Evanly Bodies (19 page)

"I wish I knew, Bronwen," he said. "Just the same as I wish I could figure out why three very different men were shot with
the same gun and apparently still no connection between them."

"What you need is one piece of luck," she said. "Now come and eat your dinner. You must be starving."

He sat up in bed. He realized that he had seen the connection all along, and it had been nagging at him. Martin Rogers had
caused a near riot on campus for vetoing a speech by a radical Muslim cleric. And Luigi Alessi had been at odds with the Muslim
family next door. All three men had clashed with Muslims. And Evan could imagine that young men like those he had met today
might well decide to take justice into their own hands.

He got up and paced the room. Bronwen stirred sleepily. "What time is it?"

"Only three thirty. Go back to sleep."

"What are you doing up then?"

"I think I've figured something out, Bron. Each of those murders had a Muslim connection. What if extremists, like those young
men I met today, decided to take things into their own hands and mete out justice to people who had insulted them and their
religion?"

She sat up too. "I suppose it's possible. Extremists put out a death sentence against Salmon Rushdie for insulting the prophet,
didn't they?"

"Those boys were jumpy, Bron. Two of them obviously thought the third was mad for inviting me inside the house. Does that
mean they have something to hide in there?"

"Then put your case to your boss in the morning. See what he says," Bronwen said. Then she added, "Luckily it's not up to
you to give the order to do something so racially charged. If you're wrong, you'll never hear the end of it."

"I know. But are we going to sit back and do nothing because we want to be politically correct? Mr. Khan said he brought up
his children to be proud of British justice. Now it's about time we let British justice take its course."

"Evan the orator." Bronwen smiled. "Now come back to bed. It's freezing and there's nothing you can do until morning."

In the morning Evan presented his thoughts to DI Bragg and suggested that Inspector Watkins be invited to join them. "I would
never have made that kind of connection if it hadn't been for the missing Parkistani girl from my own village, the case that
Watkins is currently working on," he said.

"I'm not saying I'm right," Evan said. "I'm just saying that this is a connection we can't overlook. When I talked to those
boys yesterday, I distinctly got the feeling they had something to hide. I took it to be that they might know what happened
to Jamila. But maybe we've stumbled onto something more."

"That's how most things seem to happen, by stumbling on things, isn't it?" For once Bragg's tone was almost friendly. "But
if you're right this time, God knows how we'll ever be able to prove it, unless we recover the weapon with fingerprints on
it."

Evan went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. His nerves were as tight as a watch spring. He realized if his suggestion
was wrong, he'd probably be the scapegoat. He was onto something, he was sure. He sensed he'd finally got his link. Three
prejudiced men, he thought. Three men who didn't care about offending other people, who thought that they were always right,
who liked to get their own way. Martin Rogers made a fuss if his egg wasn't cooked the way he wanted it. Terry Owens made
a fuss because there were no eggs for breakfast. Their characters-that was what they had in common. That much was indisputable.

He was just downing the last of his coffee when his mobile rang.

"Evan, can you talk right now?" It was Bronwen.

"If it's important. But I've got to get back to work in a second."

"It is important."

"Okay then. Go on."

"I want you to promise me something." She sounded breathless. "I want you to promise that if I tell you something, you will
keep it a complete secret and won't repeat it to anyone."

"What is this, Bronwen? Some kind of game?"

"It's no game, Evan. It's deadly serious. It's something you really want to know."

"To do with my work? To do with Jamila?"

"Yes. Will you promise?"

"All right."

"You'll swear on the Bible?"

"Bronwen!" He was annoyed now.

"I can't tell you unless you swear."

"All right. I swear."

"I think I know where to find her."

"Where?"

"I can't tell you, but I can take you there. But on your own. The police can't know."

"Bronwen, I can't just leave and not tell them where I'm going."

"I'm sorry. I'm not being awkward. My hands are tied, and these are the conditions I've been given."

"Somebody's holding her hostage?"

"No, she's safe, but she's being hidden. Do you want to see her?"

"Of course I do."

"Then I'll be outside your headquarters building in fifteen minutes."

The phone went dead. Evan snapped it shut and put it away. He was uneasy about the strange way Bronwen was acting and not
at all sure Bragg would let him go if he asked permission. But if he didn't ask permission, then he'd be in trouble. He decided
to risk the trouble. Then he had a lucky break. Just as he was leaving the building, he saw Inspector Watkins and Glynis Davies
getting out of their squad car. He went over to them.

"What's this, a welcome reception?" Watkins called as Evan approached. "I have to tell you that you've stirred up a right
hornet's nest-"

"Look, I need your help," Evan interrupted. "I can't tell you where I'm going, but it's important that I go there. You two
know me enough to trust me. More than that I can't tell you, but it might have something to do with finding Jamila. Can you
stall Bragg for me? Tell him I've got a lead that has to be followed right away, and I'll check in as soon as I can?"

Watkins stared at him for a moment then shook his head. "I hope you know what you're doing, boyo," he said.

"I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, if you want to know the truth. And I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Just
give me an hour, okay?"

"Evan, you're not thinking of interfering in this operation, are you?" Glynis asked. "Nothing crazy like going alone to check
on a terrorist cell."

"Terrorist cell? Who said anything about that?"

"Only this whole thing could turn out to be bigger than any of us imagined, and you could impair the investigation at this
point."

Evan looked at Watkins for clarification. "We've been in touch with the Home Office. It appears that one of the lads we've
interviewed has been making visits to Pakistan, and it's not to see his aged father. It's possible he's training young extremists
right here in Wales."

"So that's why they were so jumpy. Did they let you search the house?"

"Only Rashid's room and, of course, we found nothing. We commandeered the trunk and have taken it to forensics, and that amused
them."

"So you don't think I'm crazy for suggesting that these three murders may be some kind of Muslim extremists taking revenge?"

"Let's just say I'm going to recommend that we take no further action until we get more direction from the Home Office. We
don't want to blow what could be a national security sweep. I don't know what you think you're going to be doing, but it better
not be anything to do with those boys at the university, and that's an order."

"I understand." Evan nodded. "Bronwen's organizing it, and it's more likely to be one of Jamila's friends hiding her somewhere."
He saw a car slow on the street outside and recognized Bronwen's fair hair. "There she is now. I've got to go. You will stall
Bragg for me, won't you?"

He didn't wait for an answer but ran across the car park and out to the road.

Bronwen was sitting in the passenger seat. Evan climbed into the rear. The driver was a woman he had never seen before, slim,
distinguished looking, gray haired.

"Evan, this is Miss Prendergast," Bronwen said. "She is Jamila's English teacher. She's prepared to take us to Jamila, but
only if we promise not to reveal Jamila's whereabouts."

"Then she's safe?" Evan asked.

"For the moment, yes," Miss Prendergast said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you both to do something very strange.
I want you to take these scarves and blindfold yourselves. I know it sounds ridiculous but lives can depend on it."

"Very well," Bronwen said and tied hers immediately. Evan followed suit.

"Why all the secrecy?" he asked.

"Because the address of the place I am taking you to must never be revealed," she said.

Within a Ford Escort in the middle of Colwyn Bay, it sounded overly dramatic. Middle-aged spinster were the words that crept
into Evan's head. He felt the car pick up speed onto the dual carriageway, then slow into traffic again. Several stops and
turns later they stopped, and she turned off the car.

"You can remove your blindfolds now," Miss Prendergast said.

Evan wasn't sure what he would see and was surprised to find they were parked outside an ordinary redbrick house with two
large laurels outside the front door, on a perfectly normal suburban street. The house's name, THE LAURELS, was on the front
gate.

"This way," Miss Prendergast said, and led them up the front path. As she raised her hand to knock on the front door, she
turned back to them again. "I do have your word that none of this will be repeated?"

"Aren't you being a little overdramatic?" Evan asked.

"No," she said. "I'm not. You'll understand when you go inside."

"All right," Evan said. "You have my word."

The front door was opened by another middle-aged woman who frowned at Evan, listened to Miss Prendergast's whispered words,
and then nodded, reluctantly.

"Very well, then. They can come in. But I hope you know what you're doing, bringing them here."

"They have given their word," Miss Prendergast said.

"There is to be no pressure put on her, they understand that?" the woman was still talking to Miss Prendergast as if Evan
and Bronwen were mere observers.

"Of course. I'll be with them and I have the girl's best interest very much at heart. I believe they do too."

The woman allowed them to step into the hallway.

"What is this place?" Evan whispered, as the woman went back into an office on the right.

"This, my dear, is a safe house for battered women," Miss Pren-dergast said. "I volunteer here. Its whereabouts are known
only to a couple of women in social services and to some volunteers like myself. You can understand the need for secrecy.
Women come here when they have nowhere else to go. When their husbands have threatened to kill them, and the law can't protect
them. They come here literally in fear for their lives."

"And Jamila came here?" he asked.

"Jamila sought me out, very sensibly. She had told me a little of her background when she joined my English class this year.
She had obviously sensed I was a person who could be trusted. When she told me her plight, I brought her here immediately."

"May we see her?"

"On condition that you don't try to make her return to her parents."

"Absolutely not," Bronwen said. "I was all for putting her into protective custody the moment I found out what her family
was going to do."

"And Bronwen was the one who tried to talk her parents out of their stupid plan," Evan said.

"I am not concerned about Mrs. Evans," Miss Prendergast said. "It's you, Mr. Evans. You are sworn to uphold the law, and you
may find yourself being pressured to return her to her family if they succeed in getting a court order."

"I've already given Bronwen my word that I'd say nothing," he said. "Jamila's safety comes first with me too."

"Good. Then follow me."

They passed into a day room in which several women sat, knitting or watching TV. Some of them looked up, nervously.

"What's he doing here?" one of them demanded. "I thought there were no men allowed in the house."

"He's a policeman. Don't worry, it's okay," Miss Prendergast said, as she swept past them, then down another hallway.

"The women take care of themselves," Miss Prendergast turned back to them as they walked down the hall. "They have a roster
for kitchen duty, cooking, washing up, cleaning, laundry. The one thing they don't do is the shopping. They can't risk being
seen outside. We get most of our food donated by church groups. Jamila's on kitchen duty for lunch, so I'm told."