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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evans Above
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“Oh, sorry, I see you're occupied,” she said, her voice clipped. “I just stopped by to see how your mission went. I can come back later.”
She made a rapid exit.
“Bronwen, wait,” Evan called, trying to get up without pitching Betsy to the floor. But she had gone.
“She doesn't like it that we're such good friends,” Betsy said, giving Evan's shoulder a little squeeze as she got up. “Well, I should be getting on my way too, Evan Evans. See
you at the dance on Saturday then. Save a slow dance for me, won't you?”
“Damn,” Evan muttered as she closed the door behind her.
Almost immediately the phone rang. “Where the hell were you all bloody day?” Sergeant Watkins demanded. “There was a breaking and entering in your village and nobody knew where you were. We had to send a car from HQ. They asked me if you were on assignment for me.” He paused. “I saved your damned skin and said we'd had a report that Daft Dai might have been seen up on the mountain.”
“Thanks, sarge,” Evan said. “What was the breaking and entering about?”
“A Mrs. Powell-Jones,” Sergeant Watkins said. “She wasn't very helpful to our blokes. She said she wanted you to handle it but she couldn't reach you.”
Evan sighed. “I wonder what it was this time? Stolen brussels sprouts?”
“She's one of those old biddies who make trouble, is she?”
“You can say that again,” Evan said. “I suppose I'll have to go up and see what she wants. Look, sarge, I really appreciate the way you covered for me.”
“Just out of curiosity, where were you?” Sergeant Watkins said. “Was it official business or were you ‘just playing hookey?”
“Oh it was business all right,” Evan said. “Look, sarge, I think I might have found an interesting line of enquiry on our two mountain murders. I went to Yorkshire and—”
“Hold on a minute, Evans,” Sergeant Watkins voice became hard. “You went to Yorkshire? Who gave you permission to do that?”
“Nobody but—”
“Let's get one thing straight. If those two deaths weren't
accidents—and I'm prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt on that—then there's only one suspect we're pursuing and our men are out looking for him right now. So stop playing detective, okay?”
“Okay, but sarge—” Evan began when Watkins cut him off.
“Listen here, Evans. You're a village policeman, not bloody Inspector Morse. If I find you poking your nose in where it's not wanted and going off on hare-brained schemes of your own again, I'll report you to your chief. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sarge,” Evan said. “And I promise I'll stop interfering if you'd just do me one favor and have the War Office look up an army record for me.”
“The War Office? You can go up on the mountains and find Daft Dai for us if it makes you happy, but that's it. My DCI is not giving anyone time to breathe until we've brought in Lou Walters and solved the little girl's murder. That's all I care about right now.”
“Any closer to finding him?”
“We know he's been seen in the area,” Watkins said. “We suspect his mother knows where he is, but she's not saying. These mothers make me sick. Their sons might be Hitler and the devil rolled into one, but they won't think of turning them in. You'll be getting a description. We're sending them out to all the small stations, just in case he's staying away from the towns.”
“Right-o, sarge. I'll keep my eyes open then,” Evan said.
“I'd give anything to catch that bastard, Evans,” Sergeant Watkins muttered. There was a click as he put down the phone.
Evan sat there, staring at the Beautyspots of Wales calendar on his wall. So Sergeant Watkins wasn't going to be any help
in getting Marshall's address. Evan wondered how he could hope to find it himself, now that he'd been forbidden to pursue the case any further. He wondered what the punishment might be in a situation like this. Surely they wouldn't fire him for being overzealous? The worst they could give him would be a stern warning and that as a risk he was willing to take, if it solved a couple of murders.
Marshall. He wrote the word on his memo pad. There were a lot of Marshall's in the British Isles. Maybe if he wrote to the War Office on official police stationary? He opened the file which now contained the photo of Stewart Potts and his wife and printouts of the articles on Danny Bartholemew's death. It might be worth calling Greta Potts, on the off-chance that she might remember someone called Marshall or might be able to find his address among Stew's possessions.
But first he had another assignment: Mrs. Powell-Jones would not wait another minute for justice.
Evan put on his uniform jacket and cap. Then walked briskly up the village street toward the Powell-Jones residence, his pace hardly a reflection of his anticipation, only a desire to get this over with.
As he approached the school grounds, he caught a glimpse of Bronwen crossing the school yard.
“Bronwen!” he called, but she only walked faster.
Evan broke into a run and caught her halfway across the netball court. “Hold on a minute. What's the rush?”
“I've got math tests I should be correcting,” Bronwen said, her face impassive but her cheeks flushed pink.
“Look, Bronwen, I just wanted to explain,” Evan said.
“You don't have to explain to me,” Bronwen said. “What you do with your own time is up to you, Evan Evans.”
“It wasn't how it looked at all,” Evan said miserably. “Betsy just popped in to talk to me about a spot of volunteer work I'm doing.”
“Volunteering to do what exactly?” Bronwen asked, giving him a look that was half-amused, half-challenging.
“Help out with the youth group dance on Saturday, if you really want to know. Betsy was just checking that I was still on.”
“And were you still on?”
Evan cursed his choice of words again. That was the problem of growing up with Welsh as his number-one language. English had a habit of letting him down.
“It was just a harmless little discussion, that's all,” Evan said.
“And does she always do her discussing sitting on someone's knee with her arm around their neck?” Bronwen asked defiantly.
“She was sitting on the arm of my chair and I didn't encourage her, if that's what you're thinking.”
“I noticed you weren't struggling too hard either,” Bronwen said. “Let's just forget it, shall we? I've got a million things I should be doing.”
With that she hurried into the school and shut the door behind her firmly before Evan could do anything. He turned and sighed as he walked back to the road. The problem was that he had never crossed that line with Bronwen. He had no claim on her. She wasn't his girlfriend. He hadn't been sure that he wanted to cross it. He had told himself that she was a little too serious and intense for him. He wanted a girl with more warmth and feeling. But now, as he recalled her flushed cheeks and her eyes flashing angry fire at him, he had to wonder if there wasn't more feeling than he'd imagined hidden under that cool exterior.
He put on a resolute face and walked briskly up to Mrs. Powell-Jones' house.
“Finally!” Mrs. Powell-Jones exclaimed as she opened the
front door. “I have been most distressed all day, Constable Evans. Most distressed. Nobody knew where you were at your headquarters. I find that most strange.”
“I'm in the middle of a case, Mrs. Powell-Jones,” Evan said. “I can't be at the police station all day. Weren't the men from HQ able to help you out?”
“I sent them away again. I told you, I don't want strangers interfering in this matter,” Mrs. Powell-Jones said. “It is most delicate and I do feel for poor Mr. Parry Davies. It must be difficult enough for him to live with such a wife.”
“And what do you suspect she's done now?”
“Suspect?” Mrs. Powell-Jones demanded. “I know.”
“You saw her? You caught her in the act?”
“Not exactly, but as good as. She came over here this morning, constable. She said she wanted to see what food my ladies were bringing to the teen dance on Saturday. Of course I realize now that that was only an excuse. She knows we always bring the cheese and pickle sandwiches and the fairy cakes. Anyway, it was about an hour after she had gone that I noticed it was missing.”
“What was missing?” Evan asked.
“My apple pie,” she said.
“Apple pie?”
“Yes, I'd just baked it and I had it on the kitchen window sill, cooling. The window was open. When I came back into the kitchen around noon, the pie had gone.”
“Excuse me for asking, but what possible interest could Mrs. Parry Davies have had in your pie?” Evan asked.
“It's simple, man. She's developed this deep-seated jealousy. She knows her pastry is inferior to mine. When she passed my window on her way out, she couldn't resist the temptation. She's probably whisked it home and served it up to poor Mr.
Parry Davies as her own. If only you'd been here when I first called, you could probably have caught her with a forkful of the evidence going to her mouth. Now I'm afraid we're too late.”
“I'm sorry about your pie, Mrs. Powell-Jones,” Evan said. “But there's really not much I can do. And I am very busy …”
“Of course there's something you can do,” she said. “If you had any police training or skill at all, you'd be able to go over there and get her to confess.”
“I'm sorry, but they don't let us use the rack or the thumb screws any more,” Evan said. “I could shut her in a dungeon down at Caernarfon Castle, if you'd like.”
“Don't be facetious, young man,” Mrs. Powell-Jones snapped. “If it were left to me, I should have no trouble extracting a confession from her. I had no trouble at all getting the Boy Scouts to own up when they had sneaked into my back garden and stolen my apples. One look from me and they burst into tears.”
Evan wasn't surprised. Mrs. Powell-Jones had a similar effect on him.
“Before you go making any more accusations, I think you should know that it's possible there is a Peeping Tom in the area,” Evan said. “A man they used to call Daft Dai.”
“Daft Dai? He's around again? I thought they put him away years ago.”
“Well, now it seems they've let him out,” Evan said. “It's possible he's come back to the area. So I'd advise you to keep your windows shut and pull your curtains until we find out more.”
“Thank you, constable. I will.” For the first time, Mrs. Powell-Jones sounded almost human. “But that doesn't mean that Mrs. Parry Davies is not my number-one suspect,” she
added. “I shall still be keeping a close eye on her, and so should you, Constable Evans.”
As Evan came out of the Powell-Jones house, he noticed that the billboards outside the two chapels had been changed. The Powell-Jones billboard now read, “Thou shalt not steal,” and the board opposite stated, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
They didn't waste a minute, Evan thought, smiling.
He found himself picturing the two feuding ministers and their wives, Bibles always at the ready, peering out of their windows to see if another text had gone up on the opposite billboard.
A loud shout broke his reverie. He looked up to see two people running down the path above the Everest Inn. They were dressed in hiking gear and carried backpacks. Evan hurried to meet them. As he got closer, he saw that they were a young couple, their faces red with effort.
“Oh, thank heavens, constable,” the young man gasped. “We were wondering where we'd locate the closest police station.”
“Got a problem, have you?” Evan asked.
“There's a man, up on the mountain!” the girl gasped.
“Dead?”
“No, not dead. Very much alive,” the man said. “He grabbed Fiona.”
Evan turned to look at the girl who now looked more animated than scared. “It was horrible,” she said. “Brian was trying a spot of climbing alone, so I sat on a rock, watching him. Suddenly this man appeared out of nowhere and started shouting at me. He told me to get off the mountain right now or the wrath of God would strike me down. He said he was God's
messenger, the keeper of the mountain, and he didn't want foreigners defiling sacred soil.”
“Did he harm you in any way?”
“He grabbed me and shook me,” she said, shuddering at the memory. “I think he might have thrown me over the edge, but I screamed. Brian heard and came clambering back up to save me. He was awfully brave,” she added, smiling up at her hero.
“What happened to the man?” Evan asked.
“He ran off when Brian yelled at him. We didn't see where he went. We thought we should come straight down and find someone to report this to.”
“You did the right thing to find me,” Evan said. “We've got a bulletin out looking for this chap. If you'll come with me down to the station, I'll get a full report and description of the man, and your names and addresses, if I may. We might need you as witnesses.”
“So the police know about him then?”
“Oh, yes,” Evan said. “He's wanted for questioning right now, so you've done us a big favor by finding him.”
“Is he … really dangerous?” Fiona asked, turning large, scared eyes on Evan.
“He hasn't been, up to now.” Evan didn't want to give her unnecessary nightmares. “But we can't have him going around scaring people, can we? You give me a good description then I'll get on to HQ. Hopefully we'll have him safely in custody by the end of the day.”
 
“Nice work, Evans,” Detective Sergeant Watkins said as they met down at headquarters in Caernarfon. “My chief wants me to compliment you and your lads on the efficient way you apprehended the suspect.”
“Thanks, sarge,” Evans said. “It wasn't very hard, actually. The blokes I took with me up the mountain recognized him right away. He was sitting on a rock eating a sandwich. I went up to him and said ‘Are you Dai?' and he said he was. When I asked him to come with me, he came, meek as a lamb.”
“Did he say anything useful?” Watkins asked.
“I didn't attempt to question him,” Evan said. “I didn't think that was my job.”
“Quite right,” Sergeant Watkins said. “We've got him in holding room 2. He's been read his rights. You want to come with me while I question him? I might need an interpreter,” he added. “My Welsh isn't that good.”
 
The man known as Daft Dai was sitting at the table with a cup of tea in front of him. He was skinny, underfed, and inoffensive-looking, with thinning hair and thick-lensed glasses. He was dressed in a mismatched series of oddments so that he looked like a walking rag bag. He looked up and smiled when Sergeant Watkins and Evans came into the room. He seemed quite comfortable and not in the least anxious as they sat down opposite him.
“Dai, what's this we've been hearing about you annoying people up on the mountain again?” Sergeant Watkins began amiably.
“It was more of those foreigners,” Dai said. “I told them to stay away but they won't listen, will they? They keep coming back.”
Sergeant Watkins turned to his own constable who was standing on guard behind Dai. “Was he carrying a weapon?”
“Only a pocket knife,” the sergeant said.
“What did you want a knife for, Dai?” Sergeant Watkins asked.
“To cut up my orange,” Dai answered, making Evan smile to himself.
“Dai, I'm going to ask you another question. I want you to tell the truth,” Sergeant Watkins said gently. “A few days ago two men were killed up on the mountain. We don't think they just slipped and fell. We think somebody might have pushed them. Can you tell us anything about that, Dai?”
There was silence in the room. Dai was staring at his tea cup.
“Did you push those men, Dai?” Sergeant Watkins asked. “Better to tell the truth and get it off your chest, isn't it?”
Dai swallowed hard. “I did it,” he said. “I killed them. The mountain told me to.”

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