by Rhys Bowen
“You can’t get away from me, copper.” Doug’s voice rang out behind him, and Evan heard rocks bouncing down as Doug scrambled up after him. Desperately Evan tried to decide what to do next. If the cloud just covered the summit, Doug could pick him off the moment he came out of it. That meant there was no safe way down to get help. His only chance was up. He knew these mountains better than almost anybody. He had to take the chance that he knew them better than Doug Bartholemew.
He kept scrambling blindly upward until he picked up a trail. Mist swirled about him, so thick that he could hardly see his feet. But he had to trust to his judgement that he had picked up the Miners’ Track, right below the summit of Snowdon itself. And sure enough, a few more seconds of climbing and he saw the hard dark line of the train track, emerging from the mist. Doug would surely expect him to try to go down to Llanberis to get help. When the trail started to descend, following the railway, he ignored it, glancing down regretfully. Instead, he started to climb again.
“You’re not getting away from me, copper,” Doug’s voice echoed.
In that blanket of mist it was hard to tell which direction sound was coming from. It echoed back from unseen rocks as if twenty Dougs were on the mountain. Then a shot whizzed past Evan’s ear and he knew that Doug Bartholemew was right behind him. He surged onward and upward, dreading what lay before him as much as what was following. But he had no choice. If he had any hope of losing Doug Bartholemew, it would be on Crib Gogh. Only an insane person would try to cross that knife-edged crest in mist as thick as this, he decided. If he could cross it successfully, he’d have a chance of coming down the other side and dropping straight to the trees and the Everest Inn beyond.
The trail climbed in a series of uneven rocky steps. Mist had made the rocks wet, and his feet slithered as he went up, putting down his hands from time to time to steady himself. He heard a curse behind him as Doug also slipped and realized he might have underestimated his adversary. Doug was keeping up with him pretty well!
He sensed, rather than saw, that he had come onto Crib Goch. Through the shifting mist the trail went ahead, a thin rocky ribbon, slippery, uneven, and no wider than a stair runner. And on either side, nothing. He could feel the cold emptiness swirling up from below. One false step, one stagger, and it would be a thousand feet before he met the rocks. He heard pebbles bouncing down unseen rock faces and knew that Doug was still behind. He took a deep breath and ran.
It seemed to take forever. He felt himself trapped in a time warp, running in slow motion, one foot in front of the other, across a tightrope over an ocean of cloud. But his feet seemed to know the way. They moved forward with a life of their own, confident that this was just a repeat of something done often before, until at last he was conscious of land spreading out on either side of him and the trail going down.
He paused among the rocks to look back and listen. Total silence. There was no sound of Doug’s boots nor of pebbles falling. Evan’s skin prickled. He imagined Doug creeping up on him, the gun digging suddenly into his side.
Then a voice called through the mist, “Help me, copper. Come and get me.”
Evan looked back. Clouds swirled, parted and then cleared for a moment. Doug Bartholemew was on all fours in the middle of Crib Goch, staring out with horror at the abyss that had opened up on either side of him.
“I can’t move,” he called. “Come and get me.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Evan called. “Throw away the gun first!”
“I can’t move,” Bartholemew cried. “For God’s sake come and get me off here!”
“Throw away the gun!” Evan yelled.
Inch by inch Doug Bartholemew moved his hand with the gun in it. Evan held his breath. Then his fingers opened and the gun went clattering down into the void.
“Now the knife!” Evan yelled, remembering Simon Herries.
“I don’t have a knife!”
“The knife that killed Simon Herries!”
“I threw it away,” Doug Bartholemew called back.
Still Evan hesitated. This was, after all, a man who had had the strength and cunning to hurl two men to their deaths—men as young and fit as Evan himself. Of course they were both caught off guard and Evan was prepared, but then they were not on Crib Goch. There was no margin for error. One quick shove, one second off balance, and he’d be over the edge. And yet there seemed to be genuine panic in the man’s voice.
Bartholemew might have lost his nerve right now, Evan reasoned, but that wouldn’t stop him from turning on his rescuer the moment he got a chance, and Evan didn’t fancy a wrestling match so far from help. Why didn’t the top brass let the ordinary policemen on the beat carry guns? A gun would have come in really handy right now. He peered down through the shifting clouds, still trying to make the right decision.
“Copper! For Christ’s sake! Don’t leave me here!” Doug Bartholemew shouted.
Evan stood like a statue, unable to make up his mind between prudence and valour. He could imagine Inspector Hughes’ face if he brought in the murderer, single-handed. Then he found himself thinking of his father. Had his father dreamed of being a hero too when he went alone to intercept that drug shipment in the Swansea docks? Better to play it safe, Evan decided. Doug was in no danger as long as he didn’t try to move. Wouldn’t it be sensible to leave him there while he went for help? It would do him good to let him feel the terror his victims felt.
“Hang on, Doug, I’m going for help,” he called back. “I won’t be long.”
He took two steps down the track and stopped short. Major Anderson was standing there, blocking the path ahead and watching him.
“What’s going on, constable?” he asked. He was smiling pleasantly and he sounded friendly enough but Evan caught an edge of suppressed excitement in his voice.
Play it cool, Evan told himself. There’s no way you can take on two of them.
“Oh, major, am I glad to see you,” he said. “There’s a man stuck on Crib Goch. I was about to go and get help to bring him down. Maybe you’d like to do it for me?”
Major Anderson pushed past Evan and stared through the shifting clouds. “No need to do that,” he said. “Surely we can get him safely down between us?”
“He might panic and be hard to control,” Evan said. “I’ve known people do that.”
“I think I can handle panic,” Major Anderson said. “You out there,” he called to Doug Bartholemew, “we’re coming to get you. Don’t move until we tell you to.”
Evan’s heart was thumping so loudly he was sure that the major must be able to hear it. He couldn’t see how the major fitted in, but what was he doing up here if he had nothing to do with the crime?
Major Anderson had already begun to walk out onto the knife edge. Evan realized he might be walking into a trap, and yet he couldn’t just stand there and watch the major trying to rescue Doug alone either. It had become a matter of honor. Maybe his father had felt the same way when he recognized the drug dealers and knew he had to go on anyway …
He took a deep breath and walked out onto Crib Goch. “Just a minute, major,” he said. “Before we get to him, I should warn you that he’s the murderer we’ve been looking for. This whole thing could be a trap.”
“Does he have a weapon?”
“He threw his gun away. He says he doesn’t have a knife.”
“You take his left arm, I’ll grab his right,” Major Anderson said in a low voice. “We’ll lift him to his feet and drag him off when I say go.”
Evan nodded.
Until now Evan had felt as if he was part of a cartoon world, a Looney Tune character being chased up and down mountains. Now time froze. It took an eternity to reach down and take Doug’s left arm. He saw the major, his mirror image, on the other side of Doug.
“Up you get, my man,” Major Anderson said briskly. He took Doug’s arm and bent it behind his back. “Any funny business and I’ll snap this like a matchstick,” he added.
“Don’t h
urt me. I’ll do what you say,” Doug whined. He was as limp as a rag doll as they dragged him to his feet and half carried him to safety.
“There you are. Piece of cake,” Major Anderson said, grinning at Evan as they stood gasping among the rocks beyond Crib Goch.
Evan struggled to remove his tie. “Keep hold of him for a moment, major,” he said as Doug grimaced at the major’s grip on his arm.
Swiftly Evan bound his tie around the man’s wrists. “Douglas Bartholemew, I arrest you for the murders of Tommy Hatcher, Stewart Potts, and Simon Herries,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be taken down and may be used against you in a court of law.”
Chapter 22
“Good work, constable,” Major Anderson said, shaking Evan’s hand as the police car containing Doug Bartholemew drove off down the main street of Llanfair. “It was pretty damned brave of you to go up there alone.”
“Pretty damned foolish, now that I think of it,” Evan admitted.
“A man after my own heart,” Major Anderson said.
“Thanks for your help, major,” Evan said, the familiar flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck at this unexpected praise. “It was lucky you showed up. I might never have got him down safely alone. He’s a crafty bugger. He might easily have turned on me once I’d rescued him. Just what were you doing up on the mountain anyway?” he demanded as an afterthought.
“Keeping an eye on you,” Major Anderson said. “Your little schoolteacher friend came to me in great distress and said she’d seen you heading up the mountain and she didn’t think it was safe for you to be up there alone. So I couldn’t ignore a lady in distress, could I? I followed you. But you moved too damned fast for me and I lost you. You’re too young and fit. Twenty years ago I was like that, of course. But that was when I was still in—”
“The army?” Evan asked innocently.
“The army? Good God no. Who told you I was in the army? I was a marine, my boy. Where they turn out real men!”
“The marines. How about that?” Evan said lamely. To hide his discomfort he turned away, letting his gaze wander across to the school yard. It was empty now. He wondered where Bronwen was and was impressed that she had been able to sense his danger and cared enough about him to have gone for help. Then his gaze moved on to the Victorian splendor of the Powell-Jones residence and an anticipatory smile spread across his face. “I should go and have a word with Mrs. Powell-Jones,” he said.
“I think I should buy you a drink first.” Major Anderson clapped a big hand on his shoulder. “You look like you could use one.”
“Business before pleasure, major,” Evan said. “But I wouldn’t say no to a drink if you want to go ahead to the pub and order me one. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
“Fine. Excellent. Consider it done,” Major Anderson said and strode off toward the swinging Red Dragon sign. Evan turned in the other direction and trudged up the hill to Mrs. Powell-Jones’ house. His legs suddenly felt like lead. He hadn’t realized until now how tired he felt, but an interview with Mrs. Powell-Jones could be just the tonic he needed to revive him.
Mrs. Powell-Jones opened the front door with a look of expectation. “I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve finally found the real culprit, constable,” she said. “And I shouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t turn out to be Mrs. Parry Davies after all, stomping around in big boots to put me off the scent. But I am not so easily fooled, constable, I—”
“Mrs. Powell-Jones,” Evan said. “I think we should take a look in your garden shed.”
“My garden shed?”
“Yes, how often do you go in there?”
“Me? Almost never. I keep my garden tools in the greenhouse now. That shed is far too damp.”
“Ah,” Evan said and strode forward to the shed at the bottom of the garden. It was very dark and damp inside, but there were clear signs of occupation, including an empty pie plate.
“Yours, I think,” Evan said, handing it to Mrs. Powell-Jones.
“But I don’t understand …” she began.
“Madam, you might be finding yourself in serious trouble,” Evan said, eyeing her firmly. “Harboring a known criminal? Aiding and abetting—”
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Powell-Jones demanded.
“Only that you had a murderer hiding out in your shed last week. I’m not sure whether you were privy to this or not. A known felon on your property … it won’t look good. I hope the judge will be understanding.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you suspect me?” She shrieked. “Me? A minister’s wife? You think I might have been sheltering a criminal?”
“I’m just saying that we’ll be looking into it further. Those allegations against Mrs. Parry Davies will all have to come out, of course. Libel is it, or slander? I always get those two mixed up …”
“But I never really suspected her,” Mrs. Powell-Davies whispered. “I mean, why would she want to steal my apple pie? Her pastry is quite as good as mine. I won’t be taken for interrogation, will I?”
“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll make sure they’re gentle with you,” Evan said. “I’ll put in a good word for you if you like.”
He gave her a half salute then left her staring at his back, her mouth open.
“The major’s waiting for you in the lounge and he’s ordered you a glass of brandy, Evan bach,” Betsy called as Evan came into the public bar. “He said you’d caught the murderer single handed!” She beamed at him, her eyes glowing.
“The major helped too,” Evan said. “It was just luck, you know.”
“Don’t you always be so modest, Evan Evans,” Betsy said. “What you need is someone to blow your trumpet for you, if you’re not willing to do it yourself. Sit you down now and get that brandy inside you.”
Major Anderson hailed him from the table in the corner. “That little filly has got her eye on you, I think,” he muttered as Evan sat.
Evan nodded.
“You could do worse. Good pair of—”
“Cheers, major, Iached da,” Evan cut in quickly. He lifted the brandy glass and took a generous swig. “I’m not supposed to, on duty, but in this case I think it’s warranted.”
“Drinking on duty again? The D.I. won’t like that, Evans!” Evan looked up to see Sergeant Watkins standing in the doorway. “I was in the squad car when the message came through,” he said, “I was just on my way back from bringing in Lou Walters.”
“Lou Walters? You caught him?”
“Yes, we followed his mother when she was taking food to him. He was hiding in an abandoned warehouse. He came with us meek as a lamb. It was the mother who had to be subdued.”
“Congratulations, sarge,” Evan said.
“You too,” Sergeant Watkins said. “I picked up the news on my radio and I came straight over to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, thanks, sarge. Much better now I’ve got this inside me.” He indicated the glass.
“I must say that was bloody smart of you to figure out that the money from that train robbery was stashed away up there,” Watkins went on. “It always comes down to something very basic in the end, doesn’t it? Greed or fear or a bit of both.” He grinned at Evan then looked down at the glass in his hand. “Is this a private party, or are you going offer something to your colleague who’s driven all the way up from Bangor in a hurry?”
“I seem to remember that you should be doing the buying, sarge,” Evan said. “What about our little bargain, eh?”
“I said I’d treat you to a pint if you found the murderer, didn’t I? You’re like a bloody elephant. You don’t forget a thing,” Watkins said, pulling up a chair beside Evan. “Anyway, beer and cognac don’t mix. Grape and grain, you know. We’ll have to save that beer for another day.”
“I don’t mind watching you put one away, sarge,” Evan said. “What are you drinking?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a Brains,” Sargeant Watkins
said.
“A South Wales beer, eh?” Evan joked. “I used to be a Brains drinker myself when I lived down there. But now I seem to have this taste for Guinness.” He caught Betsy’s eye. “Betsy, love, can you bring over a pint of Brains for my sergeant here?” he called.
“The name’s Jack, by the way,” Sergeant Watkins said, extending his hand to Evan.
“Evan,” Evan said, shaking the offered hand.
“Evan Evans?” Watkins laughed. “You can’t get more Welsh than that, can you?”
“Don’t blame me. I got stuck with the stupid name. When I have kids I’m going to give them ordinary names so that they don’t get teased,” Evan said.
“Speaking of kids,” Major Anderson muttered in a stage whisper. Evan followed his gaze to the doorway. Bronwen was standing there, her cheeks flushed, her hair windswept. She strode up to Evan and stood glaring down at him.
“Next time you want to do something bloody stupid like chasing murderers up mountains, you tell me about it first or you take me with you, Evan Evans,” she said fiercely. Then she bent and kissed him full and hard on the mouth, before she stalked out again.
Evan leaped to his feet. “Bron, wait!” he called and ran out after her.
Charlie Hopkins, leaning against the public bar, looked at Betsy.
“Miss Milk and Water? Is that what you called her? I think you might have been wrong there, Betsy bach. In fact I reckon you’ve got quite a fight on your hands.”
“We’ll see about that, Charlie Hopkins,” Betsy said defiantly, smoothing down her fuzzy black sweater. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
High above, the mountain rested.
In writing this book I’d like to thank several people: first my grandfather for letting me borrow his name—I hope he doesn’t mind—my aunt Gwladys for introducing me to the mountains of Wales and a village similar to Llanfair, Rebecca Patrascu for lending me her extensive collection of Welsh material and sharing her insights on Wales, my friends and family for their suggestions and encouragement in this new venture.