Authors: Rhys Bowen
Evans Above (5 page)
“Go on in, constable,” the friendly young policewoman at the front desk said to Evan when he arrived at headquarters the next morning. “Sergeant Watkins has got Thomas Hatcher's mother here to see the body. He's expecting you.”Evan had driven down right away in response to a phone call. The more he thought about the two accidents, the more he was convinced he was not wrong in his first suspicion. Scotland Yard hadn't been helpful. It turned out that Thomas Hatcher was only an ordinary copper on the beat and not, as Evan had hoped, an undercover cop pursuing some secret assignment on the mountain. He hoped Thomas Hatcher's mother might reveal something, because Sergeant Watkins was clearly anxious to close this case and release the bodies for burial.
She looked up as he came into the room, a small, skinny woman with a sharp cockney face and even sharper eyes. She was clearly wearing her Sunday bestâa wool coat that had
once been black, now faded to brownish gray, and a small black hat. She clutched a large black purse and her umbrella defiantly to her.
once been black, now faded to brownish gray, and a small black hat. She clutched a large black purse and her umbrella defiantly to her.
“You were the one who found my Tommy, was yer?” she asked.
Evan nodded. “I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hatcher. It must be a nasty shock for you.”
Mrs. Hatcher nodded and Evan noticed that her fingers clenched and unclenched around the handle of her purse, even though her face remained impassive and her eyes dry. “He was a good boy,” she said. “A good son, too.”
“Did he live with you?” Evan asked.
She shook her head. “No, he had his own place, but he came over to visit regular, once a month. Always tried to come to Sunday dinner and never forgot my birthday. He was a good boy.”
“Did he do a lot of walking and climbing? Was that his hobby?” Evan asked.
The small, sharp eyes opened wider. “Not that I ever heard of. He had his motorbike, of course. That was his main hobbyâalways working on it, he was. He loved that bike. But I've never heard he had any interest in mountain climbing. Of course, he liked excitement. He might have gone if one of his friends suggested it.”
“Did he have a lot of friends?”
“Oh yes. Everyone liked Tommy,” she said.
“Ever hear him talk of a friend called Stewart? Stew Potts? Funny old name, isn't it?”
The face registered no change of expression. “I can't say I ever heard that name. Of course, he was always closeânever told me much, even when he was a little kid. I used to say”How was school?” and he'd say”All right.” That's all I ever got out of him.”
“So he didn't tell you why he was going to North Wales for the weekend?”
“He never even told me he was going,” she said. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when the policeman came to the door. I didn't believe it was my Tommy, not until I saw the body ⦔ Her voice trailed away into silence. “It seems such a waste, don't it?” she said in a cracked voice. “He was doing so well. He was so happy now. He'd got a nice girlfriend and he loved being a policeman. We were all so glad he'd finally found something he wanted to do with his life. We all knew he'd made a mistake going into the army, but you can't tell a seventeen-year-old anything, can you? They always know better.”
She got to her feet. “I best be getting along then. I've got a train to catch. They'll tell me when I can make the funeral arrangements, will they?”
“Yes, they'll be in touch,” Evan said. “And Mrs. Hatcher, if you take a look in his flat and you find anything that would give us a hint what he was doing here, let me know, will you?” He scribbled his phone number and address on a sheet of paper.
“You think there's something wrong, don't you?” she asked, the sharp eyes darting around the room.
“We're ⦠not sure,” he said. “Let's just say we'd like to look into it further.”
“I'll give yer any help I can, constable,” she said. “I don't like to think that my Tommy died for nothing.”
Evan escorted her to the door and watched her thank everyone politely as she walked out with great dignity.
“Any closer to solving the great mystery?” Sergeant Watkins came up behind him. “They didn't know each other, did they? No connection?”
“As a matter of fact there was a connection, sarge,” Evan said. “They were both in the army.”
“So were a lot of working-class lads, I should imagine,” Sergeant Watkins said. “The army is one of the few jobs in high unemployment areas like Liverpool, isn't it? And I wouldn't be surprised if they were both in the Boy Scouts too, and that they both went to comprehensive schools and they both liked football!”
“But it wouldn't hurt to check their army records, would it?” Evan asked. “See if their paths ever crossed?”
“And what then?” Sergeant Watkins demanded. “Even if they knew each other, we're still only guessing that some kind of foul play was involved, aren't we? And even if someone pushed them both off the mountain, how are you going to prove it?”
“You could start by asking some questions,” Evan said. “A lot of people must have been up there yesterday.”
Sergeant Watkins ran his hand through his hair. “Look Evans, this isn't bloody Scotland Yard, you know. If I ask my chief to start a full investigation, we take men off that little girl's murder. Do you want me to do that?”
“I see it was in this morning's paper,” Evan said, pointing to the latest edition of the
Daily Post
that lay on the sergeant's desk. TRADEDY STRIKES TWICE ON MOUNTAIN PEAK was the banner headline. “In a corner of the world already reeling from the brutal murder of a young girl earlier this week, tragedy has struck again, claiming the lives of two men on Mt. Snowdon (Yr Wyddfa). Killed in separate climbing accidents were ⦔ Evan looked up. “Maybe that will jog someone's
memory and make them come forward. And would you have any objection to my getting their records from the armyâjust to satisfy myself?”
Daily Post
that lay on the sergeant's desk. TRADEDY STRIKES TWICE ON MOUNTAIN PEAK was the banner headline. “In a corner of the world already reeling from the brutal murder of a young girl earlier this week, tragedy has struck again, claiming the lives of two men on Mt. Snowdon (Yr Wyddfa). Killed in separate climbing accidents were ⦔ Evan looked up. “Maybe that will jog someone's
memory and make them come forward. And would you have any objection to my getting their records from the armyâjust to satisfy myself?”
“I can see that life as a village policeman must be deadly dull,” Sergeant Watkins said. “What you do in your own time is up to you, constable, but I'm not giving you any official clearance to look into crimes that may or may not have happened. For one thing, I think it's a total waste of time. For another, I don't have the authority. I'm only a humble sergeant, you know. And it's not like we're bloody Scotland Yard up here. My chief has got the national press breathing down his neck to solve this little girl's murder. It would be more than my job's worth to waste another minute on these climbing accidentsâwhich is what I'm calling them until someone can prove otherwise.”
“Okay, sarge, keep your hair on,” Evan said good-naturedly, then realized this was probably an unwise turn of phrase, seeing that the sergeant was already getting thin on top and could very well be sensitive about it. “I've heard D.C.I. Caldwell's a bugger to work for.”
Watkins nodded. “So's Detective Inspector Hughes, who's my immediate boss. Believes in solving crimes like Sherlock Holmes from clues like burnt matches and bits of paper. Everyone's a bit edgy about catching this Lou Walters.”
“I understand, sarge,” Evan said. “But I can't see what harm it could do if I pursued my own private investigations, as they say. If it turns out to be a big spy plot, you can buy me a beer,” he added, giving the detective sergeant a challenging grin.
“I don't mind doing that,” Sergeant Watkins said. “And if you turn up nothing, then you can buy me one.”
The two men shook hands and Evan hurried out to his car.
He hadn't exactly got a go-ahead, but he hadn't outright been told to mind his own business either. He'd have to see how and where one faxed the army. He imagined getting records wouldn't be that straightforward and he wanted to get started right away.
He hadn't exactly got a go-ahead, but he hadn't outright been told to mind his own business either. He'd have to see how and where one faxed the army. He imagined getting records wouldn't be that straightforward and he wanted to get started right away.
It was two o'clock when he let himself into his landlady's house in the village.
“Is that you, Mr. Evans?” a voice echoed down the narrow, dark passageway. Mrs. Williams came scurrying out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she wore every day except Sundays. She always asked the question, even though Evan was the only person with a key to let himself into her house.
He had been given Mrs. Williams' name when he first arrived, as a lady who took in summer visitors and would welcome some extra cash in the off-season. Mrs. Williams had made him comfortable and had shown no sign of wanting to turn him out, even when the summer visitors arrived, so he had stayed on. He knew he should find his own place but he was reluctant to come home to canned spaghetti and a cold room after having a landlady who was happy to do his washing and mending and feed him three square meals a day, not counting elevenses and tea if he came home at those times.
“Deed to goodness, where have you been again?” she demanded as if he was a naughty five-year-old. “It's past your dinnertime and a good shepherd's pie spoiled in the oven.”
“I told you that you don't need to make lunch for me, Mrs. Williams,” Evan said apologetically. “I am a policeman. I don't keep regular hours. Besides, I'm trying to eat light at lunchtime.”
“Eat light?” Mrs. Williams sniffed. “You need to keep your strength up. Besides, girls like a man with a bit of meat on him. Our Sharon, for example. She thinks you're lovely. âHe's
nice and chubby, isn't he?' That's what she said last time she was here.”
nice and chubby, isn't he?' That's what she said last time she was here.”
Evan winced at being called nice and chubby and resolved to jog up the Snowdon track once a day until he had run off all of Mrs. Williams' added pounds.
“Don't stand there. Come on in,” she said. “The pie's still hot in the oven and I've got turnips and parsnips to go with it.”
Evan sighed and allowed himself to be led into the big, warm kitchen. The kitchen table was covered by a blue-and-white checkered cloth, which was scarcely visible under the various dishes that covered it. In the middle was a teapot hiding under a crocheted cozy in lurid red-and-orange stripes. Mrs. Williams kept hot tea going all day in case anyone dropped in for a chat. This was usual procedure for women of her age but happened less and less often these days. The younger women went to work or took classes instead of sitting around gossiping.
Next to the teapot was a bread board with a crusty new loaf on it. Next to that a cake stand with scones and slices of bara brith, the Welsh speckled bread, dotted with currants. On the other side was another cake stand with eccles cakes and iced fairy buns.
“Are you expecting company?” Evan asked suspiciously.
“Only you,” Mrs. Williams said. “You missed your dinner and your tea yesterday.” She still insisted on calling lunch dinner. “I wanted to make sure you had both today so I got the tea ready early. You can have your pie first and then your teaâoh and I've got an apple crumble in the oven with some fresh cream from Evans-the-Milk.”
The promise of apple crumble and fresh cream was too much for Evan. He gave in to temptation and sat at the place prepared for him while Mrs. Williams fluttered around loading
his plate with rich, moist shepherd's pie, its potato crust nicely crisp on top. She accompanied this with generous helpings of mashed turnips and parsnips each topped with a large knob of butter.
his plate with rich, moist shepherd's pie, its potato crust nicely crisp on top. She accompanied this with generous helpings of mashed turnips and parsnips each topped with a large knob of butter.
“Did they find out any more about that treadful murder of the little girl?” she asked.
“Treadful”
was one of her favorite words. “And what about those two poor men who fell down the mountain? Treadful, that was too, wasn't it?”
“Treadful”
was one of her favorite words. “And what about those two poor men who fell down the mountain? Treadful, that was too, wasn't it?”
“Nothing much yet, Mrs. Williams,” Evan said, looking at the steaming mound of food in front of him and realizing that he somehow had to get through all this before Mrs. Williams would bring on the apple pie and cream.
“Treadful,”
she said again. “All these people dying and being murdered. What's happening to the world, that's what I'd like to know.”
she said again. “All these people dying and being murdered. What's happening to the world, that's what I'd like to know.”
Evan couldn't answer this. He had only taken a couple of mouthfuls when the phone rang.
“Now who could that be?” Mrs. Williams asked in annoyance. She always said this, as if she expected the other occupant of the room to somehow know who was calling.
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