by Rhys Bowen
Joe Bingham glanced at the door, then reached out and made a grab for Ashley, who was cowering in the doorway between the kitchen and living room.
“We’ve got the kid,” he said, holding her in front of him with one big arm while the other hand still wielded the knife. “They won’t dare touch us. We can get away.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Shirley Sholokhov screamed. “Take your hands off my child. You’re hurting her.”
Instead, Bingham eased his way around the table, with Ashley still in front of him and the knife still ready. “I’m not staying here to be caught. And I’m not going to jail, neither. You made me do it.”
“Let go of her, you bastard!” Shirley shrieked. She rushed at him. The moment his eyes turned away from Evan, Evan made a grab for the hand with the knife and brought it smashing down on the table with all his force. Bingham yelled out in pain. The knife clattered to the floor as the North Yorks Police burst into the room.
“So the local police were able to pick up Ashley and her mother with no trouble, then?” Detective Inspector Watkins asked Evan at their eight o’clock briefing the next morning. He had returned home well after midnight and had been so wound up that he had not been able to sleep. He had had a couple of close calls before in his life, but he suspected that this was the closest. If the local boys hadn’t shown up in time, would Joe Bingham have risked the blood in the room? Would he have been able to fight his way out? And what if Joe had had a gun instead of a knife? Evan would be lying now down some deep pothole, maybe not properly dead, but dying in darkness.
It seemed from the autopsy that Johnny Sholokhov had not been dead when he was dropped down an unnamed pothole above the cottage. He had slowly bled to death and died of thirst in the next couple of days. The thought brought Evan out in a cold sweat, and he realized he was suffering from delayed shock. Now he was feeling hollow eyed and frazzled.
“Shirley’s boyfriend was a bit of a nuisance, but otherwise no problem,” Evan said.
“Well done, boyo,” D.I. Watkins said. “Of course, it was lucky that Shirley Sholokhov was stupid enough to come out and let you see her.”
Evan was glad that he hadn’t phrased that the other way around. If Joe Bingham had got there first. If they’d spotted him before he saw them—then he could well have been taken off guard and now be lying, like poor Johnny Sholokhov, at the bottom of some pothole.
“You look terrible,” Watkins said. “Are you coming down with something?”
“I didn’t get any sleep. It took awhile to write reports and identify the body in the morgue as Sholokhov. By the time I got home, it was almost time to wake up again.”
Watkins got up. “Come on, then. Let’s go down to the cafeteria and get something in your stomach.” He marched Evan down the hall and soon he was sitting with a plate of egg and chips and a cup of tea in front of him.
“So now the poor kid’s wound up with neither parent,” Watkins said, stirring his own cup of tea as Evan tucked into the egg and chips. “She’ll be placed in custody, I suppose.”
“They may let her live with the great aunt who was looking after her in the cottage,” Evan said. “She seemed a nice enough old girl. Offered me a cup of tea.”
Watkins laughed. “She was probably planning to poison you.”
Evan didn’t laugh and wondered if that had been true. “I wish I’d followed my hunch all along,” he said. “I kept feeling that something was wrong when we were on that beach. No sand toys, no sign that a child had been playing there at all. And what mother wouldn’t be frantic if her child had had major surgery and might not get her proper medicine?”
Watkins nodded. “No wonder we thought she was a cool customer. Well, she was, wasn’t she? Calmly lying, deceiving half of Britain—and dumping her old man down a pothole. Well, I’m glad we know the outcome. I always hate it in those cases when we never know. Especially when kids are involved.”
“Speaking of that,” Evan said, suddenly coming wide-awake, “did you hear anything from Essex—about the old man and the white dog, and the unsolved child murder down there?”
Watkins looked smug. “You’ll never guess,” he said. “Turns out he was the child’s grandfather—the little girl who was killed in Colchester, I mean. That unsolved murder on the books. It was her heart they used for Ashley. He’s been following Ashley around ever since, as though watching her alive somehow makes sense of losing his own grandchild.”
“Poor old man,” Evan said. “No wonder he seemed so concerned for her. It would have been a double blow if Ashley had been killed, too.”
“So that’s pretty much that, isn’t it?” Watkins said. “And I’m delighted to say that you were wrong, for once. All those suspicions about the Thomas family. The two cases were obviously totally unrelated.”
Evan nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “And we may never know who killed Sarah Bosley-Thomas. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence, digging up those bones at the same time as the whole Thomas family was here. It was almost as if she was asking to be found—and they were jittery, you said it yourself.”
“But you don’t think now that any of them was responsible, do you?” Watkins asked.
“If they were, we’ll never prove it,” Evan said. “We’ll never know.”
“I’ve been thinking of one possible explanation,” Watkins said, putting down his teacup and looking up at Evan. “What if Sarah met with a horrible accident—she fell off some rocks and was killed, say? Henry was sure he’d get into trouble because he should have been watching her, so he swore the others to silence. They buried her quietly and said nothing.”
“Sounds daft to me,” Evan said, “but then children don’t always make the best decisions. It may have seemed like the best solution at the time, and then they were stuck with it. Possible, I suppose.”
“So how are we going to get the truth out of them?” Watkins asked.
“They’ve all gone home, haven’t they? I’d say Father Nick was the best bet. Priests are supposed to be honest. We could catch up with him before he leaves the country.”
“He’s staying at a hotel in London. You fancy another trip down there?”
“Today?” Evan looked horrified.
“All right. I suppose it can wait until you’ve recovered. Although the way you’re polishing off that egg and chips shows me there’s nothing wrong with your appetite.”
Evan pushed his plate away and got to his feet. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a report too then? A xerox copy of last night’s report won’t do?”
“I just bought you egg and chips, boyo. Don’t push your luck. Just be glad you’re not me. I’ve got to explain why I mobilized NCIS, Interpol, the Foreign Office all for nothing.”
“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,’” Evan quipped.
“Don’t tell me you’re going all bloody highbrow on me just because you’re marrying a Cambridge graduate.” Watkins drained his own teacup and got to his feet.
Evan went to his desk and got out a pad before he realized that the report would have to be written on the computer. He was still not entirely comfortable around computers. Something inside his head always whispered that he’d press a button one day and wipe out the entire memory with one fell swoop. He sat and jotted notes to himself while plucking up the courage to cross the room and start up the machine. He looked up gratefully as the door opened and Glynis came in.
“The boy hero returns,” she said, grinning. “What a coup for you, solving the whole thing single-handed.”
“I just happened to be the one on the spot, that’s all,” Evan said uneasily.
“Don’t be so modest. You found the place and you got the kid out safely. Good for you.”
“And now I’ve got to put it all in a report.” Evan made a face. “I don’t suppose …”
“I am not the department typist, and I don’t do reports,” she said firmly. “You’ve got to learn to come to terms with that mac
hine someday. Go on. It won’t bite.”
Evan moved across to the computer. Glynis stood, half watching him, half examining the in-tray.
“Oh, did you see a letter came for you?” she asked, and dropped it on the table beside him. “From the County Council. Probably telling you that you can’t dig out your sewer line because it’s on the site of an ancient well!” She laughed as she went to her own workstation.
Evan opened the envelope with a sinking feeling. What would he do if they had denied him permission to reconnect to the water mains or told him that he’d have to hook up to the sewer system in the valley?
His eyes skimmed down the page.
Dear Constable Evans,
In response to your request about workers who might have been involved in putting in the water mains in the Llanfair district—our records show that the following men were in our employment as laborers at the time:
Ernest James, 35 Caernarfon Road, Bangor,
Daniel Jones, Upper Garth Road, Bangor,
Tom Penri, Ty Goch, Llanfairfechan,
Richard Gwynne, Waunfawr Street, Caernarfon
Evan snatched up the sheet of paper, double-checking what he had just read. He heard Glynis yelling, “Where are you off to now?” as he rushed from the room.
Chapter 31
“Come on!” Sarah tugged at his bare arm, making him jump. He had been standing in deep shade under the oak tree, tense as a coiled spring, waiting for the signal to start the game, and had just decided on the perfect plan of attack. To his right he could see Henry, crouching behind a bush. He had chosen the rocky route—zigzagging up along a trail of boulders that gave almost perfect coverage all the way to the top. Evan had decided on speed. Val—the current king on top of the mountain—would be watching the boulder route, since it was most often successful. He wouldn’t be watching the open area ahead of Evan. If he was fast enough—and he prided himself on his speed—he could sprint for the bush ahead, wait in perfect safety behind it; then another sprint should bring him to the big rock and striking distance of the summit.
“What?” he whispered to Sarah.
“Let’s go,” she whispered back.
“Go where?”
“To find the fairies.”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now. Come on. Nobody will miss us. Henry will be trying to win. Val’s in the castle. We’ve got ages.”
Evan looked down at her—her blue eyes pleading with him, then up at the summit of the hill. He stood poised on a knife-edge of indecision. For once he had a chance to beat Henry, and beating Henry was important to him. Even though Henry now let him play with them, he was still the skinny Welsh kid who didn’t go to boarding school and knew nothing about the rest of the world. But then he also wanted to please Sarah. The way she gave him an adoring smile was worth more than winning any game.
She slipped her hand into his. “Let’s go, Evan. Come on. Please.”
He almost relented. His mind went through the ramifications of what might happen if they were found to be missing. He’d get yelled at for taking Sarah away. He might be forbidden to play with them again, seen to be a bad influence, not reliable. All of those were bad enough, but then he played out a scene in his mind where Sarah said, “He was taking me to show me the fairies,” and he pictured Henry and Val beside themselves with laughter. “You know where the fairies live, do you, Evans? Little Evan likes to play with the fairies—do you wear a ballet skirt then? And pretty wings?”
That decided it. “Sorry, Sarah.” He shook his head. “I’d get in big trouble if we were found out. Your mum wouldn’t let me play with you anymore.”
Sarah pouted in the way that only she could pout, her whole bottom lip jutting out defiantly. “If you won’t take me, I’ll just go by myself.”
“Of course you won’t. Don’t be stupid. You’d get lost.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You’re not going anywhere alone.”
“You can’t stop me.”
At that moment came the shout from the top of the hill, signaling that the game had started. To his right he saw movement as Henry dodged to the first rock. Sarah made as if to dart away and Evan grabbed her by the arm. “No, you’re coming with me, Sarah,” he said, with sinking heart, as he watched Henry move ahead of him up the mountain.
It must have been the next time they played that Evan wasn’t with them, and she took her chance to go up to the mountains alone. He should have told them; he realized that now. He should have warned them of her intention, but he stayed well away from anything linking him to fairies. One of the reports said that the dogs had initially tracked her up not down. So she had gone up and met someone—Richard Gwynne? Evan pictured the big, brawny man with his muscles showing through his torn undershirt.
His hands gripped the steering wheel. Calm down. It wasn’t necessarily the same man. Richard Gwynne wasn’t exactly a common name, but it was possible that there were several of them floating around Wales. Only the Richard Gwynne who now lived at the caravan park and made twisted metal sculptures had told him that he used to work for the council and lived with his mum on a council estate in Caernarfon until recently. And a man who lived with his mother for most of his life and now had become an antisocial misfit might certainly fit the profile of a pedophile.
Evan felt red anger surging through his brain as he drove. If Gwynne had harmed Sarah, Evan would make sure he suffered. He could picture his hands around Richard Gwynne’s neck and was shocked at himself. What kind of policeman would he be if he took things personally, even if this was personal? The logical thing to do would be to turn around, call the station, and have somebody else sent to interview Richard Gwynne. But Evan wasn’t in a logical mood. He had to know for himself. He had to find out what had happened to her, however bad it was.
There was a fierce wind blowing off the Irish Sea, bending the tall grass on the mountain like a brush going through long hair. When Evan stepped out of the car and came through the gap in the hedge, it caught him full in the face, peppering him with fine sand. He bent into the wind and crossed the meadow. As he passed between the vans and came out to the dunes, the sand became unbearable, blowing into his eyes and mouth and making it hard to breathe. There were whitecaps on the usually peaceful estuary beyond.
“Who is it?” Gwynne’s voice yelled in response to Evan’s pounding.
“Police. Open up.”
The door opened a few inches. “Oh, it’s only you,” Richard Gwynne said. “What do you want this time?”
“To talk to you about a missing girl!” Evan had to shout to make himself heard over the hiss of the wind.
“I heard on the news she’d been found. The mother faked the kidnapping, stupid cow.”
“Not that girl. Another one. Twenty-five years ago.”
“Twenty-five years?” Gwynne looked amused. “Are the police so desperate for something to keep them occupied that they’re going back twenty-five years?”
“We found a child’s skeleton, Mr. Gwynne. We think you may be able to help us identify it.”
He was proud of the way he was keeping his voice calm and professional so far.
“I don’t see how I could help you.” Gwynne shrugged.
“You used to work for the council, didn’t you? You worked connecting up remote farms to the mains water back in the late seventies?”
“That’s right. I did. How did you know that?”
“You put in the pipes at a cottage above Llanfair.”
“I might well have done. Can’t remember now. I did so many of them that year.”
“We found the child’s skeleton in one of the trenches that you dug when you put in the pipes.”
Richard Gwynne opened the door wider. “Just a minute. You’re not hinting that I might have had something to do with putting it there?”
“You or someone working with you,” Evan said.
“Listen, mate, first of all, I love kids. I’d kill anybody who harmed a little chil
d. And secondly—we worked in teams—four of us, so even if one of us had wanted to bury a child in the trench, he’d have had three other blokes watching him. They were all good blokes, too. Family men. And we were all driven down to the council yard in the van at the end of the workday.”
“That doesn’t mean that one of you couldn’t have come back afterward and done a little digging of his own.”
“So could anyone else who had a spade,” Gwynne said. “Everyone in the village would have seen us digging.”
Of course this was true, Evan had to admit. Everyone in Llanfair knew everyone else’s business all the time. They’d have been well aware that a trench was being dug at Rhodri Morgan’s cottage. So they were back to the old question—how did Sarah or Sarah’s body get over the mountains to Llanfair?
Richard Gwynne was staring at him defiantly. “You got anything else to ask me because you’re letting the sand blow in,” he said and started to close the door.
“Yes. Tell me about the other men on your team.”
“Like I said—they were good blokes. Family men,” he said. “Old Tom Penri, I remember him. Then there was a Dan. I can’t remember the last one—tall, skinny young kid right out of school he was. But he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Edward something, no Ernest, that was it.”
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Gwynne,” Evan said. “We’ll be following up on this, so anything you can remember at all—anyone you talked to while you were digging, anyone you saw on the mountain might be of help.”
“I don’t know if I can remember anything that happened that long ago. Like I said, we put in hundreds of pipes that year all over the place.”