Evan and Elle

by Rhys Bowen

  The Frenchman leaped to his feet, his face distorted, snarling like a wild beast. Evan pointed the weapon at him, afraid he’d go for the gun again. Instead he gave Evan a look of sheer contempt, almost as if he was daring him to shoot, then turned and ran off through the trees.

  Evan was conscious of Bryn’s body at his feet and Terry cowering up on the mountain. He longed to go after the fleeing man, to squeeze that trigger and to have the satisfaction of watching him sprawl to the ground. Instead he lowered the gun and let the man go, praying that the backup units would have arrived by now.

  He dropped to his knees beside Bryn’s body. A red stain was already running down the rock. Gently he turned the boy over. Bryn’s face was ashen gray. Evan felt for a pulse, then struggled to open his shirt. As he did so, the boy’s eyes fluttered open.

  “I’m a hero, right, Mr. Evans?” he asked.

  “You certainly are, Bryn.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “I think you’re going to be okay,’ Evan said, putting his hand gently on the boy’s arm. “You were lucky. The bullet went clean through your shoulder. You won’t be putting out any fires for a while, that’s for sure—or starting any.”

  The boy managed a grin. “About that, Mr. Evans . . . I’m really sorry. I really am. Will they put me in jail?”

  Evan took a deep breath. “If it never happens again, I doubt they’ll ever get to the bottom of it. What do you think, Bryn?”

  The boy’s lip quivered. “You mean you’re not going to tell them?”

  “As I said, if it never happens again, I don’t reckon the case will ever be solved.”

  “It won’t happen again. I promise.” He tried to sit up and gasped in pain. “When I thought that the kid was in those trees . . . I swear, I’d have done anything . . .”

  “You did, Bryn. You risked your life. And bloody silly it was, too, diving at an armed man. Lucky you’re in the fire brigade and not the police, or they’d have your hide for that one.”

  Bryn grinned again. Evan took off his shirt and folded it over the wound. “Here, keep some pressure on that. I’m going down to get help. I won’t be long.”

  “What about young Terry?”

  “I’m going to get him down first.”

  A few minutes later he climbed up onto the ledge and was met by a frightened pair of eyes as the boy tried to make himself invisible against the rock wall.

  “It’s all right, Terry, it’s me. You can come down now,” he said.

  Relief overwhelmed the boy’s face. “I heard shooting,” he said. “I didn’t dare move.”

  “It’s all right. Bryn and I got the gun away from him,” Evan said.

  “Bryn? He’s up here with you? He came to rescue me?” A big smile lit up his face.

  “Yes, and he got a bullet through his shoulder stopping the bloke from picking you off.”

  “He got shot?” Terry scrambled from the ledge and started to climb down the boulders. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Yes, I think he’ll be fine. Why don’t you stay with him until I bring help?”

  “All right, Mr. Evans.” Terry was still beaming. Evan saw him run to Bryn. “I’ll stay with you,” he heard the boy say. “Here, let me put my jacket over you.”

  Evan smiled as he left them and ran down through the trees. The land around the forest was blackened and still smoking. He hadn’t gone far when he saw the fire crew hosing down the hillside.

  “We’ve got our arsonist, Constable Evans,” one of the firemen yelled as he approached them. “Foreign-looking bloke came running down here as if the hounds of hell were after him. A couple of our men nabbed him and they’re taking him down to your chaps. Fought like a tiger, he did, when we got him. Who’d have thought it was a foreigner, eh? And I don’t mean an Englishman, either.” He paused and took a good look at Evan. “Are you all right, Constable Evans?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” It only just occurred to him that he must look rather the worse for wear—blackened from fighting the fire and probably bruised and cut from wrestling with the Frenchman. But he had won. He had the gun in his hand. Not bad for a village bobby!

  “I’ve got a wounded boy up there,” he said. “Gunshot wound. I’m calling for an ambulance as soon as I get down, but if you’ve got anyone who is a trained paramedic . . .”

  “Elwyn is. Hey, Elwyn,” the fireman yelled. “Get over here.”

  Two squad cars were parked at the bottom of the hill. Two officers were just putting handcuffs on le Tigre as Evan arrived, out of breath and aching from his exertion.

  “What the . . . Evans?” Sergeant Watkins ran to meet him.

  “Here’s his gun, Sarge.” Evan handed over the weapon. “There’s a wounded boy up the mountain. Call the ambulance, please.”

  “Are you okay?” Watkins put a hand on his shoulder. “Come and sit down. Nice work, by the way. Trust you to have found him!”

  “All luck, Sarge, and a lot of help,” Evan said.

  At that moment another police car pulled up and Glynis Davies jumped out. “What on earth’s happening?” she asked.

  “It looks as if we’ve just nabbed our suspect,” Watkins said. “Thanks to Constable Evans.”

  The other car door opened and Janine Laroque got out. She stood there with a look of horror on her face as two policemen led the handcuffed prisoner past her to the squad car. The man spotted her and unleashed a torrent of abuse.

  Suddenly Evan realized the truth. This man was the “monster” she had had to run away from—the rich, handsome man she had married and who had made her life hell. It made sense after all.

  Chapter 24

  Later that evening Evan sat in Bronwen’s warm kitchen as Janine busied herself at the stove, preparing them what she called “a simple meal.” After a long soak in Mrs. Williams’s tub he felt almost human again, although his hair had been singed and he had some impressive bruises.

  “This must be like a huge weight lifted from you, Janine,” Bronwen said. “How awful to have lived in such fear.”

  Janine nodded. “It was unbearable, mademoiselle. As soon as I marry zis handsome, charming man I find out ’e ees a monster. A bad man. A crazy man. I nevair know where ’is money come from, and ’e nevair tell me, but I know it ees somesing bad. He tell me if I leave ’im, I die. When I became Yvette Bouchard I sink I am finally safe. ’E will nevair find me now. But ’e did find me. I am stupid and vain, no? I let zem take my picture and put eet in zee paper.”

  “And your husband was here, scouting out the territory in preparation for the drug shipments,” Evan said. “Pure bad luck that he saw your picture and came to see you.”

  “But I nevair see ’im, monsieur. Ozzerwise I would ’ave told you. Believe me, if I suspected zat Gaston ’ad found me again, I would ’ave come straight to you.”

  “So you never saw him,” Evan said. “He must have sneaked into your living quarters to surprise you alone—but Jean Bouchard was up there. Who knows what they said to each other—but if Jean said he was Yvette’s husband, and Gaston thought you were using the name Yvette . . .”

  “Zat would have been enough to make Gaston fly into a rage. He was crazy wiz jealousy.”

  “Well, it’s all over now,” Bronwen said. “You’re finally free.”

  “Not exactly free,” Evan said. “She still has charges to face—impersonating another person to collect the insurance; trying to destroy evidence. Those are serious offenses. But I suspect the jury will be lenient when they hear what you’ve already gone through.”

  “Eet does not worry me anymore,” Janine said. “Now zee police ’ave Gaston, I am safe. Maybe I’ll open a new restaurant someday.”

  “Why not rebuild here?” Bronwen said. “Who knows, the locals might eventually develop a taste for good food.”

  A few days later Evan was sitting at his desk, working on an application for detective training, when Sergeant Watkins came in.

  “Hello, boyo, hard at work are we, then?”
he asked as Evan shoved the application form hastily under the incident book. “What are you looking so guilty about—fiddling the travel expenses?”

  “No, nothing like that, Sarge. I leave that to you.”

  Watkins chuckled. “So it’s back to business as usual after all the excitement, is it?”

  “It seems that way,” Evan said. “What brings you up here?”

  “Just thought I’d stop by and say hello,” he said, “and thank you for what you did. It seems you might be in for a citation—catching that Gaston bloke single-handed.”

  “I didn’t do it single-handed,” Evan said. “And I couldn’t have done it without young Bryn. And even then I let the bastard walk away . . .”

  Watkins put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think they’re not grateful. Your catching that Gaston bloke was the big break we needed. Apparently the rest of the gang didn’t put too much faith in his silence. It seems they’ve given up on the idea of coming into local ports, at least for the time being.”

  “They’ll show up again, somewhere else,” Evan said.

  “Yes, but it won’t be on our turf, will it?” Watkins beamed. “And it looks as though Gaston will be returned to France to face prior charges there. Between us we’ve got enough on him to put him away for life.”

  “Janine will be pleased,” Evan said.

  “Is she still staying with your schoolteacher friend?”

  “No, she’s gone,” Evan said. “She posted bail and she’s left to sort things out.”

  “She’s got some pretty unpleasant times ahead of her, I’d say. She’s not out of the woods by a long way.”

  “It’s still probably nothing to her compared to knowing she’s finally safe from her husband. And when the jury hears what she’s been through, I think she’ll get off lightly.”

  “Too bad she’s gone. The wife had been badgering me to take her to the French restaurant. Now I’ve blown it, haven’t I? She won’t let me forget it in a hurry, either.”

  Evan returned his smile, then became serious again. “I don’t suppose Gaston has ever said exactly what happened in Madame’s flat that night—why he killed Jean Bouchard, I mean? Do you think there was a drug connection and he’d traced down someone who double-crossed him?”

  “I don’t think so,” Watkins said. “I got the impression that he found another bloke in his wife’s bedroom. That was all the incentive he needed to kill.”

  “If he’d asked him who he was, Jean Bouchard might have said he was Yvette’s husband—which wouldn’t have been a good answer, considering.”

  “Well, now they’re gone—the lot of them,” Watkins said, walking past Evan’s desk to stare out the window at the hills. “I don’t suppose that Englishman is going to rebuild that cottage up there, is he?”

  “I doubt it very much.” Evan got up to look as well.

  “So your butcher friend will be happy—Llanfair has been ethnically cleansed and is now purely Welsh again. The boy’s doing okay, is he—the one who got shot?”

  Evan started, uneasy that Watkins had linked Bryn’s name subconsciously to the fires. “Yes, he’s making a good recovery. He was bloody lucky the bullet went through where it did. A couple of inches farther down and he would have been a goner.”

  “So we never really found out who was behind the fires, did we?” Watkins asked.

  “Maybe Sergeant Potter is still working on it,” Evan said.

  Watkins chuckled. “No, didn’t you hear? He’s got a transfer to Chester. He couldn’t get the hang of Welsh, you see, so he had to give up and look for a job in England. Can’t say I’m too heartbroken, are you?”

  “The man was a pain,” Evan agreed.

  Watkins went to perch on the corner of Evan’s desk. “I’d still like to know who wrote those notes. If there are extremists at work, I’d like to know it.”

  “So would I, but I wonder if we ever will.”

  Watkins slid off the desk again. “All right. Well, I’d better be getting along. I’ve got a burglary down in Beddgelert to look into. Same old routine stuff after all the excitement. That’s the problem with this job. When it’s all routine, you wish for excitement and when it’s all go, you long for regular hours. Ah well, there are worse ways of learning a living.”

  “I’m thinking of asking for a transfer myself,” Evan said. “I’m finally going to send in my application for detective training.”

  Watkins didn’t smile, as Evan had expected. Instead he looked uncomfortable.

  “What?” Evan demanded. “You don’t think I’d be good enough for the job.”

  “I know you would, boyo,” Watkins said. “You’d be bloody good. It’s just that it won’t be for a while, that’s all. We’re in hot water with the commissioner, so it seems, because North Wales Police has the lowest percentage of female detectives. So the next recruits have to be female—starting with our Glynis Davies. She’s been accepted for the next training class. She’ll make a good detective, don’t you think? Very ingenious. Very thorough.”

  “Oh yes, great,” Evan said halfheartedly.

  “It was matching those prints that got her transfer through in a hurry,” Watkins said. “That and the fact that her boyfriend happens to be the commissioner’s nephew.” He grinned at Evan, then slapped him on the back. “Be seeing you then, boyo. Take care of yourself.”

  As soon as Sergeant Watkins had gone, Evan took out the application and tore it up. He tried not to feel angry or disappointed, but he couldn’t help it. It looked as if he was destined to be stuck in Llanfair, at least for the immediate future.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. He’d put in enough overtime to leave early for once. He closed up for the day and came out into the soft glow of late afternoon. Without any clear idea of where he was heading, he started up the street. It wasn’t Glynis’s fault that she’d been chosen over him. And she was bright, too. She’d do well as a detective.

  He strode past the school without looking to see if Bronwen was there. He needed to walk, to feel the wind in his face. He realized that he not only felt disappointed, he felt stupid. So Glynis was only being friendly to him after all. He’d read far too much into her overtures. Lucky he hadn’t encouraged her—his career certainly wouldn’t have been helped if the commissioner’s nephew had found that Evan had been flirting with his girl.

  Stupid! Evan said out loud to the empty street. Stupid to allow himself to be flattered by a good-looking girl. He was too gullible where women were concerned. Well, from now on it would be different.

  He passed the chapels, with their respective vehicles parked beside them, and continued up past the Everest Inn until he stood at the top of the pass. Here the wind was blowing strongly with the tang of salt in it, and dark clouds raced across the sky. Out at sea the horizon was a hard line. It would rain before long. The Indian summer was finally over.

  It’s not a bad place to be, he told himself. His gaze scanned the green hillsides. The burned-out cottage stood like a dark wound amid the green. Watkins was right. Those English people would never be back . . . which started him thinking. What would happen to a ruin like that? Would it be too hard to rebuild? It already had water and electricity and a good solid foundation, and the walls were still standing . . . The wheels in his head started to turn and his gaze wandered involuntarily down to the school house.

  At that moment the rain began, falling as isolated drops that spattered on the asphalt to begin with; then came more and more of them until the heavens opened. The rich creosote smell of wet macadam rose up to his nostrils. He turned to walk back.

  As he passed the schoolhouse the front door opened and Bronwen ran out, holding a large umbrella over her. “Evan, you’re soaked to the skin. What were you doing up on the pass? Is something the matter?”

  “No,” he said, looking down at her anxious face. “Everything’s just fine. I went for a little walk.”

  “Come inside. I’ll make you a cup of tea,” she said, “and if you
’re very good, you can try a slice of the baguette I’ve just made.”

  She led him across the playground and in through the open door. The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread. Bronwen pointed proudly at the table. “I learned a lot while Janine was with me. I think I’ve turned into a pretty good cook.” She poured a cup of tea from the brown earthenware pot. “What were you doing up on the pass?”

  “Just thinking,” Evan said. “Trying to clear my head.”

  She nodded. “We’re lucky where we live. You can’t get too upset by little problems when you’re surrounded by mountains. They keep everything in perspective.”

  Evan took the cup and drank. “Bronwen,” he said after a sip. “Do you think this is such a bad job for a man? Stuck up here, I mean. Not applying for promotion?”

  Her eyes flashed. “A bad job? You’re needed up here, aren’t you? If you hadn’t been here, Bryn would likely be in jail by now and his whole future would have been wrecked.”

  Evan looked surprised. “You know about Bryn?”

  “Terry told me. Bryn told him.” She saw the alarm on his face. “Oh, don’t worry. They won’t tell anyone else. Those two are as thick as thieves—sorry, bad metaphor.” She smiled then put her hands on his shoulders. “You’ve done some good things while you’ve been here,” she said. “You’ve touched lives.”

  She leaned over to kiss him on the forehead. His hands closed over hers and she rested her cheek against his.

  “You’d better get out of those wet clothes,” she said, “before you catch pneumonia.”

  “You’re sending me home?” Evan got to his feet.

  “Not if you don’t want to go. I could always run you a nice hot bath and I’ve got big fluffy towels and a bottle of wine in the fridge which we could drink after—”