Authors: Rhys Bowen

Evans Above (7 page)

BOOK: Evans Above

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The cramped living room looked as if it had been frozen in a time warp. The faded red flower print curtains were half drawn, shrouding the room in shadow. An open fireplace was still the only form of heating. A fire was laid in the grate but had not been lit recently and the room smelled damp and mildewy. The walls were papered in a different flower print and dotted with cheap reproductions of ships at sea. Every surface was cluttered with china dogs, horses, vases, photo frames. There was a fringed silky tablecloth on the table and crocheted antimacassars on the backs of the two uncomfortable-looking armchairs. To Evan it looked like a set from a BBC period piece. The room's only concession to modernity was the small TV set in the corner.

Curiosity had sent Evan in search of Danny's next of kin in Portmadog, the former slate port at the mouth of the Glaslyn River, but sitting opposite Danny's mother, he almost wished he had left well alone. The woman looked older than her years and belonged in the settingâherself a period piece from the
fifties. She sat hunched in one of the arm chairs, her arms folded defiantly across her skinny chest, hair curlers peeping from under a scarf. She wore old satin slippers, through which a big toenail was peeping, and a sweater she had definitely knitted herself, and she smelled of stale booze and cigarette smoke. Evan could imagine her standing behind those heavy drapes, watching what went on outside.

“I don't know why you're raking this up again after all these years,” she said, looking past Evan to the empty fireplace. “Haven't I suffered enough?”

“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Bartholemew,” Evan said, “But you might have read about the two climbers who were killed over the weekend?”

“I don't read the papers and I don't watch the news,” she said. “Only bad news always, isn't it?”

“Two men were killed on the mountain,” Evan said.

“I don't know what that has to do with me,” she said.

“It's just possible that they knew Danny,” Evan said. “One of them got a postcard inviting him to a memorial for a person called Danny on May fifth. That was the day your Danny died, wasn't it?”

“I can't remember now,” she said. “That would have been about right, I suppose. They didn't tell me until a couple of days later, but then the army never tells you anything, does it?”

“So I wondered if there was anything about your Danny and his time in the army,” Evan went on. “Anything that might shed light on why these poor chaps died.”

“I was against it from the start,” she said, hugging her arms around herself now as if she was cold. “âWhy would you want to go fighting for the English?' I asked him. âWhat have they ever done for us?' But he was so excited and proud. He was still only a boy, of course,” she added and for a second her
face lit up, so that Evan could see that she might once have been a handsome woman. “And I suppose it did mean a way of seeing the world to him. What else is there to do here, now that they've closed the quarries and the docks? Work as a bloody waiter in one of the posh hotels, if the Italians and Spaniards haven't taken all the jobs first. My Danny wanted to make something of his life â¦ and look where it got him. Dead before his nineteenth birthday.”

“Did he tell you much about his life in the army?” Evan asked gently. “Did you ever meet any of his mates?”

“Mates?” she asked, her voice sharp with bitterness again. “What kind of mates would leave a boy to freeze on a mountain? Mates look out for each other, don't they? My Danny didn't have any mates, and if he did, they let him down.”

Evan started to get to his feet. He could see that Mrs. Bartholemew wasn't going to be much help and he was beginning to feel uneasy in that room, as if the walls were closing in on him. Maybe it was the hostile, defiant way that Mrs. Bartholemew glanced up at him from time to time, but he felt as tense as a wound watch spring.

“And you know what the English army wrote to me?” she demanded. “They said that I could be proud of him and that he was a good soldier, ready to serve his country. His countryâthe nerve of it. The bloody English always take and never give back.”

“I'd best be getting on my way then,” Evan said, heading for the door. “I won't take up any more of your time, Mrs. Bartholemew.”

“So you're saying that those men might have been Danny's mates?” she asked, making him turn around. “Then I say serve them right. They got what was coming to them. They left my Danny in the lurch and they got what they deserved.”

A movement in the passageway outside made Evan start. He thought he saw a shadow flit past. As he watched the door slowly opened and a cat walked in. Mrs. Bartholemew scooped it up. “There you are, puss. Where have you been, naughty girl? Out all night again, is it?”

“Do you live here alone, Mrs. Bartholomew?” Evan asked.

“Of course I live alone. I've got nobody now, have I? Those English took all my men away. My husband and my boysâall gone.”

“Thanks for your help then, Mrs. Bartholomew,” Evan said awkwardly. “I can see myself out. Give me a call if you can think of anything that might help us.”

His gaze fell on one of the photos in a carved wood frameâtwo skinny little boys standing together on the beach beside an enormous sand castle. “Are these your boys?” Evan asked.

Danny's mother picked up the photo. “That was taken on holiday in Aberystwyth, the year before their daddy died. Worked to death, he was, by those English at the slate quarry. It was too much for his heart. Who'd have thought it would all end like this with me all alone here?” She held the photo close to her. “Damn those English. I'd never lift a finger to help them. Never,” she said with venom in her voice. “They took both my sons from me. May they rot in hell.”

“What happened to your other boy?” Evan ventured.

“The English took him too,” she said bitterly. “Both my sons and my man too.”

She sat hugging herself in such obvious grief he felt he'd be crass to prolong the interview. He wasn't going to get any more useful information out of her anyway.

“I'll be going then,” he said quietly. He let himself out and stood for a moment on the street outside, breathing in the
good salty air. He wished he had never bothered to visit Mrs. Bartholomew. He had learned nothing and had only opened old wounds for her. He realized that she hadn't even offered him a cup of tea.

When Evan arrived back at the police station in Llanfair, the light was flashing on his answering machine. Please not Mrs. Powell-Jones again, he prayed. But Sergeant Watkins' crisp voice came on the line instead. “I thought you might like to know that we've traced your Daft Dai. His name is David Morgan Davies, oringially from Caernarfon and he was released from the Royal Chester Mental Hospital in February,” he said. “There's some possibility he's been seen in the area. We're trying to check on his current whereabouts. I'll let you know if we find out more. You might mention to your mountain rescue lads to keep an eye out for him, if any of you are up on the mountain. With any luck we'll have this business wrapped up in a couple of days.”

Evan picked up the phone and put it down again. He wondered if he should call Sergeant Watkins and bring him up to date with the postcard and his other line of inquiry. Better to wait until he could present a really solid theory to the sergeant, he decided. He didn't want to be laughed at again for trying to play detective, and he hadn't any real facts to go on yet. He decided that maybe Sergeant Watkins was better occupied throwing all of his energy into catching the child murderer. Evan would quietly go on with his snooping until someone told him to stop.

He dialled directory enquiries and asked for the number of Caterick army base in Yorkshire. Ten frustrating minutes later he put down the phone. He had suspected that dealing with the army wasn't going to be easy, but this had been just like
running into a brick wall. No, they couldn't look up personnel files without written authorization. No, he couldn't speak to the base commander. He'd have to get a clearance from the War Office first before they released anything, and he couldn't imagine the war office giving away anything to a mere village copper.

The interview with Mrs. Bartholomew and the subsequent frustrating phone call made him decide he needed to clear his head in the fresh air. There was no other business that couldn't wait. The village street was quiet. All seemed peaceful in Llanfair and nobody would miss the village copper if he took a quick hike up onto the mountain. He had the added excuse of being instructed to keep an eye out for Daft Dai, although he didn't think that even Daft Dai would be up on the mountain right now.

It was one of those misty, moist days that doesn't know if it wants to rain or not. The mountains lurked hidden in the mist. After a few yards on the track Evan was swallowed up into his own private world. This was how he liked it. Half an hour on his own like this and things usually began to make sense. He headed up the Pig Track, the steeper of the two routes, then struck off on a side path, climbing quickly above the lake on the narrow trail that led to the top of Crib Goch. The mist had shrouded the land in silence. No birds chirped. No insects buzzed. The wind wasn't even sighing through the rocks. Even his footsteps on the springy turf sounded muffled.

He was halfway up the slope when he heard footsteps above him. He froze, feeling the back of his neck prickle. This wasn't the sort of day you'd expect to find too many people on the mountain. If there really was a madman up here, then now wasn't the best of times to meet him. He stepped off the path, to the shelter of a large rock, waiting for the person to come
past. The footsteps were light and moving fast. Then gradually a strange billowy shape emerged from the mist, with what looked like wings flying out behind it. Evan blinked and stared harder, his heart beating fast as he tried to decide what he was seeing.

Then the mist swirled and cleared for a moment and a smile lit up his face. It was Bronwen and she was wearing a big cloak that flew out behind her as she hurried.

“Bronwen!” He stepped out from behind his rock.

He had forgotten that she had no idea of his presence. She gasped and stepped back, terrified.

“It's only me, Evan,” he said, grabbing her arm before she could fall down the slope. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“You certainly did,” she said, still breathing heavily. “I thought my heart was going to leap out of my chest for a moment there. All this talk of climbers falling mysteriously to their deaths and of Daft Dai being seen again. Suddenly I got scared.”

“What were you doing up here?” Evan asked her.

“Looking for the first Snowdon lilies of the season,” she said. “They're so rare now and the wretched tourists pick them even though they're a protected species. They call this a national park and then they can't afford to pay enough rangers to police it. It wasn't misty when I started out. I had no idea the mist could come down so quickly.”

“Oh, yes,” Evan said. “I've known it to come down in literally a few seconds.”

“What are you doing up here yourself?” she asked. There was a hint of uneasiness in her voice.

“I often come up here to think,” Evan said.

“Were you heading for Crib Goch?” she asked, knowing where the path led.

“Not in this weather, thank you,” Evan said, chuckling. “I know these mountains pretty well, but I wouldn't cross Crib Goch in the mist, unless I really had to. One foot wrong and it's a thousand feet of nothing.”

“I've never been up there yet, but I hear it's very alarming,” she said.

“There's nothing to it in fine weather,” Evan said. “It's at least three feet wide all the way. It's just the thought of that drop on either side that makes people lose their nerve. I'll take you up there one fine day if you like.”

“That wasn't where those men fell, was it?” she asked, shivering.

“No, that was over on the other side, up above the old mine workings around Glaslyn. Not a spot you see too many climbers.”

BOOK: Evans Above

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