The Cedar Face: DI Jewell book 3 (DI Elizabeth Jewell) (13 page)

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.'