by Carole Pitt
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, wh
ich 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.