Evan Blessed (18 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan Blessed
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“No time for a drink?” Charlie Hopkins spun around, almost spilling his own pint of Robinson's. “What kind of talk is that? And what would you be doing in a pub if it wasn't seeking liquid refreshment?”
“I need some help translating a letter,” Evan said.
“Foreign, is it?” Charlie asked.
“No, it's music, actually.” He suddenly remembered that Barry
played guitar in a band. “You read music, don't you, Barry?”
“
Tippen bach—
just a little bit,” Barry replied.
“This is very simple,” Evan said. “Can you come over here with me for a second? I'll buy your next pint by way of a bribe.”
“All right.” Barry followed him to an area that was somewhat less crowded.
Evan produced the letter. “I just need to know what notes these are.”
“Oh, I can do that. I thought you meant real music.” Barry glanced down at the sheet of paper. “It's BADEE on the first line and BADBEBB on the second line. Is that what you wanted?”
Evan tried to keep calm as he reached for the piece of paper. “Right. Thanks, Barry.”
BADEE. It didn't take a genius to figure that much out, given that the last note had repeated the word bad.
“Is that all you wanted? You going to take up piano then?” Barry asked him with a grin. “Or are you planning to sing at the wedding?”
“What? No. No it's something else entirely.”
“Are you all right, boyo?” Barry asked.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine,” Evan attempted a smile. “Look, can I buy you that pint later, if you don't mind? I have to get back to work right now. This is pretty important.”
He didn't wait for an answer, but ran back out into the wind and rain. He found it hard to breathe and not just because the storm was hitting him full in the face. Suddenly everything was different. It had now become personal. The letters in the first line of music, BADEE. That was clear enough. Evan Evans had to be EE. But the second line, BADBEBB. That made not sense at all. Who was Bebb? Or was it a misprint for Deb again? He had to risk D.I. Watkins's wrath and call him right away.
He went back to his house to take his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and noticed that the light was blinking on his answering machine. So Bronwen had called home after all. He felt relief flooding through him as he pressed the PLAY button.
“Constable Evans?” a man's voice said. “This is Mr. Cuthbert from the music store. You came in this afternoon asking about the
Sheherazade
suite. I've been giving it some more thought. I believe you mentioned a missing girl who might have been imprisoned? Well, it just struck me that Sheherazade is the tale of the Thousand and One Nights. The Emperor, or Sultan, I believe he's called, takes a different wife every night and has her killed in the morning. Sheherazade becomes his wife and tells him such good stories that he keeps her alive night after night, wanting to hear the next episode. But she knows he'll only keep her alive as long as she keeps him amused. I hope this helps a little.” The message clicked off.
The world stopped.
“Only keep her alive as long as she keeps him amused.” That was why the music had been chosen for him. And suddenly he knew what the musical notes spelled out.
“Oh my God,” he gasped. “He's got Bronwen.”
Panic made it impossible to breathe. He stumbled around the room like a drunken man, knocking into a chair that clattered to the ground behind him. It was lucky that Watkins's number was on his speed dial because he couldn't have forced his fingers to punch in numbers. The phone at the other end rang, then a crisp female voice said, “The party you require is not available to answer your call at this moment, please leave your name and number and …”
Evan hung up. He doubted that Watkins would ever switch off his mobile. The storm must have interrupted communications somewhere down the line. He punched the next number on his speed dial.
“Caernarfon police station. How can I help you?” a male voice said.
“Who is this?” Evan demanded.
“Constable Pritchard here,” the voice remained calm. “More to the point, who are you?”
“Evans. Who else is on duty?”
“Only me and Sergeant Howells at the moment.”
“No C.I.D.?”
“I don't think so. Just a minute, I'll go and look.”
Evan waited impatiently until Pritchard said cheerfully, “It looks like D.C. Davies is still in the computer center. Do you want to talk to her?”
“Of course I bloody want to talk to her,” Evan exploded, then regretted it instantly. “Sorry, mate, it's a real emergency.”
“Right-oh. I'll put her on.”
And Evan heard Glynis's calm, well-bred voice saying, “This is D.C. Davies.”
“Glynis,” he shouted into the phone, “he's got Bronwen. What are we going to do?”
“Evan? Is that you?”
“Sorry. Yes. I couldn't find her anywhere and then there was more music and I know why he played that piece on the radio and I don't know what to do …” The words spilled out in a torrent.
“Calm down. Take a deep breath,” Glynis Davies said. “Now, are you sure that Bronwen has been kidnapped?”
“He has to have her, doesn't he?” Evan could hear himself still shouting. “She's not anywhere to be seen, and the music is about a sultan who keeps young women alive only as long as they please him. And there was another letter. It says Bad EE, and then Bad BE-to-be.”
“Oh God. Any sign of a struggle? Any sign at all that she was kidnapped?”
“No. Nothing. There was food in the fridge at the cottage ready for dinner, so she was intending to cook up there. No sign at all that she was at my place. I can ask around to see if anyone noticed her, but I just don't think I can do that right now.”
“Of course you can't. Come on down to the station and I'll round up everyone else. And Evan, drive carefully. We don't want you going off the road, do we?”
“All right.”
“Don't worry, Evan. We'll find her. Bronwen's a resourceful woman. She can take care of herself.”
He wanted to believe that. Bronwen wouldn't give in without a fight. But against a captor who was bigger and stronger, who might
have a weapon—who had handcuffs waiting for her? He tried to put the image from his mind, but he couldn't. Only one thing was absolutely clear: When he found the man, he'd kill him.
Fields and rocks and the occasional house flew past as he drove down the pass. Llanberis was deserted. All of the tourists had retreated to the few cafés and pubs that were still open, or gone back to their B&Bs. The terminus of the Snowdon Railway loomed like a ghostly shadow above the road. A sudden, chilling thought shot through Evan. The bunker, now unguarded, to which the kidnapper apparently could come and go as he pleased. What if he knew the police were no longer guarding it? What if he had taken Bronwen there?
Evan couldn't drive on. He had to check for himself, just in case. He parked outside the station and started up the path. Usually, the sun would still be setting at this hour, but cloud had come down to swallow the mountain in darkness. Rain and wind battered him as he ran up the steep ascent. He had left his torch in the glove compartment of his car and cursed himself for his lack of forethought. What if his quarry was there too, and had a weapon? A voice in Evan's head reminded him that he should wait for backup, like any well-trained cop. He kept going, however, until he reached the point where he had to leave the path. That same voice went on to remind him that his father hadn't waited either, when he had burst into the middle of a gang of kids in Swansea, and it had cost him his life. But Bronwen's life was at stake now and that was all that mattered.
He blundered into the woods, stumbling and tripping as he refused to slow down. At first he couldn't even find the bunker, but then a wisp of white tape, flapping wildly in the wind, helped him locate it. His cold wet fingers fumbled to remove the turf and brambles that concealed it and to open the hatch. At last he had it open and stared down into darkness.
“Bronwen?” he yelled. “Are you there? It's me—Evan.”
She might well be gagged, of course. He strained his ears for any muffled sound, but it was impossible to hear over the shriek of the wind and the drumming of rain on leaves. What if she were lying
unconscious? He knew he'd have to go down to check, but he didn't know how he'd get out again. The biggest, strongest piece of furniture down there wasn't tall enough to enable him to hoist himself back up, even if everything were not slippery with rain.
He should call for backup.
He knelt down and leaned into the darkness. It wasn't quite dark outside yet. Surely he'd be able to make out the light shape of a body. Suddenly he was struck with great force in the middle of his back and he toppled forward into the hole. Blackness rushed up to meet him.
When Evan opened his eyes, he wondered if he'd gone blind. The world around him was completely, utterly dark. He waved his hand in front of his face and saw nothing. Then his nostrils took in the damp, earthy smell and he realized where he was: in the bunker with the hatch closed above him. His heart raced as he fought back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Of all the nightmares of his life, being buried alive was the worst of them. He got to his knees and began to crawl around the damp earth floor. The bunker had not been as well designed as its builder had hoped—there were already puddles where the rain was seeping in. How long had he lain there? A few minutes? An hour? Every bone in his body hurt and he realized how lucky he had been not to have broken his neck when he pitched in headfirst. But one shoulder sent out stabbing pains of fire as he put weight on his hand. He ran the other hand over it. Probably not dislocated as he couldn't feel a bone protruding. Separated, then? He'd done both during his rugby-playing career and both were equally painful.
He continued his patient crawl until he bumped into one wall, then he moved along the wall to the first corner. At least Bronwen wasn't hanging from those handcuffs. This brought a small measure of relief. Along the next wall, he located the toilet bucket, then the bed, which was also untouched and empty, although damp now. The bedside table with the lamp on it should be beside it. He felt around, trying to locate it. Had it been taken away for testing and
not returned? At last he found it, lying on its side. He must have knocked it over during his fall. He felt around until he located the lamp and prayed that the fall hadn't shattered the bulb. He flipped the switch. Nothing happened. Then he remembered that it was battery-operated, gave the battery compartment a good thump, and was rewarded with flickering light. The dim glow confirmed that the hatch was indeed shut tight.
He fought against the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd been claustrophobic all his life, made worse when a primary school teacher shut him in the cupboard as punishment. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he realized he was breathing rapidly.
Think calm, he told himself. Nothing to worry about. I'm safe. They'll find my car and come looking for me. Everything will be all right.
He tried to keep other thoughts at bay, but they started creeping in. He realized that the kidnapper must have known his mind rather well. He'd known that Evan would have to stop and check out the bunker as he drove past, and he had been waiting for him. This was probably just an extra point scored. I can get the better of you any time I want to—was that what he was saying? Evan realized that they were playing a game of egos, a mental chess game. Why me? he thought. Why is he directing his hate at me? Why not my boss?
He yawned loudly. Sleepy. He couldn't be sleepy. It wasn't even late yet. Unless—unless the air supply had been blocked up. He held the lamp close to the ceiling where there had been a fresh-air vent. And he noticed that there were no raindrops beneath it. Blocked, then. Not as safe as he had believed. He looked around the bunker. How long before the air he was breathing was replaced by the carbon dioxide he was breathing out? Surely an hour or two—time enough to be rescued. But what if they didn't notice his car in the car park? It was off the main road, after all. What if his adversary had taken his keys while he was unconscious and driven the car somewhere else? Panic returned as he fumbled in his pockets. He sighed with relief as his fingers closed around the cold metal of his key ring.
Still safe, then. All he had to do was sit and wait … unless. His mind now played another script. His adversary returning with a canister of gas—any kind of chemical poison in an aerosol can would do—removing the plug and spraying it calmly into the small space.
That was enough for Evan. He had to make an attempt to escape. He righted the bedside table and stood on it. His fingers just touched the wood of the hatch. He dragged over the bucket and stood it on top of the table. Then he used the wall to balance himself as he climbed up. Pain shot through his shoulder as he tried to raise his left arm, but he placed both palms firmly on the hatch and pushed. There was an ominous cracking sound and the flimsy table collapsed under his weight, sending him sprawling to the floor.
This time he thought he might vomit with the pain. His head felt dizzy and he had to lean against the cold firmness of the wall to steady himself. His eyes searched the bunker again.
Escape.
He must get out while he could. Most of the tins and other supplies had been taken away for testing. The bed was too flimsy to stand on. But there must be some way of getting out. There were supplies here and he was a resourceful man. The bedsheets had also been taken for testing but Evan peeled back the mattress and examined the aluminum frame. If he could take it apart, he might be able to make something to push the hatch open. He could lash parts of it together to make a ladder.
Full of enthusiasm now he got out his key ring, which had a small penknife attached to it, and attempted to dismantle the bed frame. It was extraordinarily well made and there seemed to be no way to unscrew the folding legs. He tried brute strength, but his damaged left shoulder wouldn't give him enough power. He tried leaning it against the wall and attempting to climb up the springs, but he couldn't get high enough. And he realized something else. All this exertion was using up his supply of oxygen too fast. He could hear his head singing and his thoughts were becoming more confused. Sleep. That was a good idea. Just lie down and sleep. Everything would be all right in the morning …

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