Evan and Elle (7 page)

Across the street the Reverend Powell-Jones couldn’t help overhearing. “Vanity!” he boomed at his own congregation. “Vanity is a tool of the devil! There are those among us who seek to better themselves, who seek to better their own position in life—who waste money on costly vans to swell their congregations. And why? Not for the salvation of more souls, but to swell the amount of money in the collection plate!”

As soon as his service was over he rushed out to his billboard and pasted a new text: “Before you criticize the
speck of dust in your neighbor’s eye, remove the beam from your own eye!”

“And very apt too, Edward,” Mrs. Powell-Jones commented, glaring at the van parked across the street. “If it’s not nipped in the bud, that Parry Davies woman will be using that van to get members for her women’s prayer group and then there will be no stopping her!”

On Monday morning Evan received a brief visit from Sergeant Potter on his way back from his inspection of the crime scene.

“It looks like we’ve got ourselves a serial arsonist here allright,” he said. “Same modus operandi—same accelerant dropped in through a broken window, same type of fuse.”

“But no note found this time,” Evan pointed out.

“Not yet. It could have been burned by mistake.” He stood staring out of the open doorway, then suddenly turned to Evan. “So who is it, then?” the sergeant demanded. “Come on, man, you must have some idea. It’s a village. Everyone knows everything about everyone else, don’t they?”

“Are you saying that someone from the village has to be responsible?” Evan asked.

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Potter barked. “Two fires in a week, both around Llanfair. Which makes me ask, why here? It’s not exactly a tourist mecca, is it? I mean, who cares if Llanfair burns down? So it has to be a local. And the fuses—I understand that all the men around here used to work in the slate quarry before it shut down. They’d all have had access to fuses like that, wouldn’t they? Start putting the screws on, Constable. Find out who might have kept a fuse or two around the house. Get a statement from everyone in the village and see who has an alibi for the half hour before the building went up. I want this bloke nabbed before he does any more damage.”

He didn’t wait to hear Evan’s answer as he stalked out again.

Evan did as he was ordered and made the rounds of the village once more, but with no obvious success. Nobody admitted to having old fuses around the house. There had been a European league game between Real Madrid and Manchester United on the telly that kept a lot of men home from the pub. Evans-the-Meat remained sullen and unhelpful. And he had a cast-iron alibi for the night of the second fire. He said he was down at a darts club meeting in Caernarfon. Evan noted the name and address of the club; that might prove worth looking into.

Evan arrived at Mrs. Williams’s house for lunch with a good appetite and great expectations. They’d had leg of lamb yesterday, which should mean shepherd’s pie today, and Mrs. W. made a top-rate shepherd’s pie.

Mrs. Williams’s face looked flushed and nervous as she opened the oven. “Here,” she said. “I hope you like it!”

Then she put a plate in front of him. It contained three round dabs of food, each about the size of old half crowns.

“Uh—what is it?” Evan asked cautiously.

“It’s French cooking, that’s what it is,” she said with a hint of pride in her voice. “What we learned in our class. That’s a lamb noisette”—she pointed at the brown morsel—“that’s puréed leek, and that’s whipped potato made with garlic.”

“Mmmm—very nice, I’m sure,” Evan said. It
was
very nice, too, but it only took six mouthfuls to finish his plate.

“There—wasn’t very much, was there?” he said as he put his knife and fork together.

“That’s the French way,” Mrs. Williams said. “Just enough to excite the taste buds, that’s what Madame Yvette said. If you want to fill up, you eat bread in France . . . and of course she said we had to have red wine, but I’m not going that far.”

Evan sighed and reached for the bread.

On his next visit to the Red Dragon he discovered he wasn’t the only one who was now on a starvation diet.

Betsy had put a new blackboard on the wall above the bar. Underneath heading Red Dragon Bistro there was written Tonight’s special: Leek and Gruyère Soufflé.

“What the devil is a soufflé?” an old farmer demanded. He pronounced it to rhyme with
shuffle
.

“It’s soo-flay,” Betsy said, “and I learned to make it at our cooking class.”

“Bloody cooking class,” one of the men growled. “You should see what my wife served me last night. Bloody mashed-up muck with garlic, that’s what it was. I told her
any more of this and I send her back to her mother.”

“Don’t worry, this Madame Yvette won’t last long,” Evans-the-Meat said.

“Oh, why not?” Evan’s ears pricked up.

Evans-the-Meat looked flustered. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Nobody wants that kind of food around here. And have you heard what she’s charging? You can get a whole serving of fish and chips for what she charges for a bit of lettuce and a couple of spring onions. No, she’ll be out of here by Christmas, you mark my words.”

“You wouldn’t be thinking about helping her to make up her mind, would you, Gareth?” Evan asked quietly.

“Meaning what?”

“Someone sent her a threatening note.”

“Well, it wasn’t me. More likely to be Mr. Parry Davies, if you ask me. I gather his sermon about her was a real scorcher. He called her a Jezebel and worse.”

Evan decided it might not be a bad idea to get a sample of printing from the minister in the morning—and one from the butcher as well.

The next day Evan collected samples of printing from most of the villagers. Evans-the-Meat gave his, complaining all the time about duress and the police barking up the wrong tree as usual. Rev. Parry Davies sighed and gave a good impression of a Christian martyr. His wife complained more vocally than either her husband or the butcher, and Mrs. Powell-Jones flatly refused, threatening to contact her MP and the commissioner about defamation of character.

Evan duly sent the samples down to headquarters. He
waited expectantly but heard nothing more. It wasn’t until the next morning that Sergeant Watkins appeared as he was making himself a cup of tea.

“Slacking off again? Sergeant Potter wouldn’t like that.” Watkins put his head around the station door.

“Oh, morning Sarge. How’s the inquiry going?

Watkins sighed. “Going nowhere, if you ask me.” He came into Evan’s office and pulled out a chair. “I can’t say it’s their number-one priority at HQ right now. All D.I. Hughes can talk about is this Operation Armada, as he calls it.”

“Operation Armada?”

Watkins made a face. “The drug sting. Sinking all the boats. Rule Britannia, you know . . .”

Evan grinned. “So it’s just you and Peter Potter working on this case. I’d help if I was allowed to.”

“I wish you bloody would.” Watkins sank onto the chair. “Tell me honestly, Evans, have you really got no clue about these fires? I mean, you’re normally the one who gets the hunch that puts us on the right lines. We’ve done everything we can—we’ve fingerprinted any known Welsh extremist—anyone who has written a nationalistic letter to the newspaper, anyone who belongs to a club like your butcher up here. But we can’t match the prints to either note.”

He sighed and leaned against the door of his car. “I tell you one thing—I’ve had it up to here with Peter-bloody-Potter. He’s been breathing down our necks, calling us incompetent provincials and worse. Apparently he normally has this kind of thing wrapped up in a day or so. He says the method used was the same for both fires, in both cases
quite efficient and professional. This was someone who knew a thing or two about starting fires. But the prints don’t match to anyone who’s known for burning down cottages. So this is a new bloke and I’m damned if I know how to find him. I’m thinking we may have to plant a spy in this extremist group—these Sons of Gwynedd. I was wondering . . .”

“Don’t look at me, Sarge,” Evan said quickly.

“No, not you. Of course everyone knows who you are. I was thinking of your butcher. He’d be a useful man, if you could persuade him to do his part for law and justice.”

Evan chuckled. “The police dragged him into jail kicking and screaming not too long ago—do you really think he’d want to help?”

“You get on with all the locals. We thought that maybe you could persuade him.”

“I don’t think I’ve got a hope in hell,” Evan said. “In fact I suspect that he knows more than he’s letting on. But I’ll make the suggestion if you want me to.”

“What I’d really like you to do is solve this bloody case for us, so I can get back to Operation Armada and see a little action for once.”

“They haven’t caught anyone yet?”

“Nah—they’ve been lying low, probably waiting for us to lose interest, or pull off our men. But it’s only a matter of time. We think they’ll be using several small boats and running them into different harbors at the same time—on the theory that the police can’t be everywhere at once.”

“They’re right about that,” Evan agreed.

“Criminals are getting too bloody smart these days,”
Watkins growled. “Do what you can, won’t you, boyo? Or I might have to suggest to HQ that you’d be great as Potter’s full-time assistant.”

When he’d gone Evan locked up and walked slowly up the street, deep in thought. Watkins wanted the impossible. There was no way he’d get Evans-the-Meat to cooperate with the police to nab Welsh extremists. And he had no bright ideas himself. Madame Yvette hadn’t called him again with any more trouble. And being stuck on duty in a village hardly gave him the scope to track down terrorists. . . . He felt annoyed and powerless. What he needed now was luck. If a serial arsonist was at work, then it was only a matter of time before he struck again, and maybe the third time might be lucky. Eventually the arsonist would make a mistake or leave a traceable clue.

That night Evan was getting ready for bed when there was a tap on his bedroom door.

“Mr. Evans? Are you in there?” Mrs. Williams asked, although she had seen him go up the stairs half an hour earlier. “Telephone for you—she says it’s an emergency.”

Evan reached for his dressing gown and ran down the stairs.

“Ees zat Constable Evans?” The voice was tight and breathless. “I am so sorry to disturb you but anozzer note has come . . . just a few minutes ago I see it. I am worried zat zee man ees still outside my ’ouse.”

“Keep the door locked and watch out for me,” Evan said. “I’ll be down there in a few minutes.”

He scrambled back into his clothes, grabbed his torch and drove as fast as he dared down the pass, his headlights
cutting crazy curves through the darkness as he negotiated the bends. He parked and switched on the torch. It felt heavy in his hand and comforting in the absence of a weapon as he got out of the car.

He had just completed a tour of the outside of the building when he sensed someone standing behind him. He turned to see Madame Yvette standing at her door, wearing a white satin dressing gown with feathery trim at the neck and matching slippers.

“Oh, you ’ave come. Sank you so much. I am so afraid when I sink zis man might still be zere, watching me.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve checked all around the place. If anyone was here, he’s gone now.” He followed her into the restaurant. What had once been a chapel now contained six tables covered in red-and-white checked cloths. There were curtains at the windows and Impressionist prints on the walls. Evan nodded with approval.

“You say you just got the note?”

“I found it when I went to check zat zee doors were locked for zee night and I call you right away. It was not zere when zee restaurant was open or my customers would have seen it.”

Evan looked around at the tables laid with polished silver and white linen napkins, unsure where to sit. It was as if Madame Yvette read his mind.

“I start small,” she said. “Only six tables. That way 1 can do wizout ’elp until it gets going. And I live ’ere—upstairs, where zee old balcony used to be. It ees small but how you say”—she spread her hands in a very French gesture—“cozy enough for one person,
non?
”

She crossed the restaurant and pushed open a swing door into a kitchen. Gleaming pots and pans hung above a big stove. Strings of garlic, onions, and bunches of herbs hung over a central wooden table. “Zis way, please,” she said. She turned to her left. There was a back door on the far wall and beside it a wooden staircase climbed the side wall. She went up without turning around, her slippers flapping on the bare boards. Evan got a tantalizing glimpse of bare leg as she hitched up her robe.

The upstairs living area was one good-size room, like a loft, above the kitchen. There was a small sofa, armchair, and coffee table at the near end, with a TV on a cabinet in the corner. On the far wall was an unmade bed with various pieces of clothing, including a black lace bra, thrown across it.

“Please. Sit down. Anywhere you like.”

Evan perched hastily at the end of the sofa closest to the stairs, with his back to the black lace. “Now about the note, Madame,” he began.