by Rhys Bowen
“You want me down at HQ in Caernarfon? Surely the D.I. hasn’t requested my presence?”
Watkins chuckled. “No, but I have. I told him you’d been the one who knew the most about her, so it made sense to have you there. He wasn’t very interested either way. He’s still onto his Mafia theory. Now he’s trying to prove she had Mafia connections and hired a hit man—don’t laugh—that’s his current line of thinking. He’s dying to fly to Europe to testify in an international case.”
They had reached the perimeter of the field. “See you down there,” Watkins said. Evan headed for his own car, his heart beating fast. So it was Mrs. Llewellyn after all! Why hadn’t he suspected it? He’d felt all along that she was tense and hiding something, but her visit to her “friend” would have explained that. They would have accepted that explanation, too. In the absence of the murder weapon, they’d have had a hard time pinning the crime on her. So what would have made her come forward and confess voluntarily?
Evan drove out of the car park and headed across the toll bridge, spanning the estuary to Porthmadog and the less mountainous route to Caernarfon. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was doing the right thing, butting in on the D.I.’s interrogation. Sergeant Watkins might want him there but he was pretty sure the D.I. would tell him to bugger off. But he had to admit that he was very curious to hear what Mrs. Llewellyn had to say.
* * *
Police HQ in Caernarfon had that empty, out-of-hours feeling as their feet echoed along a half-lit hallway. Watkins tapped on the interview room door. Detective Constable Mathias came out. “You needn’t have rushed,” he said, closing the door swiftly behind him. “She’s had second thoughts. She talked to her lawyer and he told her not to say any more until he drives up from London. He’ll be here in the morning. The D.I.’s sending her home for the night.”
As he saw Evan register surprise he went on, “It’s okay. She posted bail. She’s not going anywhere and we’ve no cells suitable for someone like her, have we?”
“Are they going to build a high-class jail when she’s convicted?” Watkins asked dryly. “So there’s no point in Evans having a chat with her, is there?”
“The D.I. suggested he could drive her home, since he’s going that way. Who knows, she might get more friendly in the car.”
“I’d be happy to drive her,” Evan said, “if she doesn’t mind riding in my old bone shaker. They don’t provide village constables with police vehicles, you know.”
“Just as long as it gets her home, it saves one of us having to run her up there on a Saturday night,” D.P.C. Mathias said. “I personally had a date and—”
“Oh no!” Evan put his hand to his forehead.
“What?” Watkins asked. “You were supposed to be on a date, too?”
“I was supposed to be meeting someone down at the eisteddfod. She’ll think I stood her up.” He sighed. “Oh well, nothing I can do about it now.”
“Your bird-watching young lady?” Watkins asked. “She’ll understand. She has to know what a policeman’s life is like by now.”
“No, it wasn’t her,” Evan said. “It was an old girlfriend from Swansea. I bumped into her at the eisteddfod. We’d arranged to meet after I’d finished singing…” he saw the exchange of smirks and gave Mathias a warning frown … “don’t even ask.”
“Meeting an old girlfriend on the sly?” Watkins grinned at him. “Asking for trouble, that’s what you are.”
“It was all harmless, Sarge. Just catching up on Swansea news, that’s all. Now I’ve no way of getting in touch with her.” As he said it he realized that he felt relieved. Now Maggie would go back to Swansea and he’d get on with his life up here and never think of her again.
“I’ll tell the D.I. that you’ll drive Mrs. L. home then, shall I?” D.P.C Mathias asked.
“By the way,” the thought suddenly struck Evan, “what ever happened to Gladys? Did they finally locate her?”
“No. She never showed up at home. I went round to her house several times,” Mathias said. “I checked with the neighbors, too. They didn’t know where she was.”
A woman P.C. was coming down the hall with two cups of tea on a tray. “Did I hear you asking about Gladys somebody?” she said. “An old lady, was she? Gladys Rees?”
“That’s right,” Watkins said.
“Then I can tell you why she never showed up when she was supposed to. I went with her to the hospital this afternoon. She got hit by a car crossing Pool Street, poor old dear. It’s always the same with these old people, isn’t it? She was in a hurry to get her shopping done before the shops closed and her eyesight wasn’t too good. I’ve seen it before. And the cars drive too fast around that corner, too.”
“So she’s in the hospital, is she?” Evan asked. “We should get down there—”
“No need for that,” the woman P.C. cut in. “She died soon after the ambulance arrived.”
“Was she conscious? Did she say anything?” Watkins demanded sharply.
“Say anything about what?” the P.C. looked puzzled. “Yes, she was conscious. Quite alert, in fact. That’s why I was surprised to hear that she’d died.”
“Did she see the car that hit her?” Evan asked.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” the P.C. said. “She was hit from behind, looking the wrong way. They said she was tossed in the air like a rag doll.”
“And the car didn’t stop?” Evan asked.
“It was all rather confused. The driver that hit her got the impression that another car had hit her first. He said one minute she wasn’t there, the next she landed on his bonnet. He was very upset, poor man. You know how it is when it’s crowded on Saturdays.” She paused and stood there, frowning. Then she gave them a sad little smile. “I mustn’t let the D.I.’s tea get cold or he’ll shout at me. You could check with the hospital casualty room. She might have said something there, but I’m not sure what you expected her to say?”
“Who tried to kill her, of course,” Evan said.
Watkins drew Evan to one side as the woman P.C. disappeared into the interview room and D.P.C. Mathias followed her.
“You think it wasn’t an accident then?” he asked.
Evan shrugged. “It could have been, I suppose. She was in a hurry to do her shopping and she was old and her eyesight wasn’t too wonderful, maybe. But it’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? She was about to take a look at the house where she had cleaned and dusted for years. She’d know instantly if something was missing, or was in the wrong place. And she heard Ifor Llewellyn talking to someone shortly before he died, didn’t she?”
Watkins’s eyes lit up. “You know what else is interesting—the way Mrs. Llewellyn came forward very quickly and volunteered to give Gladys a ride home. She could have pumped her for information on the way and found out what she knew.”
“I’m going to get someone onto this right away,” Watkins said. “I’m going down to the hospital and find out the exact time the accident took place and see if Gladys said anything relevant while she was there. Then tomorrow I’ll get people out to Pool Street and talk to the witnesses. Someone must have seen what hit her, and if it was a big black Mercedes…”
“It would be easier for the killer to be doing the pushing, not the driving,” Evan said. “You know how crowded Pool Street is on a Saturday. You follow Gladys. You stand behind her when she’s about to cross. A large vehicle comes and you give her a little push. If anyone notices, you say you were pushed from behind and pitched forward into her. It’s a no-risk way of getting rid of someone.”
Watkins nodded. “That’s true enough. Oh well, at least we don’t need her testimony anymore, now we’ve got a confession. But why would Mrs. L. go to the trouble of getting rid of Gladys if she was going to confess?”
“Because something has happened since that has made her change her mind. Maybe the friend in Llandudno made it clear that he wasn’t going to give her an alibi.”
“Yes, we’ll have to question him tomorrow, whether she l
ikes it or not.”
“I’ll go and see if the D.I. has finished with Mrs. L. for the night, shall I?” Watkins said. “You two might have a nice chat on the way home.”
Evan gave him a sideways glance. “Come on, Sarge. You think she’ll warm up to my charm and tell me all the details? And if she did, her solicitor would say that she was coerced and I’d be in big trouble.”
“I didn’t mean that you should pump her for information. But a harmless little chat might tell us something we didn’t already know.”
“I’d say that Mrs. Llewellyn isn’t the type to give anything away by mistake,” Evan said. “She kept her affair secret from her husband, didn’t she?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Watkins said. “I’m beginning to wonder if he’d found out about it and that’s what made her get rid of him. Still, we’ll know in the morning, if her lawyer lets her talk.”
He disappeared into the interview room and reappeared with an ashen-faced, tight-lipped Mrs. Llewellyn. She was wearing a dark suit and sensible black shoes. Evan got the feeling that Mrs. Llewellyn was the type of woman who instinctively knew what to wear for any occasion. She’d find it hard having to wear a prison uniform.
“It’s good of you to drive me home, Constable,” she said as he opened the car door for her.
“Sorry about the car. It’s not exactly like your Mercedes,” Evan said.
He started the engine. Mrs. Llewellyn sat very straight and stared ahead of her as they drove out of town and into the blackness of the countryside. For a long while neither of them spoke. Then she said, “You summoned my daughter here. I don’t know what made you do that. How can she help you—she was in Milan.” Evan remained silent. He changed gear with a grind as the car began to climb up the Llanberis pass.
“I particularly wanted to keep her out of it,” Mrs. Llewellyn went on. “She’s a very emotional child and … and she worshipped her father. This will be very distressing to her.”
“Yes, I expect it will,” Evan said.
“I had hoped to keep the truth from her. But I suppose it is already plastered on every newsstand around the world by now. God, how I loathe the media. They wrecked my life.”
Evan nodded. That would probably be a good line of defense for her, he thought. Driven over the edge by living in a media spotlight and constantly hounded by paparazzi. Any jury would have sympathy with that.
She didn’t speak again until he pulled up in the Everest Inn car park.
“Will you be picking me up in the morning?” she asked as if she was arranging a car pool for a normal occasion.
“I think they’ll send a car for you when your solicitor arrives,” Evan said.
“I see.” She sighed as he opened the door for her. “Now I’ve got to face my son. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Then don’t tell him anything until you really have to.” Evan felt sympathy for this remote, composed woman. How many years had she had to hide her true feelings while her husband was photographed with beautiful women?
“My son and I have no secrets from each other, Constable,” she said coldly. “We have never had secrets from each other.”
She gave him a polite nod then walked toward the lighted doorway of the inn.
Evan watched until she had disappeared inside, then he went home. It had been a long day.
Chapter 17
Evan opened his eyes to the rumble of thunder. Too bad, he thought, that will put a damper on the eisteddfod’s closing day. The thunder became more persistent and he realized that it was knocking on his door.
“Mr. Evans?” Mrs. Williams’s shrill voice punctuated the thunder. She opened the door and peeked around it. “Sorry to disturb you and on the Sabbath, too, day of rest and gladness, isn’t it? But there’s someone on the phone for you and he says it’s very urgent.”
It must be very early, Evan decided. Mrs. Williams was still in her dressing gown and slippers and she never slept in much past six. He reached for his own robe and followed her downstairs to the phone.
“Sorry to wake you, but the D.I. told me to,” Watkins voice came cheerfully on the line. “And if I have to be up at six-thirty on a Sunday morning, then there’s no reason why you shouldn’t, too.”
“Thanks a lot,” Evan muttered, only half joking. “What’s happened?”
“Mrs. Llewellyn just called,” Watkins said. “She wants to talk now, before her lawyer gets here. She says she’s scared he’ll stop her from telling us everything and she needs to get it off her chest. The D.I. wants you to pick her up from the hotel and bring her down to HQ.”
“What’s wrong with sending a squad car for her?” Evan grumbled. “It’s my own car and my own petrol, you know.”
“So put in a claim. I think it’s an excuse to get you here. I don’t think the D.I.’s willing to admit it, but he’d like to have you around, just in case.”
“I’ll be down right away,” Evan said. “She’s ready and waiting, is she?”
“So she said. Anxious to get on with it.”
“Right, Sarge. I’ll pick her up as soon as I’m dressed. Any more news about Gladys?”
“I went round to the hospital after you left last night, but it wasn’t any use. They say she died on a gurney before they could get her into an operating room. No one had time to talk to her.”
“So now we’ll never know,” Evan said, trying to control the rising anger he felt at the death of the old woman.
“Unless we can find a witness who saw something. I’m putting men out there today,” Watkins said. “But if nobody comes forward, I’m not too optimistic—unless we can get Mrs. L. to confess to Gladys as well?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice.” Evan put down the phone. He was almost back to his room when the front bedroom door opened and a tousled Reverend Powell-Jones stuck out his head.
“What is all this unearthly commotion in the middle of the night?” he demanded.
“Sorry, Reverend, I’ve just had an emergency phone call,” Evan said.
“Most inconsiderate,” The reverend muttered. “I needed my sleep, today of all days. This is my big day, you know—my first bardic competition. By the end of today I hope to be crowned and chaired as bard. That fool Parry Davies will be eating his words.”
Evan was about to say something on the subject of Christian charity but changed his mind. There were already enough complications in his life.
“I suppose it was something to do with Llewellyn’s death?” Powell-Jones asked. “I knew it was a mistake to let the house to those people, but my wife insisted, and when she gets a bee in her bonnet, there’s no stopping her.”
Evan knew what that was like. He almost felt sympathy for him. “Oh well, I expect you can have your house back very soon,” he said. “I don’t think the family will want to move back into it, after what happened.”
“I’m not sure that we will,” Powell-Jones said. “My wife is a sensitive woman, Mr. Evans. She says that the aura of violent death will linger … I hope they’ll have the decency to pay to have the carpet cleaned.”
“I’m sure they’ll do that,” Evan said. “I have to go now, Reverend. Mrs. Llewellyn’s waiting for me. Good luck with your poetry.”
“It’s in the hands of God.” The Reverend Powell-Jones raised his eyes piously to heaven. “Only He knows who best deserves the honor.”
His modest expression didn’t manage to disguise who he thought that person should be. Evan smiled to himself as he went back to his room.
* * *
“I’m sorry to drag you from your bed so early on a Sunday morning, Officer,” Margaret Llewellyn was the third person to apologize to him within half an hour, Evan noted, “but I couldn’t wait any longer with this thing hanging over me. I’ve hardly slept all night.” Her appearance confirmed this. She looked pale, haggard, and at least ten years older—but she had still taken trouble over her appearance, fresh lipstick, not a hair out of place.
“I’m afraid there are a few newspape
rmen still hanging around outside,” Evan said. “I’ve parked the car as close as I could and I’ve left the passenger door open. All we have to do is make a run for it.”
“Thanks. You’re very thoughtful.” She smiled at him. “Alright. I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Evan held open the big central door and she ran swiftly to the car, pushing aside microphones and cameras. She did it so casually that Evan realized this was something she was used to. He shut her door, got in, and nudged his way through the persistent flashbulbs and microphones.
“At least I’ll be away from them soon,” she said, leaning back and closing her eyes. “God, how I hate them.”
She hardly said another word all the way down to Caernarfon and Evan didn’t interrupt her silence.
* * *
D.I. Hughes looked up from his conversation with Sergeant Watkins as Mrs. Llewellyn was ushered in. The interview room was small with walls painted institutional green. It had once had a window but it had been painted over and the room was lit with a single stark central light. The large electric clock on the wall moved forward in rhythmic jerks accompanied by loud ticks. Hardly the sort of environment to make a suspect relax.
Watkins got to his feet and pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table for Mrs. Llewellyn. Evan waited by the door, expecting the D.I. to dismiss him. Instead the inspector said, “Come in and close the door, please, Evans. I think we’re ready to get started.”
Evan closed the door and stood by it, since there were no more chairs in the room. D.I. Hughes leaned over to the tape recorder, which was in the middle of the table. “This is Detective Inspector Geraint Hughes. I am in interview room B with Detective Sergeant Watkins and Constable Evans. It is seven-ten, on Sunday August the second. Would you state your full name please.”
“Margaret Ann Llewellyn.”
“Mrs. Llewellyn, before we begin, would you affirm that you have been read your rights, including your right to have a lawyer present?”
“That is correct.” She answered mechanically.
“You understand that anything you say in this room could be used against you in a subsequent trial?”