Evan and Elle (13 page)

The butcher looked annoyed, then gave his wife a gentle
push. “You go on, Sian
fach
. Save me a seat. Constable Evans needs to have a word with me.”

His wife opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it.
“Or gore
. All right,” she said and hurried to join a group of women ahead.

The butcher turned to Evan. “You had another fire last night, so I hear,” he said. “Haven’t you found out who’s starting all these fires yet”

“Not yet. But we will.” Evan moved closer to the butcher. “Gareth, what do you know about a man called Glyndaff Prys?”

“The farmer, you mean?” The butcher looked surprised.

“Yes, do you know him?”

“I’ve met him a couple of times. I can’t say I know him well. I’ve bought lambs from him. Why? You don’t think he’s anything to do with this?”

“You don’t think he’d be a likely candidate to go around burning down foreigners’ property?”

Evans-the-Meat laughed again. “Old Glyndaff? I don’t think he’d hurt a fly.”

“So he’s not known for his nationalist sentiments then?”

The butcher stared up at the distant peak of Mount Snowdon. “Well, he’s proud of being Welsh all right. But then so are a lot of us. That doesn’t mean that we go around burning buildings.”

“And what about a men’s social club that meets at the Old Ship pub down in Porthmadog?”

“What about it?” Evans-the-Meat’s voice was suddenly sharp.

“I’m just wondering if more might go on there than the occassional darts game?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a member personally.” He started to walk on. “Sorry I can’t help more.”

Evan crossed the street with the feeling that possibly he was onto something. Evans-the-Meat was prone to ranting and raving and waving his cleaver around. This sullen dismissal might mean that he knew more than he was letting on.

Was it possible that a farmer from Nant Gwynant—a man with a round, red-faced wife and two laughing sheepdogs—was also a terrorist who had somehow been caught in his own conflagration? It didn’t make sense. Evan had been a policeman long enough to know that people who committed crimes didn’t necessarily look like criminals. Anyway, it was out of his hands now. He’d pass on the information to Sergeant Watkins, who could act on it if he wanted to.

He was about to let himself into the police station when a large gray van roared past, belching smoke. Evan watched with interest as it came to a halt outside Chapel Bethel. Rev. Parry Davies leaped out of the driver’s seat then opened the side door, assisting several large and elderly ladies out of the van and escorting them proudly into chapel.

Evan went into the station and pressed the HQ autodial button.

“Sorry, Sergeant Watkins isn’t here,” the young dispatcher said in an indifferent voice. “Can one of the detective constables help you?”

Evan hesitated. He wasn’t exactly on the best of terms
with the detective constables, who felt that he had no right to go poking his nose into murder cases. Then he reminded himself that Mrs. Prys was down at Ty’r Craig farm, wiping her hands on her apron while she waited for news of her man. The sooner he was found, the better.

“All right, put one of the constables on, then,” he said. “I need to speak to someone.”

He had a frustrating conversation with D.C. Perkins, who couldn’t have sounded less interested. It finished with a “Thanks Evans. We’ll look into it and get back to you then.”

Evan waited around at the station, reading the Sunday paper, then went home to a late lunch and still the phone didn’t ring. He hoped it wasn’t Sergeant Watkins’s day off. He was sure the detective constables wouldn’t call him.

By midafternoon he was feeling restless and unable to concentrate. A whole Sunday wasted when he could have been out hiking with Bronwen or even climbing again. Time for a stroll around the village to blow away the cobwebs. The clear morning had turned into a blustery afternoon with large woolly clouds racing in from the west. The wind was chilly, too, more seasonal for this time of year. It might even rain later and then things really would be back to normal.

Evan strode up the village street, past the row of shops and cottages. He gazed at the overgrown-chalet shape of the Everest Inn and wondered whether they’d come any closer to solving the fire there. It could easily have been a disgruntled employee, he thought. Major Anderson was a former royal marine. Evan didn’t imagine he’d be too soft on his employees.

But then Potter had said that the method used for starting that fire was identical to the one at the cottage. Evan wondered if Potter had come to any conclusions about the restaurant fire yet. He probably wouldn’t bother to pass them on to a village bobby. He didn’t know why he felt so frustrated about this particular case. Usually he was content to leave the headaches to the detectives.

“Penny for your thoughts?” a soft voice asked as a light hand was placed on his arm. Evan jumped. “Oh Bronwen, sorry, I didn’t see you.”

She was smiling at him. “No, I could tell you were miles away. I was working in my garden and you walked right past me. So I decided you must have something pretty heavy on your mind. The latest fire, I suppose.”

“I was just thinking about . . .” Evan hesitated. “Bronwen, do you think that a village constable is an acceptable job for—”

“For someone with your ability?” she finished for him.

He nodded, grateful that she understood.

“Usually it doesn’t worry me when I’m left out but this time—I don’t know why—I’m itching to be in on this investigation.”

“Maybe because you fancy Madame Yvette?” A quick, teasing smile crossed her face. “Sorry. It’s not funny, is it? I feel so terrible for that poor woman. I can understand that you’d like to get the case solved.”

“What really bothered me was that I came up with a good lead and I had to turn it over to Detective Constable bloody Perkins—useless young clod. I had to repeat the information three times before he got it. So now I’m going
through it all again, asking myself if I made the right choice coming here.”

“I’m the wrong person to ask that question,” Bronwen said. “When I got a place at university I was sure I was going on to get my Ph.D. and then I’d write brilliant papers proving that King Richard didn’t really kill the princess in the Tower. Instead I wound up here.”

“What happened to change your mind?”

She paused and tossed her heavy braid of hair over her shoulder. “I fell in love during my final year and we decided to get married. He was going on to postgraduate studies. Someone had to earn the bread and butter. The plan was that I’d support us while he got his doctorate and then he’d support me when he became a high-powered scientist.”

“Only it didn’t work out that way.”

“As you say, it didn’t work out.” She looked away, wisps of hair blowing across her face as she stared up at the peaks. Then she shrugged. “I’d taken a job in a kindergarten. I found that I loved it so much that I took my teaching certificate and came straight here, back to where I’d spent happy childhood summers.”

Evan laughed. “It’s funny, we’ve never talked about this before.”

She looked up at him now. “I think that’s because we both have things in our pasts that are better forgotten.”

“We both came back to a place that made sense to us.”

She nodded. “So why leave a good thing?”

Evan put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re right. I should be content with my humble station in life and not want to—”

The last part of his sentence was drowned out by the roar of an approaching bulldozer. Barry-the-Bucket was coming through the village. Evan and Bronwen stepped up onto the grass verge as the huge vehicle rumbled past. As it drew level, however, Barry brought it to a halt.

“I was looking for you, Evans-the-Law,” he yelled down. “Someone told me that you’d got your eye out for cars that might have been left overnight. Well, there’s a maroon Toyota Camry in the car park outside the Vaynol Arms. It hasn’t been moved since yesterday afternoon. I just thought I’d mention it because usually overnight guests go somewhere during the day, don’t they? And it’s a rental car, too.”

“How do you know that?” Evan asked.

“Maybe because it’s got a Hertz decal in the window,” Barry said dryly. “It might be nothing, but I just thought I’d mention it.”

“Diolch yn fawr
, thanks a lot, man.” Evan waved as the bulldozer continued with much grinding and clanking. He turned back to Bronwen with a delighted grin on his face. “How about that? And the D.I. walked right past it this morning! That would be a turn-up for the books if the car we’re looking for has been sitting there all the time!” He squeezed Bronwen’s shoulder. “Sorry,
cariad
, but I have to rush back and phone headquarters.”

“Who was just saying he was content with his humble station in life?” Bronwen called after him.

Later that Sunday evening Evan was watching the TV news when he saw Sergeant Watkins’s car draw up. He hurried outside.

“Been doing some nifty pieces of detective work again, have you, boyo?” Watkins asked as he got out of the car.

“I just passed on information given to me,” Evan said. “Was any of it any use?”

“Quite possibly,” Watkins said. “Oh, we’ve found your missing man, by the way. Your farmer.”

“You have? Where?”

Watkins grinned. “Asleep at someone’s house in Porthmadog. He was too drunk to drive home last night so a fellow club member took pity on him and let him sleep on his couch. He didn’t wake until midday.”

Evan let out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good. I didn’t
really think that the body we found could have been him. For one thing if he was a farmer, he’d be too smart to get caught in his own blaze. I bet his wife was pleased to see him.”

“You wouldn’t think so by the way she yelled and shoved him into the house.”

“And what about the car?”

“I’m coming to it.” Watkins paused and leaned against his open car door. “That could prove to be what we’re looking for. I’ve been on the phone to Hertz and it was rented at Dover by a Philippe du Bois. We’ve got his name, address, and credit card number. I looked up the town on the map and it’s just across the Channel, about twenty miles from Calais. It should be easy enough to locate his dental records and make a positive identification.”

“Philippe du Bois,” Evan said thoughtfully. “I wonder if she knew him.”

“She’d have to, wouldn’t she? If a Frenchman dies in a Frenchwoman’s restaurant in a remote part of Wales, it would be an amazing coincidence if they didn’t knew each other.”

“Unless he was a customer who got himself trapped somehow, or he was up to no good in there.”

“Came to torch the place and couldn’t get out?” Watkins shook his head. “Nah. She has to be in on it. She knows something she’s not telling us.”

“Are you going to ask her?”

“I’m going to wait until we’ve got more details about him. It’s a small town. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out exactly who he was. Someone might even know what he was
doing here. I’ve got young P.C. Davies in our new computer center working on it right now—have you met her yet? She’s a right little stunner, only don’t tell her I said that. She’s also the type who’d probably report me for sexual harassment if I mentioned that she’s got great legs.” He grinned.

“So she’s going to contact France for us, is she?”

“She’s looking up the address on the Internet, so she tells me. Thank heaven it gets me out of phoning France. You know how the French always pretend that they can’t understand you? At least that’s how it seemed the only time I went over there. Have you ever been there yourself?”

“A couple of times. Once on a school trip to Paris and then once with a touring Rugby side.”

Watkins had his hand on the open car door. “I’m going to drop in at HQ on my way home and see if P.C. Davies has got anywhere yet.”

Evan nodded. “Well, thanks for stopping by, Sarge. It was good of you.”

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” Watkins asked. “You’re very subdued. Woman trouble?”

Evan smiled. “No, nothing like that. I’m feeling frustrated that I’m sitting up here and the investigation’s going on without me, if you really want to know.”

“I told you to apply for plainclothes training, didn’t I?” Watkins said. “You’ve only got yourself to blame, boyo. I knew all this peace and quiet would get to you in the end. It’s not healthy.”

Evan managed a smile.

Watkins started to get into the car, looked at Evan, then seemed to change his mind. “All right. Get in.” He nodded
toward his car. “You can come down to the station with me and see what our Glynis has turned up, if you’re curious.”

“Won’t they think I’m poking my nose in where it’s not wanted?”

“Of course not. You’re keeping up with the future, that’s what you’re doing. We’re all going to be computerized one day soon, if the D.C.I. gets his way. We won’t need to talk to each other at all. We’ll just sit in our offices and e-mail back and forth.” He chuckled as Evan climbed in beside him. “I’d like to see them trying to teach me to use a computer. Our Tiffany tried and she said I was hopeless and that I’d never get it because I was too old.”