Only five hundred or so people lived there but it was still his home. He'd hire a car in Terrace and drive back along the Nisga'a' highway. He allowed himself one small whiskey before boarding his connecting flight and sleeping most of the way there.

Next morning the small hotel he'd stayed in overnight provided a hearty breakfast. He picked up the car and headed for the highway. He drove on the near empty road anticipating how he'd feel once he arrived at his destination. As he neared the Nisga'a Memorial Lava Bed Provincial Park he pulled over and got out of the car and looked across the highway. Here, the lava beds towered almost twelve metres above the modern road.

Morven checked the time. He had an hour's walk before he reached the place he had chosen. Another five miles along the highway and he could park the car where no one would see it. The lava beds covered approximately thirty-nine square kilometres, it was unlikely he would encounter any tourists.

He exited the highway and carried on until he reached the burial grounds. It was warm, but the wind howled across the devastated landscape.

When he finally stopped, he sat for a while contemplating. He had passed the signs asking visitors not to remove the volcanic rock. The legend was very specific, if you do, you incur a curse.

He opened the boot and removed a small bag containing a few basic tools and a sturdy pair of hiking boots. Rather than take the dedicated tourist route, Morven had plotted his journey carefully. Less than an hour later, he was where he wanted to be.

He knelt down and dug a small deep plot then opened the bag. Using the small trowel he moved away the larger rocks and began to dig a small rectangle. When he'd dug down to about thirty centimetres he removed the wrapping from the mask and carefully lowered it into the hole. Before he covered it, first with the crumbling lava, then the larger rocks, he knew he must be patient.

Jacob Morven stood up and waited for a sign. Far across the mountains, he heard whistling, then a low guttural sound. He looked up and saw a solitary raven circling above him and for that moment, he was at one with the volcanic earth beneath his feet. The raven had found him and as in nature had followed the wolf. Not to feed from the wolf's discarded carcass, this time it was for a different reason.

He bent down and covered up the mask. He stepped back and scrutinised his work. No one would ever know, and in a few months, he too wouldn't remember the exact spot. He leaned into the wind as the balance was restored.
