by Rhys Bowen
And he heard himself mutter, “I’ll do what I can.”
Chapter 16
Ginger had never taken much interest in my work before, apart from telling me that I tasted of slate and needed a bath. “I don’t know why you put up with it, Tref, I really don’t,” she used to tell me. “I wouldn’t do anything I didn’t like.”
“What else could I do?” I asked her.
She laughed. “There’s a war on. There’s labor shortages all over. A girl I work with at the convalescent home, her boyfriend got a job driving lorries down to London. Sometimes it’s sheep and sometimes it’s butter or produce. Either way, they don’t count too exactly and nobody notices if a pound or so of butter goes missing.”
“I don’t know how to drive, do I?” I said. “And no chance to learn either. Who do I know with a car?”
She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You’re a defeatist, Trefor Thomas. When I want to do something, I find a way to do it. Like dancing lessons—there’s this bloke at the convalescent home who used to be a ballroom dancing instructor before the war. He’s been teaching me to tango. Lovely, it is.”
I shook her hands from my shoulders. “I told you, I don’t want you mixing with those servicemen, and I certainly don’t want you dancing with one of them.”
She looked at my angry face and started laughing. “If you could only see us, Tref. He’s in a wheelchair, you dope. Had his legs shot off, didn’t he? He tells me the steps and I dance with his wheelchair. It’s a riot. We have good laughs.” She moved closer to me. “And I’m doing it for us, aren’t I? For our future. How am I going to get a job in films if I can’t do all the latest dance steps?”
“Well, I don’t want you dancing with any man with legs,” I said.
For some reason she thought this was awfully funny. “I could dance with you,”she said, moving very close to me. “You’ve got legs, and everything else that matters, too. I could teach you the tango. It’s ever so romantic. You press your body against mine, like this, and our lips are only this far apart, and then we start to sway, like this … .”
She was driving me insane. I could feel the points of her nipples digging into my chest and she was thrusting her leg between mine as we moved. I tried to kiss her but she broke away, laughing. “It’s a dance, Tref. Don’t get carried away.”
“Come on, Ginger, stop teasing. Do you know I’ve been alone all week down that blasted mine, thinking about you?”
“Oh poor sweetie-pie, honey lamb.” She turned her face up and kissed me. “You know, Tref, I’ve been thinking about those paintings.”
“My paintings, you mean? I haven’t had time recently … . .”
“Not yours, you dope. The famous paintings down your mine. It was Pamela’s boyfriend got me thinking—the way he said he could nick a pound or so of butter and they never noticed. If you could slip out with one of those famous paintings under your shirt, we’d be made for life.”
I laughed. “Oh yes. No problem about that. Only alarms on all the sheds and a guard at the door, too.”
“Pity it’s not me down there. I always find a way to get what I want. You would too if you wanted it bad enough.”
In his dream he was drowning in deep, cold water. He could feel it pressing down on him, meters of water over his head. He fought his way to the surface, but as he came up, he saw that someone else was above him, kicking and thrashing and preventing his escape. Through the water he could see Bronwen standing on the shore. He tried to shout her name but no sound would come out. He tried reaching out his hand to her. Help me, Bron, I’m under here. But when she reached out her hand, it was to the thrashing man above him, not to Evan at all.
“Up early and off to work again, is it, Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams greeted him as he came into the kitchen on Monday morning. “And they had you on duty all weekend, didn’t they? No wonder they’re finding it hard to get good men to join the police. I’d like to give them a piece of my mind. Working you to the bone like this.” She poured boiling water into the teapot, then placed a red knitted tea cozy over it. “You’re looking peeky, too.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I’m not surprised, all the things you go through.” She leaned closer to Evan. “It’s true what they’re saying then, is it? That they found that poor man drowned down a mine in Blenau? I heard about it last night and I’ve been feeling so guilty.”
“Why would you feel guilty, Mrs. Williams?”
“Well, it was me told him about it, wasn’t it—that day you brought him to see me? If he hadn’t talked to me, he’d never have known about the mines and he’d never have gone there and got himself drowned.” She took out a handkerchief and held it up to her eyes. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
Evan patted her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault in any way. You wouldn’t feel guilty if you’d told someone the way to Beddgelert and then he got himself in a traffic accident, would you?”
She managed a watery smile. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t. But what a week of tragedies this has turned out to be. First poor old Mr. James dying, and then the young man.”
“Mr. James-Fron-Heulog? He died, did he?”
Mrs. Williams nodded. “Oh yes. He didn’t last the night after his heart attack. Such a terrible shame. A nice God-fearing chapel man if ever there was one. You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I know, but that young man ought never to have stirred up the past—bringing that woman there. Like I said, no good ever comes of it. Look where he is now. Look where both of them are now, God rest their poor souls.”
Evan was staring thoughtfully at the mist swirling past the window. So Mr. James had died. His son had been pretty upset before—had the news of his father’s death been enough to make him go after Grantley? Evan remembered Betsy saying that a man had come into the pub asking for Grantley Smith. A farmer, Harry-the-Pub thought, from Dolwyddelan?
Evan turned back to Mrs. Williams. “Does the Jameses’ son live at Fron Heulog with them?”
“Oh no, he has his own property. He used to come over and help his folks out when they needed it, with the lambing and shearing, you know, but he didn’t live with them. He married a girl from over Dolwyddelan way and they inherited the place from her father.”
“Dolwyddelan? Do you know the name of it?”
“I can’t say that I do. But you can’t miss it. If you’re on the road between Dolwyddelan and Blenau, you’ll see fields of sheep on the right, where the railway goes through. And a pretty white farmhouse not too far from the train lines. Right after the road dips down from Blenau. That’s them.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Williams. Most helpful.” Evan got up.
“You’re not going out before your breakfast?” she asked. “I was going to do kippers for you this morning.”
“I don’t think I’ve got time for kippers,” Evan said. “I will have a cup of tea, though, and maybe some toast with your homemade marmalade.”
“Just as you like, Mr. Evans. Coming right up then.” She poured him a cup of tea. Evan sipped at it, putting his thoughts in order. He remembered that Robert James had put his hands around Grantley’s throat and had to be dragged away. A man for whom violence came naturally. And then he had called in obvious distress when his father was admitted to the hospital. And he lived only a stone’s throw from Blenau. He might easily have spotted Grantley Smith there and followed him to the mine.
This was a definite lead that he and Watkins should look into when they started the investigation today.
He gulped down a slice of toast, then hurried up the hill to the Everest Inn. He had been all business when he left the house, but as he drew level with the school, a bleak depression swept over him again. He had promised Bron that he’d help Edward Ferrers. Given his word. He had never wanted to do anything less in his life. For one thing, he wasn’t at all sure that Edward Ferrers was innocent. He had the classic two “m’s”—means and motive. What better way of claiming innocence than playing on the sym
pathy of someone as sensitive as Bronwen, and through her, getting the local copper onto his side.
Evan paused and stared across the empty schoolyard, his mind still racing. If he actually managed to prove that Edward didn’t kill Grantley, what then? Might Edward want to come back into Bronwen’s life?
“Blast and damn the lot of them,” he muttered. Now it looked as if he was going to be part of another murder investigation. He had half expected Sergeant Watkins to call him at home with the latest news, telling him where to meet, but Watkins would definitely show up at the Inn sometime during the morning, probably with the results of the postmortem. Evan expected that Detective Inspector Hughes would be with him. He wasn’t looking forward to that encounter and he doubted that D.I. Hughes would be too thrilled to see him either. He suspected that the D.I. saw him as something of a smart alec who always seemed to be poking his nose into murder cases.
Evan smiled to himself as he reached the gateway to the Inn. Lucky that he had been assigned to assist the filmmakers by his own chief inspector. So this time he had a legitimate reason for being on the spot. D.I. Hughes might even welcome his help. After all, he was the only policeman who had been on the spot from the beginning and who knew all the details.
Evan reached the Inn and went inside. No sign of a police car in the parking lot. Also no sign of any of the film people in the dining room. He didn’t blame them. He would be dreading today if he were in their shoes. It crossed his mind to call Edward Ferrers’s room and find out if he came home last night. Then he decided he’d rather not know.
It wasn’t until about ten o’clock that Sergeant Watkins showed up at the Inn. By that time, Edward, Howard, and Sandie had surfaced and were now sitting drinking coffee, discussing what they should do next. Edward was the only one who felt that they should go on with their work immediately. “I’ll have to let the salvage crew go in a couple of days. We’ll have run out of money, and you won’t get paid, Howard, if we don’t have a product to sell.”
Howard reached forward for his coffee cup and drained the dregs. “To tell you the truth, Ed, I’d just as soon be on a plane back to California at this moment. The sooner the better for me. I was only doing this as a favor to young Grantley and now he’s gone … .” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.
Evan, sitting alone behind the morning paper, glanced at Howard. So Howard was anxious to leave as soon as possible, was he? Anxious to get out of the country and far away from the scene of the crime, maybe? Evan remembered Howard’s reaction the day before. What had made him think that Grantley’s death might be due to an overdose? Did he know something that Evan didn’t, or was that deliberately planted to disconnect himself from any suspicion?
“Well, I think we should finish the picture in his memory,” Sandie said. “It’s what he would have wanted. And it’s not as if Howard couldn’t do it without him, is it, Howard?”
“Honey, I’ve directed a cast of thousands, as they say,” Howard said. “That’s not the point. The point is, will the movie be worth finishing? So far we’ve got a couple of interviews and a sunken plane. Not the stuff that epics are made of.”
“It will be exciting when it comes to the surface, Howard. You’ll see. Especially if those German flyers are still in their seats, as the cameras have indicated.”
Evan looked up again. The old German—they had all forgotten about him. He’d been very angry that day. In fact, he’d told Grantley that he’d stop him at any cost. And he looked very fit and agile for an elderly man. Could he have been staying nearby, possibly spotted Grantley going down the mine, and seized his chance? Another suspect to discuss with Watkins when he got here.
Just as his gaze went to the door, it opened and Sergeant Watkins came in. It must have started raining because his collar was turned up and his head and shoulders were wet. “Ah, there you all are.” Watkins nodded and headed toward the group at the table. “The inspector is just finishing up his notes in the car. He’ll be right in to talk to you.”
Evan put down his paper and went over to Watkins. “’Morning, Sarge. I was waiting for you to call. Did you get the results of the PM?”
Watkins nodded. “Yeah. Clear case of strangling. The hyoid bone was broken and there was quite a bit of internal bleeding of the neck muscles. Must have been a strong bloke. Did it with his bare hands.” For some reason, Watkins was uneasy. He was shifting from foot to foot and kept glancing back at the door.
“So the D.I. is taking over the case himself?” Evan asked.
Watkins nodded. “For the moment. We’ve just been down that bloody slate mine and shown him where the body was found. He’s got the crime scene boys there, going over the place, although what he expects to find in a slate mine, I’m not sure. Now he wants to talk to this lot.”
“So what’s the plan then, Sarge? Do we have to wait for him to finish up here?” Evan asked. “I’ve got a couple of leads we should … .”
He broke off. The D.I. was coming through the revolving door with someone else following him. Watkins shuffled his feet uneasily again. “Look, Evan, I meant to tell you before this, but I’ve been assigned a partner for this case, so I’m afraid … .”
“Ah, there you are.” D.I. Hughes’s crisp, high voice echoed through the foyer. He paused to brush raindrops from the shoulders of his well-tailored trench coat and ran a hand over his graying hair, although every strand was already in place. Then he came to join Watkins and Evan. “Everyone assembled? Good man, Evans. I don’t know if you’ve met our latest addition, have you? This is Detective Constable Davies. I’ve assigned her to Watkins for this case.”
Glynis Davies was crossing the foyer, looking stunning as ever in tailored navy pants and a dark blue raincoat that accentuated her sleek copper hair. She smiled at Evan. “Hello again. I gather you’re the one who found the body for us. Brilliant.” She went and stood beside Sergeant Watkins. “My first murder case,” she said, beaming at everyone. “I’m so excited.”
“Right, let’s not waste any time then.” D.I. Hughes clapped his hands together. “I’m going to have a little chat with these good people and I’d like Watkins to take a look at the victim’s room. Make an inventory of anything that might be important, Watkins—correspondence, addresses, notes, bills.”
“Right you are, sir.” Watkins started for the reception desk.
“Should I go with him, sir?” Glynis had already produced a notebook from her bag.
The D.I. turned to her with his most charming smile. “I think you should stay and observe when I interview the victim’s associates. A good interviewing technique is something that takes time and practice to acquire. It is that fine line of getting the information we need without putting the suspect on his guard, or making him feel he is being interrogated.”
“He or she,” Glynis corrected.
“Quite.” D.I. Hughes nodded tersely.
Evan glanced at Watkins, but the latter was already getting the key from the girl at reception.
“So let’s get started, shall we? I take it that the people at the table are Mr. Smith’s associates, Evans?”
“Yes, sir,” Evan said.
“Splendid.” He smiled benignly at Evan. “Well, we won’t detain you any longer, Constable. I expect you have work to do.”
“I was assigned to assist these people with their project, sir.”
“Well, I don’t foresee them being free to get back to work before this afternoon, so I’ll let them know that they can get in touch with you at the police station when they need you. Come along, my dear.” He put a hand on Glynis’s back and shepherded her over to the waiting filmmakers.
Chapter 17
Evan came out of the Inn into the fine morning rain. He had been dismissed; not wanted. Not needed. Watkins had a new partner. Now Glynis would be doing all the things he had expected to do. She’d probably solve the case single-handed in a couple of hours and be promoted to sergeant by the end of the day, he thought angrily, then grinned at hi
s own childishness.
As he drew level with the two chapels, he heard his name called and Mrs. Powell-Jones came running down her driveway, apron flapping and hairpins flying. “Ah, there you are, Constable Evans. I wondered if you’d gone on holiday or something.”
“No such luck, I’m afraid, Mrs. Powell-Jones.” He stood with resignation, waiting for her to reach him. “Why did you think I’d gone on holiday?”
“Because you are never at the police station when I phone and you haven’t answered any of the important messages I’ve left in the past few days.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been assigned elsewhere.”
“I know. To that very rude young man who never turned up for tea when he was invited. Well, you can tell him from me that he’s lost his chance to find out the true details of Llanfair in the war now. Invitations to tea at my home with homemade scones do not come lightly.”
“So was there a problem, Mrs. Powell-Jones?” Evan asked, anxious to get to the station and shut the door behind him.
“More than one. Several problems, in fact. Major problems. It’s all thoughtlessness, of course, and a very warped view of Christianity.”
“What is?”
She pointed dramatically at the other chapel. “That star. I’m lodging an official complaint.”
“Star?” As so often when talking to Mrs. Powell-Jones, Evan found himself floundering.
“On the roof, man. They’ve had the gall to put up an electric star on their roof. To announce Christmas to the world, so Mrs. Parry Jones says. It’s not that at all. It is purely an act of jealousy.” She leaned closer to Evan as she glanced across at the other minister’s house. “She has always been very put out that I do such a wonderful Christmas pageant. So obviously she has come up with this ridiculous flashing star in an attempt to draw attention to herself.”