Evan Blessed (17 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan Blessed
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“I wonder, too,” Evan said. “It seems to me that we're running around in circles, getting nowhere.” He glanced across the room at the receptionist who was busy on a phone call. He lowered his voice. “What about Roger Thomas? He likes music, doesn't he?”
“Roger? He lives for that choir of his. Always singing. Drives some of the other employees round the bend to hear him But as far as being the man you want—no, Roger's a good bloke. Always ready
to lend a hand, is Roger. Quiet, like. Withdrawn, but a good bloke. I'd depend on him in a jam.”
Evan left the building feeling secure about Eddie Richards's innocence but still uneasy about Roger Thomas. He had summed up Eddie as a reliable sort and one whose judgment was sound. And Eddie had thought that Roger Thomas was a good bloke. But Evan had been on the force long enough to know that good and evil were not always what they seemed. As a police detective, it was his job to double-check everything, including the alibi of a man who reputedly lived for his music.
As soon as Evan was back at his car, he took out his mobile phone and called the number listed for the Cor Meibion y Moelwyn in Blaenau Ffestiniog. He found he was talking to a Mr. Howard Rhys-Davies, who revealed himself instantly as a pompous and self-important individual. Evan suspected he was probably on the small and mousy side to look at.
Yes, indeed, he was correct. The choir had practiced last Tuesday at the hall in Bala, in order to get a feel for the acoustics. And yes, Roger Thomas was one of their longtime and loyal choir members, who definitely would not have missed a practice unless he'd been on his deathbed.
This was what Evan had suspected he'd hear. He thanked the man, but just before hanging up he remembered to ask, “What time was the practice last Tuesday afternoon?”
“It wasn't in the afternoon, young man, it was Tuesday evening, at six o'clock,” Howard Rhys-Davies said. “We have too many members who work for a living and can't get away during working hours, so we have to have evening rehearsals these days.”
“Six o'clock,” Evan repeated. “And Roger Thomas showed up on time?”
Evan heard the man suck in air through his teeth. “Now that you
mention it, he came in a few minutes late, which isn't like him. But we were only just getting our music in order, so he didn't miss anything. May I ask what this is about? Mr. Thomas hasn't done anything wrong, has he?”
“We're just checking statements at this stage, Mr. Rhys-Davies. Nothing to worry about.” Evan hung up and flipped his phone shut. Roger Thomas had lied then, and he didn't seem like the kind of man who would lie without a compelling reason. And he would have had a whole afternoon free before he got to his choir practice in Bala a little late …
Evan checked on Thomas's home address and drove straight there. He was surprised to find it was a semi-detached council house on an estate at the edge of Harlech. He didn't know why he should be so surprised, except that he had a mental impression of park rangers living in remote cottages like his own. As he checked off street numbers and realized which house belonged to Roger Thomas, his pulse quickened. A caravan was parked in the front garden. Evan almost broke into a run as he pushed open the front gate and went straight to the caravan. He tried the door, which was locked, but he found that by climbing onto the hitch, he could see into the back window. It was a good-sized van, immaculately neat, with a table and bench at one end and a bed across the other. Down one wall were sink, fridge, and cooking surface, all gleaming. But no sign that the van had ever been occupied. No closet in which a girl could be imprisoned.
Of course she wouldn't still be in there, Evan told himself. Thomas would only have used the van to transport her to the place he had prepared for her—another bunker, or even a room in his house.
“Hey, you. What do you think you're doing? Get down from there—you'll scratch the paint.”
The voice behind Evan startled him and he stepped down awkwardly, almost twisting his ankle. Roger Thomas stood at his open front door, glaring at him.
“Oh, it's you—Constable Evans,” he said, the bluster going out
of him like a deflated balloon. “May I ask what you're doing with my caravan?”
“We've been asked to check all caravans in the area, Mr. Thomas. And since I was on my way to visit you, I thought I'd better take a look at yours too.”
“Check them for what?”
“A young girl has been abducted, Mr. Thomas. A caravan would be one way of transporting her out of the area.”
“And you think I might have done something like that?” Roger Thomas demanded, his face flushing scarlet. “You think I might have abducted a girl?”
“We have to check everybody who could have been in the area, Mr. Thomas. And National Parks workers could obviously transport a girl down a mountain without drawing attention to themselves.”
Roger Thomas glanced up and down the street and noticed a woman had come out of the house opposite, ostensibly to put out milk bottles. “You'd better come inside,” he said.
He led Evan into an immaculately neat front room, dominated by a grand piano. On the mantelpiece were several trophies and a framed photograph of Roger's choir.
“Take a seat.” He indicated a sofa, slip-covered in chintz. “Look, Constable, I'm as anxious as the next bloke to help you find this girl, but I already told you I wasn't working that day. I was nowhere near Snowdon. I did shopping in the morning and I've got the Tesco receipt to prove it, and that afternoon I was singing with my choir in Bala—which you have to admit is a good, long drive in the other direction.” He stared at Evan defiantly. “And you can check with my choir director if you want to.”
“I already have, Mr. Thomas,” Evan said.
“There you are, then.”
“And a couple of interesting facts came out. He told me that the practice was not in the afternoon at all. It was in the evening.”
Roger Thomas frowned, as if considering this. “Well, I suppose it was early evening by the time we started,” he said. “At this time of year it's light so late that you don't really think it's evening until
around eight, do you?” He paused, waiting for Evan to say something. “It was certainly afternoon when I left the house to drive there,” he added defiantly.
“Went by the scenic route, did you?” Evan asked.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Your choir secretary, Mr. Howard Rhys-Davies, remembered that you were a little late. You came running in, looking flustered and out of breath, after the practice had started.”
Thomas flushed bright red again. “That's ridiculous. I was two minutes late, at the most. They hadn't even started singing. Fancy bringing that up. Really, that man is insufferable sometimes.”
“Just why were you late, Mr. Thomas, if you had all afternoon to drive there?”
“If you really must know,” Roger Thomas said, “I took an afternoon nap and I forgot to set an alarm. I don't normally sleep during the day, but I'd had a rough week. I was horrified when I woke and found it was already four-thirty.”
“I see,” Evan said, not taking his eyes of Roger Thomas for a second. The man was clearly uncomfortable in his presence, but that could be his embarrassment at being caught out. If he came from a good old working-class Welsh background, admitting to taking an afternoon nap would be the same as confessing to a major sin. Daylight hours were for honest labor. Only slovenly, idle, nonchapelgoing, English people would think of resting in the afternoon.
“Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Thomas,” he said, rising from the sofa. “Sorry to have bothered you again.”
He noticed the look of relief that flooded across Thomas's face as he escorted Evan to his front door. “That's all right. I suppose you have to do your duty and question a lot of innocent people before you find the guilty one.”
“I just hope we do find the guilty one and that poor girl is still alive when we find her,” Evan said. He stepped out into a wet wind, blowing off the ocean. Any minute now it would rain.
“Looks like we're in for a change in the weather,” Thomas said,
staring out at the dark shape of Harlech Castle, looming between them and the Irish Sea.
“I hope the bad weather's not planning to stick around,” Evan said. “I'm getting married a week on Saturday. Marquee, champagne on the lawn—all that kind of thing. It could turn out rather soggy in the rain. The ladies won't want to get their hats wet.”
“Not much you can do about it either way, is there?” Thomas said. “Sounds like a rather grand affair, isn't it?”
Evan grimaced. “My fiancée's mother's idea, not mine.”
“It always is,” Thomas said and they exchanged a grin.
The first raindrops spattered onto the concrete area where the caravan was parked.
“Nice caravan you've got there, Mr. Thomas,” Evan said. “Do you take it on many trips?”
“Actually, I only just bought it,” Roger Thomas said.
“Really?”
“I came into a small inheritance and I thought how nice it would be to be able to go around the country, attending music festivals. She's a beauty, isn't she?”
“Very nice, yes,” Evan said. “So you haven't even had a chance to try it out yet?”
“Not apart from cooking on the stove the first evening I brought it home, just to make sure it worked properly. But I have leave in September and then I'll be off to Ireland with her. There's a Gaelic Festival in Cork I'd like to attend. Would you like to have a look inside? It's very well designed.”
“All right.” Evan allowed Thomas to show him around, although he had seen almost everything there was to see from the window. He left Roger Thomas's house feeling confused and uneasy. Roger Thomas certainly fit the profile in many ways—he lived for his music, as Eddie Richards had said. He lived alone. He had just acquired a caravan. And yet Evan suspected that the person they were looking would not have made his musical connections so obvious. Also Thomas was a faithful choir member—a joiner, therefore.
Evan had to admit that his answers made perfect sense. Everyone
overslept once in a while. He was certainly proud of his newly acquired caravan. The caravan didn't appear to have been used before. And yet he had definitely been nervous and uncomfortable in Evan's presence. Why? The normal response from a park ranger should have been to ask what he could do to help. Thomas had seemed strangely disinterested in the missing girl. Could that be because he knew where she was and any further searches would be wasting their time? Evan wished he knew more about psychology. In no case more than this one did he feel that he was stumbling blindly in the dark, grasping at straws. Why hadn't anyone come up with a good, easy truth drug yet? He wondered. As he approached the bridge across the estuary that would take him back to the police station, Evan thought about Eddie Richards. Eddie seemed like a levelheaded sort of bloke. Would it be a good idea to ask Eddie to keep his eyes open and report back on Roger Thomas? Probably not exactly ethical. Besides, they were dealing with a person of intellect. If he'd managed to outwit the police so far, if he'd managed to kidnap a girl on a crowded mountain and dig a bunker a few yards from a path, he wasn't going to slip up now. For the moment they'd just have to play his game at his pace.
The wind had increased as the storm came ashore, whipping the usually calm estuary into waves that slapped against the low bridge. The way back seemed to take forever. The rain was coming down fiercely now, peppering the windscreen and making the wipers work furiously. Evan was conscious again of the number of caravans he passed, parked in lay-bys or moving at snail's pace up the hills. How could anyone hope to stop and search them all? He certainly wasn't going to try in this weather and at this late hour. He decided to report to the D.I. by phone and perhaps find that he wasn't needed anymore tonight. That way he could branch off to Beddgelert and save himself a twenty-mile round trip.
The D.I.'s phone was picked up and a muffled voice growled, “Watkins.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“In the middle of a shepherd's pie. Is that Evans?”
“It is. On my way back from interviewing the National Parks employees again. Would you like my report now, or will the morning do?”
“Have you uncovered anything that requires immediate action?”
“Not really, sir, just a hunch about Roger Thomas, one of the park rangers, who has just bought a new caravan and …”
“Then let me get back to my dinner, Evans. There's a good chap. The wife has been complaining that I haven't had dinner once with the rest of the family all week. She's glaring at me even as we speak. Meeting at eight in the morning, okay?”
“I've still got the squad car I checked out.”
“Drive it in tomorrow morning, then. It's not likely to get stolen from outside your place, is it?”
With that Watkins hung up. So that was that. Released from duty for the night. Evan felt exhilaration until he reminded himself that somewhere a young girl might still be imprisoned and wishing herself dead. Another day gone and none of them a step closer to solving any aspect of this baffling case. Still, Bronwen would be pleased. He'd be able to give her a whole evening of undivided attention and they could discuss seating plans and music and all the hundred and one details that weddings seemed to require.
By the time he had driven up the Nant Gwynant Pass, he had conjured up a vivid picture of dinner waiting for him. Bronwen would have a meal on the stove, they'd open a bottle of wine and have time to enjoy each other's company, which certainly hadn't happened for a good while.
Evan opened his front door cautiously, sniffing the air to see if there were any good cooking smells, and if those smells involved either Bronwen or his mother. The house was silent.
“Bron?” he called and his voice echoed down the dark hallway. “Mam?”
No answering voice. That had to mean that Bronwen was up at the cottage and she'd got everything working up there. Smart girl, he thought. There would be no chance of mothers-in-law dropping in unexpectedly up there, especially not in weather like this. Evan took off his jacket and put on his rain gear before he tackled the hill. He could hardly take a squad car up that track, even if it would make it. The ground was already slippery and squelchy as he climbed the track and rivulets of water cascaded past his feet. They would have to get that four-wheel drive before the winter or the walk home would be a nightmare. The wind whipped at his clothes and the rain stung
his face and bare hands. Lovely August day, he said to himself with black humor, and pictured all those tourists huddled in their caravans or at their hotels.
The high peaks on either side of the valley had been swallowed into cloud. Wisps of cloud had come down almost to the cottage itself and several sheep huddled miserably beside his wall, trying to escape the worst of the wind. They glanced up in alarm as he approached and moved away reluctantly as he opened the gate.
“Bronwen? Where are you?” Evan called as he opened the door and stepped onto the flagstoned floor of the entry. No answer. No good aromas coming from the kitchen, either. He looked around and saw that Bronwen had indeed been busy in his absence. Apart from a couple of boxes of books and an air mattress on the bedroom floor where the brass bed would eventually go, all the furniture was now in its rightful place—plates and cups neatly arranged on the new Welsh dresser, foodstuffs on the pantry shelves, and the copper pots hanging above the stove. It looked just like a home, and an inviting, comfortable home at that. Evan was truly impressed and felt a stab of guilt that she had had to do all this alone. She must have worked like a dog—Evan smiled to himself as he realized something. Of course, her parents were due to arrive sometime over the weekend and she wanted to make sure everything looked perfect for them. She was probably still out hunting down that damned brass bedstead.
It was frustrating not to be able to contact her. If only she'd move into the twenty-first century and get a mobile phone like everyone else in the world. He made up his mind to go ahead and buy her one, whether she liked it or not. A policeman needed to stay in contact with his wife. Now he hesitated, looking around the kitchen and wondering if he should try to cook something for their evening meal. He opened the fridge, then the pantry. There were lamb chops and fresh beans. He could manage both of those, but he shouldn't start the chops until Bronwen came back. He took down a saucepan and sliced the beans, leaving them in water, ready to cook. He put the chops on the grill and peeled some potatoes.
The wind howled around the cottage and drummed on the roof. She was going to be soaked to the skin, out in weather like this. There was little point in going looking for her when he had no idea where she had gone, but he didn't like to think of her standing at a bus stop, waiting. Then it occurred to him that his mother might possibly know where she had gone. He was about to leave when he noticed the basket of logs beside the big stone fireplace. Bronwen would probably like to come home to a fire on a night like this, he decided, and he got one going. Then he put his hood back on and slithered his way down the hill.
“
Escob annwyl!
Would you take a look at the boy!” Evan's mother exclaimed as he was ushered into Mrs. Williams's kitchen, dripping, sodden, and caked in mud where he had sat down unexpectedly. “Don't tell me you've been up on mountains in weather like this?”
“Just up to our cottage to see if Bronwen was there—but she's not. I wondered if she might have told you where she was going.”
Evan's mother gave him a cold stare. “Miss Price and I are not on the friendliest of terms, as you may have noticed. Why would you think she'd stop to confide her business to me?”
“And whose fault is that?” Evan demanded, feeling tired, wet, and now frustrated. “You haven't exactly welcomed her as a daughter-in-law with open arms, have you?”
“I've been nice enough.”
“You still call her Miss Price, Mam. You told her to her face that her cooking wasn't good enough …”
“Just trying to help.” Mrs. Evans sounded grieved. “Most young women would want to learn how to feed their future husbands and keep them happy.”
“Bronwen already knows how to keep me happy. She doesn't want you hinting that you're the only one who can look after me properly.”
“Well, that's true enough, isn't it? I cooked for you and your father all those years. Who would know better than I?”
“I'm a grown man now,” Evan said, more softly. “My tastes have changed. And anything Bronwen does suits me just fine.”
“I came here early especially to help you with the wedding plans,” Mrs. Evans said. “But both of you are ignoring me and turning down my offers of help.”
“Mother, I'm on a very difficult case. I've been putting in twelve-hour days. I feel badly that I've had to leave everything to Bronwen so far, and frankly I've no idea what stage the wedding plans have reached. I'm sure we'll want you to help when it comes closer to the actual event.”
“And Mrs. Williams here is waiting to hear the details, too. She doesn't know how many little cakes to bake until you tell her how many guests you're expecting. It's not fair, Evan, to keep us all in the dark.”
“Mam, I told you I've hardly had a chance to speak to Bronwen, much less to find out how many people are coming. I'll ask her to come and talk to you, all right?”
Evan's mother looked across at Mrs. Williams. “It will have to do, won't it? And I could always make some of my sausage rolls for the party. I've always been a dab hand at sausage rolls, haven't I? Your father used to say I had the lightest touch with pastry he'd ever met—but of course he'd never tried your pastry, Mrs. Williams,” she conceded.
Mrs. Williams had been bustling around the kitchen, tactfully staying clear of this family feud. Now she stepped between them. “I tell you what, Evan
bach.
Why don't you and your intended come and have dinner with us tonight? I've made a lovely lamb
cawl,
just the way you like it, and there's plenty for all of us. And we'll have a moment to discuss exactly what you need from us.”
“That's very kind of you, Mrs. Williams,” Evan said. “I think we'd like to take you up on that. Bronwen will be wet through by the time she gets home and she'd probably be delighted to have dinner waiting for her. I don't know where she went, but I'm going to drive down to Caernarfon to look for her. She's probably out chasing that brass bed again.”
“Chasing a brass bed?” Both women looked startled.
Evan smiled. “She wants the cottage furnished with antiques. She's set her heart on a brass bed.”
“Pity I didn't know that a few years ago when my auntie died,” Mrs. Williams said. “We gave several of them to the rag and bone man.”
“It was a pity you didn't hang onto them,” Evan agreed. “You should see what price they're fetching now.”
“So I heard. Ridiculous, isn't it?” The two women exchanged glances again.
“Still, I must say that I think the old furniture is better than this modern stuff,” Mrs. Evans said. “You can't go wrong with a good, strong Welsh dresser in the kitchen.”
“You must come up to the cottage and see the one that Bronwen found for us,” Evan said, offering an olive branch.
“Up that hill? You seem to have forgotten that I'm an old woman now.”
“Mother, Mrs. Owens-the-Sheep goes up and down that hill every day and she's older than you.”
“Maybe she hasn't had such a hard life.” Evan's mother stared out of the window with a pained expression on her face.
Evan decided he wasn't going to win any discussion right now. “I'll be right back then,” he said brightly. “The shops will have closed at five-thirty, so Bronwen should be home any minute. I'll probably pass her coming up the hill on the bus when I'm driving down.”
“Take your time, and drive carefully,” Mrs. Williams called after him. “All those foreign tourists out there, driving like maniacs. The stew will stay hot for you.”
Evan went back to his home, just in case Bronwen had left a message on his answering machine rather than call his mobile. As he shut the door behind him, he noticed a letter, caught in the mail slot. He pulled it free and felt his heart rate rise. Another typed envelope, just like yesterday's.
He tore it open and found himself looking at two lines of music. Dammit, he muttered. Who could read music in the village? Why hadn't he paid more attention when Bronwen interpreted those
notes yesterday? Various men who sang in the local men's choir or at chapel came to mind and he knew where he'd find some of them at this time of day. He stuffed the letter under his parka and braved the storm again.
The bar at the Red Dragon was particularly noisy as Evan pushed open the heavy oak door. He noticed instantly that a good sprinkling of holidaymakers, caught in the storm, had joined the usual inhabitants. Several families sat around the tables in the ladies' lounge, and as he made his way to the main bar, Betsy came out of the kitchen with plates balanced on her hands and arms.
“I'll be with you as soon as I can, Evan
bach,”
she called out to him in Welsh, “but the place is full of bloody foreigners tonight, all wanting their dinner. We've run out of shepherd's pie and toad in the hole. It will be beans on toast soon.”
“No rush,
cariad,”
Evan called after her. “You take your time.”
She turned and gave him a dazzling smile, instantly making him remember why there had been speculation among the villagers at one time as to whether he'd choose Betsy or Bronwen.
As he approached the bar, he noticed Barry-the-Bucket staring at him with a look that was none too friendly.
“She's a good girl, your Betsy,” Evan said rapidly. “Hardworking. You could do worse.”
“Just because you're about to enter a life of slavery, don't wish it on the rest of us, boyo,” Barry said, but he was grinning now. “What are you drinking—the usual?”
“I don't think I've got time for a drink, thanks all the same,” Evan said.

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