Evan Blessed (4 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan Blessed
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Watkins dropped to his knees and took the torch that the young policeman was holding. Evan knelt beside him and peered into the hole.
“Bloody'ell,” was all Watkins could say.
Evan looked and fought back the sick, sinking feeling in his stomach. The torchlight didn't illuminate the far corners but what he could see was enough. It was a complete bunker, furnished with a camp bed, camp stool, and foldout table.
“Did the owner leave a convenient ladder for us to get down, Jones?” Watkins asked.
“Not that we've found so far, sir.”
“I want to get into that hole right now,” Watkins said. “Any suggestions?”
“A good shove, sir?” came from the darkness, followed by a general chuckle.
“Most amusing, Roberts,” Watkins said. “We're looking for a missing girl, for God's sake. Would you want your girlfriend down there?”
“No, sir.”
“Then bloody well think of a way to get someone down to take a look.”
It took all of Evan's willpower to speak. Being naturally claustrophobic he dreaded the thought of dropping into darkness. But the thought of a young girl, maybe still alive in one of those dark corners, drove him. “I could probably lower myself, sir, and then help you down.”
“I'm not a decrepit old fogey, Evans,” Watkins said. “And I don't want you breaking an ankle.”
“It's not that far, sir. I'm over six foot and I'd say it wasn't much deeper than that. If you can come up with something for me to hang onto …” He lowered himself experimentally and sat with his legs dangling into the darkness.
“Here. Grab hold of my hand,” Pritchard said.
“I didn't know you cared, Huwey,” someone quipped.
“Too bad he's already engaged,” another voice added, but the constable grinned and knelt down.
“Someone hold onto Pritchard. We don't want him tumbling in too,” the sergeant commanded.
Evan turned onto his stomach and inched himself over the lip, just as he had done many times when climbing down a mountain. Hands grabbed at his wrists as he lowered himself until his voice echoed up, “Okay, let go.”
There was a thud, the sound of something falling, and a muttered, “Bloody'ell.”
Watkins peered over the rim. “Are you okay, Evans?”
The damp, moldy, earthy smell was overpowering.
“I'm okay.” Evan shivered in the miserable cold. As he moved around in the torch beam, grotesque shadows stretched across the walls and dirt floor. His hands reached out over the damp soil until he located what had fallen. “I knocked something over when I
landed. It's all right. Just a stool. Are you ready to come down now, sir? The boys can lower you the way they lowered me.”
“The big question is can we get you out again?” one of the young constables said and got a general laugh.
Evan felt cold sweat run down the back of his neck. He could never reveal that his darkest fear was being shut underground, or they'd kid him about it forever. He heaved a sigh of relief as Watkins's lean frame came down toward him and he reached up to guide the inspector to the ground. Watkins switched on his torch and Evan blinked, temporarily blinded by the powerful beam.
“Don't touch anything if you can help it, Evans. We'll want forensics to go over it,” Watkins said. He covered one wall with the torch beam, then the next.
Seen from close up like this, the small room wasn't as frightening as it had seemed from above. It was a rectangle, about eight feet by six, well framed with sturdy timber. The camp bed took up most of one wall. Behind it was a bucket toilet. There was a camping lantern with extra batteries, a one-burner camp stove, and a supply of cans and dehydrated food. A personal CD player and some CDs were piled on another stool behind the bed.
Watkins picked up the top one with his handkerchief. “Bach's Brandenburg Concertos—highbrow stuff.” He turned to Evan. “So what do you think?”
Evan looked around him. “I think that maybe we're dealing with some sort of survivalist, a crackpot who wants to be ready for the next nuclear war.”
Watkins shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said. “Look up there.”
The torch beam picked out chains hanging from the beam at the top of the far wall. Chains with handcuffs attached to them.
It was just before dawn when Evan's car finally drew up outside the red front door and he staggered up the stairs. He felt sick with hunger and tiredness and every muscle in his body ached. He told himself he should eat something before he went to sleep, but he was just too exhausted. He thought of waking Bronwen to cook him something, but when he saw her lying there, her long ash blond hair spread out over the pillow like a figure from a Renaissance painting, he hadn't the heart to disturb her. He took down his sleeping bag and spread it on the floor. He even started to wriggle into it. Then the desire to be close to her, to feel the warmth of her was too strong, and he slid into bed beside her, trying not to wake her.
She did wake, though, and turned to give him a sleepy smile. “Hello. What time is it?”
“Five o'clock,” Evan said. “Sorry to disturb you. Go back to sleep.”
“You're freezing,” she said. “Have you been out on the mountain all night?”
“Pretty much.”
“Did you find the girl?”
“No, not yet. They've still got teams out there.”
“Perhaps she got fed up and went home to Mum. Has anybody thought of calling her home?”
“I don't think she did, Bron,” Evan said. “We found something really horrible. An underground bunker, fully equipped with food and everything, as if it was ready and waiting for someone.”
“You think someone might have been looking for a young girl to kidnap?”
“The thought did cross our minds.”
“Are you sure it wasn't just boys building a secret clubhouse? Some kind of Scout project maybe?”
“There were chains on the wall, Bronwen. Chains and handcuffs.”
Bronwen shivered. “How horrible. Some kind of proper psycho, then. Thank heavens you discovered it. At least now he won't be able to take anybody there.”
“But he may already have her, Bron. He may have captured her and now not know what to do with her, and that's not good.”
“No, you're right. If he's nowhere to put her, he either has to let her go or—” She couldn't complete the sentence.
“And he couldn't risk letting her go because she'd be able to identify him.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I'll find out what the overall plan is when I report back for work at eight o'clock. Between now and then I'd like to get a couple of hours of shuteye.”
Bronwen wrapped her arms around him. “I suppose I'm now just learning what life as a policeman's wife is going to be like,” she said. “At least I'm glad I'm here to get up and make you breakfast before you go.”
Evan snuggled into her arms, enjoying the warm, sweet smell of her. Other thoughts crossed his mind but before he had time to decide whether to act on them, he had fallen asleep.
In his dream he was down in that bunker and looked up just in time to see the trap door being closed, plunging him into total darkness. He felt around for the stool, climbed on it, and started pounding on the trap door.
“Let me out!” he shouted. He thought he heard the sound of maniacal laughter. He went on pounding and pounding until … he opened his eyes to bright sunlight streaming in through the window. Birds were singing but their song was drowned out by the pounding that was still going on. Evan sat up, his heart hammering as loudly as the noise he could hear. He was alone in the bed and now that his senses were returning, he could smell coffee downstairs.
He jumped up, just as the pounding ceased. Downstairs, he heard voices. They had found the girl, he thought. He was being called to a murder scene. He ran down the stairs. Bronwen was standing at the half-open front door. She was wearing one of Evan's T-shirts, which came to mid-thigh on her, and nothing else. She looked up at the sound of Evan's feet on the stairs.
“I didn't want to wake you until seven-fifteen but we've got a visitor,” she said, her voice unnaturally cheerful.
“I wasn't expecting to find you here, Miss Price,” a voice said, and to Evan's horror, his mother stepped past Bronwen and into the front hall. “Hello, son,” she said.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” Evan stammered. “We weren't expecting you until the weekend.”
Mrs. Evans's face was a stone mask. “My next-door neighbor, Mrs. Gwynne, said her son was driving a furniture lorry up to Bangor. I thought to myself, why not surprise my son and save the money for the train fare too?”
“You certainly surprised me all right,” Evan said.
The stony expression didn't waver. “I thought to myself that my boy might need some extra help in the busy time before the wedding and he might need someone to make sure he was eating properly. But I see you've already got extra help.” Her gaze traveled over Bronwen. “But don't tell me you've already had the wedding?”
Bronwen flushed and went to say something. Evan put a hand around her shoulder. “No, Mother. The wedding is still two weeks away, as you very well know. And I've been out all night on a particularly nasty case, so Bronwen was making me some breakfast.”
Mrs. Evans's face struggled, as if she wanted to believe this, but
couldn't. “Well then,” she said. “I could do with a cup of tea, after sitting in that bumpy old lorry all night. Evan can bring my case in for me.”
“I'm afraid I was making coffee,” Bronwen said. “Evan hardly got any sleep so I was helping him to stay awake. But I can put the kettle on for some tea.”
“And maybe you'd like to pop upstairs and put your dressing gown on at the same time, Miss Price,” Mrs. Evans said. “You'll catch your death of cold running around in your undies like that.”
“All right.” Bronwen kept her face composed until she was out of sight, then bounded up the stairs.
“Mother, now you've upset Bronwen,” Evan hissed.
She stared at him with the same stony gaze. “I should hope it was her own conscience that upset her. What on earth do the neighbors say when the policeman brings women in for the night?”
“Women? Mother, she's my fiancée. And I'd like you to try and be nicer to her.” He left his mother standing in the hallway and ran up the stairs. He found Bronwen standing at the window, staring out.
“I'm sorry, love,” he said.
“I know she's your mother,” Bronwen said in a low voice, “but she's a miserable old harpy.”
Evan came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “You're right. She is.”
“She's never going to accept me as a daughter-in-law.” Bronwen's voice cracked. “She still calls me Miss Price, for God's sake. And the way she looked at me. You'd have thought I'd been entertaining an entire army regiment!”
Evan laughed and squeezed her to him. “I don't know what she can have against you, but I'm sure she'll improve.”
“Of course we know what she's got against me. I'm taking her precious son away from her control.”
Evan reached behind the door and took down a velour robe. “Here, put my dressing gown on, and as soon as we've given her a cup of tea, we're going to march her over to Mrs. Williams and get her settled in there.”
“Lucky Mrs. Williams,” Bronwen muttered as Evan led her downstairs.
“Hello, Evans, been oversleeping again?” Sergeant Howell Jones asked as Evan came into Inspector Watkins's office. “They've done studies, you know. Too much rest isn't good for you.”
There was a general chuckle. Evan looked around to see that he was, indeed the last, although the clock on the wall only said 8:03.
“Sorry,” he muttered as he pulled out a chair. “Last-minute complication. My mother arrived from Swansea—took us by surprise.”
“If Bronwen was with you, I'd imagine it did give you a nasty shock.” D.C. Glynis Davies gave Evan a knowing smile. Glynis was Evan's fellow detective constable and should have been his rival for promotion, except that a close friendship had developed between them—one that Bronwen didn't always understand, since Glynis was unattached, clever, and gorgeous. Today she was wearing an open-necked blue and white checked shirt that showed off her sleek copper hair and porcelain skin to perfection.
“Come on, folks. No time for chitchat, we've got serious business to attend to.” Inspector Watkins clapped his hands like a schoolteacher quieting an unruly class. Evan remembered the time, not so long ago, when Watkins was a humble sergeant and always had a ready quip.
“Right.” Watkins leaned forward over his desk. “For those of you who weren't in on last night's fun, we received a report of a missing hiker at around four p.m. Became separated from her boyfriend while coming down from the summit of Snowdon. He waited, then went back to look for her. No sign of her. Since she was seventeen and therefore still a minor, we sent out a search team. It was suggested that she may have found the Pyg Track or the Miner's Path too steep and elected to take the easy way down following the railway, so that area was also searched. A couple of dogs were brought in. One of them picked up a scent and led us to what turned out to be an underground bunker, in the woods just above the Llanberis station. Fully equipped with bed, provisions, and even a CD player.”
“But not inhabited?” Glynis Davies asked.
“Not inhabited. The early forensic reports have come in. No traces of blood, which is good. The bed appears to have new sheets on it and not to have been slept in. No hairs or fibers gathered. The bucket toilet has not been used. The place is almost devoid of fingerprints. Obviously he used gloves or wiped things clean. We have managed to pick up some prints, however, and we're matching them now to our files.”
Glynis raised a hand. “What reason do we have to think that this could have anything to do with the missing hiker, sir? There are all kinds of strange survivalists, or even a teenager who wanted a secret space away from home.”
“If he's a teenager, then I'd say he's got a sick mind,” Watkins replied. “One thing I didn't mention. Show her the photo, Dawson.”
A gawky youngster who looked like an overgrown schoolboy sorted through a pile of photos and handed one to Glynis.
“Here you go. Take a look at that, then.”
It was a close-up of the chains with handcuffs attached, high on the wall.
“Oh, goodness,” Glynis said, glancing across at Evan. “So it looks as if we made a lucky discovery, doesn't it? Someone was planning to bring a victim to the bunker, but hadn't already done so.”
“Or a willing participant,” Sergeant Jones suggested. “There are those whose idea of kinky sex might involve being shut in a bunker and handcuffed to a wall.”
“You're right, Howell,” Watkins said. “As P.C. Davies says, this may have nothing at all to do with our missing hiker. It may be pure coincidence that we stumbled upon it when we did.”
“On the other hand,” Evan began, never comfortable at speaking out at meetings like this, “we do have a girl who vanished in good weather on a mountain that must have been crowded with other hikers. I agree there are some dangerous parts of the mountain where she could have slipped and gone over a cliff, but the paths are easy to follow when there are other hikers on them, and if she was injured, she would have been found by now.”
“I agree with Evan,” P.C. Dawson said. “I do a bit of climbing
myself, but it's like a zoo out there in the summer holidays. Crawling with tourists. If you're a serious walker, you stay away from Snowdon in August.”
“So you don't think it's possible that someone could have grabbed the girl and taken her off without being seen?” Watkins asked.
Evan considered this. “In that wooded area where we found the bunker, maybe,” he said. “It was quite warm yesterday afternoon. If she went into the woods for some shade, and he was in there …”
“Then why not take her straight to the bunker, if it was all prepared and nearby?” Glynis asked.
There was silence as the group digested this.
“He was waiting until it was dark, and by then our men were out on the mountain?” someone suggested.
“So what's he done with her? Is she still alive? Is there any hope of rescuing her?”
Silence again, then Glynis said in a tight voice, “He may have more than one of these bunkers prepared, sir. He may have gone to plan B.”
“So what do we do now, sir?” Sergeant Jones asked impatiently. “Have the girl's parents been called, just in case she's gone home or contacted them?”
Watkins nodded. “They were called last night. They hadn't heard from her then. We should check in again this morning before we do anything else.”
“And if they still haven't heard from her?” Sergeant Jones continued. “It was sheer luck we stumbled upon that bunker last night. The chances of finding another one are pretty slim. But we should take another look at the whole area in daylight, just in case we've overlooked anything.”

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