Evan's Gate

by Rhys Bowen

  “Our men worked over the caravan park pretty well,” Watkins said, “and I believe the dog units are still out, going along the dunes. But if you say you only left her for thirty seconds, she couldn’t have run far in that time, could she? Five-year-old kids don’t have very long legs.”

  “And she were quite happily playing on the sand when I left her, or I’d never have gone.”

  Watkins got to his feet. “Let’s go down and take a look at the exact spot, shall we, Mrs. Sholokhov?” he said.

  “It all looks the same,” she said angrily. “There’s nothing to see, only bloody sand.”

  They climbed down the rickety steps and took the path through the dunes to the long expanse of flat, sandy beach. It was now completely deserted, although Evan could make out a chequered police cap farther along the dunes. He stared up and down the beach. No waves to speak of, just a gentle lapping as the tide came in. Certainly nothing big enough to sweep a child out to sea.

  Watkins must have been echoing his thoughts. “Was the tide farther in this morning? Would she have gone near the waves, do you think?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “She were scared of the water. Always was a timid little thing, and she’s become much more clingy since her operation.”

  She picked her way in high heels across the soft sand until they reached the firmer, wet sand. “Round about here she were playing, I think.”

  “What happened to her sand toys?” Evan asked suddenly.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Did she leave them on the beach? Were they just lying there?”

  “She didn’t bring any toys down with her,” Mrs. Sholokhov said.

  “What? No bucket and spade? What kiddy goes to the beach without a bucket and spade?”

  “She didn’t go for digging much,” she said. “She liked to run around and pick up shells and seaweed and pretend she was a mermaid. Very into pretending our Ashley is. Always being a princess or a magic horse or something.”

  Evan’s eyes scanned the beach, trying to see where a child might have started a collection of shells or played with seaweed.

  “You don’t remember what shells she was playing with?” he asked.

  “How do I know one bloody shell from another?” she snapped.

  Evan gave her a reassuring smile. “I was just thinking that if she had shells in her hand or her pocket and somebody grabbed her, they might have fallen somewhere.”

  Mrs. Sholokhov put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. You do believe she’s been kidnapped then.”

  Watkins gave Evan a warning frown.

  “Of course not,” Evan said quickly. “There’s usually a very ordinary explanation in these cases. Kiddies go missing all the time and turn up safe and sound.”

  “We’ll do another search of the whole area, Mrs. Sholokhov,” Watkins said. “I’m going to see if we can bring in a bloodhound and maybe his nose can pick up a scent better than our police dogs. And in the meantime, do you have a picture of Ashley you can show us?”

  “Of course,” she said. “What mother doesn’t carry pictures of her daughter around with her?”

  She led them back to the caravan, opened her purse, and took out several snapshots. They showed a sweet little child with elfin features and long, blonde hair.

  “She’s lovely,” Evan said. “Pretty little thing.”

  Mrs. Sholokhov pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she mastered herself. “Everyone used to stop us when she went out in her pram,” she said. “They used to say she was like a little doll. Of course, I used to have hair that color once. Now it has to come out of a bottle.” Her laugh turned into a smoker’s cough.

  “Can we take the pictures with us for now?” Watkins asked. “I’d like to have them ready to send out on the Internet—just in case.” He put the pictures into the folder he was carrying then glanced up at Evan. “Evans, why don’t you do the tour of the caravan park. See if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary, like vehicles coming and going this morning.”

  Evan nodded. “Right you are, sir.”

  “And I’m going to talk to the uniformed boys again. I want reinforcements brought in from Caernarfon and from Bangor if necessary. And I want a W.P.C. to keep Mrs. Sholokhov company again.” He looked at her with compassion. “You don’t want to be on your own at a time like this, love. Do you have anybody in the area?”

  “Nobody at all. I’m Yorkshire born and bred. I’m living in Leeds at the moment. I just brought Ashley here because I wanted her to get some good sea air, and the Yorkshire coast is too bloody cold. Not that this is any warmer, but my neighbor at home said that she always comes to Wales and how lovely it is, so I took her advice. Last time I do that, stupid cow. It’s been bloody freezing all week. I’ve hardly been able to let Ashley out and then when I do …” She put her hand to her mouth again. “What am I going to do if we don’t find her?”

  Inspector Watkins put a hand on her shoulder. “We will. You’ll see.”

  “What about your husband, Mrs. Sholokhov?” Evan asked. “Is he at home? Have you told him yet?”

  “Ex-husband,” she corrected. “We’ve been separated about a year now.”

  Evan noticed Watkins’s quick glance. “And where is he now?”

  “I’ve no idea. If he did what he said he was going to do, he’s back in Russia by now—and good riddance, that’s what I say.”

  “Your husband is Russian?”

  “With a name like Sholokhov what did you think he was, bloody Welsh?”

  “Is he a Russian national?”

  “Do you mean does he have a British passport?” she said. “Not when he left me, he didn’t. He was granted asylum, but he didn’t like it here. He wanted to go home.”

  “Mrs. Sholokhov,” Evan said gently.

  She looked up at him. “Call me Shirley. I can’t stand that name. Bloody mouthful isn’t it?”

  “Shirley, then,” Evan went on. “You don’t suspect that your husband has anything to do with this, do you?”

  “He’d never do anything to hurt Ashley,” she said. “He adored Ashley.”

  “Adored her enough to want to take her to Russia with him?” Watkins asked.

  She stared out past them, and Evan could tell that this thought had crossed her mind before, however hard she had tried to suppress it. “I don’t want to think that,” she said. “I can’t believe he’d put her through something like this. He knows she’s been ill. He knows she needs me.”

  “You got sole custody, I take it?” Watkins asked. “Did he have visitation rights?”

  “Of course they gave me custody. I’m her mother, aren’t I? And we haven’t seen him in a while, so we thought he’d gone back to Russia.”

  “How long?” Watkins asked.

  She sucked in air through her teeth. “Several months now it’s been that we haven’t heard a peep out of him. Of course, we’ve moved around a bit since then—”

  Again Evan saw Inspector Watkins give him the briefest of glances.

  “I’ll want full particulars on him, Mrs. Sholokhov. A photo too, if you’ve got one. I have to treat this as a missing child case at the moment, but I’m going to stick my neck out and have all the ports of exit notified—just in case he decides to skip the country in a hurry with her.”

  “All right.” She nodded.

  “You’ve thought this all along, haven’t you?” Evan said quietly. “You didn’t want to think it, but you have.”

  She nodded again. “I’ve been living in fear that he might come back and get her.”

  “So why didn’t you tell the first policemen that came around this morning? They could have put out the word and maybe stopped him before he left the area.”

  “I thought I was just panicking over nothing,” she said. “I’m not usually the type that gets het up. I stayed calm all the time Ashley had her operation. Tower of strength, that’s what people called me, and now I’m going to pieces because—” She pressed her hands
to her mouth again, but this time she couldn’t stifle the sobs.

  “It’s not too late,” Watkins said. “If he has got her, he can’t have left the country yet. Now you make yourself a nice cup of tea, and I’ll have a policewoman up here to keep you company in a jiffy. All right?”

  She nodded mechanically again.

  “And in the meantime, why don’t you write down all the details about your husband—his last address, what kind of car he drives …”

  “Car he drives? Last time I saw him he didn’t even own a car. You don’t need one in London, do you, and we lived in Shepherd’s Bush.”

  “So you’ve no idea what kind of car we should be looking for?”

  “I just told you—we never owned one. If he wanted to get his hands on a car, I’m sure he could have borrowed one from his Russian mates. Proper little clique, they were.”

  “If you have any phone numbers for any of his friends, you might want to give us those too,” Watkins said. “You don’t happen to have a photo of him in your wallet, do you?”

  “Not bloody likely. I’ve no wish to remind myself about him, thank you.”

  “So the marriage didn’t end amicably then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Let’s just say we recognized it was a mistake for both of us. He didn’t want to stay in Britain, and I had no desire to go to Russia. Pretty hopeless, really, except I got Ashley out of it.”

  “Right then. You put down anything you can think of that might help us, and I’ll be back.” He headed for the door. “We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything at all. At least you know that he loves her, so she’s not likely to come to harm. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “We’ll send round the W.P.C. to stay with you,” Watkins said. “Do you have someone you could call to be with you in case this goes on a bit?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a couple of mates in Leeds, but no real family anymore—just the one aunt in Yorkshire, and she’s too old to travel. I’ll be all right. I’m used to being on my own.”

  Watkins pushed open the caravan door and stepped down onto the grass with Evan close behind him.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  Evan stared toward the beach. The sun had come out fully now, and there were a couple of boys flying a kite and a man walking a little white dog.

  “Sounds to me as if it could be the father,” Evan said. “But why didn’t she tell us that sooner, especially since she thought she heard the sound of a car driving off?”

  “I know. I get the feeling that she’s the kind of woman who doesn’t want to look a fool. She prided herself on being the tower of strength, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but where her child was concerned, who’d worry about whether they looked a fool or not?”

  “I know,” Watkins said. “I’d run naked down the street if I thought someone had taken our Tiffany.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Evan commented, and got a smile from Watkins.

  “In a way I hope it is the father,” Watkins said. “Better than other alternatives.”

  “I’d like to take another look at the beach,” Evan said. “It was strange how there was nothing to show where she had been, wasn’t it? I remember when I was a kid—I’d always build forts and ditches and collect odd things, but there was nothing.”

  “The actual spot could be underwater by now. The tide’s coming in.”

  “I know, but you’d think there might have been some signs of a scuffle if someone had snatched her, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not if it was her dad. She might have gone willingly with him.”

  “But he’d still have had to run to have cleared that beach before Mrs. Show-whatsit came back. I didn’t see any big, heavy footprints, did you?”

  “I’m not an expert on sand,” Watkins said. “That stuff was pretty wet. I’d imagine footprints wouldn’t last long on the wet stuff and don’t make any impression at all on the softer sand.”

  “So you still want me to do a thorough search of the caravan park?” Evan asked.

  “Yes, we’d better cover all bases. Find out who was here and what they might have seen or heard. Oh, and check around and under the vans too—any bins or outbuildings.”

  “Right.”

  Watkins got out his mobile phone. “I’m getting on the blower to HQ so that they can notify the ports right away. Pity she didn’t know what kind of car he’d be driving. That’s going to make it tough. And I’d better have the search widened around here too. We’ll have our lads question people along the road to Criccieth and Borth-y-Gest. Someone might just have spotted a little girl in a passing car, especially if she didn’t want to be in it. She can’t just have disappeared, Evans. Somebody somewhere must have seen her.”

  Chapter 4

  Henry Bosley-Thomas came out of the back door of the farmhouse and stood on the flagstone path, looking around him. The house was a solid square building of gray stone with white-trimmed windows, set amid lush meadows on the valley floor. In Henry’s memory the meadows had been full of sheep. Now they stood empty, apart from a small group of new lambs in a paddock near the house. Foot-and-mouth disease had all but wiped out the Welsh flocks—the Ministry of Agriculture extermination process had seen to that. Not that it concerned Henry too much. He’d always been a town boy, living in comfortable suburbia until he went to boarding school, and farm animals were just something picturesque to be observed from car windows. But he could see that his grandfather had been very cut up about it. He’d talked a lot about it the previous night, after they’d downed half a bottle of Glenfiddich together. This farm was his grandfather’s life—always had been.

  Henry had been brought up to despise his grandfather. “Don’t say that Grandpa is a farmer, for goodness sake”—his parents’ voices echoed through his head—“say that he’s a country squire, if you like. Say he has a manor house in Wales, which he does, but not that he’s a sheep farmer.”

  Both of old Tomos’s sons were ashamed of him, which was ironic when it was the prosperity of the sheep farm that had paid for their expensive educations. At public school they erased any trace of a Welsh accent and never mentioned family. Henry’s own father, Hugh, even hyphenated his last name to hint at a more distinguished ancestry. And they had raised their children with the same attitude. There had always been the yearly visit, which had been fun because of the cousins and the freedom, but his grandfather had always seemed a cold, remote figure, more interested in his farm than his grandchildren, never going in for hugs or games. Even when the tragedy had struck, he had shown no emotion, muttering something about sheep needing his attention and then stomping off in the direction of the hillside. It occurred to Henry that perhaps his grandfather had cared too much and didn’t want to let himself down by showing his feelings.

  Henry realized also that this was probably a family trait. They hadn’t seen each other in—how many years was it now? All had gone their separate ways, all keeping to their own private grief and suspicions and fears. And now Grandpa had brought them back—issued a summons that couldn’t be refused.

  Henry stood and scanned that hillside now. He remembered it full of dark blue uniforms, the barking of dogs, flashlights bobbing around in the dark. All that sitting and waiting—the empty, scared feeling and a throat so tight that food could not be swallowed. Even as he thought this, that same gnawing fear returned to eat at his stomach. He’d been suffering from ulcers recently, which he’d put down to job stress, but he remembered that the stomach pains had started long before he’d held any job.

  “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself and deliberately set off over the stile and up the hillside track.

  Evan left D.I. Watkins and was making for the nearest caravan when he glanced down at the beach again. That beach was worrying him. Maybe the mother had got the wrong spot. It would be easy enough, if she was in a panic. He decided to take one more look for himself. He couldn’t bel
ieve that Ashley had vanished without leaving one single clue, even if it was only a couple of shells or a mound of seaweed. As he made his way back through the dunes, he saw the man with the little white dog and remembered that Mrs. Sholokhov had mentioned seeing him earlier. She’d also mentioned that Ashley was fond of the dog. It wouldn’t do any harm to question the man.

  Before he could go in pursuit, however, the man spotted him, and came toward him.

  “Are you with the police?” he asked, panting slightly with the exertion of walking over the soft sand. He was a genial-looking elderly man with the red face of one who enjoys his Scotch, dressed for the country in tweed jacket and tweedy trilby hat over white hair.

  “Detective Constable Evans, sir.”

  “Have they found her yet?” he asked. The voice was not Welsh, but it had the flat vowels of the south of England. “I heard that the little girl had gone missing.”

  “Not yet, but we’ve got lots of people looking for her.”

  “I hope they find her. Nice little thing.” He smiled. “I chatted with her a few times. Her mother said she’d been ill. She loved Trixie and she wanted to play with her, and her mother said it was okay in the open air.”

  “Her mother said you were on the beach earlier this morning around the time Ashley vanished,” Evan said. “I wonder if you saw or heard anything unusual?”

  “It wasn’t me.” The man shook his head vehemently. “This is my first time on the beach today. It was raining earlier and Trixie hates getting wet feet, so we stayed indoors until things had dried out a bit.”

  “You weren’t on the beach at all this morning?”

  “No, it couldn’t have been me she saw. Like I said, Trixie doesn’t like wet feet, do you, my love?”

  The dog looked up with a silly grin and wagged her tail.

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’s a pity,” Evan said. “We were hoping to find someone who might have seen Ashley.”

  “I don’t imagine there would have been many people out on the beach this morning—it was blowing a gale out here. You should have seen the flag on my flagpole flapping. And this part of the coast is always quite deserted until the school holidays in August.”