by Rhys Bowen
“Some people are good at hiding the turmoil inside,” the doctor said. “But we’ll be able to tell soon enough whether he shot himself, I’d imagine.”
He passed ahead of Evan into the small living room. D.I. Hughes was examining the hand with the gun in it. “It seems a clear enough case of suicide to me, doctor,” he said in his crisp voice. “We’ll need to establish time of death and that’s about it.”
“We might as well get pictures and have the lab boys go over the room, just in case anything irregular turns up later,” the police doctor said, glancing back at Evan.
D.I. Hughes gaze focussed on Evan too. “Don’t tell me that the constable here has been coming up with more wild theories,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “Amateur detectives in the force are the last thing we need.”
“All the same sir,” Watkins ventured, “it does seem strange that he chose last night to kill himself. Apparently he’d just shown the whole village his plans to build a new resort here, and he’d just started to remodel the farmhouse. Why bother if you were planning to kill yourself?”
“Ask Dawson to take some photos of his hand, will you, Watkins,” the inspector said after a pause. “Let’s see if we can tell whether his finger pulled the trigger. Get the lab boys to test for gunpowder residue, and then let’s see what prints show up on the gun.”
“Would you like me to question the neighbors, sir, and see if any of them actually heard the shot?” Evan asked cautiously.
“You could do that, I suppose,” the D.I. said with no great enthusiasm. “Why don’t you go with him, Watkins?”
“It’s pretty obvious that he doesn’t think he can trust me to do anything without messing it up,” Evan commented to the sergeant as they walked down the hill together.
“It’s more likely he doesn’t want you to pull another scoop on us. He took a lot of ragging about that after those murders on the mountain. He didn’t take kindly to being outmanoeuvered by a local P.C.”
“It was only luck that I stumbled on the killer first,” Evan said.
“Of course it wasn’t. You were on the right track all along,” Watkins said. “And the more I think of it, the more I get the feeling that you’re right about this not being a suicide. Why go to the trouble of getting planning permission and hiring contractors if you’re going to kill yourself? And there was no note either. People who shoot themselves usually leave notes justifying the deed, don’t they?”
“And he just didn’t look like a man about to kill himself,” Evan said. “I spoke to him the day before and he seemed relaxed, enjoying life.”
Watkins nodded. “Which means we’d be dealing with two murders then. You reckon the same person is responsible for both? They weren’t the same type of crime, were they?”
“I don’t want to think that we might have two killers in the neighborhood,” Evan said, “and the two murders did have something in common.”
“Like what?”
“They were both sneaky crimes, weren’t they? The first death was made to look like an accident. The second one is made to look like a suicide. These are the acts of a person who thinks on his feet.”
“Or her feet,” Watkins added. “So you say Morgan didn’t get along with his sister and brother-in-law, and we know he didn’t get along with Evans the butcher. Anyone else who might have wanted him out of the way?”
“Not that I know of,” Evan said. “But then he’d just got here. I know nothing of his life in London. Someone could have followed him here.”
“The same person who also had a grudge against the colonel?” Watkins asked.
Evan stared out down the pass, thinking. “I find that hard to believe,” he said. “I’d say that Ted Morgan and the colonel would have moved in totally different circles. A young flashy businessman and a stodgy old retired colonel living on a pension? Who could have a bone to pick with both of them?”
“They did have something in common,” Watkins suggested. “They both came from London and they both just got here.”
“That’s true, but I imagine there are five hundred holidaymakers from London in the area at this moment.”
“You’re the one who’s hot on connections,” Watkins said. “Think up some.”
They had reached the row of cottages on the main street. Evan knocked on the first door. As they went down the row they got the same answer over and over again. Nobody had heard a gunshot, but that wasn’t too surprising. An Arnold Schwarzenegger movie was on TV starting at nine-thirty, full of explosions and gunfire. A TV pollster would have been delighted by the hundred percent viewing of one channel.
Nobody had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, that is until they came to young Mrs. Rees.
“I did see one thing,” she said, staring out of the window as if to confirm what she had seen. “I was upstairs in the front bedroom. Our Glynis had a fever and I was just bringing her a drink of water when I happened to look out of the window. I saw someone come out of the path between this row of houses and the police station and hurry across the street. Then I saw a front door open.”
“Could you see who it was?”
“I couldn’t see the person but I think I could tell which front door it was,” Mrs. Rees said. “It was this end of the row of shops. It must have been Evans-the-Meat.”
“Evans-the-Meat? You mean when we brought him home after the meeting—around nine o’clock?”
“No. Later than that. Everyone had already gone home. The street was deserted and he was all alone.”
* * *
“What now?” Evans-the-Meat demanded belligerently as the two policemen came back into his shop. “All these coppers hanging around is bad for trade, you know.”
“I thought I told you to stay home last night, Gareth Evans,” Evan said. “I told you to go straight to bed.”
“And I did!”
“You were seen crossing the street, coming from the direction of Ted Morgan’s bungalow,” Evan said.
“I was never—” Evans-the-Meat began.
Sergeant Watkins stepped forward. “Mr. Evans, it doesn’t look good for you right now. I must warn you that you have the right to remain silent, but anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence against you.”
Evans-the-Meat turned terrified eyes to Evan. “You’ve got to help me, Evan bach,” he said. “I didn’t kill anybody. I swear it.”
“You threatened to, Gareth. The whole town heard you.”
“You know what I’m like when my temper is up. I say things I don’t really mean.”
“And do things you don’t really mean?” Watkins asked.
“Constable Evans knows I cool down again quickly enough,” Evans-the-Meat said. “I’d cooled down by the time I got home.”
“But you went to Ted Morgan’s place, didn’t you?” Evan demanded. “Why else would you be crossing the street? The path only leads to those bungalows.”
“Alright, so I went there,” Evans-the-Meat confessed. “The more I thought about it, the more I knew I had to have it out with him. I wanted to try and talk sense into that jackass, to make him see that he’d ruin Llanfair for all of us if he went ahead with his bloody stupid scheme.”
“So you went to his bungalow. What time was this?” Sergeant Watkins asked.
Evans-the-Meat shook his head. “It couldn’t have been later than nine-thirty, quarter to ten.”
“And what did you say to him?”
“I didn’t go in,” Evans-the-Meat said. “When I got there I saw that he had someone with him. The curtains were drawn and I could see two shapes moving around. I could hear Ted talking to someone—talking and laughing, he was. So I just turned around and went back home.”
“Could you tell who was with him, sir?” Watkins asked.
“No idea. Like I said, the curtains were drawn and there wasn’t much light in the room. I just saw shadows and Ted was doing all the talking as usual.”
“Did you happen to hear what he was saying?”
“How long did you hang around up there?”
“No time at all. I knew I’d feel stupid if someone came out and saw me standing there, so I went back home again.” He grabbed Evan’s sleeve. “You’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill him!”
Chapter 13
The news of Ted Morgan’s death had already spread throughout the village. Upstairs windows and front doors were open as housewives excitedly passed on the information.
Evans-the-Milk pulled up his van beside Evan and Watkins. “Then it’s true what they’re saying, is it? Ted Morgan shot himself last night? Who would have thought it? You could have knocked me down with a feather when Mrs. Hopkins told me. That’s what comes of living in London, isn’t it? All that fast living and those unhealthy fumes.” He drove on again to spread the word up the rest of the village street.
“There’s no chance of hiding anything in a place like this, is there?” Watkins muttered to Evan as they crossed the street.
“The bush telegraph is amazing here,” Evan said. “By now it will probably be all round the village by now that we’ve been to talk to Evans-the-Meat. Let’s hope nobody spills the beans to the D.I. before we get back to him.”
“And you’d better hope that the M.O. brings in a verdict of suicide, or things don’t look good for your pal Evans-the-Meat.”
Evan glanced back at the butcher’s shop. He could see the burly butcher still standing motionless, staring at them.
“He had an explanation,” Evan ventured.
“Which no jury is going to believe, you know that. And he had the motive. And witnesses to his threats.”
“I know,” Evan agreed. “You’re right. Things don’t look good for him. Do we have to mention this to the D.I. yet?”
“Why shouldn’t we?”
“Because I don’t think he did it.”
“He wanted the man dead, for Pete’s sake. He tried to kill him in front of a couple of hundred witnesses. He admits he went to the house and we’ve only got his word that he didn’t go in. What was there to stop him from carrying out his threats? What more do you want?”
“Nothing, except…” Evan began hesitantly.
“Except what?”
“It wasn’t his kind of crime. If Ted Morgan had been strangled or cut in half with the meat cleaver, then Evans-the-Meat would be my prime suspect, but only when he was drunk and angry enough. But a neat little bullet between the eyes—that’s not like him at all.”
“That little gun would have been easy to hide in a pocket, in case he bumped into you again.”
Evan laughed uneasily. “I can’t believe Evans-the-Meat owns a gun like that. A bloody great hunting rifle, maybe, but not that little thing.”
“You could be right,” Watkins said. “Let’s hear what brilliant deductions the D.I. has come up with first. He might have the case solved by now.” He gave Evan a wink as he pushed open the door that led to the police station.
The grandly named community police substation, Llanfair and district, was actually only one room, with a large closet and lavatory at one end. D.I. Hughes was on the phone to HQ and motioned them to be quiet as they came in.
“I should be able to let you know shortly when we’re releasing the body,” he said into the phone. “Oh, and Mavis, brew a pot of coffee for me, would you? I’ll be back soon. Thanks, Mavis, you’re a sweetie pie.” He put down the phone in time to catch Watkins and Evan exchanging a look. “The doctor should be down here in a minute,” he said. “He puts the time of death at no later than ten P.M.”
“That’s interesting,” Evan blurted out.
“In what way?” the D.I. asked coldly.
“I only meant that I must have just missed seeing the killer—if there was a killer,” Evan explained hastily. “I was out on the street myself, making sure that there was no more trouble after the meeting.” He regretted saying the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“There was a village meeting,” Evan said. “It got a little heated, as these things sometimes do.” He looked across at Watkins, willing him not to mention that Evans-the-Meat had tried to kill Ted Morgan and had to be dragged away.
“Morgan was at the meeting?” D.I. Hughes asked sharply.
“Yes, sir, the whole village was,” Evan said, again before Watkins could say anything. He had a feeling that the D.I. would pounce on Evans-the-Meat as a suspect the moment he heard the details, and then not bother to look for anyone else.
“So what time did this meeting finish?” Hughes asked.
“It broke up around nine. I stayed out in the street, making sure everyone got home, until about nine fifteen. Then I was called out again about nine-thirty.”
“Called out—to what?” D.I. Hughes asked, looking up from the doodles he was making around his notes.
“Oh, a woman thought someone was trying to break into her house. It turned out to be a false alarm.” Evan felt himself flushing.
“And you didn’t see anything suspicious while you were out?”
“No, sir. The whole place was deserted.”
“Which, of course, goes along with the idea of suicide,” the inspector said, going back to his doodles. He was drawing neat boxes within boxes around each word. It figured, Evan thought.
The door opened and the medical examiner came in. He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the detective inspector.
“Seen all you need to up there?” D.I. Hughes asked.
The doctor nodded. “I’ve done all I can for the moment. I suggest we let the Home Office pathologist take a look for confirmation, but I can tell you right now that it wasn’t suicide.”
“It wasn’t suicide?” D.I. Hughes’ face was a mask of stone. He hated being wrong. He hated it doubly in the presence of subordinates, especially village bobbies. “How can you be so sure?”
The doctor grinned. “He’d have needed bloody long arms. He was shot from at least five feet away. Oh, and one of your men working up there says to tell you there were two sets of prints on the gun—Morgan’s and one other, but they were both smudged as if someone had tried to wipe it clean at some stage.”
“Any other significant prints in the room?” the D.I. asked.
“Plenty. It was let to different people every week, wasn’t it? And I don’t suppose they washed the walls in between.”
The D.I. frowned and started doodling again. “That puts a whole different complexion on things,” he said. “You’re sure about the five feet?”
“Based on the entry and the amount of damage the bullet did. I’ve seen enough people who have shot themselves at close range. It’s usually messier.”
“Damn,” the D.I. said. “Alright, let’s start at square one. Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to kill Ted Morgan?”
“A couple of people we know didn’t get along with him,” Evan said, “but he just moved here from London. It could have been a complete outsider.”
“Let’s work on the ones we know about first,” the D.I. said. “Who were they?”
Before Evan could answer the door was flung open again, sending a great gust of air through the room. The D.I. slapped his hand to hold the papers on the desk as a young woman came in. It was hard to say who looked more surprised—the policemen or Annie Pigeon.
“Oh,” she said, stopping short. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“Did you need something, Annie, because we’re very busy at the moment,” Evan said. “The inspector and his sergeant have come up from Caernarfon.”
“I heard,” Annie said. “It’s all over the village, isn’t it? Imagine. That poor man, only just got here like me. It gave me the shivers all over.”
“Do you have something that we can help you with, Ms.…?” D.I. Hughes
interrupted impatiently.
“Pigeon. Annie Pigeon. I came down to file my report,” Annie said.
“Report?” the D.I. asked.
“On the break-in last night. The constable told me to come down here in the morning so we could write the official report.”
“Ah, so you were the person who called out Constable Evans last night?” Evan could see the D.I. giving Annie the once-over. She was wearing jeans that fitted her like a second skin and a low necked T shirt with Bugs Bunny on it. Better than the halter top and tiny shorts, but not much.
“I thought someone was trying to get into my house again,” she said, going up to the desk and leaning down confidentially toward the D.I. “I heard him at the back door. I was that scared I had to call in Constable Evans.”
“But Constable Evans didn’t manage to find anybody?”
Evan shook his head. “I searched all over. It could have been the wind. It makes strange noises up here and there are bushes behind her house.”
“You said again?” Sergeant Watkins asked, suddenly alert from his chair in the corner. “Are you saying that someone tried to break in before?”
“On Sunday,” Annie said, turning to him. “I was out for a little walk with Constable Evans and when I got back the kitchen window was open. I looked around, but I couldn’t see that anything had been taken, so I thought I might have been imagining things. It’s the first time I’ve lived alone, you know, and in a strange place too, so maybe I’m a bit jumpy.”
“Ah, so you think now that you only imagined it on both occasions?” D.I. Hughes asked, tapping his pencil impatiently. He clearly wanted Annie out of there so that they could get back to business.
“That’s what I decided,” Annie said. “I told myself I was being daft and it was all in my head.” She paused dramatically. “Until I heard about the shooting this morning. Then I remembered the gun. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I ran up to look for it and it was gone.”
D.I. Hughes was no longer tapping his pencil or doodling. He leaned forward, staring at her. “Are you saying that you owned a gun and that gun is now missing?”