by Rhys Bowen
Finally he could stand it no longer and got out of the car. A band member with wild hair was maneuvering a large instrument case down the stairs of the club. “Is anyone still up there?” Evan asked.
“Only Joe, packing up his drums,” the boy replied in a heavy South Wales accent.
Evan waited until he came down then went up the stairs. The ball and the laser light had been turned off and a single naked light bulb showed the peeling black paint on the walls and the litter-piled floor. He looked around then went downstairs again. A couple of girls were talking to the boy from the band as he opened up the back of a van.
“I’m looking for a girl,” Evan said. “I was supposed to meet her here. She’s got blue spiked hair, and she was wearing a white halter top. You didn’t see her, did you?”
“I saw her earlier,” one of the girls said. “She was sitting with Tiffany and her friends, wasn’t she?”
“Tiffany. That’s right. Did she leave with them?”
“No. I saw them going down the street quite awhile ago.”
“Girl with blue spiked hair?” the band member asked, looking up from the back of the van he had been loading. “I saw her when I was taking the first load of stuff down to the van. She was talking to a bloke with red hair. Tall, skinny bloke with a ring through his eyebrow. I think you’re out of luck, mate. She went off with him.”
Evan fought to remain calm.
“Did you happen to see which direction they went in?”
The band player shook his head. “I just saw them walking toward the stairs while I was unplugging my amps. I only noticed because I thought it was a good color combination, him with red hair, her with blue. I’m in art school during the day. I notice stuff like that.”
“And how long ago was this?”
The boy shrugged. “Fifteen minutes maybe. I can’t really say.”
“You girls didn’t see them walking past you, did you?”
The girls looked at each other before shaking their heads. “We were talking to some boys,” one of them said. “They wanted us to go to a coffee bar with them, but they were a bit boring so we had to ditch them.”
“Right. Thanks.” Evan left them and ran back to his car. Stay calm, he told himself. There has to be a good reason for this, but he couldn’t come up with one. Surely Bronwen would never have left the club willingly with Jingo. She must have realized who he was. Had he described Jingo well enough so that she knew who she was dealing with? He tried to go through their various conversations, worried that he might have failed to mention Jingo and that Bronwen might have left with him quite innocently. He felt cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He started the car and took off too quickly, almost clipping the bumper of the car in front of him. It was all his fault. He should never have encouraged Bronwen to get involved. Now she thought she was some kind of hot detective. She must have come up with a good lead to go off without telling him or leaving him some kind of message. She probably didn’t even consider the risk she was taking.
Kingsway was deserted. The pavements glistened with moisture in the light of the street lamps. A couple of streetwalkers still stood in doorways, but apart from them there was no sign of life. Where would they have gone? Think, dammit, he commanded himself. He started to drive around aimlessly, circling the block, then widening the circle, past the Quadrant shopping center, past the bus station, along the waterfront. They could be anywhere by now. He started to drive toward Penlan, but then turned around again. Why would Jingo want to take Bronwen up there? Evan wished he knew what vehicle Jingo drove. Had any kind of car been parked outside Jingo’s house that day he had visited? He didn’t think so. The street had been empty. Those council houses often had prefab garages coming off an alley at the back. If you lived in a council estate you weren’t stupid enough to leave your car outside.
At last he found himself driving down to the dockland, to the spot where his father had been killed. It had changed a lot in the past five years, part of the waterfront gentrification process, and there was now a new marina and condo development in place of the old quayside. Not the kind of place now you’d be involved in gang business.
Maybe he should go back to the side street and wait. She’d come looking for him when she got rid of Jingo. If she got rid of Jingo. If Jingo didn’t get rid of her. A clock on some church tower chimed one. He drove along Kingsway again. Slowly. The Monkey’s Uncle was now closed for the night like everything else. Should he go home, just in case she had gone there or phoned? He drove up the hill like a mad thing, ran into the house, and found the place in peaceful darkness. For once his mother had not waited up. There was no message by the phone in the front hall.
Back to the car again and then he headed for Penlan. He knew it was a waste of time to go up there, but he had to do it anyway. If Jingo was carrying out some kind of gang meeting or drug transaction, it wouldn’t be where he could be spotted from the street, and if he wanted to get rid of Bronwen—“Don’t say that. Don’t even think it!” Bronwen was smart, she wouldn’t put herself in danger. She knew what she was doing. She’d be okay. She had to be okay.
Even the council estate rested in silent darkness. No lights showed behind closed curtains. No music came out of pubs. No late lovers lingered at front gates. Evan drove past Jingo’s house. No car was parked outside, and it was in darkness. Should he wake them up and ask Jingo’s mother if she knew where her son was? As if she would tell him if she did know. And he had no warrant to search the house. Waste of time again. He knew what he had to do—go to the police, that was obvious. They might know where someone like Jingo could be found. They would come with the power to question and to search and to bully if necessary. But going to the police would be admitting that he had not obeyed DCI Vaughan’s command. They’d have little sympathy for him or Bronwen. Anything bad that happened would be his own fault for meddling. And he’d be out of a job in the morning.
Not that that mattered if Bronwen was found safe. Nothing mattered except finding her safe. He drove back down the hill into the town center and slowed outside the main police station. Would they do anything to help? He knew the rules as well as they did: Bronwen wasn’t a relative, and it wasn’t easy to report a sane adult as a missing person. It wouldn’t be easy to convince them that she had left against her own will, from a noisy club, with hundreds of people watching.
If only Bill Howells was on duty—even though he was not exactly in Bill Howells’s good books at the moment. But Bill was a decent bloke, an old friend of his dad’s. He’d help.
The night sergeant wasn’t Bill, but he did remember Evan’s father and he was persuaded to hand over Bill’s home address. It was two-thirty by the time Evan knocked at his door. As he had expected, Bill wasn’t at all pleased to see him or particularly sympathetic.
“Why, in God’s name, have you got yourself involved in this?” he demanded as Evan started to explain.
“Because I couldn’t get your blokes to listen to me,” Evan answered. “I left information about Alison’s involvement with drugs. Has it been followed up on, do you know?”
“I told you, boyo, I’m not on the case. I’m not part of the drug squad. Just an ordinary copper on the beat, that’s all.”
“Is there nothing you can do to help? She’s my fiancée, Bill. The same bloke who gave the order to shoot my father has gone off with my fiancée. I have to find her.”
Bill Howells gave a sigh and ran his hands through untidy hair.
“All right. Hold on a second while I put my clothes on.”
A few minutes later they were speeding back into the center of town. “I’ll just pop into the station,” Bill said, “and have a word with old Trevor at the desk. He can get in touch with the squad cars, but it won’t be easy. You say she may or may not be wearing a blue wig.”
“He should be easier to spot. Jingo Roberts. Tall, thin bloke with bright red hair. You couldn’t miss him.”
“Jingo Roberts, eh? I’ve come across him a
few times. Nasty piece of work. All right. As soon as I’ve talked to Trevor, we’ll go out looking ourselves.”
They spent a fruitless night covering the whole city, from Port Talbot to the Gower. Bill checked in several times on his mobile, but there was no news, either good or bad. The night had taken on an unreal quality, like one of those nightmares in which time stands still, all motion is slowed down, and a sense of dread becomes overpowering. She had to be somewhere. Would Jingo have driven her out of town, out of Wales? Why?
“You know where this Roberts boy lives?” Bill Howells said.
“Yes, I’ve been there. It’s in Penlan.” Evan was so cold and scared that he was shaking.
“Then let’s pay him a visit, see if he’s home.”
The first streaks of cold daylight were appearing on the eastern horizon as they drove up the hill to the Penlan estate. Bill Howells knocked on the door of Jingo’s house while Evan stood in the shadows behind him. “Open up. Police,” he shouted through the letter box.
After a long pause there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back, and Jingo’s mother glared at them. “What the bleedin’ hell do you want? It’s Sunday morning, for God’s sakes. I’m a respectable citizen, I am. I’m calling your superior, mate.”
“It’s not you I want to see, missus. It’s your son. Do you know where he is?”
“Of course I bloody know where he is. He’s asleep in his bed, where any sensible person is on a Sunday morning.”
“Mind if I go up and see for myself?”
“You got a search warrant?”
“No, but I can easily go down to the station and get one, while my partner here watches the house, if that’s what you want.”
“I’ll go and wake him,” she said, still glaring at him defiantly. “He won’t be pleased.”
Evan heard angry voices then Jingo came down the stairs, dressed in pajama bottoms, his narrow white chest naked.
“What the hell do you want?” he demanded.
Evan fought the desire to grab him, to slam him against the wall.
Bill Howells must have sensed this, because he planted himself full in the doorway. “We’re looking for a young woman,” he said. “You met her at the club last night. You were seen leaving with her. She hasn’t come home.”
“You got the wrong bloke, mate,” Jingo said. “I didn’t have any luck with the birds last night. I caught the night bus home around twelve-thirty, and I was here, in bed, by one. You can ask my mum. She was still up watching the telly when I got home.”
“You caught the bus?” Bill Howells asked.
“Yeah. You can check with the driver. He’d remember me.”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“What car? I’m a poor, unemployed lad, mate. I don’t have no car at the moment.” Again that insolent grin.
There was no other choice but to leave. Evan thought he detected a smirk on Jingo’s face as he watched them go. He couldn’t shake off the horrifying picture of Bronwen, tied up or even dead, somewhere in that house.
“Could we come back with a search warrant, do you think?” he asked.
Bill shook his head. “Wouldn’t be any point. By the time we got back here, they’d have hidden anything they didn’t want us to find.”
It wasn’t a comforting thought. Evan drove past his house again and crept inside. Nothing moved. He tiptoed upstairs to check Bronwen’s room and sighed as he looked at the empty bed.
“Is that you up and around, Evan bach?” His mother’s sleepy voice called from her bedroom. “It’s still the middle of the night.”
“It’s okay, Ma. Go back to sleep,” he said gently. “I’m going out for a walk. I can’t sleep.” He had no wish to do any explaining to his mother at this point. He certainly couldn’t tell her that he’d lost Bronwen.
“I can’t think what to do,” he said as he climbed back into the car beside Bill Howells. He imagined calling her parents. He imagined identifying her body when it washed up on some beach. The sky was glowing with early morning light now but the nightmare wasn’t ending.
“Not much else we can do right now,” Bill said. “I’m on duty at nine. I’ll have a word with the Major Crime Unit boys and the drug squad. See if they’ve got any ideas.” Evan dropped him off at his house, then started another round of aimless circling. He tried to give himself a comforting scenario—she had been asleep somewhere or hiding somewhere and now she was making her way home.
Kingsway was still deserted, the Monkey’s Uncle firmly locked. He wished he had checked the place out more thoroughly last night. Bronwen thought on her feet. Maybe she had left some small message or clue for him that he had overlooked. The problem was how to get into the building. If he went back to the police station, presumably he could find the name of the owner or some kind of contact phone number. But he might also find himself facing DCI Vaughan and be arrested for interfering. Bill Howells would come on duty at nine. He’d have to wait until then, unless he found a way in.
He parked the car and stood looking up at the building. There was no way into the club from the empty shop on the ground floor. He could see that by peering in through the grimy window. There were no windows in the front of the second story, in fact he didn’t remember any windows in the club at all. But there had been a small hallway at the back with toilets and maybe a storage room. One of them might have a window. He walked around until he found an alley at the back of the row of buildings. It was piled with bags of refuse, and it was impossible to tell which building might be the club. When he came to what he thought was the right place, he saw a fire escape that ended just above his head. A little to the right there was a Dumpster. If he climbed on that, then traversed the window ledge, he could reach the bottom of the fire escape and haul himself up. He scrambled up onto the Dumpster, then inched his way across the grimy window. It was lucky he’d done a bit of climbing in his life, he decided. It was even luckier that he had started training again. It was hard work to hold onto the metal grid of the fire escape and then swing his legs up so that he got a foothold and was able to heave himself up and over onto the stairs. He made his way up and stood staring into the window of a strange office. He was climbing the wrong building.
He looked up. It would be easy enough to get onto the roof. Maybe he could find out which building housed the Monkey’s Uncle from up there. He scrambled over the tiles of the attic and stood panting on the flat rooftop. He saw at once that he’d wasted his effort coming up here. The building to his left had a steeply pitched roof with slick slates on it and a very rickety-looking gutter at its edge. He wasn’t about to try to traverse that one. And he was pretty sure that the Monkey’s Uncle had to be in that direction.
“Bugger,” he said out loud. So much for James Bond—style heroics. They never worked in real life. He had just lowered himself successfully onto the fire escape and was about to climb down again when there was a scrabbling sound and pigeons fluttered out from a rooftop to his right. He looked up and saw a face staring down at him.
“Evan?” a voice called. “Is it really you?”
Relief flooded through him. “What are you doing up there?”
“Watching the sunrise, how about you?”
Anger spilled over with the flood of relief. “I’ve been out looking for you all night. I’ve been worried out of my mind.”
“Well, it hasn’t exactly been pleasant sitting up here getting wetter and colder and very scared. It was very clever of you to find me.”
“How do we get you down?”
“Good question. I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“How did you get up there in the first place?”
“I climbed out of the ladies’ loo window and up the drainpipe. Then some idiot closed the window. So I’m pretty much trapped up here. I was worried sick that that creepy man would find me.”
“Jingo?”
“You know him?”
“Red hair. Tall bloke.”
“That’s
right. That was him. He was hanging about at the top of the stairs when I was about to leave the club. He stepped out in front of me and asked me if I was the one who had been asking about Alison and Tony. He said he could probably help me because he knew some people who hung around with Alison. They were at a party he was going to, he said. Did I want to come along and meet them?”
“Thank God you didn’t go. I’m glad I’d warned you about him.”
“But you didn’t. Or if you did, I didn’t take it in. I was all set to go with him. I told him I needed to go to the loo, and I’d meet him outside. As I came down the stairs, he was on his mobile. I heard him say, ‘You were right. She’s coming with me. Peterson’s then.’ And he laughed. Suddenly I got a bad feeling. I mean you’d just been to Peterson’s builder’s yard down on the docks, hadn’t you? That was too much of a coincidence. Either way, I got cold feet. I looked around but my friends had left. Almost everyone had left, and I could see him waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at his watch, then he started to come up the stairs again. I didn’t wait. I rushed into the ladies’ loo and locked the door. I heard him saying to someone else, ‘So where did she go? She can’t have got out past me.’ And the other chap said, ‘Maybe she’s still in the toilet,’ and I knew they were going to come looking, so I didn’t know what to do. Then I realized the window was open. I unlocked the door and climbed out of the window. Luckily the ledge was quite wide and there was a drainpipe to hang onto. Then I didn’t feel safe there, because anyone could look out and see me, so I managed to scramble up onto this bit of roof that sticks out. That’s when I found it doesn’t lead anywhere. I was stuck here. Nowhere to hide. I was sure they’d find me. I kept picturing that face coming up the drainpipe toward me, so I crouched down and didn’t move for hours.”
“You poor thing. It must have been terrible for you.”