Evanly Bodies (21 page)

"And I had to hold back local farmers while their sheep were slaughtered during the hoof-and-mouth epidemic," Evan said. "But
neither of those are the same as knowing you've locked away an essentially good person for the rest of her life."

"They'll probably get out early with good behavior," Bragg said easily. Evan could see he was actually enjoying this, anticipating
the pat on the back that would come from solving a tricky case. He turned away and stared out of the window. He pictured Missy
Rogers, Pamela Alessi, and then little Megan Owens behind bars and felt almost physically sick. But what should I have done,
he wondered. Should I have seen those names and said nothing? And let them walk free to live with their own consciences and
us with an unsolved murder case? And grudgingly he had to admit that Bragg was right. The law was the law, and it wasn't up
to him to play God.

"No, I didn't," he said. "My job is to solve crimes. All I did was to have the three women brought into the same room. They
confessed to everything."

"But anything you saw while you were at that house was confidential information. You agreed to that."

"In Jamila's case, yes, but I'm a police officer. If I've picked up a clue to the whereabouts of a murderer, what else did
you expect me to do?"

"Say nothing, as agreed."

"And let someone who has killed another human being walk free?"

There was a silence.

Evan cleared his throat uneasily. "Look, I agree it was probably a dirty trick to confront them with each other like that,
but it was my job to do so. I'm paid to solve crimes, you know. And now we've solved it, but I'm feeling really terrible about
it. So I wondered if you had access to a lawyer who could handle their case better. One who is experienced in litigation like
theirs. I don't want them to go to prison anymore than you do."

"I'll see what I can do," she said frostily. "But you have undoubtedly blighted three lives."

"What would you have done?" he asked. "Would you have walked away after you discovered the truth and said nothing?"

She paused for a while. "Yes, I believe I would have," she said.

Evan hung up. At least now he had done what he could, and he hoped Miss Prendergast would know where to find a better lawyer
who would at least give the women a fighting chance. He came back to find Bragg finishing up a report.

"Drinks all around, I think, for a job well done. I'm buying at the Queen's Head. Ready, boys?"

Evan tried to hide his utter dislike of the man as he looked at him. Actually celebrating the destruction of three decent
women, women who had already suffered more than enough. There was nothing Evan wanted less in the world than to go for drinks
in celebration. And yet he knew he had to go. He was part of a team. He did what he was told to do. And he was in serious
need of a pint.

The bar at the Queen's Head was noisy and lively. A group of young people were huddled around a jukebox that was blasting
out heavy metal music, filling the bar with the smoke from their cigarettes. Blue-collar workers from nearby factories rubbed
shoulders with blokes in suits and fashionably dressed young women. It was the sort of lively scene he usually quite enjoyed,
but not this time.

"Cheer up, Evans. You'll probably get a promotion out of this," Bragg said, after he had downed his first pint in a couple
of slugs. He leaned closer. "Listen, lad. When you know more about women, like I do, you'll realize that they can turn on
the waterworks any time they want and look you straight in the face and tell a barefaced lie. The fair sex-not bloody likely.
The tricky sex, the unreliable sex, that's what they are; and to tell you the truth, I'm glad someone's going to make an example
of these three."

Evan looked at him and understood. As if in answer to Evan's unasked question, Bragg went on. "Now take my ex-wife. She could
play the helpless female whenever she wanted something. And she usually got it too, including enough alimony to keep me a
pauper for life. . . ."

Evan could not have been more relieved when his mobile rang at that moment. He excused himself and went outside to answer
it. It was Bronwen again.

"Evan, where are you?" she asked, her voice sounding sharper than her usual soft tones.

"Having a drink with Bragg and the lads in Colwyn Bay," he said. "I'll be home soon."

"No, listen, this is serious. Can you meet me in Bangor as soon as possible?"

"What is it, love? Has something happened to Jamila?"

"No, not Jamila. I've got her parents with me now. We're driving down in their van. It's Rashid they're worried about."

"Rashid-what's happened to him?"

"They don't know, Evan, but they're really worried. Apparently he went off the deep end today when he heard that Jamila was
in protective custody, and they're scared he may do something silly."

"Like what?"

"They've found notes in his room on making explosives for one thing."

"Oh my God." Evan groaned. "That's the last thing we need right now. All right. Where do you want to meet?"

"We're going straight to the house where he's living now."

"I'll see you there," he said.

He ran back inside and tried to make his excuses. Bragg already had two pints inside him and was at the belligerent stage.

"What is it now, Evans. Don't tell me you've discovered it wasn't the three women after all, or are you about to solve another
great crime single-handed?"

"No sir. This is a personal matter. Helping out some neighbors of ours who are in difficulties."

"Boy Scout as well as Poirot." Bragg's dislike of him was as clear as his own dislike of the man. "Well, off you go then.
Can't keep the world waiting for your talents."

"Thanks for the drink, sir." Evan took a last gulp then went out into the night. It was cloudy with a threat of rain in the
air, and the road surface was slick and black. Luckily there was little traffic, and Evan drove perhaps faster than he should.
He arrived at College Street, parked, and waited for the Khan's van. Up the hill ahead of him the campus shone with lights,
and wafts of music floated down to him-fiddles and flutes and drums beating out a lively rhythm. He remembered the banner
advertising the Celtic festival. Celtic Pride celebration, he believed they had called it. He turned his attention away as
he heard an elderly vehicle chugging up the hill-an ancient, dark blue van that came to a halt behind his own car. Mr. and
Mrs. Khan climbed out, followed by Bronwen. Her face broke into a relieved smile when she saw Evan, and she ran over to him.

"I'm so glad you're here," she said. "I don't know whether they are overreacting or not, but it's good to have you around,
just in case."

Mr. Khan refused to acknowledge Evan's presence and strode across the street to the house where Rashid was boarding. His wife
flung a woolen shawl over her shoulder before she followed him. One of the young men had come to the front door. Mr. Khan
let out a flood of Urdu. The young man scratched his head in embarrassed fashion.

"Sorry, pops, but I don't have the language. Born over here, you know, and my parents didn't bother to educate me properly.
What can I do for you?"

He listened again. "I've no idea where he went," he said. "We don't keep track of each other, you know. He comes and goes
as he pleases."

A second youth had joined them. "Rashid? He's just renting a room here," he said coldly. "His crazy notions have nothing to
do with us. We thought he was just talking big. So don't go blaming us if he wants to become a martyr."

"A martyr?" Mrs. Khan shrieked. "Oh my God, what's he going to do?"

Evan glanced back up the hill where the beat of a drum had now started up again. "The Celtic festival," he muttered to Bronwen.
"He wouldn't be stupid enough, would he?"

And without waiting for an answer, he started to run.

The quad at the top of the hill was strung with lights and packed with young bodies, some of whom were moving to the beat
of a Celtic flute and drum in a primitive rhythm. Evan passed a booth selling mead and others selling Celtic jewelry and music
CDs. Banners floated out in the wind. Students were wearing cloaks and strange head dresses. Some were dressed like Druids;
some wore the Welsh tartan. A stage had been set up in the middle of the quad, and it was on this that the band was playing.
The sign announced them to be CARREG LAFAR. As Evan approached, a young girl stepped up to the mike to start singing in a
high sweet voice. Her hair floated out behind her in the brisk wind. The music had an ancient quality to it that added to
the unreality Evan was feeling. He climbed up the steps at the side of the stage and scanned the crowd. A security man tugged
at him.

"Get down please, sir."

"I'm a police officer," Evan said quietly to him. "And I'm looking for a young Pakistani man who could be dangerous. Have
you see any Muslim men in the crowd?"

"It wouldn't exactly be the right night for them, would it?" The security man asked. "Not at a Celtic folk festival." He looked
amused.

Evan's eyes continued scanning as the man spoke. Rashid shouldn't be that hard to pick out, not if he was wearing the traditional
white robes. But then, if his plan was not to be noticed, he'd be dressed to blend into the crowd. Then he stiffened. He had
spotted a glimpse of white in the midst of the sea of dancing figures. He noted the direction and came down from the stage.
Painfully slowly, he maneuvered his way through the crowd. Hands grabbed at him. "Come and dance with us," one girl shouted,
tugging at him. He managed to smile and shake himself free. "Spoilsport," she called after him in Welsh.

He was now where the crowd was thickest, right at the center of the quad. He hadn't stopped to think what he would say to
Rashid when he reached him, but he was driven on by a terrible feeling of urgency. If Rashid did indeed have some kind of
bomb, he'd have to act with extreme caution. Rashid had proved himself a volatile enough man at the best of times. Then the
crowd parted, and he saw a glimpse of the white leggings. His hunch had been right. He was there . . . and he was wearing
a backpack. Evan knew very little about homemade bombs. He wasn't sure what Rashid would have to do to detonate an explosive
device currently carried on his back. Wouldn't he have to take it off and set the timer first? That was Evan's hope as he
inched nearer, hoping to advance on Rashid from his blind side. If he merely had to push some kind of detonator button whenever
he wanted, then Evan's own chances weren't too good. Neither were those of those fresh-faced, laughing kids around him.

He felt cold beads of sweat running down the back of his neck. It was becoming harder to breathe. At the last minute a group
of kids in front of him joined hands and swung into a jiglike dance, laughing crazily. They broke apart and Evan found himself
looking directly into Rashid's face. He saw a whole gamut of emotions flicker across that face-surprise, then fear and hate.
It only took Rashid a second to register who Evan was, then instantly he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. At least
he didn't have a detonator switch in his hand. Evan breathed a sigh of relief and gave chase.

"Rashid, wait," he shouted. The music seemed to have risen in intensity with the throb of a drum competing with the sounds
of violins and pipes. "Stay away from me," Rashid shouted back and kept on moving. Evan caught up with him and grabbed his
arm. "Rashid, slow down. We need to talk."

"What have you done with my sister?" Rashid shouted. "Where is Jamila? What right do you have to take my sister away? Just
who do you think you are?"

"I did nothing," Evan said. "My wife did nothing. It was Jamila herself who ran away. Now calm down and let's talk about this
sensibly."

"Talk sensibly, you say? When did we ever get a fair deal from your sort? You despise us just as much as we despise you. Well,
you're going to see. You're going to be sorry when the wrath of Allah falls upon you. Then you'll see who has the real strength,
who has the real power."

He started to wrestle with his backpack, trying to take it off, shaking himself free of Evan. "Say your prayers, Copper."
He spat out the words.

"Rashid, your parents are here. They are worried about you. Don't do anything stupid."

"Stupid? You call me stupid? It is you who are stupid because you are standing close to me. My parents will be proud of me.
I am a martyr. A glorious martyr."

"Is that what they tell you?" Evan asked quietly. "Kill a lot of innocent kids and you go straight to Paradise? What kind
of God would praise that kind of behavior? Do you think your parents want you blown to pieces? Do you think this will make
them proud of you? This is a civilized country, and this isn't the way."

"Civilized?" Rashid almost spat the word. "You call this civilized? Pornography and cheating and blatant sex-then your definition
of civilized and mine aren't the same. These people do not deserve to live."

The backpack slipped from his shoulder, and Rashid swung it to himself so that he was hugging it. Evan made a supreme effort
and wrenched it out of his arms. He turned and ran with it, not knowing in which direction he was running, only hoping to
get out of the thick of the crowd. Rashid clawed at him like a madman. In a way it reminded Evan of all those rugby games
he had played, when he had run down the pitch with opposition team members trying to bring him down. He made it to the edge
of the crowd and paused to catch his breath. Down the hill he picked out the shapes of Mr. and Mrs. Khan, making their way
up toward him.