The Cedar Face: DI Jewell book 3 (DI Elizabeth Jewell) (33 page)

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.