Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us (13 page)

He opened the door and stepped out into the street. It was raining again, a fine misty rain that collected on eyelashes and hair.

“Thanks for coming, Evan,” she said. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

“Only—” Evan began, but she cut in. “I know. Only doing your job. You’ll never know what a help you’ve been. It’s a pity that—” she broke off. “See yer around,” she said and hastily closed the door behind him.

Chapter 11

The next morning Evan had just sat down to breakfast when there was a tap on the back door. Mrs. Williams was halfway from the stove with a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and crisp bacon in her hands. She must have decided that she had been in mourning for long enough and had started to cook normal meals again. They both looked up, startled by the sudden knocking. Nobody ever came to the back door.

“Now who can that be, and at this hour too?” Mrs. Williams demanded as Evan rose to go to the door.

Outside was a young man in workman’s overalls and a cloth cap. Evan had never seen him before.

“They said the local copper lived here.” The young man swallowed hard, making his Adam’s apple jerk up and down.

“Is something wrong?” Evan asked.

“I think you’d better come and see,” the young man said. Evan could see that he was fighting to remain calm.

“But his breakfast is just ready.” Mrs. Williams appeared at Evan’s shoulder. “You’re surely not wanting him to go running off without his breakfast?”

“That’s alright. It will stay warm in the oven. I’ll be back,” Evan said. He nodded to the young man. “Alright. Let’s go then.”

The young man led the way out of the back garden and along the path that ran behind the village. He was walking so fast that Evan almost had to jog to keep up with him.

“He told me to come at eight o’clock this morning, so I turned up like he said,” the young man called over his shoulder. “But I couldn’t make anyone hear, so I started to look around.”

He veered onto the newly graveled drive that led to the four new holiday bungalows and headed toward the first one. When Evan saw where they were going, he realized who the young man must be. This was confirmed by a truck parked a little way down the drive. E. Lloyd, General Contractors, Bangor.

“You’re here to work on Ted Morgan’s place, are you?”

“That’s right.” The young man turned back to him again, his face very white.

“Have you tried up at the farm? Maybe he started working without you. He was doing things up there over the weekend.”

The young man shook his head violently. “I don’t think so,” he said. “You’d better come and take a look for yourself, constable, but I think he’s been taken ill or something.”

He stepped off the path and peered in through the big picture window. The curtains were drawn but there was a narrow gap in the middle. The young man indicated to Evan. “Look in there,” he said. “Over behind the sofa. Can you see him?”

In the half darkness of the room the light blue shirt sprawled across the floor was all too visible.

“Yes. I see him,” he said. “Did you try the front door?”

“It’s locked.”

“And he didn’t give you a key?”

“No. He told me to meet him here.”

“What about a back door?”

“I went round the back,” the young man said. “That was locked too.”

Evan was examining the front door. “It doesn’t look too solid,” he said. “Do you reckon we could do it between us?”

“Bust it in, you mean?”

“I don’t see any other alternative,” Evan said. “We have to get in to him somehow.”

“Alright, let’s give it a go,” the young man said.

The door gave on the third attempt. “We didn’t build this place. It must have been Harrisons from Caernarfon—they always buy cheap locks,” the young man couldn’t resist commenting.

He hung back as Evan stepped inside. “Don’t touch anything,” Evan called over his shoulder. “I think you’d better wait outside.”

“Is he … dead?”

Evan looked at the body of Ted Morgan, lying with a surprised expression on his face and an ugly red hole in the middle of his forehead. “Yes,” he said quietly. “He’s dead. Would you mind standing guard on the place while I go down to the station and call HQ?”

He arrived at the police station door at the same moment as a white van. Sergeant Watkins got out. Evan looked at him in astonishment. “That was quick,” he said. “Are you psychic or did someone else call you first?”

“What are you talking about?” Sergeant Watkins said. “I came over because I thought you’d like to know that your hunch was right again. The lab found traces of blood in the soil samples. D.I. Hughes is opening a full investigation. He’ll be up here later himself.”

“Good, because I’ve got something else he’ll want to see.”

“More evidence turned up?”

“No, another body,” Evan said. “I was just on my way to call your department. You’d better come up and see for yourself.”

“You think this death is suspicious too?” Sergeant Watkins asked, striding out behind Evan as he led the way back to the cottages.

“I’d call it suspicious,” Evan said. “He’s got a bloody great bullet hole between his eyes.”

“Christ,” Watkins said. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a serial killer up here.”

“It wasn’t the same type of killing,” Evan said. “But I suppose the deaths have to be linked somehow.”

“Someone you knew?”

“Yes. A man called Ted Morgan. He just inherited the farm from his father and came back here to live after twenty years of not setting foot in the place.”

The young contractor was still standing guard outside the open front door. Evan could see the relief flood his face at their return.

“Breaking and entering too?” Watkins asked, indicating the broken lock.

“No, that was us,” Evan said. “This is the contractor who was supposed to meet Ted Morgan here. He saw the body through the front window and came to get me.”

Sergeant Watkins nodded to him. “Stick around, son. We might need to ask you some questions.”

He went ahead of Evan into the house. The front door opened directly onto the living room. It was clearly a rental property by the furniture—imitation leather three piece suite, imitation wood table and chairs, small TV and VCR in the corner, bookcase with women’s magazines and a few cheap paperbacks, prints of Welsh landscapes on the walls. An efficient room with no character and only a beer bottle on the table to show that it was currently lived in.

“Did you move anything?” Sergeant Watkins asked.

“Nothing was touched at all,” Evan said. “As soon as I saw he was dead, I came straight out again.”

Watkins looked around the room. “No sign of a struggle,” he said. He took out his handkerchief and carefully pulled back the curtains. “Ah well, mystery solved,” he said with relief in his voice. He bent to indicate Ted Morgan’s right hand, half under the sofa. It was clutching a very small pistol. “He shot himself. Suicide.”

Evan stared down at Ted Morgan’s lifeless face. He looked at the expensive clothes, the gold ring on his finger. He shook his head.

“What?” Sergeant Watkins demanded. “Oh, come on. You’re not going to try and tell me it wasn’t suicide, are you? He’s lying there with the bloody gun in his hand. What more do you want?”

“I can’t believe he’d kill himself. That doesn’t make sense, sarge. I was with him at a meeting last night. He was looking quite pleased with himself when he told everyone about his grand scheme for this village. And he was due to start remodelling the farmhouse today. Hardly a man about to end it all.”

“Maybe he was manic and subject to bouts of depression,” Watkins said. “He’d just moved here, you say? What do you know about him?”

“Not much. He seemed like a nice-enough chap. Of course, everyone around here heard all about him when his dad was alive. His father talked about him all the time—how he owned property in London and had made a fortune. Ever so proud of him, Taff was. Pity, because they say he never came home to visit his dad in twenty years.”

“And yet he shows up now,” Watkins said speculatively. “Money troubles, do you think? The business not doing too well?”

“Hardly,” Evan said. “He’d just got planning permission to build a theme park, a big hotel, and a monorail to link them.”

“Up here?” Watkins looked surprised.

“He’d bought the old slate quarry. He was going to turn it into an adventure park—The Haunted Mine, he was going to call it.”

“Is that a fact?” Watkins shook his head in amazement. “You’re right. It doesn’t sound like a man who is about to kill himself. And how did the locals like the idea of a theme park in their backyard? I gather they weren’t even too thrilled when the Everest Inn was built.”

“It’s hard to tell,” Evan said. “Some of them didn’t like the idea, but—” He stopped in midsentence. He remembered all too clearly Evans-the-Meat yelling that he’d kill Ted Morgan to stop him from going ahead with his scheme.

“Didn’t like it enough to think of killing him to stop him?” Watkins asked. “That’s pretty drastic, isn’t it? I wasn’t too thrilled when they built that new shopping center behind my house, but I didn’t go out and shoot the developers.”

Evan nodded. Evans-the-Meat might have been capable of killing Ted Morgan in the heat of the moment, but surely not later in cold blood?

“It could still turn out to be suicide,” Watkins said hesitantly. “If he’d found out last night that his financing had collapsed and he wasn’t going to be able to go ahead with his project after all? If he was a proud man, maybe he took this way out rather than face the humiliation.”

Evan tried to consider what he knew of Ted Morgan. “Of course it will be easy enough to check on his finances,” he said. “And as for finding out last night—I haven’t noticed a phone in this place.”

Watkins sighed. “Alright. I’d better put in a call to the D.I. right away and have him send the medical examiner up here. Maybe we’ll know more when he’s had a look at the body. In the meantime we should seal off the place.”

Evan followed him out of the building. “I’ll go and get the tape,” he said.

“Do you know who lives in these other new bungalows?” Watkins asked, looking around him with interest.

“They’re just holiday homes, let by the week,” Evan said. “I’m not sure which of them is occupied right now.”

“It might be a good idea to talk to any occupants and see if they heard or saw anything last night. And maybe the people in those houses down below heard something. Sound travels in a valley like this, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll go and talk to them if you like,” Evan said.

“That can wait until we’ve got the area taped off,” Sergeant Watkins said. “You do the taping and I’ll put in a call to the D.I. He’ll probably forbid us to do anything until he gets here.”

The young contractor was standing outside, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Is it okay to go yet?” he asked.

“Hang on just a minute longer,” Evan said. “I’m coming back to seal off the area. Maybe you could help me.”

He accompanied the sergeant down to the police station and left him talking to headquarters while he returned to drape the bushes around the cottage in yellow police tape.

“You reckon he was murdered then?” the young contractor asked, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

“I don’t think it would be wise to speculate at this point,” Evan said. “The detective inspector and the medical examiner will be up here soon. Then we’ll know more. But thanks for your help. If we can just get you to make a statement, then you’re free to go.”

“A statement saying what?”

“Anything you think might help us. How Ted Morgan hired you. What he said. What you saw this morning. I’m sorry, it looks like you’ve been done out of big remodelling job.”

The young man nodded, then shrugged. “Oh well, that’s life, isn’t it? At least I’m still here, which is more than I can say for that poor bloke.”

They reached the station together, in time to see Sergeant Watkins putting down the phone. “They’re on their way up,” he said. “And I bet you can guess the first thing he said to me.”

“Have you touched anything?” Evan asked with a grin.

“No. He said, ‘Not Evans again? How does he manage to keep turning up bodies?’”

“Look, I came up here for a quiet life,” Evan began, then his smile faded. “Funny. That’s what Ted Morgan said to me on Sunday.” He turned to the young contractor. “You can sit at my desk,” he said, “if the sergeant would kindly move out of the chair.” He glanced at Sergeant Watkins. “I’ve asked him to make a statement.”

“Quite right.” Watkins stood up. “Sit down, son.” He watched as Evan handed the man a pen and paper then indicated to Evan that they should go outside. The clouds were rolling back, revealing peaks above, and the sun was starting to break through the mist.

“Going to be a fine day,” Evan commented.

Sergeant Watkins looked up at the new holiday bungalows above the village, their windows now winking in the morning sun. “So tell me what you know about Ted Morgan. You say he just got here? Is that why he was living in that place?”

“He owns them,” Evan said. “He had them built on the farm property he inherited from his father. That’s the old farmhouse up there. He was going to have it completely remodelled. That’s why the contractor was here.”

“He didn’t have any relatives to stay with then?”

“He had a sister and brother-in-law on a farm down the Nantgwnant Pass, but they didn’t exactly get along.”

“Bad blood in the family, huh?”

“You could put it like that.”

“Anyone else you know he didn’t get along with?”

Evan sucked in his breath. “Yes,” he said at last. “Our local butcher. It seems they’ve been enemies since childhood.” And he went on to recount the entire scene with Evans-the-Meat. “But he’d calmed down by the time we got him home,” Evan finished. “He just has a short fuse. He flies into a temper very easily. I’m always separating him from other blokes at the pub.”

“And you think he’d be capable of killing someone?”

“In a rage maybe,” Evan said. “He’s a strong man. He might kill someone accidentally and not realize what he was doing. But shooting someone and putting a gun in his hand to make it look like suicide—that doesn’t seem the kind of thing he’d do.”