Another sighfrom Juliette. ‘Give me the number. I’ll see what I can do.’ Morton read out the licence plate from the photograph in front of him. Despite it being engrained in his memory, he wanted to be completelycertain. Juliette repeated it back to him and then hung up.
Having turnedthat line of enquiry over to Juliette, Morton switched his attention to hisother lead: the copper box. He picked it up and turned it over in hishands. It was a very unremarkable box, being without pattern ordecoration but for the intricate coat of arms emblazoned on the lid. Timehad aged the copper to a dull, rust–brown. Tinges of oxidised light greenfilled the deepest of the carved ravines. He doubted it held monetaryvalue but hoped it held value in progressing the Coldrick Case.
Morton set thebox down beside him, switched on Juliette’s laptop and ran a Google search onhow to identify a coat of arms. He made his way through the first of15,100,000 pages, adding and subtracting search criteria as he went, hopingmagically to identify the arms. He learnt about shields, supporters,ordinaries, helms, coronets, compartments, and mantling but nothing specificenough just to tell him to whom the box belonged. The Institute ofHeraldic and Genealogical Studies in Canterbury kept appearing in his searchesas an authority on the subject, so he decided to give them a call, naivelyhoping for an immediate, over-the-phone analysis. A pleasant-soundinglady asked him where he lived and told him that the best thing to do would beto bring the item in and they would research it for him. Morton reallydidn’t want to venture back out into the cold and rain, he much preferred theidea of sitting with a bucket of coffee, staring glibly at his new ColdrickCase Incident Wall, as he had named it. He’d also hoped that Juliettewould have called back by now. How long did it take to tap a bunch ofletters and numbers into a computer?
He took onelast look at the Coldrick Case Incident Wall and set out for Canterbury.
He hadn’t been to Canterbury for sometime. The last time was to visit their archives, housed rather superiorlyin a section of the Cathedral. Beat that, Miss Latimer, in your tinyflint shed. He still couldn’t quite grasp the idea of her as a Deidre.
If it had beenanything resembling a nice day, he might have taken the time to wander aroundthe Cathedral. He had a vague recollection of a primary school visit inthe dim, dark days of his childhood. All he could remember from theday-trip was colouring in a picture of a stained glass window and histravel-sick friend, Clive’s vomit washing up and down the aisle of the coachall the way home.
By some strangemiracle, Morton found a parking spot within half a mile of the Institute and,clutching his briefcase in one hand and a large golfing umbrella in the other,hurried as fast as he could to the building.
The Institute,a modest, medieval building, was on Northgate, just within the citywalls. Morton wasn’t sure whom he had been expecting when he got there,but, as he crossed the threshold into the air-conditioned building, he wasgreeted by a sweaty, rotund, black-bearded man in his mid-forties whose namebadge announced him as Dr Garlick, which Morton thought an appropriate name fora man who bore a strong resemblance to a garlic bulb.
Dr Garlick tookMorton into a small side office with only a tiny, latticed window forlight. The walls were bursting at the seams with heavy, disorganisedbooks and files. Dr Garlick sat behind a cluttered oak desk, switched ona powerful desk lamp and placed a pair of glasses on his nose, lookingexpectantly at Morton’s briefcase. Morton carefully pulled the copper boxout and watched as Dr Garlick’s eyes lit up.
‘What amarvellous little artefact!’ he said animatedly, as he took the box from Mortonand turned it over in his hands.
‘Is it?’ Mortonsaid, still finding it quite unremarkable.
‘Oh yes. Unusual. It’ll take a bit of investigation though. Can you leave itwith me?’ Dr Garlick asked, passing the back of his hand over his sweatyforehead.
Morton had aflash of paranoia. What if he’s working in cahoots with the Dunkfamily too? He reasoned that he couldn’t distrust everyone he cameinto contact with or the case would never progress. ‘Fine,’ he said,before adding, ‘just don’t let that copper box leave this building with anyoneother than me.’
Dr Garlickseemed slightly taken aback but nodded in agreement. ‘Of course, ofcourse.’
The rain had faded into a misty drizzle asMorton headed back towards his car, a much lesser sense of urgency in hisstride. He imagined bounding into the police station and handing a greatwodge of paperwork to PC Glen Jones and WPC Alison Hawk. Although, actually,he would need to speak to someone in much higher authority about it. ‘Entirelycircumstantial,’ WPC Alison Hawk would say. ‘Do you actually have anyconcrete evidence that Daniel Dunk is responsible for the death of MaryColdrick, Mr Farrier?’ Morton would become one of those joke charactersin television police dramas that return week after week with increasinglybizarre claims. Aliens abducted my cat. My grandmother hasturned into a blue tit. No, he couldn’t go to the police until he hadsomething – anything - solid.
His mobileringing jarred him from his wandering thoughts. He hoped that it wasJuliette calling with the name of the car owner, but it was Soraya’s name thatflashed onscreen.
‘Hi, Soraya.’
‘Thursday, twop.m.,’ she said, as if he should know what that meant.
‘Sorry?’
‘Peter’sfuneral. Thursday, two p.m.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Morton, couldyou do me a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Would you do areading?’ she asked, in such a light-hearted way that it sounded like she was organisinga wedding or asking him to grab some bread from the supermarket on his wayhome. A reading at Peter Coldrick’s funeral? He hadn’t even made uphis mind about whether or not he was even going to the funeral. He’d only known the guy two minutes. Soraya must have sensed hisreluctance. ‘It’s just that
