by Rhys Bowen
“You could have returned later in your own car, I presume,” Evan suggested.
Charles snorted. “My own car? I don’t own a car. I own sod all. My father is a self-made man, you see. He started with nothing, and he wants me to get the feel of starting with nothing too. I have less to live on than any of my friends at uni. The only time I can go anywhere is when I can sneak out the van.”
Evan watched him steadily. “I suppose I have to believe you then. If you really cared about Alison as much as you say you did, you’d definitely want her killer caught and convicted, wouldn’t you? So I’m asking you once again—is there anything you know or suspect that could help us?”
“But they’ve already got the bloke behind bars.”
“They might not be able to make it stick without more evidence, so anything you can remember or tell us about her friends might help. Do you know anything that we should know, Charles?”
“Nothing. I told you she couldn’t stand the sight of me. She told me I was too fat and boring.” He bit his lip.
“When you were there, watching her that evening—did you see anyone or anything unusual? Did you pass anyone in the street? Were there any cars parked nearby?”
Charles screwed up his face in concentration then shook his head. “There were cars parked in the driveway. One of the women got up and came across to the window. I had to dodge back into the bushes pretty quickly. I didn’t stay long because the bloody dog started barking.”
“So they didn’t have the curtains drawn then?”
“No, I told you. It was still daylight.”
“Right. Thanks for your help then.” Evan couldn’t think of anything else to say. Charles had the same kind of open face as his own. He thought he’d be able to detect if Charles was lying.
“One more thing.” He turned back as Charles was about to walk away. “What about drugs?”
“Drugs?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“Do you ever use them? Do you know anything about Alison using them?”
“I shouldn’t think Alison did. They didn’t ever let her out alone. I smoked a marijuana cigarette once. Frankly it didn’t do much for me. Everyone else was giggling and I just sat there. But that was it—the sum total of my drug experience. I told you—my father doesn’t give me an allowance. I have no money for any kind of expensive habit.”
Evan left him going into the office. “If you want me home, you’d better come and get me,” Evan heard him saying into the phone. He got in his car and drove away. Charles Peterson had seemed like an open book, and everything he said indicated that he had nothing to do with Alison’s death. But Evan had been taken in by good liars before, and Charles had the best motive of all—he had been madly in love with a girl who didn’t love him.
Bronwen was waiting in the coffee shop in the small pedestrian mall behind the bus station, a half-empty cappucino in front of her. Her hair was still loose and flowing over her shoulders, and she wore no makeup. She looked ridiculously young.
“Hello,” she said as he sat down opposite her. “I hope you have behaved yourself. Did Tony Mancini confess?”
“To the drugs, yes,” he said, looking around to see who was in earshot. “He admitted he was making a delivery that night. But he still insists she was alive and well when he left her. Which leaves us with another question—what happened to the packet of cocaine? Surely the police must have done a thorough search of the grounds.”
“Unless the person who killed her took it with him.”
Evan nodded. “Which is all the more reason to suspect a drug connection.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Tell the police, of course. There’s nothing else I can do.”
She nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “So you’re off the hook.”
“And we can have the days off I promised you. The trouble is that I really want to see this through.”
“Don’t tell me you’re feeling bad for Tony Mancini, Evan. You tried bloody hard for him, and all he did was lie to you. Even if he didn’t kill her, he’s a drug runner. He’ll go to jail whatever happens.”
“I know.” He beckoned to the waitress and ordered them both more coffee. “I had a couple of other encounters this morning.” He described his interviews with Mrs. Richards and with Charles. “One son conveniently off in Scotland and the other admits to spying on Alison in her garden.”
Bronwen took a sip of coffee and digested this. “You should suggest the police check out their alibis, shouldn’t you? And their fingerprints or whatever else policemen do. My, aren’t they going to be impressed with what you’ve turned up so far?”
Evan smiled. “I haven’t asked you how you got on with Alison’s friends. Anything interesting turn up?”
“Not much. Only that she hated her mother.”
“She did?”
“Yes, couldn’t stand her, according to both friends. She said her mother ruined her entire life. She was too strict. She never let her do anything or go anywhere. And she never forgave her for sending her away to school.”
“Interesting. So she didn’t want to change schools.”
“She loved her old school, apparently. She was doing well there and had loads of friends.”
“Any idea why they did send her to boarding school? Do you think it was snobbery—wanting their daughter to go to an expensive boarding school?”
“Could be, although her friend Charlotte came up with an interesting statement. She said Alison thought her mother was jealous of her. As soon as she started to grow up and look pretty, her mother didn’t want her around the house any longer. She saw Alison as a threat.”
“That doesn’t jibe with always wanting to go shopping with her and driving her everywhere, does it? It’s probably all talk—the way teenagers always gripe about their parents. And anyway, it has nothing to do with her being killed, does it? Did either of the girls know about the drugs, by the way?”
“If they did, they weren’t going to tell me. They both claimed they weren’t that close to Alison any longer and had no idea whom she went around with—although Charlotte did admit to knowing that Alison sometimes managed to sneak out through her bedroom window at night.”
“One of her friends must have had the car that picked her up,” Evan said. “Tony said she got a friend to drive her when she went clubbing. We need to find out whom she was seen with at the club.”
“I thought you were bowing out and handing over to the police.” Bronwen gave him a quizzical look.
“I am, but I can’t help being curious, can I? And I’d love to be able to pin something on that cocky bastard Jingo.”
“Because he gave the order to kill your father and got away scot-free?”
“And because he looked at me as if he knew I couldn’t touch him. At least I can tell the police what I know about Tony’s drug connection and make things damned unpleasant for Jingo.”
The waitress came with two coffees and then delivered two glasses of wine to a couple of gray-haired ladies at the next table. A murmur of surprised whispers went around the café. “Would you look at that,” the woman sitting on the other side of Evan muttered to her friend. “Wine. And it’s not even midday yet. And in a respectable coffee shop too. What is the world coming to?” “I’ve probably been condemned for ordering cappucino,” Bronwen whispered. “Nasty Continental habit.” They exchanged a smile. Evan looked at her, with her ash blond hair lying over her shoulders and her blue eyes smiling at him and thought he’d never seen anything more lovely in his life. His first impressions of her had been of someone unreal, belonging to another place, another time. This had been enhanced by the clothes she wore, ethnic vests, long skirts, swirling capes. Now she looked like a fresh-faced teenager, and equally miraculous.
“What?” she asked, sensing his gaze. “Do I have a milky mustache?”
“No. You look perfect.” He finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Let’s get my talk with the police over, and then
we’ll take a long walk over the cliffs and blow all those unpleasant memories away.”
The police station had a deserted air about it. Evan wondered whether fewer crimes were committed at weekends or if it was just fewer staff on duty. He had left Bronwen at a bookstore, where she claimed she would be happy all afternoon if it came to that. The woman at the reception desk knew him by now and merely nodded when he said he had to speak to the Major Crimes Unit. He found only Dave, the junior member of the team, reading the newspaper.
“Hello, mate,” Dave said cheerfully. “If you’re looking for the DCI, he’s out, as usual.”
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
Dave grinned. “He doesn’t share privileged info like that with me.”
“I’d better wait,” Evan said. “I’ve picked up some information he might need.”
“Oh yeah?” Dave looked interested.
Evan pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “Tell me, Dave,” he said, “do you know if a full autopsy was done on the girl? Were any drugs found in her system?”
Dave looked up with surprise. “Drugs? I never heard any mention of drugs. What makes you ask that?”
“I’ve been doing a little checking of my own,” Evan said. “It seems she might have liked a little cocaine now and then, and someone was supplying her.”
“Bloody ’ell,” Dave said. “You’re sure about this, are you? The DCI won’t be too pleased. He thinks he’s got the case all sewn up.”
“He probably has,” Evan said. “Tony Mancini was delivering the goods that night. I just wondered whether the cocaine he brought her was ever found.”
Dave shook his head. “If it was, it went into someone’s pocket. I was the one who typed up the crime-scene description and inventory of her clothing.” He pulled his chair closer to Evan’s. “So you really found out that she was a druggie and Mancini was her supplier? How did you do that?”
“Asking around,” Evan said. “It would have come out sooner or later.”
“So why do you reckon he killed her? Most dealers like to keep the customers alive. Bad for business to bump them off.”
Evan leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “Between ourselves, I’m not at all sure he did kill her. I’m hoping if you boys take up this drug angle, we might find out that someone else had a reason to—” He broke off as the door burst open. DCI Vaughan swept in, followed by two other plainclothes officers. The DCI’s face was flushed, as if he had been running. Evan got to his feet, as did Dave.
“Evans has come to …” Dave began, but the DCI ignored him.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he yelled at Evan. “Who gave you permission to tread on my turf?”
“I just thought maybe I could help, sir—” Evan started to say, but the DCI cut him off.
“I gave you permission to go and talk to Mancini—once, because of your father. I said you could ride along if you wanted to, because your father was a good bloke. But that didn’t give you permission to go running around behind my back like some Hercule Bloody Poirot.”
“Sorry, sir,” Evan tried to say. “I was about to turn over the information, which is why I’m here, and I think—”
“I’ve had complaints, boy.” DCI Vaughan continued to yell at full volume. “I’ve had Mrs. Turnbull on the phone, bleating at me. You’ve been harassing her friends and upsetting her. Now get the hell out of here and stay out. Try and interfere again and I’ll be on the phone to your superior in North Wales. You’ll be out of the force so quickly your feet won’t touch ground. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Evan muttered. He had no choice but to make an exit through the door that the officer was holding open for him.
Chapter 21
Evan located Bronwen in the cookbook section. “You’re back quickly,” she said, looking up from the stool where she sat, an open book on her knee. “Wasn’t anyone there? Look, I’ve found a Moroccan recipe book. I’ve always wanted to try couscous.” She was smiling, then she saw his face. “Evan, what happened?”
Evan grabbed her hand. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ve got to talk.”
He said nothing as they made their way to the front entrance of the store and out onto the street.
“What is it?” she asked again.
“Something’s not right, Bron.” His voice was shaking. “I’m beginning to think there might be a cover-up.”
“A cover-up? What do you mean? Who’s covering up?” Bronwen stood looking up at him while the tide of Saturday shoppers parted and swept around them.
He was gripping her shoulders. “If you wanted the truth about who killed your daughter, you’d welcome any help you could get, wouldn’t you? Any possible lead. Anything that might provide proof. The DCI has had Mrs. Turnbull on the phone, complaining that I’ve been harassing her and her friends. I’ve been ordered to stay away.”
Bronwen was silent, digesting this information. “You think they really know who did it, and they’d rather let Tony Mancini take the blame?”
“What other explanation could there be? I couldn’t have been more polite to Mrs. Turnbull or her friends. I asked no prying questions. Nobody could have accused me of harassing, except maybe I was a little heavy with Charles.” He took her arm as a large pram bore down on them. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s walk.” He strode out, down through the shopping center and out to the waterfront, walking so fast that Bronwen had to break into a trot to keep up with him. At last, as they crossed the street and were met by the salty wind from the Bristol Channel, he slowed his pace. “Okay, Bron, why would they want me off the case?”
“Two reasons I can think of—apart from making a bloody nuisance of yourself.” She paused to smile up at him. “One would be because they suspect who really killed Alison and, for some reason, want to protect him. Or would rather that Tony was jailed in his place. The other could be that they know about Alison’s drug problem and don’t want it to come out. That would all tie in with the parents’ behavior, wouldn’t it? They sent her far away to school. When she was home they overprotected her, drove her everywhere, wouldn’t let her out of their sight. Now they are scared that it might become common knowledge—”
“And it would hurt his standing in the community and chances of becoming lord mayor,” Evan finished for her. “So maybe one of them discovered the packet of cocaine and whipped it away before the police arrived. But that still doesn’t get us any closer to who killed her—someone they know or someone they suspect was connected to Alison’s drug habit.”
“Evan, you’ve been ordered off the case, remember,” Bronwen started, but he ignored her and went on talking.
“That Richards woman—I hardly spoke to her, so why did she call Mrs. Turnbull and say I was harassing her? And her son went on an Outward Bound course in Scotland last week. Very conveniently out of the way, wouldn’t you say? Now how do we check on someone who is in Scotland?”
“I’d say that Charles Peterson sounds like the most likely suspect so far,” Bronwen said. “You say he had a crush on Alison. He admitted loitering in her garden watching her.”
“You’re right.” Evan nodded. “Maybe he was there later than he claimed. He spied on Alison and Tony. And watching the girl he fancied having sex with another boy might well have pushed him over the edge.”
Bronwen looked up at his face. “So do you think that the Turnbulls found some kind of evidence to show that Charles killed Alison, but when Tony Mancini was brought in instead, they decided they’d rather let him go to prison than one of their own set?”
“It’s not how my mind would work,” Evan said, “but I can’t answer for their social set. Obviously status means a lot to them—and being elected bloody lord mayor.”
“It would be easy enough to check on Charles’s alibi. If they lock the builder’s van in the yard each night, then he would have had to bring it back on time. His parents would know if he’d kept the van out for the nig
ht.”
“They may not want to tell if he did.”
Bronwen sighed. “Either way it’s none of our business anymore,” she said. “You’ve been ordered off the case.”
“I know.” Evan stopped walking and stood, staring out to sea. Seagulls wheeled and mewed above their heads. From farther down on the beach came the shrieks of children, playing at the water’s edge. A perfect summer’s afternoon at the seaside, reminding him of his own youth.
Bronwen slipped her arm through his. “There’s nothing more you can do, Evan. Come on. Let’s go on that walk we’ve been talking about. Let’s walk all the way to Oystermouth again, and we can look at love spoons in that funny little shop.”
They started to walk along the seafront, but as they drew level with the Guildhall, Evan stopped. “I’m sorry, Bron. I can’t let it go like this. It would haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t be an idiot. The DCI has ordered you off the case. You’ll get yourself thrown out of the force.”
“I’ve just thought what I can do,” he said. He took her hand and half dragged her across the street to the Crown Court building.
“Evan, wait,” Bronwen protested. “It’s Saturday. Nothing will be open.”
“Something will.” Evan charged ahead. Inside he located an office that was open and a list of area solicitors. From that it wasn’t hard to get the home address of Richard Brooks, Tony’s solicitor. He found a public phone and dialed Brooks’s home number. It rang several times before it was picked up.
“Sorry I was so long getting to the phone,” the voice at the other end said, panting slightly, “I was down at the other end of the garden.”
“Mr. Brooks. It’s Evan Evans. You took me to see Tony Mancini.”
“Yes?” The voice sounded guarded now.
“Could we meet somewhere? I’ve come up with important information I’d like to share with you.”