by Rhys Bowen
“When will the trial be?”
“They haven’t set a trial date yet, but he comes up before the magistrate on Monday afternoon. That’s why I came to see you, Mrs. Evans. I thought you might like to be there. We want to make sure the bastard isn’t allowed out on bail, pardon my language, Mrs. E. And now young Evan is here too, maybe you’d both like to let the magistrate know your feelings on the subject of bail.”
“I want to be there,” Mrs. Evans said. “Evan can take me. It’s only right that Robert has someone to speak for him.”
“When he’s up before the magistrate,” Sergeant Howells said. “I’ll be there myself, and DCI Vaughan is going to appeal against bail being granted. I’ll meet you there then, all right?” He got to his feet. “I’d better be going. We’re all running around like crazy at the station. We’ve got the place crawling with Major Crime Support Unit blokes from Talbot. We have to make this one stick.” He nodded to Evan, then to Bronwen, who had remained silent. “Nice meeting you, Miss. See you Monday then, Evan. Take care of your mum, won’t you? And thank you for the sustenance, Mrs. E.” He put his cap back on his head. “Don’t worry. I can see myself out.”
There was silence after the front door closed.
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Evan said again.
Bronwen touched Evan’s arm. “I take it that the suspect they’ve just caught is the man who killed your father, then?”
Evan was staring down at the lace pattern on the tablecloth. He didn’t trust himself to look up. “That’s right.”
“Tony Mancini. Is he an immigrant then?”
“Well, I suppose his family were immigrants originally. A lot of Italians came over to South Wales in the 1920s. We had quite a few boys at school with Italian names.”
“And why was he let out of prison so quickly?”
“He was only a kid when he shot my father. And he claimed it was accidental. My dad surprised a gang unloading a drug shipment at the docks. Mancini said he was told to shoot, and he shot. He was scared and just shot wildly. So they just sent him to a young offenders institute instead of prison.”
“And back on the streets after four years,” Evan’s mother said bitterly. “And now some other family will be going through what we did. Another empty place at the dinner table. It’s not right, is it?”
Evan went over and put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Ma. This time they’ll put him away for sure. We’ll help make sure they do.”
During the night a strong wind swept in from the Irish Sea so that when Evan woke in the morning, the sky was blue with puffball white clouds scudding across it. When he took Bronwen a morning cup of tea he found her already up, kneeling on her bed, and looking out of the window.
“What a magnificent view.” She turned to smile at him. “If I lived here, I’d never get any work done. I’d be sitting at this window every day.”
Evan looked out at the expanse of Swansea Bay sparkling in the sunlight between its protective arms of green hills. From up here he couldn’t really see the power station or the steel works or any of the factories. Even the houses below looked clean and freshly painted.
“I used to have my desk in this window. I liked to watch the cargo boats come in.” He smiled at her.
“This was your room then?”
Evan nodded.
“Then you should have said something. I’m sure you’d rather have slept in your old room.”
“My mother would never have heard of it. This is her guest room now, and you are the guest.”
Bronwen looked around. “So what happened to all your things? There’s nothing to indicate that you lived here once.”
“Up in the attic, in boxes, probably. My mother’s always been a great one for cleaning up and clearing out. I expect she’ll produce the photo albums at some stage and let you see me as a chubby baby and a skinny ten-year-old.”
“Oh, I do hope so.” Bronwen smiled at him. “Were you a skinny ten-year-old?”
“Very. And undersized. They used to pick on me in primary school because I was a new boy and I spoke Welsh.”
“And the other boys didn’t?”
“Some of them spoke it at home, but never in school. In fact one teacher told us very plainly that we’d be stupid to choose Welsh rather than French or German when we went to the grammar school, because it was a dead language and no use.”
“Well, I suppose he did have a point. I’m glad I speak it, but it isn’t really much use, is it?”
“Only to sing songs and recite poetry.”
Bronwen took a sip of the tea he offered her. “So can we get some of those boxes out of the attic? I want to see your Cub Scout uniform and your Meccano set.”
“Whatever for?”
“So that I get a picture of you as a little boy, of course. I have to know what I’m marrying.”
“Evan? If you’ve taken Miss Price her tea, I need you down here,” Evan’s mother called up the stairs.
Evan grinned at Bronwen. “She doesn’t want me lurking in your bedroom.”
“And quite right too. I’ll be down in a few minutes.” She slid off the bed and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s a lovely day for walking.”
Evan glanced back down the hall. “It’s Sunday. I rather suspect we’ll have to go to chapel first,” he said. “Mum’s still very hot on that kind of thing. And then there will definitely be Sunday lunch with all the trimmings. But we’ll get out somewhere this afternoon. I can still give you my tour of the famous historic sites of Swansea.”
“Dylan Thomas’s birthplace, you mean? I’d love to see it.”
“I was thinking more of my primary school, my grammar school, my rugby field—they’re a lot more interesting than bloody Dylan Thomas. I can’t see why people make such a fuss about him.”
“Oh, but he was brilliant. I love his poems. ‘Do not go gentle into that good night.’ You have to admit that’s a wonderful poem.”
Evan frowned. “Funny. I came upon it when I was going through stuff after my dad died. I couldn’t read it. It made me too angry.”
Bronwen reached up and stroked his cheek. “Would you like me to come with you when you go to court tomorrow? I will if you want me to, but I don’t want to be in the way.”
“May be better if you don’t,” Evan said. “It might be rather hard for my mother, you know.”
“I understand.”
“Evan,” came the shout from downstairs. “What’s taking you so long up there? Leave Miss Price in peace.”
When Bronwen came downstairs a little later she found a full breakfast being cooked. Rashers of bacon were sizzling in a pan. Sausages, tomatoes, and mushrooms were under the grill, and eggs were waiting to be fried.
“Oh heavens,” Bronwen exclaimed. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me. I’m quite happy with toast or cereal.”
Mrs. Evans gave her a disapproving look. “Neither my husband nor my boy ever had to start a day’s work on toast or cereal. They left the house with a good breakfast in their stomachs. Good wholesome food. That’s what keeps men happy.”
Evan saw Bronwen making sure she didn’t make eye contact with him. Instead she went over to the toaster. “I’ll do some toast for us, shall I?”
“Chapel at ten,” Mrs. Evans said firmly. “But I never asked, did I—are you church or chapel, Miss Price?”
“My grandmother brought me up chapel, but my parents are more church, when they go at all,” Bronwen said. “But I’m perfectly happy to come to the chapel with you, Mrs. Evans.”
“Right you are. We leave here at nine-forty, sharp. Got that, Evan? I remember how you always made us late when you were a little boy, dawdling up in your room.”
“We’ll be ready, Ma.” Evan gave Bronwen a quick glance and she smiled back.
“You might have warned me the sermon would be in Welsh and then in English,” Bronwen muttered as they finally emerged from the squat gray stone building close to noon. “I could have brought a good book t
o stick inside my hymn book. My, but he did go on, didn’t he? And all that hell fire, too. What makes people actually want to be abused and insulted for two hours?”
“Good for the soul.” Evan squeezed her hand. “But the lunch will make up for it, I expect.”
When they got home they were greeted by the smell of roast leg of lamb. It came out of the oven crisp and brown. Potatoes, parsnips, and onions were dotted around it, equally crisp and brown, and to these Mrs. Evans added broad beans and marrow in a white sauce.
“And I made your favorite for pudding,” she said as she cleared away empty plates. “Baked jam roll and custard.”
Evan silently let a notch out of his belt as the long sponge roll, oozing with jam, emerged from the oven.
After lunch Mrs. Evans went for a rest. Evan and Bronwen took the opportunity to escape. “Although after that lunch I think I could have slept all afternoon too,” Evan said. “We’d better do plenty of hill walking to burn off all those calories.”
They started with a quick drive around the modern town center and past the 1930s Guildhall, then, after passing an attractive park full of Sunday sun worshippers, they pulled up outside a school.
“This used to be it,” Evan said. “It was Swansea Grammar School when I was there. Now it’s a comprehensive, like all the others. It used to be ever so snooty, and the kids on our street used to throw lumps of dirt at my uniform.”
“It sounds like a dangerous place to grow up.”
“It toughened me up,” Evan said. “And as soon as I started growing and playing rugby, they stopped bothering me.”
“All right.” Bronwen gave a mock sigh. “Show me this historic rugby field. Have they put up a plaque to you yet?”
They zigzagged back up the hill and parked beside an expanse of playing fields. At this time of year there were no rugby posts, but the grass had been groomed in the center for a cricket pitch—a slim strip of perfect green. Figures in white were dotted around it and from the open car window they heard the satisfying thwack of bat striking ball, followed by a round of polite applause.
“This is it,” Evan said.
“So this is where you scored every Saturday.” Brownen’s clear blue eyes were teasing.
“I didn’t score very often,” Evan said, pretending not to get her double meaning. “I wasn’t supposed to in the position I played. I played number eight.”
“Sorry. I know nothing about rugby, which I’m sure is a sacrilege in Swansea.”
“Middle of the back row.”
“Sounds like a chorus line.”
“Of the scrum.”
“I only have a vague idea what a scrum is, but I bet your friend Maggie can tell me whether you scored or not. Maggie what was her last name?”
“Pole,” he said. “Maggie Pole.” As he said it a picture of the vivacious brunette flashed into his head. He shook his head. “Let’s not talk about her. It was all over a long time ago and not exactly happy memories.”
“Did you have a stormy breakup?”
“She dumped me,” Evan said. “If you want the whole sorry story, I had a bad time after my father died. I was off work. I couldn’t seem to get on with my life. I really needed Maggie, and she told me she wasn’t prepared to wait around for a loony. End of story.”
“What a bitch,” Bronwen said.
Evan looked surprised at this uncharacteristic outburst.
“Well, she was. If you love someone, you don’t dump them when they go through a bad patch. When I say for better or worse, I’ll mean it.”
“I’m sure you will.” He took her hand and squeezed it.
“So now I understand why you weren’t keen on seeing her again.”
“And you know why I plan to keep out and busy all the time we’re in Swansea. If my mother has her way, she’ll trap us and invite Maggie round for tea.”
“So your mum was keen on her, I gather.”
“Not at the time. Only in retrospect. In fact she thought Maggie was flighty and her skirts were too short. No one has ever been good enough for me, according to my mother.”
“Which is why she is so frosty to me.”
“She’ll warm up. Give her time.”
“I hope so. I don’t want to be called Miss Price all my life.”
“You’ll be Mrs. Evans soon, if that suits you better.” Evan smiled. “All right. You’ve seen the site of my rugby triumphs. On to the next stop.”
“You won’t forget Dylan Thomas’s house, will you?”
“No, I won’t forget Dylan bloody Thomas.”
They continued over hilly terrain, lined with uniform streets of a council housing project. Then Evan stopped outside a gray stone chapel at the top of a hill. Without saying anything he opened the car door and got out. Bronwen followed him as he walked up the path and around the side of the chapel.
“Another scene of your boyhood triumphs?” she asked, running to keep up with him because he was walking fast.
They were facing inland now, away from the sea. Green hills and valleys rolled away as far as the eye could see.
“It used to be different when I was a boy,” Evan said, pausing to let her stand beside him. “This was all coal-mining country. There were black slag tips on top of those hills and mine equipment, and a smog always hung over the valleys because of the coal dust. It’s hard to believe now that things can change so quickly.”
He started walking again, into the little cemetery behind the chapel. “I brought you up here because I wanted you to see my father’s grave.” He stopped beside a plain granite headstone.
The words were already being overtaken by lichen. “In loving memory of Robert David Evans, devoted husband and father and loyal officer of the South Wales Police Force. Killed in the line of duty …”
Evan ran his hand over the rough granite of the stone. “He was due for retirement, you know. He could have retired six months earlier but they were shorthanded, and they asked him if he’d stay on until the end of the year. He never liked to say no to people. He was a good man. He never raised his voice, but if he told you to do something, you knew he meant it and you did it. You could always count on him. A really good … man …”
“I’m sure he was, Evan. He managed to raise a rather nice son.”
“He was a great dad. Always seemed to make time for me, even when he was busy. I wish you could have met him.”
“I wish I could have.”
“He enjoyed life so much. Always laughing. It just seems so wrong that … so unfair that …”
He turned away and stared out at the green hillsides. Bronwen slipped an arm through his. “It’s okay to grieve, you know.”
“And if that creep Mancini is finally sentenced to life in prison, maybe I’ll think there is some justice in the world after all.”
Bronwen took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go. You still have to show me Dylan’s birthplace, and we need some exercise.”
Chapter 6
Evan had never been in the Swansea magistrate’s court before. He remembered all too vividly the last time he had been in a Swansea courtroom—every detail of the Crown Court where Tony Mancini’s trial had taken place was etched into his mind. The Crown Court had been a new building, a concrete-and-glass structure that had felt all wrong to Evan. Courtrooms were supposed to be somber, majestic places, with oak-paneled walls and dark wood benches, reeking of tradition like the Old Bailey. This courtroom had been light and ultramodern, with tip-up seats like a theater and laminate countertops like a kitchen. There had been a skylight over the judge’s bench, and cold light had shone down onto the gray wig and the judge’s pale flabby face. Altogether wrong—and very cold. It was the cold he remembered more than anything, although, of course, that could have been shock.
This magistrate’s courtroom was less modern but still spartan. None of the historic glory of the Old Bailey here, and of course the magistrates would be ordinary people in ordinary clothes. No wigs and gowns at this level of justice.
&
nbsp; The courtroom was surprisingly full for the arraignment hearing as Bill Howells, in police uniform, led them to seats near the front. Sitting apart on the other side, Evan noticed a well-dressed couple, still as statues, staring straight in front of them. They had to be the dead girl’s parents. Evan recognized that look of stunned horror, that determination not to break down in public. He knew exactly what they were thinking at this moment—that there was no way they could get through this ordeal, and yet they had to, somehow.
Members of the South Wales Police filled the benches around Evan and his mother. They nodded to Evan’s mother, but she too was staring straight ahead, clearly reliving her memories. He could feel her shaking. He reached across and rested his hand over hers.
From the back of the courtroom came a relaxed buzz of conversation. Evan turned to see a large media contingent. Of course, the death of a councilor’s daughter would make this a high-profile case. The conversation ceased as a door at the front of the courtroom opened and the magistrates came in to take up their positions at the bench. There were three of them—a dapper little man with thinning gray hair neatly parted in the center wearing a red bow tie, a large horsy woman in tweeds to his left, and an equally large, slightly unkempt middle-aged man in a knitted yellow waistcoat on his right. There was a long moment of silence while they seated themselves and were handed documents by the clerk. Then a side door opened and the defendant was brought in, handcuffed and escorted on either side by uniformed policemen. He still looked ridiculously young—a skinny kid with dark hair and big dark eyes, good looking in a Latin kind of way. He looked around the room with a bewildered stare. His gaze brushed Evan, and for a moment there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.
“Please state your full name and address,” the middle of the three magistrates said in a high, clipped voice with only the hint of a Welsh accent.
“Anthony Edward Mancini, Twenty-one Caernarfon Street, Swansea.” The words were barely audible.
“Speak up, boy,” the magistrate insisted.
Tony repeated the words with a defiant stare.
“Anthony Edward Mancini,” the middle magistrate intoned now in a sonorous voice, “you are charged with the murder of Alison Joan Turnbull on July 17. How do you plead?”