by Rhys Bowen
“That’s the strange thing, sir. It was discovered buried inside the gate of a shepherd’s cottage above the village of Llanfair.”
“Llanfair—but that’s on the other side of the mountains, isn’t it? On the Llanberis Pass?” Sarah’s father asked in surprise.
Watkins nodded. “That’s right.”
“Then what in God’s name was she doing over there?”
“That’s one of the things we hope to find out, sir,” Evan said. “The cottage was occupied at the time by a shepherd called Rhodri George.”
“Rhodri?” Old Mr. Thomas’s voice was sharp. “I remember him. Cottage up above Llanfair, you say? He worked for me at one time. In fact we used to have land over on that side—right up to the top of Glyder Fach and down to the road in those days.”
“So the cottage was on your land, then?” Evan asked.
“I’m not sure about the cottage any longer, but I certainly had land over there, and Rhodri worked my sheep for a while. Then I sold the land to a chap called Owens in the early eighties, and I believe Rhodri went to work for him instead.”
Evan could feel his pulse had quickened. A connection at last. A piece of the puzzle maybe falling into place. “So what do you remember about Rhodri?” he asked.
Thomas shook his head. “Can’t say I remember much. Didn’t smell too good. One of the older generation who took a bath once a week. Had a real shrew of a wife. Knew his animals well, always had well-trained dogs—in fact, I believe one of his dogs won the county sheepdog trials once.”
“But his personality, I mean,” Evan insisted. “How did you get on with him? Did he have a temper?”
“What’s that?” Tomos Thomas asked; then a look of amazement and horror spread across his face. “You’re never suggesting that Rhodri had anything to do with—with Sarah, are you? He was as normal as you or I are.”
“I just wondered if you and he ever had a falling-out? Whether he could be the kind of man who carried a grudge.”
“A grudge enough to kill a little child?” Tomos was almost shouting now.
Watkins stepped in to intervene. “Easy now, Mr. Thomas. We’re just trying to make sense of this. There had to be some reason that the child was buried outside Rhodri’s cottage, when whoever took her had the whole wilderness to bury her in. Among other things, you have to wonder how anybody could bury a child outside Rhodri’s front door without his noticing.”
“I think I might be able to explain that, sir,” Evan said. “The water pipes to the cottage were connected around the time Sarah disappeared. The front path may have been dug up for that purpose.”
“Now that could be important. Make a note to check on the timing of the water pipes installation, will you, Evans?” Watkins said.
Evan scribbled on his notepad, rather annoyed that Watkins had reduced him so clearly to subordinate.
“Old Rhodri is long gone, I suppose?” Grandfather Thomas asked. “He was older than me, I think, and I’ve just turned eighty.”
“He was alive a couple of years ago. He sold the cottage and went to live with his daughter in Bangor,” Evan said. “I’ll be checking on him as soon as I can find the time.”
“Find the time?” the gray-haired man demanded. “I should have thought this would become a top priority for you. God knows you boys made a balls-up of the last investigation twenty-five years ago. I’d have thought you’d have jumped at the chance to put things right.”
“Oh, definitely, sir,” Watkins said, “and we’ll give it all the manpower we can spare, but you see we’ve got another case on the books at the moment—another little girl has vanished, and from what I’ve been told, she looks very like your daughter.”
Evan noted that every single one of them reacted to this, their eyes darting around the table at their fellow diners.
“Did she live around here?” Nick, the young priest, asked.
“No, she was a visitor, staying in a caravan park on the coast.”
“Oh well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” the grandfather said.
What did he mean by that? Evan wondered. Was he inferring that it couldn’t have been one of them?
“It’s probably just coincidence that the two girls looked alike,” Watkins said.
They were nodding, staring silently at their empty dessert plates, willing themselves to believe this.
“If we could just get the details on each of you while we’re here,” Watkins went on.
“Details—what for?” Sarah’s father demanded.
“So that we can contact you again if we have any more information for you or questions we want to ask,” Watkins said easily. “Are you all family members?”
“That’s right,” Henry said. “I’m Henry Bosley-Thomas and I think you already know Tomos Thomas, our grandfather here.”
“Henry Bosley-Thomas,” Watkins said. “And what relation were you to the little girl?”
“Her older brother.” He stared coldly at the detective.
“And do you live in the area, sir?”
“No, I live in Surrey, just outside Guildford. Stockbroker belt.” He fished in his wallet. “Here’s my card.”
“So you’re just here for the weekend then, are you, sir?” Watkins asked.
“I was. I should have been driving back today. I’ve got a big case coming up in a couple of weeks and I really can’t spare the time—but of course everything has to be put aside if we can finally discover what happened to Sarah.”
“You’re a lawyer then? Barrister?”
“No, solicitor. Mainly civil law in my practice. I had no wish to spend my life reliving what we suffered with Sarah.”
“I quite understand, sir,” Watkins said. “Do you have other siblings here?”
“Yes, me,” Suzanne said. She pushed her long, blonde hair back from her face. “I’m Suzanne Bosley-Thomas.”
“And you live?”
“Thirty-eight A Kenmore Gardens, Clapham. Not stockbroker belt. And no card.”
“You’re not married, madam?”
“Divorced. I have gone back to using my maiden name.”
“Suzanne made an unfortunate marriage when she was very young. Naturally it didn’t last,” her father said.
She turned to glare at him. “Made an unfortunate marriage. I like that. And who forced me into it?”
Hugh gave her a warning frown. “Really, Suzanne, this is neither the time nor the place. You obviously haven’t learned to conquer these childish outbursts. I’m sorry, Inspector. Please proceed.”
Evan noticed that she flushed bright red and continued to glare at her father.
“I don’t have your name and address yet, sir.” Watkins addressed Hugh, who seemed unaffected by the encounter.
“Hugh Bosley-Thomas. I live in Buckinghamshire. West Wyckham—the Old Grange.”
“And you are the father of these two?”
“Yes, and I was once the father of three. Sarah’s father.” He pressed his lips together to master himself.
“Yes. I’m sorry. It must be horrible for you having to go through this again,” Watkins said.
“Better to know for sure than not to know,” Grandfather Thomas said. “Let’s hope it is her, so that we can get her properly buried and start mourning.”
“Mourning? You don’t think we’ve been mourning all these years?” Hugh demanded.
Evan glanced at Watkins, sensing the tension rising around the dining table.
“We’ll only keep you another minute; then you can get back to your coffee,” Watkins said. “But I suppose I should get details on you too, sir.” He addressed the old man. “Are you Mr. Bosley-Thomas too?”
“Plain old Thomas. Tomos Thomas to be exact. It was my boy here who went posh on me and started hyphenating his name.”
“So the Bosley is your wife’s maiden name?” Watkins turned back to Hugh.
Hugh flushed a frown of annoyance. “My mother’s maiden name. I thought it only fair to honor her, too, since she c
ame from such an old family.”
“Ah.” Watkins smiled as he jotted it down. He looked across the table. “That leaves these two gentlemen over here.”
“We’re the cousins. Our father was Uncle Hugh’s younger brother,” Val said. “Unfortunately, he passed away a couple of years ago.”
“And your name, sir?”
“I’m Val. Short for Valentine. Bloody awful name to give a son, wouldn’t you say?”
“And is it Bosley-Thomas too?”
“No, just plain Val Thomas. I’m an artist and I live in Hampstead Village. I too have a card somewhere in my jacket pocket.” He fished around and produced one with bold black words on a design in red and yellow.
“And last but not least,” Nick said, smiling affably, “I am Nicholas Thomas. Don’t say it—the same as a character in a children’s book, I know. I never lived that down at boarding school.”
“Presumably you are Fr. Nicholas Thomas these days, unless dog collars are the latest fashion,” Watkins said.
Evan shot a quick look at him. Watkins attempting to be witty? That was new, too. He remembered the prosaic sergeant and wondered if attempting witticisms was part of the training in inspector classes.
Nick laughed good-naturedly. “No, I don’t go in for fashion statements. I am a Catholic priest, much to the horror of my Methodist grandfather here, no doubt. And I live in Montreal.”
“And where can we reach you while you’re in this country?”
“As of now at the Everest Inn, but then I’ll probably be staying with my mother in Surrey. You can contact me through Val if you need me.”
“Right. Thanks very much. I think that’s all we need for now. Sorry to have intruded on Sunday lunch.” Watkins snapped his notebook shut. “I don’t know what time the forensic anthropologist will be able to meet with us tomorrow, but I’ll keep you posted and try to speed this up as much as possible. Are you all staying at the Everest Inn if I need to contact you?”
“I am staying here with grandfather,” Henry said. “The rest are dispersed.”
“I’m at a hotel in Llandudno. The Majestic,” Hugh said. “One of the few comfortable beds in this godforsaken place.”
“Nick and I are at the Everest Inn, also known for its comfortable beds,” Val said, giving Watkins his charming smile.
“And I am in a grotty B and B in Porthmadog,” Suzanne said. “The Seaview Hotel.”
“Right. That just about does it then. Thanks again, folks. Come on, Evans.”
Evan had been standing unnoticed behind the inspector. The scene was painfully reminiscent of those childhood summers when he had stood by the fence, watching them, willing them to invite him to come and play. Now, all these years later, he was still the outsider and wondered why on earth Watkins had bothered to bring him along since he had hardly been allowed to say a word.
“Good-bye then,” he said to the group. “Nice seeing you again.”
Before he could reach the front door, he heard Suzanne’s high, light voice. “Why do you think they were here?”
“The inspector told us.” Hugh’s lazy, upper-class drawl. “They had to get our particulars so they can contact us if needed.”
Evan lingered with his hand on the front door latch.
“They could have just sent Evans if all they wanted was our names and addresses. There is more to it than that. They know something they haven’t told us.”
Val said, “Such as what?” at the same time as Henry said, “Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Suzanne.”
“Perhaps they’ve found out who killed Sarah,” she said.
“They were as jumpy as a bunch of grasshoppers, weren’t they?” Watkins muttered, as Evan closed the door behind him.
“Definitely rattled,” Evan agreed.
Chapter 17
They headed for the car. Watkins opened the driver’s door this time and got in.
“You know them,” Watkins said, “so what did you think?”
“I knew them twenty-five years ago when they were kids.”
“So you didn’t have any suspicions about any of them in those days.”
“You mean wondering whether any of them might have killed Sarah?”
Watkins nodded.
“Never crossed my mind,” Evan said. “I was a kid too, remember. When you’re seven years old, you take people at face value. They were perfectly normal—Henry was always a bit pompous. When we played, he was very big on rules. Suzanne was always getting upset and saying that other people were cheating and it wasn’t fair. Val often did try to cheat, and Nick was just as you saw him today, always willing to do what the others wanted.”
“That’s pretty much how they came across now, wasn’t it? The girl is a bit highly strung, wouldn’t you say?”
“But that doesn’t mean that she’d be bonkers enough to kill her younger sister. And she wouldn’t have had the strength to carry her over a mountain and down the other side and then bury her. Besides, none of them would have had the opportunity. If any of them had been missing for that long, they’d have been noticed.”
“Then why are they so bloody jumpy?” Watkins demanded.
“It may just be that they are dreading seeing her skeleton and trying to identify her. It’s like opening old wounds, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I can’t say I’d want to go through that, not after all these years. They’ve probably just about managed to put her out of their minds.”
“Maybe. I bet they still dream about her,” Evan said.
“You know one thing that’s interesting.” Watkins started the car and turned on the circle of gravel before accelerating down the driveway. “Suzanne is staying in Porthmadog.”
“Yes, I did notice that,” Evan said. “But then Val and Nick are at the Everest Inn. It’s only a short drive down Nantgwynant to the coast from there, isn’t it?”
Watkins laughed suddenly and shook his head. “This is stupid, isn’t it? There would be no reason for any of them to have driven to a caravan park on a deserted beach and just happen upon another child who looked like Sarah the moment her mother’s back was turned.”
“It does seem rather far-fetched when you put it like that,” Evan said. “In fact, now that I’ve had a chance to see them again, I really can’t believe any of them were involved in Sarah’s death, or Ashley’s disappearance.”
“You’re the one who made the connection in the first place. You’re the one who dragged me out here.”
“I know, because it seemed like too much of a connection to ignore; but now that I think about it, they all adored Sarah. She was that sort of little kid—everybody’s darling.”
“Everybody’s darling usually means that somebody’s nose is out of joint,” Watkins commented dryly.
Evan’s thoughts went immediately to Suzanne. He remembered her standing, hands on hips, lips pouting, shouting, “It’s not fair!” “If it’s okay with you, sir, I might just check on their movements since they arrived here,” Evan said. “After all, they were jumpy like you said.”
Watkins slapped his hand against the steering wheel. “I just wish we could find bloody Johnny Sholokhov and know whether he’d got his daughter or not. If she’s safe and sound with him, then a twenty-five-year-old skeleton can wait. If she’s not—” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.
“Maybe one of the leads will pan out,” Evan said. “The ones we called sounded quite hopeful. And if he’s hiding with her somewhere, he can’t stay hidden forever.”
“It’s the waiting I hate most in this bloody game,” Watkins said. “I don’t mind when I feel I’m doing something, but I hate it when it’s out of my hands. Knowing that I’m at the mercy of some bloody petty civil servant in London who is probably sitting on his arse picking his spots or filling in his football pools—that’s what drives me up the wall.”
“One of us could go to London,” Evan suggested. “Maybe we’d find out more if we talked to the landlady and Sholokhov’s friends, and his
lawyer too, if they were in the process of getting a divorce.”
“It makes you wonder why he’s done a bunk now if the divorce wasn’t final, doesn’t it?” Watkins tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove. “Why take the kid now, at this very moment? Why not wait until he’s absolutely sure that he won’t be awarded custody?”
“Something might have pushed him to get out of the country in a hurry,” Evan suggested.
Watkins nodded. “You’re right. Something not even connected with his daughter, but he can’t bear to leave without her. Yes, I think you and I will try to take a little trip to the big city this week. We can leave young Glynis to hold the fort—since she’s the only one who can use computers and speak to foreigners anyway.” He exchanged a grin with Evan.
“And neither of us would trust ourselves on an overnight trip with her?” Evan added.
“Speak for yourself, boyo. I’m a happily married man. I gave up temptation long ago when I learned about DIY and putting in shelves.”
The game was called capture the castle. The moment Evan showed them the rocks, it became their game of choice that summer. The large granite boulders littered the summit of a small peak behind the house, and the peak itself was crowned with a fissured rock that imagination easily turned into a castle. The game was a variant of hide-and-seek. One person took possession of the castle. The others had to sneak up the hillside, dodging from boulder to boulder. The first person to get to the castle without being tagged was the winner.
Evan remembered the utterly delicious thrill of lying with his face pressed to the mossy rock, hearing footsteps coming closer, holding his breath, and then letting out a sigh of relief as he wasn’t spotted and sprinted triumphantly to the castle. He was good at the game and often won, so that if they played in teams, he was fought over. It was a great ego boost that they would now come to his front door to ask if he could play with them, rather than the other way around.