by Rhys Bowen
“Is that a fact?” Watkins shook his head in amazement. “You’re right. It doesn’t sound like a man who is about to kill himself. And how did the locals like the idea of a theme park in their backyard? I gather they weren’t even too thrilled when the Everest Inn was built.”
“It’s hard to tell,” Evan said. “Some of them didn’t like the idea, but—” He stopped in midsentence. He remembered all too clearly Evans-the-Meat yelling that he’d kill Ted Morgan to stop him from going ahead with his scheme.
“Didn’t like it enough to think of killing him to stop him?” Watkins asked. “That’s pretty drastic, isn’t it? I wasn’t too thrilled when they built that new shopping center behind my house, but I didn’t go out and shoot the developers.”
Evan nodded. Evans-the-Meat might have been capable of killing Ted Morgan in the heat of the moment, but surely not later in cold blood?
“It could still turn out to be suicide,” Watkins said hesitantly. “If he’d found out last night that his financing had collapsed and he wasn’t going to be able to go ahead with his project after all? If he was a proud man, maybe he took this way out rather than face the humiliation.”
Evan tried to consider what he knew of Ted Morgan. “Of course it will be easy enough to check on his finances,” he said. “And as for finding out last night—I haven’t noticed a phone in this place.”
Watkins sighed. “Alright. I’d better put in a call to the D.I. right away and have him send the medical examiner up here. Maybe we’ll know more when he’s had a look at the body. In the meantime we should seal off the place.”
Evan followed him out of the building. “I’ll go and get the tape,” he said.
“Do you know who lives in these other new bungalows?” Watkins asked, looking around him with interest.
“They’re just holiday homes, let by the week,” Evan said. “I’m not sure which of them is occupied right now.”
“It might be a good idea to talk to any occupants and see if they heard or saw anything last night. And maybe the people in those houses down below heard something. Sound travels in a valley like this, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll go and talk to them if you like,” Evan said.
“That can wait until we’ve got the area taped off,” Sergeant Watkins said. “You do the taping and I’ll put in a call to the D.I. He’ll probably forbid us to do anything until he gets here.”
The young contractor was standing outside, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Is it okay to go yet?” he asked.
“Hang on just a minute longer,” Evan said. “I’m coming back to seal off the area. Maybe you could help me.”
He accompanied the sergeant down to the police station and left him talking to headquarters while he returned to drape the bushes around the cottage in yellow police tape.
“You reckon he was murdered then?” the young contractor asked, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
“I don’t think it would be wise to speculate at this point,” Evan said. “The detective inspector and the medical examiner will be up here soon. Then we’ll know more. But thanks for your help. If we can just get you to make a statement, then you’re free to go.”
“A statement saying what?”
“Anything you think might help us. How Ted Morgan hired you. What he said. What you saw this morning. I’m sorry, it looks like you’ve been done out of big remodelling job.”
The young man nodded, then shrugged. “Oh well, that’s life, isn’t it? At least I’m still here, which is more than I can say for that poor bloke.”
They reached the station together, in time to see Sergeant Watkins putting down the phone. “They’re on their way up,” he said. “And I bet you can guess the first thing he said to me.”
“Have you touched anything?” Evan asked with a grin.
“No. He said, ‘Not Evans again? How does he manage to keep turning up bodies?’”
“Look, I came up here for a quiet life,” Evan began, then his smile faded. “Funny. That’s what Ted Morgan said to me on Sunday.” He turned to the young contractor. “You can sit at my desk,” he said, “if the sergeant would kindly move out of the chair.” He glanced at Sergeant Watkins. “I’ve asked him to make a statement.”
“Quite right.” Watkins stood up. “Sit down, son.” He watched as Evan handed the man a pen and paper then indicated to Evan that they should go outside. The clouds were rolling back, revealing peaks above, and the sun was starting to break through the mist.
“Going to be a fine day,” Evan commented.
Sergeant Watkins looked up at the new holiday bungalows above the village, their windows now winking in the morning sun. “So tell me what you know about Ted Morgan. You say he just got here? Is that why he was living in that place?”
“He owns them,” Evan said. “He had them built on the farm property he inherited from his father. That’s the old farmhouse up there. He was going to have it completely remodelled. That’s why the contractor was here.”
“He didn’t have any relatives to stay with then?”
“He had a sister and brother-in-law on a farm down the Nantgwnant Pass, but they didn’t exactly get along.”
“Bad blood in the family, huh?”
“You could put it like that.”
“Anyone else you know he didn’t get along with?”
Evan sucked in his breath. “Yes,” he said at last. “Our local butcher. It seems they’ve been enemies since childhood.” And he went on to recount the entire scene with Evans-the-Meat. “But he’d calmed down by the time we got him home,” Evan finished. “He just has a short fuse. He flies into a temper very easily. I’m always separating him from other blokes at the pub.”
“And you think he’d be capable of killing someone?”
“In a rage maybe,” Evan said. “He’s a strong man. He might kill someone accidentally and not realize what he was doing. But shooting someone and putting a gun in his hand to make it look like suicide—that doesn’t seem the kind of thing he’d do.”
“D.I. Hughes will definitely want to talk to him,” Watkins said.
“Then we should pop over there first and let him know what’s coming,” Evan said.
“A good bloke, is he—apart from his homicidal rages?”
Evan smiled. “Yeah, a good bloke. But he’s inclined to let his mouth run away with him when he gets upset. I wouldn’t want him to say something stupid and get himself into trouble.”
“Isn’t that called coaching a witness?” Watkins asked. “Okay. Let’s wait until the young chap has finished his statement and then we’ll visit your mad butcher.”
Chapter 12
Evans-the-Meat was just emerging from the walk-in refrigerator carrying a side of lamb as the two policemen came in.
“I’m not open yet,” he said, throwing down the carcass on the marble slab and picking up a cleaver. Sergeant Watkins came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the cleaver and the blood-spattered apron. Then the butcher appeared to focus on them and muttered, “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”
“How’s the headache this morning, Gareth?” Evan asked.
“I’ve had worse.” Evans-the-Meat started chopping as he spoke.
“This is Detective Sergeant Watkins from Caernarfon, Gareth,” Evan said. “He’s got some questions he wants to ask you.”
“You didn’t report me for last night, did you?” Evans-the-Meat demanded. “So I had a couple too many and that fool made me lose my temper—”
“That fool is dead, Gareth,” Evan said calmly.
Evans-the-Meat’s mouth dropped open. “Ted Morgan is dead?”
“He killed himself last night, apparently,” Evan told him.
Evans-the-Meat passed his hand across his face. “Ted Morgan? Killed himself? Go on—you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”
“Deadly serious, sir,” Sergeant Watkins said.
Evans-the-Meat laughed uneasily. “I can’t say I’m heartbroken by t
he news. I just find it hard to believe. You didn’t know Ted Morgan. He would be the last person on earth to kill himself. He thought too much of himself to do that—always did. Even when he was a little kid he used to carry a comb around in his top pocket and take peeks at himself in all the shop windows. Nah, Ted wasn’t a man who’d kill himself on purpose. Was it an accidental overdose, do you think?”
“They found him with a gun in his hand,” Evan said.
“Ted Morgan—shoot himself?” Evans-the-Meat shook his head. “Why would he want to do that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Evans,” Watkins said. “I hear that you two were old enemies.”
Evans-the-Meat passed his tongue nervously over his lips. “Yes, but we hadn’t seen each other for twenty-odd years. Besides, why would he want to kill himself just when he was gloating at scoring a triumph over me?”
“My inspector is going to be arriving shortly. I expect he’ll want to talk to you, so don’t leave town without letting us know, will you?”
“Me? Why would he want to talk to me?” Evans-the-Meat’s voice rose. Beads of sweat were visible on his broad forehead. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“Just routine, Gareth,” Evan said. “Just answer his questions, say no more than you’re asked and keep your hair on, okay?”
“What does he think I’ve got to do with it?” Evans-the-Meat yelled after them, swinging down the meat cleaver with a savage blow that cut the carcass in half.
“You’re right,” Watkins muttered. “He’d make a bad suspect. He had guilt written all over him. But you don’t think he did it, do you?”
“If he did, then he’s a good actor. All the color drained out of his face when he heard the news. I could swear he was genuinely surprised. And he said he doubted Morgan would ever kill himself. Wouldn’t he be anxious to go along with the suicide idea if he was guilty?”
“Then why was he sweating?”
There was no sign of the inspector, but they were just about to go into the police station again when they heard the sound of a car being driven up the pass. Then an ancient black Daimler appeared, slowed, and came to a halt across the street from them. A middle-aged man with shaggy gray hair, faded sweater, and cords got out of it.
“Must be the medical examiner, come on ahead,” Sergeant Watkins muttered. “That was quick, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe he was out on a case in the area,” Evan said.
The man was looking around with a puzzled expression on his face.
“I came here in response from an urgent summons,” he said, coming over to them, “but I’m not sure whom the call was from. I’ve come to look at the remains. Maybe you could direct me.”
“I’d be glad to, doctor. We were expecting you,” Evan said. “I must say you were pretty sharp about getting here. You’ve arrived before anyone else.”
“Other people are coming to take a look too?” The man looked startled. “I wasn’t told.”
“Only the usual mob from HQ in Caernarfon,” Evan said, “but I don’t suppose it will matter if you take a look before they get here.”
“I’d appreciate taking a look before anyone else gets here,” the man said. “I can’t stand people tampering.”
“I can understand that, sir,” Evan said. “It’s this way.”
“Is it a long walk?” The man looked up at the peaks above. “I’m not sure if I should take foul weather gear.”
“It’s only just up this little track, sir. A stone’s throw away.”
“So close? I had no idea. I was given to believe…” the man muttered. He followed Evan until they emerged behind the houses bordering the street and the holiday bungalows were visible above.
“There you are, sir,” he said. “The one on the far left.”
“The one what?” The man couldn’t have sounded more surprised.
“The bungalow, sir.”
There was a horrified silence, then the man said, “Is this some sort of joke?”
“Oh no, sir. Deadly serious, in fact,” Evan said. “There’s a body on the floor of the cottage. We need you to take a look at it.”
“A mummified body or a skeleton?”
“A fresh body,” Evan said. “We found him this morning.”
“Why would you want me to take a look at a body?” the man’s voice rose to a shriek. “What do you think I could do about it?”
“Establish the time of death,” Evan said. He was feeling more and more confused. “You are the police doctor, aren’t you?” he demanded.
A look of relief spread across the man’s face. “Good lord no, man. I’m the archaeologist from Bangor University. I was asked to come up here and check out a newly discovered site.”
Evan started to laugh. After all the tension of last night and then this morning, he laughed helplessly until his whole body shook.
“Are you alright?” Watkins asked with concern.
“I’m sorry.” Evan wiped his eye. “But I thought this gentleman was the police doctor come to examine the human remains and he turns out to be the archaeologist come to look at the remains we discovered on the hill.” He turned apologetically to the doctor. “You must have thought I was mad.”
“A little eccentric,” the man said, smiling now, “but then I’ve often found that the inhabitants in these small villages are a trifle … unique.” He brushed back his unruly hair from his forehead. “Now, if you could point out the path to the real remains?”
“Why don’t you go to see Mr. Parry Davies? He was the one who called you. I know he’d love to come up the mountain with you. I would too, but I’ve got a little matter of a suspicious death we have to take care of.”
He pointed the archaeologist in the direction of Chapel Bethel and went back to join Sergeant Watkins, who was still waiting impatiently for the arrival of the D.I.
“No sense in hanging around here,” Watkins said. “Why don’t we question the occupants of those bungalows and the people who live down below too. One of them must have heard a gunshot.”
“Alright, sarge,” Evan said. “Let’s start with the bungalow next door to Ted’s.”
The two middle bungalows proved to be unoccupied and the family in the far end unit was just getting ready to leave for the beach, loaded up with beach chairs and rubber rings. No, they hadn’t heard or seen anything strange last night, the woman said impatiently, but then her hubby always dozed in front of the TV from nine o’clock onwards. She thought she might have heard a popping noise but she assumed it was a car backfiring as it came up the pass. And she had no idea what time it was—any time between nine, when the kids went to bed, and eleven, when she did. And no, they hadn’t seen anything. They drew the curtains when it got dark. They’d never even seen the occupants of the other cottages.
“That wasn’t much help,” Watkins commented as they made their way down the hill again. “They must have had that TV blaring away not to have heard a gunshot.”
“It was only a little gun, wasn’t it?” Evan suggested.
“But that means the occupants of the houses down on the main street aren’t likely to have heard anything, unless they sleep with their back windows open.”
Evan laughed. “Not too many people sleep with their windows open up here. You’d freeze to death.” Then the smile faded as he realized the inappropriateness of this remark with the body lying a few yards away from them. Ted Morgan had been laughing yesterday, full of life …
Watkins tapped Evan’s arm. “Looks like we’ll have to put off the rest of our questioning until later. The big guns have arrived.”
A large white police van was coming up the hill. D.I. Hughes was out even before the van was at a complete stop. He looked as Evan remembered him—a dapperly dressed little man with immaculately styled iron-gray hair and a neat line of moustache. Today he was wearing a light blue bow tie with matching silk handkerchief in his top pocket. He’d be nobody’s idea of a tough copper, Evan thought, and yet he was annoyingly pe
rsistent, like a terrier. He was already looking around like a dog trying to catch a scent as Watkins hurried up to him.
“Where’s the body then?” he demanded.
“Up in one of those holiday bungalows,” Watkins said.
“A tourist then?”
“No, a local, but only recently come back here. He owned them and he was living in one while he had the farmhouse remodelled.”
“Who found the body?” Hughes asked, walking so fast that Watkins had trouble keeping up with him.
“A local contractor who’d come to work on the farmhouse, sir.”
“Is the contractor still here?”
“We let him go, but we got a complete statement and his phone number.”
“Good man.”
Evan hung back by the van, not sure if his presence was required or even welcome. The D.I. had made it very clear on his last murder case that he wanted no interference from village policemen.
The police medical officer had now emerged from the van with his black bag, and a couple of forensic technicians were getting their stuff out of the back.
“Up there, is it?” the doctor asked Evan pleasantly.
“Yes, sir. The one on the left,” Evan answered.
“Why is that bodies always seem to involve an uphill walk in Wales?” the doctor wondered. “Were you the first officer on the scene?”
Evan fell into step beside him, glad that he now had an excuse to accompany them back to the crime scene.
“The contractor saw something suspicious through the window and came to get me just before eight o’clock,” Evan said. “I saw what looked like a body lying on the floor so we broke the door down between us.”
“Did you move him at all?”
“Didn’t need to, sir,” Evan said. “He was obviously dead. There was a nasty hole in the middle of his forehead.”
“Any sign of the weapon?”
“The gun is still in his hand, sir.”
“Ah. A suicide then.”
“Not necessarily,” Evan said cautiously. He didn’t want to be told to leave the detecting to detectives.
The doctor looked up sharply.
“He was a man who had just announced big plans to the whole village. And the general opinion is that he thought a lot of himself. It just doesn’t make sense that he’d kill himself now.”