Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us (17 page)

“You’re right. He might not have been the type, Mrs. Hoskins,” Sergeant Watkins said dryly. “It appears now that someone else might have pulled the trigger and made it look like suicide.”

“That’s more like it,” Sam Hoskins said with a mouthful of lamb and bread. “I’d imagine there were plenty of folk who’d be quite happy to take a potshot at our Ted.”

“Hush now, Sam. Don’t go talking like that,” Gwyneth whispered in a shocked voice. “You shouldn’t talk ill of the dead.”

“He got what he deserved,” Sam said, cutting himself another huge mouthful of lamb and shoving it into his mouth.

Gwyneth looked appealingly at the policemen. “I won’t say there was any love lost between Ted and me,” she said. “I can’t say that I’d weep for him now. He always was the baby, the darling who could do no wrong. But he was a sadistic little bugger—I remember he killed my pet rabbit then had the nerve to pretend to our dad that he’d been out hunting and shot a rabbit, and he got the credit for it too. I more or less raised him after our ma died. He was six and I was ten, but he never showed an ounce of gratitude when he grew up. He couldn’t wait to get out here and never came back until now.”

“And never sent as much as a Christmas card to us, did he, Gwyneth love?” Sam Hoskins asked as he picked up a mug of tea.

“So you can think of people who would have liked to take a potshot at Ted Morgan, can you, Mr. Hoskins?” Evan asked quietly, “Beside yourself, I mean?”

“What are you saying, Mr. Evans?” Gwyneth demanded. “You’re not saying my Sam might have had something to do with it, are you?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hoskins. I was wondering if you or your husband could come up with the names of some people who didn’t like Ted Morgan, enough to kill him.”

“Plenty, I should think,” Sam Hoskins said. “He always enjoyed baiting people and getting into fights with them. Evans-the-Meat for one. Those two were always scrapping when they were little. And I hear that Evans-the-Meat went for him at the village meeting last night.”

“You weren’t there yourself?” Evan asked.

“Why would we be there? What they do in the village of Llanfair doesn’t concern us,” Gwyneth said quickly. “Besides, we don’t like to stay up late.”

“So do you mind telling us where you were last night from about eight o’clock onwards?”

“That’s a bloody stupid question,” Sam Hoskins spluttered. “We’re up at four in the morning, this time of year. We go to bed around nine, don’t we?”

“So you were home, in bed?” Sergeant Watkins said. “I don’t suppose you can prove that.”

“I don’t keep a harem in the bedroom closet who could vouch for me, unfortunately. Just the one wife.”

Evan had to smile.

“We haven’t found his will yet, but it’s possible that you’re his primary beneficiary, Mrs. Hoskins,” Sergeant Watkins said.

“You mean I inherit his money?” Gwyneth asked, her face lighting up.

“And the farm, I shouldn’t wonder,” Sam added.

“Fancy that.” Gwyneth’s cheeks were very pink as she glanced at Sam. “I can’t take it in yet. It’s all too sudden.” She put her hand to her heart and stood there shaking her head. “When do you think I’ll know?”

“You’ll probably hear from his solicitor’s office when they’ve sorted out the will,” Sergeant Watkins said. “And when they’ve found your brother’s killer. By the way, Mr. Hoskins, do either of you own a gun?”

“Of course I’ve got a gun,” Sam Hoskins said. “And I use it if I see a fox anywhere near my lambs.” He opened a corner cupboard and took out an ancient shotgun.

“Thanks, that’s all for now then,” Sergeant Watkins said. “Sorry to disturb your lunch.”

“Not at all. Especially when you’re bringing what’s good news for us, right?” Sam Hoskins said, jabbing his fork in a pickled onion.

*   *   *

Gwyneth showed the policemen to the front door, closed it behind her, and came back to the table. “All the same, Sam,” she said quietly, “I think you should have told them where you were last night. They’re going to find out anyway and then it looks bad for us, doesn’t it?”

“They won’t find out a thing if you don’t blab, woman,” Sam Hoskins said and calmly went on eating.

*   *   *

“So what did you think?” Watkins asked Evan as they drove up the hill again. “Any possibility he could have done it?”

“Possible, but not probable,” Evan said. “Can you see him using that dainty little pistol? He showed you what he uses—a bloody great shotgun. I can see him bashing Ted over the head, the way the colonel was bashed, but not shooting him like that. For one thing, Ted would be on his guard with Sam. His expression showed that he was completely taken by surprise.”

Watkins nodded. “What about her then?”

“Gwyneth? I wouldn’t have thought she had the nerve. She comes across to me as a timid little thing.”

“But not as innocent as she wants us to think,” Watkins said. “She had clearly thought about the money aspect before we got there. Her surprise and delight were too phony. And it’s likely she’s going to be quite a rich woman.”

“But why choose that particular evening when everyone was out and about for the meeting?” Evan asked. “Most nights you could walk up the village street at ten and not see a soul.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Watkins said. “So it had to be someone who wanted to make sure Ted didn’t go through with his grand scheme for the adventure park—which points to Evans-the-Meat again, I’m afraid. We’ll have to let the D.I. know about him.”

Evan nodded. “We don’t really have a choice, even though I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it.”

*   *   *

“Well done, lads.” Detective Inspector Hughes slapped his hand on the desk with a rare display of enthusiasm. “I think we’ve hit a hole in one. I knew there would be an easy answer to this. Now all we need to do is find just one fingerprint or one little clod of mud and we’ve got him. The lab boys are almost done up there, and I’ve made good and sure they’ve got everything for analysis.”

“I bet you have, sir,” Watkins said dryly. Evan stopped himself from smiling.

“So what about a spot of lunch?” D.I. Hughes suggested. “Do they do a decent meal at your local pub, Evans?”

“If you like meat pies and sausage rolls,” Evan said.

The D.I. shuddered.

“They don’t have much lunchtime trade,” Evan added apologetically, “Harry-the-Pub can’t cook. Neither can Betsy.”

“Then we better get on down to Caernarfon. They do a decent fettuccine at the Prince of Wales.” The D.I. was still looking pleased with himself. “I think it might be a good idea to take our belligerent butcher down with us for questioning. That usually puts the fear of God in them, doesn’t it? Go and bring him in, Watkins.”

“Bring him here, sir? Now?” Watkins asked with a glance at Evan.

“Of course. I want to get this case squared away.” D.I. Hughes snapped. “What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, I really don’t think he’s your man,” Evan said cautiously. “I know it looks bad for him, but—”

“Nonsense, constable. What more do you want? He tries to kill Ted Morgan in full view of a whole room full of people. He has to be dragged home, drunk. He admits sneaking out to go to Morgan’s house later. He had the motive. He had the opportunity.” He looked up at Watkins and Evan with a satisfied smile. “There may be promotions in this, who knows. Go on then, bring him here.”

“You’d better come along, Evans,” Watkins said. “And bring the handcuffs. He might not come quietly.”

“I don’t think for a moment that he will come quietly,” Evan said as they left the D.I. in the station. “I’d probably put up a struggle if I was being arrested for something I didn’t do.”

Watkins moved closer to Evan. “Don’t go overboard with this loyalty thing, will you? You know what the D.I.’s like when he’s onto a hunch. The only way to make him change his mind is to find someone who had a better reason to kill Morgan. And you could be wrong, you know.”

“You mean Evans-the-Meat might have done it?” Evan asked. He shook his head. “Killed Ted maybe, but he’d never have bashed the poor old colonel over the head. He thought a lot of the colonel and he was so excited that the colonel had found the ruin, too.”

But somebody wasn’t, Evan thought, as they waited to cross the street. It was possible that somebody hadn’t wanted that call put through to the archaeologists in the morning—someone who wanted to stop any kind of development or publicity at all in Llanfair, be it a famous ruin or a new hotel complex. Was there anybody who fitted that description?

*   *   *

“Oh no, not again!” Evans-the-Meat looked up with a resigned scowl as the two policemen came back into his shop. “What is it this time?”

“The D.I. wants to talk to you,” Watkins said. “Over at the police station.”

“Let him come and talk to me here. I’m busy,” Evans-the-Meat growled.

“You’re wanted at the station, Evans,” Watkins said. “Now.”

Evans-the-Meat’s face flushed scarlet. “Who do you think you are, ordering people around. It’s not the bloody gestapo here, you know.”

“You’re wanted for questioning, Evans,” Watkins said, “and we need your fingerprints. So get moving.”

“But I told you what happened last night,” Evans-the-Meat said, his voice rising. “I told you I went to Ted’s house but I didn’t go in.”

“And now you can tell that to the D.I.,” Watkins said.

Evans-the-Meat’s hand gripped at his meat cleaver. “Look, I’ve told you I had nothing to do with Ted’s death. I’ve got nothing more to tell you, so for Christ’s sake leave me in peace to get on with my work.” He started chopping pork ribs with violence. “Go on. Bugger off,” he added.

“Have you got the cuffs there, constable?” Watkins asked. Reluctantly Evan produced the handcuffs.

“I don’t want to have to do this, Gareth,” he said to Evans-the-Meat. “Why don’t you just come quietly, eh?”

“I tell you I didn’t do it!” Evans-the-Meat yelled. “I’m not going anywhere. I know my rights. You can’t touch me without my lawyer being present.”

“You’ll get a chance to talk to your lawyer soon enough, I expect,” Watkins said. He took a step toward Evans-the-Meat with the handcuffs open and ready. Evans-the-Meat’s eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal. “No!” he yelled. “You’re not handcuffing me!” His hand half raised the meat cleaver.

“What seems to be taking so long, sergeant?” D.I. Hughes’ crisp voice made them all start. He stood in the doorway eyeing the butcher with distaste. “Resisting arrest, is he? Foolish move. Put the cuffs on him and then drive him straight down to HQ, Watkins. I’ll talk to him there.”

Evans-the-Meat lowered his arm and went limp, like a deflating balloon. He looked down in horror as the cuffs were snapped onto his wrists. “Don’t do that,” he pleaded. “What will my customers think if they see me taken off to jail? You know what people are like. I’ll lose all my trade. I’m an upright citizen. Ask Constable Evans. He’ll tell you, won’t you, Evan bach?”

“Don’t make it worse for yourself, Gareth,” Evan muttered. “Just go down there and answer their questions. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Oh no? I’ve heard how the police get confessions out of people when they’ve got them alone in a cell. Torture chambers, that’s what they’ve got down in Caernarfon. Don’t let them take me down there, Evan. You’ve got to help me, man.”

Evan winced as Evans-the-Meat was crammed into the backseat of Sergeant Watkins’ squad car. Evan could hear him yelling as the car drove off. He felt slightly sick.

Chapter 15

Evan sat at his desk and stared at the wall. After the morning’s activity the silence was oppressive. He couldn’t forget the butcher’s panic stricken face and still felt in some way responsible for letting him down.

At last he got up and went outside. A brisk wind was blowing from the high peaks, sending clouds like puffballs across the sky. Evan glanced at his watch. It was well past lunchtime but he no longer felt hungry. Having missed his breakfast, he had been starving by midmorning and had to get a couple of packets of crisps from Roberts-the-Pump’s snack bar. If he went home now, he knew that Mrs. Williams would have a gargantuan plate of food congealing in the oven for him, and she’d be waiting to ply him with questions, too.

On impulse he climbed over the style and started up the sheep path to Owens’ farm. The wind blew in his face and snatched his breath away but he kept on climbing steadily until he had passed the farmhouse and the village lay below him. How neat and tidy it all looked from here, he thought. You’d never think it was a place where murders took place.

None of the events of the past few days made sense—a stranger breaking into Annie’s house and stealing a gun that killed another man who had just moved here. An old colonel being hit over the head after he discovered an ancient ruin, and Evans-the-Meat taken to jail as the prime suspect.

Evan sank down onto a large rock. It was covered with gray-green traces of lichen and warm in the sun. He wished that Bronwen were up there with him. When he talked things through with her, he was able to see them more clearly. But Bronwen was teaching school and he was alone, looking through a complete fog.

Evans-the-Meat. That’s where he should start. Why was he so sure that the butcher hadn’t killed Ted Morgan? He had threatened to. He had even tried to. He had admitted going to the bungalow. And if that little gun had been the only weapon available, why couldn’t he have picked it up in a fit of rage and pulled the trigger? But how would he have got hold of Annie’s gun in the first place? How would he even have known Annie owned a gun?

Evan’s gaze swept the hillside, then he suddenly froze. Someone was climbing up the path toward him, moving quickly. From the long skirt that billowed out behind her, it could only be one person. It must be some sort of emergency, Evan thought. They had sent her to find him. He got to his feet.

“What is it, Bron?” he called.

She started in surprise. “Do you make a habit of rearing up from behind rocks, Evan Evans?” she asked with a nervous laugh. “You almost made my heart jump out of my throat.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you must be looking for me.”

“Looking for you?”

“I thought they’d sent you to get me because something had happened.” Evan felt his face flushing. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” he added. “It is Tuesday, isn’t it?”