Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us (24 page)

I should have called Watkins, Evan thought. He realized now that he had acted impulsively, rushing out alone into the dark. Wasn’t it a basic premise of police training that you went out in twos whenever possible? He had been so excited when the pieces finally fell into place. He was sure his hunch had to be right. He just prayed it was. He didn’t want Annie Pigeon to spend the rest of her life in jail.

Lights of Beddgelert appeared through the curtain of rain, and he was driving past neat gray stone houses. He crossed the bridge and swung into the courtyard of the Royal Stag Hotel. Lights were shining from every room and it looked solid and welcoming—a tall, gray stone building with the white stag sign swinging in the wind outside.

Evan found a parking spot between a Mercedes and a Jag. Obviously it wasn’t cheap to stay at the Royal Stag. The reception desk was unoccupied, but voices were coming from the bar on his left. He pushed open the door and found himself in what must be a foreigner’s fantasy of a British pub. The walls were old oak panelling. Heavy oak beams spanned the ceiling, decorated with horse brasses. Horse brasses adorned the pillars of the bar too. In the middle of one wall a roaring fire crackled in a massive brick fireplace, even though it was summer. At the far end of the room a group was assembled around a piano, laughing as they tried out various show tunes.

Mr. Dawson was standing at the bar, deep in conversation with a customer. He was relaxed and smiling, dressed in twill slacks, a lamb’s wool cardigan over an open necked checked shirt—very different from the scarlet faced, shouting man Evan had seen before.

“So I told the golf pro,” he was saying as Evan approached discreetly, “what he could do with his bloody club.”

His audience laughed. Mr. Dawson looked up to see Evan standing there.

“Are you looking for someone?” he asked.

“You’re Mr. Dawson, aren’t you?” Evan asked. “I’d like a word if you can spare a minute.”

He motioned Evan toward the empty reception area then followed him. “A word about what? Do I know you?”

“P.C. Evans. Llanfair police, sir,” Evan said. “And the word’s about a man called Ted Morgan.”

“Ted Morgan? Never heard of him.”

“And a young girl called Desiree St. Claire.”

The color drained from Dawson’s face. “We can’t talk here,” he muttered, looking around. “Hold on a minute while I get a jacket. It’s raining, isn’t it?”

“Pouring.”

“I’ll just tell Howard to keep an eye on things until I get back,” he said. He disappeared into a back room, then came out again, already halfway into a waterproof jacket. “Let’s go,” he said. He led Evan to a hunter green Jaguar parked in the slot marked Owner.

“Get in,” he said. “I don’t want anybody spying on us. News travels quickly in a place like this. I don’t want anyone to think that the hotel’s having trouble with the law.”

Evan hesitated as he opened the passenger door, then got in. The car took off with a great surge of power, roaring through the deserted streets until the village was left behind.

“Okay, what have you got to say to me?” he asked Evan.

“I think you know that, sir,” Evan said. “I was in London, at a place called Taffy’s Club. I talked to a girl who had worked there with your daughter. I wanted to say that I can understand why you killed Ted Morgan. I might have done the same if it had been my daughter.”

Mr. Dawson gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yes, but it won’t make any difference in court, will it? It will still be jail for life.”

“I’m sure the sentence would be a light one, considering the emotional distress you’ve gone through.”

“But prison, just the same.” He sighed as he continued to swing the big car around the hairpin bends. “I’ll tell you right now that I’m not sorry. He was a monster. He took away everything I ever loved. He deserved to die. I hope he rots in hell.”

“Maybe he did deserve to die,” Evan said, “but it wasn’t up to you to pass judgement, was it?”

Dawson drove on, tight-lipped as the tires screeched on the bends. “I didn’t give you chaps enough credit,” he said at last. “I was sure I could pass it off as a suicide. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him at that meeting, smiling, jovial, acting like the local benefactor—after what he did to my daughter. Ted Morgan, you say his real name was?”

Evan nodded.

Mr. Dawson took a deep, drawn out breath that sounded like a sigh. “I saw him in London, after the inquest. I went round to Taffy’s club to see for myself what hell she’d been through. That Ted Morgan character was playing the genial host. He’d already got another girl to take my Glynis’s place.” His voice cracked and he was silent for a moment and the only sounds were the deep growl of the engine and rushing of the wind.

“I wanted to kill him then, of course. I could have killed him then, if I’d had a chance. But I didn’t have a weapon on me. I’d like to have throttled him with my bare hands but I couldn’t get near him with all those bodyguards. I never thought I’d see him again and then there he was, playing public benefactor. I couldn’t believe my luck.” He chuckled as he swung the wheel around and the tires responded, screeching. “I went round to see him after the meeting. He didn’t know who I was, of course. I told him I was interested in investing in his new scheme and he invited me in. Even offered me a drink. He sat there, calm and relaxed, telling me his plans. He looked up and I shot him. Right between the eyes. I always was a good shot. I do a lot of hunting in the winter.”

Evan was very aware that they had been climbing steadily back up the pass, the way he had come.

“So your men figured it out, did they? I suppose your D.I.—Hughes, isn’t it—had a whole team brainstorming on the case. Did you get Scotland Yard in on it too?”

“No, it was sheer luck, actually,” Evan said. “Sheer bad luck for you, Mr. Dawson. I was shown a picture of Glynis and I found out that her last name was Dawson. That rang a bell because my landlady had told me all about you when you ran out of the meeting. I put two and two together and came straight to you.”

“Then I’d say it was your bad luck,” Mr. Dawson said. He swung into a small parking lot at the scenic overlook and brought the car to a screeching halt. “Get out, please.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Evan fought to keep his voice calm. “It will only make things worse.”

“For whom? Not for me,” Dawson said, and he laughed. “Nobody knows you’re here except you and me. Go on, get out.”

“What are you going to do—try and make a break for it? How far do you think you could drive before they get you?”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” Dawson said. “You are. You are going to have an unfortunate fall. Heaven knows what you were doing up here in the dark, but you missed your footing and plummeted down onto those rocks.”

“Do you think you’re strong enough to throw me over the edge?” Evan asked.

“Oh no, I know I’m not strong enough to throw you over,” Dawson said, and drew out a revolver. “Go on, get out.”

Evan opened the car door and stepped out into the storm. He tried to think clearly what would be his best course of action. It was pitch dark. Maybe if he dropped over the parapet he could get away among the rocks, but maybe not. He didn’t know if Dawson had a flashlight in the car. If he tried to run for it, he’d be shot in the back. As the man had said, he was a very good shot. He’d got Ted Morgan clean between the eyes. The only question now was whether Dawson would shoot him in cold blood.

Dawson got out after him, the revolver levelled at Evan’s head all the time. “Over to the edge,” he said, motioning with a jerk of his head.

“Don’t you think they’ll be suspicious when they find a bullet wound? You think they can’t trace guns? And someone’s bound to see the car.”

“Who? Not too many cars around on a night like this, are there? And there won’t be a bullet hole. Like I said, I’m a good shot—I’ll just wing you, enough to make you lose your balance and fall.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Evan yelled above the wind. He prayed for a car to come up the pass, but inky blackness surrounded them. It was late for Wales. Everybody would be safely home by now, especially on a night like this.

“I don’t see why not,” Dawson yelled back. “They’ve no way of linking me to the killing. After that meeting I drove straight home. I made sure I was seen in the bar before I slipped out of the fire exit and came back. And they won’t find my fingerprints anywhere either. I used Ted Morgan’s own gun and wiped off my prints before I put it in his hand.” He laughed again and Evan saw now that this was a man who had finally cracked under the weight of his despair. He knew that Mr. Dawson wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.

“That was a bit of luck, wasn’t it?” he said, coming closer to Evan and making Evan take a step back toward the low wall above the drop. “I couldn’t believe it. I had my own gun in my pocket, but his was right there on the table, within my reach—a real gift, don’t you think? That’s when I was sure I could make it look like suicide.”

“But you couldn’t, could you?” Evan demanded. Almost horizontal rain was stinging his face and his teeth were chattering from cold and shock. “And it wasn’t Ted Morgan’s gun either.”

Mr. Dawson hesitated. “It wasn’t?”

“It belonged to a girl called Annie Pigeon. Ted Morgan took it away from her. The police think she killed him. In fact they have her under surveillance at this moment. The gun’s got her prints on it and I expect they’ll find her prints in Morgan’s living room. Do you know who Annie Pigeon was? Does the name ring a bell? She was Glynis’ best friend at the club in London.”

“Annie?” The gun wavered. “She wrote about Annie in her suicide note. She said she was sorry she had to leave Annie alone with them.”

“Well, Annie’s not alone any more,” Evan said. “She’s got a child and she probably can’t even guess who the father is. You can imagine what she’s been through, can’t you? Do you want her to go to jail for you now? And what about the little girl? What’s going to happen to her?”

He saw a spasm of pain cross Dawson’s face.

“Do you really think you’ll find peace if you kill me?”

“No,” Dawson said. “I’ll never find peace, not as long as I live. I’ve been living in hell, ever since she ran away. It was all my fault, you see. I was too strict on her. She was so precious to me, I worried something would happen to her so I wouldn’t let her out. I drove her to that life and that end.”

“Then give another girl like her a chance,” Evan pleaded. “Don’t let Annie Pigeon go to jail for a murder she didn’t commit.”

Dawson’s face quivered, then he shook his head violently. “Damn you,” he said. He threw down the gun and ran back to the car. The engine was still idling. Evans wasn’t sure whether Dawson intended to run him down. The big car seemed to come right at him. He flung himself aside, slipped on the wet gravel and staggered into the wall as the car passed him, inches away. He scrambled to his feet and started to run after it in a futile chase back down to the valley. Dawson was driving absurdly fast. He came to the first hairpin and didn’t even bother to swing the wheel around. The car mounted the low wall, was airborne for a moment. Lights cut a crazy arc in the black emptiness. Then there was a sickening crash of glass and metal, followed by an explosion. A ball of flame shot into the air. Then silence.

Chapter 22

Bronwen opened her front door to put out her milk bottles. The storm had passed over and stars shone from a clear sky. Above Glyder Fawr the moon was rising, bathing the peaks in a cold light. The air smelled fresh and green and Bronwen stood in the doorway, breathing deeply. She was about to shut the door again when she saw a dark figure running down the road from the pass. Curiosity prevented her from closing the door again. A late-night jogger? Surely not on a night like this.

Then a cracked voice called out, “Bron? Is that you?”

She ran down the path to her front gate. “Evan? What are you doing here? They said you’d gone away for the weekend.”

“I came back early,” he said. She started as she got her first good look at him in the light. His hair was plastered to his forehead and blood was running down his cheek from an ugly-looking wound. His clothes were covered with mud.

“What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” she asked in horror. “You’re soaked to the skin. And you’re bleeding.”

“I’m alright,” he said, his breath coming in big gulps. “I’ve got to phone HQ. There’s been an accident, up above Llyn Gwynant.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Car went over the edge.” He was still gasping for breath.

“You weren’t in it?” There was horror in her voice.

“No. He drove away without me.”

“You ran all the way here from Llyn Gwynant?”

“It was quicker than running down to Beddgelert,” he said, “and that’s where I left my car.”

She took his arm. “Come inside,” she said. “I’ll make you some hot cocoa while you phone.” She led him in as if he was one of her students. “You’re shivering. Take that wet jacket off,” she instructed and came back with a big pink and white towel, which she draped around his shoulders. “The phone’s on the kitchen table. Go ahead while I heat up the milk.”

She watched him as he talked rapidly into the phone. Water still ran down his face and dripped from his hair onto his shoulders. He looked completely exhausted. Bronwen felt her heart go out to him. She longed to enfold him in her arms, to tell him that everything was going to be alright, but she restricted herself to spooning cocoa into a tall ceramic mug. It was nice to have the chance to look after him for once. She hoped he might also realize how nice it was.

The milk came to a boil and she stirred it into the cocoa. Then she added a generous measure of brandy.

“Here,” she said and handed it to him with a smile.

Evan took a sip, then a look of surprise crossed his face. “It’s got brandy in it.”

“You looked as if you needed it.”

“What are you doing, keeping brandy in the house—a respectable schoolteacher like you?”

“Medicinal purposes,” she said calmly. “Go on, drink up. Hot liquids are good for shock.”

“Thanks. I needed that,” he said, taking another sip.