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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evans Above
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“Did you know he was a policeman, Major Anderson?” Sergeant Watkins asked as the attendant shut the drawer again.
“We found out when the constable and I went through his things,” Major Anderson said.
“So he hadn't mentioned it before?”
“No, why on earth should he?” Major Anderson said sharply. He glanced at his watch. “If we're through here, I really should be getting back. I've got important guests arriving at three and I should be there to welcome them.”
He sat drumming his fingers on his knee and staring out of the window in stony silence as Evan drove him home.
 
“That's him all right,” Greta Potts said as Evan showed her the photo taken on the mountain. It hadn't been easy for her to identify the corpse. His face had been pretty well smashed by the fall and she couldn't bring herself to take a good look. “I'd know those shoes anywhere,” she added in disgust. “I was that mad at him when he came home with them. Almost a hundred pounds for shoes, I said to him when I found the box in the closet. Me and the children could have bought ourselves enough clothes for the summer with that money. But he said he had to have them—I didn't expect him to go barefoot, did I?” Her accent was an interesting mix of foreign overlaid with the flat vowel sounds of Liverpool. “That was Stew all over,” she added. “He liked to treat himself well.”
She looked at Evan with her lip curled in a sneer. She was light-haired in a Germanic sort of way with sharp angular features, and she wore far too much makeup. She was dressed in a shiny neon green blouse over a tight, short black skirt and she wore very high heels. As she spoke she got out a packet of cigarettes and nervously tapped one into her hand. “You don't mind, do you?” she stated, rather than asked. Evan didn't imagine she'd been very easy to live with.
“So he didn't say anything to you about going to the mountains?” Evan asked gently.
“He never told me where he was going. If he said he was going to climb a mountain, I'd have thought that was just another excuse.”
“Excuse for what?”
The lip curled again. “My Stewart fancied himself as a ladies' man. You know how sailors have a girl in every port?
Salesmen are the same. He had a big territory. Sometimes he was gone all week. Who knows what he got up to? I should never have married him and come to this godforsaken country.”
“Where did you two meet?” Evan asked.
“He was stationed in my home town in Germany when he was in the army,” Greta said. “I met him at a dance. He was a wonderful dancer—good looking too.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a snapshot of a tall, dark-haired man with his arm around her shoulder. “I should have listened to my mother and stayed home.”
“Will you go back there now, do you think?” Evan asked.
She shrugged. “I don't know. I've got the kids to think of, haven't I? And we've got a nice little house in Liverpool. I don't know.”
“Of course you don't,” Evan said. “Take your time to let this all sink in before you make any decisions.”
“What are you, a bloody therapist?” she snapped.
He glanced down at the photo again. “Mind if I keep this for a while?”
“What for?” she asked suspiciously.
Evan didn't want to voice his suspicions to her. “We're still trying to work out where he fell from and how,” he said. “Someone might have passed him up on the mountain.”
“What was he doing up on a bloody mountain, that's what I want to know,” Greta demanded.
“So you say he wasn't usually the outdoor type?”
“Stew? Outdoors? Don't make me laugh,” she said, not smiling. “The only time he went outdoors was to watch Liverpool play football on Saturday afternoons. He was a great Liverpool supporter. He lived for his football. I used to say to
him, if you loved these kids half as much as you love those bloody football players …”
“And you never heard him mention a friend called Thomas Hatcher? A friend from London?”
She frowned, then shook her head. “No, I never heard that name before. I didn't know he had any friends in London. Was that who he went to meet?”
“He didn't tell you he was going to meet a friend then?”
“I told you,” she said impatiently, “he didn't tell me anything. I thought he'd probably left on the Sunday because he had to make a presentation early Monday morning. He did that sometimes. Anyway, he'd never have told me he was going to meet a friend—he knew I'd never have believed it was a bloke.” She sighed. “Anyhow he's gone now and I shouldn't be speaking ill of the dead, should I? Poor old Stew. He was in Northern Ireland for a time in the army and he came through that all right, and now this. Doesn't seem fair, does it?”
For the first time Evan noticed the crack in her armor and thought that maybe the cold aggressiveness might be a defence mechanism to show that she wasn't about to mourn a womanizing husband. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, love. I'll buy you a cup of tea,” he said softly.
Dark clouds were racing in from the ocean as Evan drove back to the village around four o'clock. Just as he was getting out of his car the bus pulled up and disgorged a load of school children from the comprehensive school down in Portmadog.
“‘Ello, Constable Evans, Sut ywt ti? 'Ow are you?” they called out in their clear lilting voices in the mixture of Welsh and English that they most often used.
Evan waved back as he headed for his door.
“Mr. Evans?”
Evan turned back to see Dilys Thomas, a gangly thirteen-year-old.
“What is it, Dilys?” Evan asked and watched her blush crimson.
“Did you hear that we're having a teen dance on Saturday?” she asked, playing with a long strand of hair to hide her embarrassment.
“I did hear something about it, yes,” Evan said. “Going to
be one of those rave things, isn't it? All wild music and flashing lights?”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Dilys exclaimed in horror, not realizing he was pulling her leg. “It's in the chapel hall. I was wondering if you were going to be one of the chaperons?”
“I said I might,” Evan said, “but I'm not so sure I can make it now. I've got a lot of things on my plate this week.”
Dilys' face fell. “Oh, but you have to come,” she said. “I was hoping you'd dance with me once.”
“You've never seen me dance,” Evan said, laughing. “Anyhow, you'll have the boys lining up to dance with you. I won't get a look in.”
“No, they won't,” Dilys said, her face still very red. “They make fun of me because I'm taller than they are. They call me Telephone-pole Thomas.”
“I wouldn't worry if I were you,” Evan said. “That will all sort itself out soon enough. But I'll try my best to come to the dance and I promise I'll dance with you if I'm there, okay?”
“Thanks, Mr. Evans,” Dilys said. She gave him a dazzling smile. “Bye now. I have to get home or my ma will kill me.”
Evan watched her run off, marvelling at her innocence. Why couldn't childhood be like that for all kids, he thought, her biggest worry that she had grown before the boys of her age. How come some lives were trouble-free and others were cut short by tragedy? It didn't seem fair and it didn't make sense. Evan liked things to make sense.
“Are you not speaking to me today then?” A soft, smooth voice made him jump. Then it was his turn to blush. “Oh, Bronwen, I'm sorry, I didn't notice you. I was thinking.”
“That's all right. I forgive you,” she said, and gave him a smile that warmed him right down to his boots. “So they let
you go hiking on work days now, do they? I saw you coming down the track through the classroom window.”
“I'll have you know I've been up that bloody mountain twice within the last twenty-four hours,” Evan said, a little put out. “Once last night and then again first thing this morning. And it wasn't too pleasant, either.”
“I know—the climbing accident,” she said. “I was only teasing because I imagine it can't have been too nice for you, getting out a body.”
“It wasn't just one body,” Evan said. “It was two.”
“Two? Were they roped together?”
“No, it wasn't even the same accident.”
“That's very strange.” Bronwen shielded her eyes to gaze upward at the peak. “You and I were both up there yesterday and I'd have said it was perfect weather for climbing or walking. No excuse for falling, was there?”
“Like you say, it was very strange,” Evan said. “Sergeant Watkins thinks it was just a horrible coincidence.”
“And you don't?”
“I'm still thinking about it,” Evan said. “One man's wife came today to identify him. I expect the other man's next of kin will show up soon enough. Maybe we'll know more then.”
“You look tired,” Bronwen said. “Long day, huh?”
“And I've only had a packet of crisps and a cup of tea since seven,” Evan said. “I could eat a horse right now.”
“I got the impression that was what Mrs. Williams had in mind for your tea,” Bronwen said, smiling. “I met her in the shop and she was very upset that you'd missed your lunch. She seems to think you're about to waste away any moment.”
Evan gave an embarrassed smile. “I feel like a prize turkey being fattened up for Christmas sometimes,” he said. “I keep
telling her I don't need lunch but she cooks it anyway, and it's there, dry and nasty on a plate in the oven, waiting for me whenever I show up.”
“That's one of the problems with landladies,” Bronwen said.
“She means well and she's good-hearted enough,” Evan said. “It's just this food thing, and her granddaughter.”
“Her granddaughter?”
“Sharon,” Evan said. “She seems to think we'd be a good match.”
“Everyone in this place is determined to get you married off,” Bronwen said, giving a nervous laugh.
“Don't worry, I intend to take my own good time about that,” Evan answered.
“So I've noticed,” Bronwen said under her breath. Then out loud she said, “Well, I best be getting along now and leave you to finish up your work and get home for your tea. I'll be seeing you then, Evan Evans.”
“Right-o, Bronwen. Take care now,” Evan said.
 
He let himself into the little room in the end cottage that served as the police station. It was next to Roberts-the-Pump, the gas station and repair shop which also served as the local fire station, RAC facility, and snack shop. A light was flashing on his answering machine. He punched the button. “This is Mrs. Powell-Jones,” an impatient, stridently upper-class voice said. “Constable Evans, I've been trying to contact you all day on a matter of great urgency. Please come up to the house as soon as you return.”
Evan sighed. He doubted if it was a real emergency. Mrs. Powell-Jones, wife of the reverend who preached his sermons in both languages, was one of those autocratic, well-born
women who think that the term public servant is to be taken literally. She never hesitated to call Evan if her cat was missing at two in the morning or if she saw something she thought looked suspicious—and Mrs. Powell-Jones found a lot of things suspicious, like a young couple parked with the engine idling at midnight. But he knew he had to go. Mrs. Powell-Jones had friends in high places, like the major. He didn't want to risk facing an angry commissioner of police in the morning.
The Powell-Jones' house was the last house in the village, set back in spacious grounds, conveniently close to chapel Beulah. It had been inherited from Mrs. Powell-Jones' family, who had formerly owned the slate quarry. With its Victorian gables and turret in one corner, it contrasted strongly with the simple cottages below it. Personally Evan preferred the cottages.
Mrs. Powell-Jones herself opened the front door. She looked agitated; her normally neat waves of hair were in disarray as if she had been running her hands through them.
“Thank God you've come at last, constable,” she said. “I was terrified you wouldn't get here in time.” Her voice had a hint of Welsh lilt to it, but was overlaid with expensive English schooling.
“In time for what, Mrs. Powell-Jones?” Evan asked. “Got a problem, have you?”
“A problem?” she shrieked. “A crime has been committed here, constable.”
“If there was a crime then you should have called down to headquarters,” Evan said. “Didn't you hear the instructions on my answering machine? When I'm not in the office they page me or pick up my emergency calls. They'd have had someone up here in a jiffy.”
“It's not the sort of crime I care to entrust to strangers,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said, glancing around in case someone was
listening. “Come out to the garden now, quickly, before it starts raining and the evidence is washed away.”
Mystified, Evan followed her out to her back garden. The predicted rain was already beginning, a fine mist which clung like diamonds to Mrs. Powell-Jones' gray-streaked hair. It was a large garden surrounding the house, protected from the fierce winds by a high hedge. First came a lawn, surrounded by neatly kept rose beds, then another hedge, and beyond that a vegetable garden, where the property stretched up to meet the grounds of the Everest Inn. The inn itself loomed like a giant surreal shadow in the mist, making Evan shiver.
“Look you!” Mrs. Powell-Jones said dramatically pointing at the ground. Evan looked but wasn't sure what he was supposed to be looking at. It was all newly dug earth with some sorry-looking bits of green stalk sticking out of it at crazy angles.
“What exactly happened?” he asked at last.
“That's what I want you to find out,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “Of course I have my suspicions. She's eaten up with jealousy that I beat her every year at the show.”
“The show?” Evan was becoming more confused by the second.
“The flower and vegetable show down in Beddgelert,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “I've won first place with my tomatoes for the past three years. So this year somebody decided to take matters into their own hands and sabotage my tomatoes before they could get going.”
“Tomatoes?” Evan wasn't much of a gardener.
Mrs. Powell-Jones pointed at the little bits of plant lying on the soil. “Those were my prize tomato seedlings until yesterday,” she said. “Someone has deliberately trampled them in a vicious act of vandalism.”
“And you think you know who did it?” Evan asked.
“Of course. Mrs. Parry Davies. Who else would it be? I just happen to do most things better than her and she can't stand it,” she said triumphantly.
Evan was examining the soil. It contained the print marks of large boots with a marked tread.
“Mrs. Parry Davies wears a size twelve in boots, does she?” he asked.
“Of course not. Don't be ridiculous,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said.
“Then I'd say she wasn't the leading suspect,” Evan said. “Look at the size of these boot marks.”
“Oh.” For a second she was speechless, then a smile lit her face again. “A clever ploy, so that I wouldn't suspect her. After all, she does play all the character parts in the local dramatic society, and her husband does have very big feet. Go and confront her with the evidence, constable. Mark my words, she'll break down and confess.”
“I can hardly go and …” Evan began. “After all, we don't know that … I mean it would hardly be fair to …”
“Who else could it be, man?” Mrs. Powell-Jones exclaimed. Evan was beginning to understand why her husband gave such long sermons. It kept him out of the house an extra half hour. “Nobody else wishes my tomatoes to fail, except for her. I am most generous with my garden produce. Everyone in the village is amply supplied with the bounty of my garden. And it was just the tomatoes, mark you. The vandal didn't hit my brussel sprouts, did she?”
Evan thought privately that it might have been a blessing if the vandal hadn't overlooked the brussels sprouts. His landlady didn't believe in wasting anything and would cook them,
night after night, if Mrs. Powell-Jones donated them. Evan had never liked brussels sprouts.
“I'll do what I can, Mrs. Powell-Jones,” Evan said. “I'll try and clear the matter up for you.”
“Make sure that you do, constable,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “Make it your number-one priority. Vandalism can't be allowed to flourish, can it?”
Evan gave a little half bow and beat a hasty retreat. He glanced longingly at the swinging sign on the Red Dragon. After a long and trying day a good pint was just what he needed, but he still had paperwork to catch up on, and he wanted to do some more thinking about those two men who had plunged to their deaths.
 
Through a knothole in the shed door, a pair of eyes watched Mrs. Powell-Jones go back into her house. When the front door closed behind her, a sigh of relief escaped through clenched teeth and the pickax was slowly lowered. A grin slowly spread across the thin lips. People really were so stupid!

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