Evan Blessed

by Rhys Bowen

  “All I know is that my fiancée is missing,” Evan said.

  “You know what was interesting in that last note.” Glynis held his gaze. “That he also appeared to have a personal grudge against Bronwen as well. Bad EE, Bad BE. Is it possible that the grudge is against both of you? Something you’ve done together?’

  “Such as what? Who could possibly have a grudge against anyone as sweet as Bronwen?”

  “For example,” Glynis said, “you are getting married in a week’s time. Someone might not want that to happen.”

  Evan frowned. “You’re suggesting someone who might secretly be in love with Bronwen and resent the fact that she’s marrying me?”

  “Just a thought.” Glynis shrugged. “It could be the other way around, but I can’t see a spurned woman doing the kidnapping, or digging the bunker.”

  “I don’t have any spurned women in my past.” Evan had to laugh. “Only Betsy, the local barmaid, and she’s happily hooked up with the local bulldozer driver. Mostly it was the girls who did the spurning.”

  “Surely not—good-looking, healthy chap like you?” Glynis smiled back at him.

  Evan shrugged. “But Bronwen—what kind of secret admirer could she have recently? She doesn’t exactly meet a lot of men up there at the schoolhouse. And before she came here, she was married to someone else.”

  “Maybe her ex-husband doesn’t want to let her go.”

  “No, it wasn’t like that at all. I know her ex-husband. He left her for someone else.” Evan wisely left it at that, since Bronwen’s ex had left her to live with another man.

  “How would you ever know if someone was yearning for her secretly?” Glynis asked. “It could be someone she only meets on the most superficial level.”

  “The antiques chap,” Evan said, bitterly. “I could see that he fancied her.”

  “But it seems he was in the clear.”

  Evan merely grunted.

  “They’re still keeping an eye open. Inspector Watkins has put a tail on him.”

  Evan sank his head into his hands. “This is hopeless, isn’t it, Glynis? What are the statistics on someone being recovered alive if you don’t find them in the first twenty-four hours? Not very good, are they?”

  “We’ll find her,” Glynis said. “In fact, I have a hunch that this man wants you to find her.”

  “So that he can kill both of us at once?”

  “You can handle him, Evan. He wants you to match wits with him. So, match them. He’s given you clues that he expects you to solve. Take your time and solve them.”

  She closed the door behind her, leaving him staring at a screen. A few minutes later the dispatcher poked her head around the door. “Phone call for you, Constable Evans.”

  Evan looked up.

  “It’s a woman,” she whispered. “Says her name is Price.”

  Evan almost mowed her down in his rush to get to the phone. “Bronwen?” he shouted into the receiver.

  “No, it’s Emmaline, dear. Your future mother-in-law. Where are you both? We’ve just arrived and not a sign of you. Don’t tell me you’re working on a Saturday, and I expect that daughter of mine is out arranging last-minute details, if I know her.”

  “Something like that.” Evan could not bring himself to tell her the truth over the phone. It would have to be broken gently at the right moment.

  “Well, then, I think we’ll go and find our room at the Everest Inn and maybe you’ll both be able to join us for lunch in the bar there. Shall we say one o’clock? Lovely. Looking forward to it.”

  She hung up and Evan gave a sigh of relief. At least he’d given himself some time to work out what he was going to tell them. They’d blame him, of course. He was the one who had put their daughter in danger. That didn’t even matter. He blamed himself. He went back to the notes he had scribbled and realized that Bronwen’s parents might be able to help him. They’d know if she’d had an annoying boyfriend, a stalker, someone who wasn’t quite stable in her past.

  Evan slipped out of the building and went to his car. He knew he shouldn’t be driving himself with one arm in a harness, but he didn’t want to tie up another officer who could be doing something useful. He freed his left hand enough to balance it against the wheel, shifted into gear, and drove off.

  Last night’s storm had finally passed over, leaving the day crystal clear and sparkling. Dewdrops made leaves and grass appear to be dotted with diamonds. All the colors were enhanced—white sheep against a background of emerald grass and rich blue sky. For once Evan hardly took in the scenery. He stared straight ahead of him, going over and over in his mind what he was going to say to Bronwen’s parents.

  The Everest Inn was a recent addition to the landscape. A luxury hotel in a decidedly unluxurious setting, it seemed to be flourishing nevertheless, judging by the number of Jags, Mercs, and BMWs in the car park. Evan turned off the road above Llanfair and drove in through the massive stone gateway. He parked his old bone-shaker next to a Jag and wondered if it belonged to the Prices. Bronwen’s mother drove a Jag, he knew. He had no idea what her father drove. Evan felt his pulse rate quicken as he pictured facing that formidable man. He took a deep breath and pushed open the etched glass doors that led into the Everest Inn.

  The cavernous foyer was deserted. Harp music was playing softly in the background and a fire burned in the river-rock fireplace, even though it was August. The receptionist looked up as Evan crossed the tiled floor. Evan didn’t think it necessary to explain himself. He strode through to the bar beyond the fireplace. Bronwen’s father’s distinctive upper-class voice came through even before Evan spotted them.

  “That’s the problem with the blighters these days. You should have seen India when I was a child. Trains ran on time.” He looked up and noticed Evan. “Ah, here’s the wandering bridegroom now. Good to see you, young Evan. So what have you done with my daughter?”

  He held out a big, meaty hand.

  Evan shook it.

  Mrs. Price looked up from her barstool. “Evan, darling. How lovely to see you.” A look of concern crossed her face. “Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve been injured. Not before your wedding. What have you done? You won’t have to wear that sling for the ceremony, will you? It will ruin the photos.” As usual Mrs. Price conducted a monologue that didn’t often require an answer. She looked around behind Evan. “So where’s Bronny? She must be run off her feet, poor thing. We mustn’t let her get too tired or she’ll look pasty-faced and it won’t go with white.”

  She paused and Evan realized that they finally wanted him to speak. He swallowed hard. “Mrs. Price. Mr. Price. I’m afraid I’ve got … I’m not quite sure how to tell you this.”

  “She hasn’t decided not to marry you? Oh, don’t tell me the wedding’s off.” Mrs. Price groaned.

  “No, nothing like that. Look, she can’t be here, but we’re doing our best and I’m sure—” He babbled on until he noticed that the television was on above their heads at the bar. Mrs. Price’s gaze was suddenly fixed on the screen.

  “If you’ve seen this woman, if you saw her yesterday, the number to call is—”

  “Bronny?” Mrs. Price whispered. “That’s our daughter they’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  Evan nodded. “We’ve been on the case of a missing woman all this week and last night I—I couldn’t find Bronwen. So we have to assume the worst—that he’s kidnapped Bronwen too.”

  “Surely not,” Mr. Price said. “You say she’s disappeared? There must be other explanations. She may have needed time to think about the wedding. Not kidnapped. Not our daughter.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Evan said. “You can see my arm. Someone tried to kill me last night. And there have been threatening messages. We have to assume that this person has got it in for me particularly, or for me and Bronwen.”

  “Oh my God.” Mrs. Price pressed her hand up to her mouth. “What are we going to do?”

  “This calls for a stiff drink,” Mr. Price said. He snapped his fin
gers at the barman. “Three large cognacs, please.” Then he spun round to Evan. “So exactly what is being done to find my daughter?”

  “Everything possible, sir,” Evan said. “We’re pursuing any angle we can think of. I’ve been through a list of all the cases I’ve worked on, just in case someone is still harboring a grudge from a prior arrest. But my fellow officer, D.C. Davies, suggested that this person’s anger might be directed against both of us. Someone might want to stop our wedding.”

  “Who could that possibly be?” Mrs. Price demanded.

  “I’ve no idea. I wouldn’t say that Bronwen had an enemy in the world. You can’t meet a sweeter person. I just wondered—you wouldn’t have any suggestions, would you? Any unsuitable boyfriends in her past, young men who frightened her?”

  “The young man she married turned out not to be very suitable,” Mrs. Price said shortly.

  “I know,” Evan said. “But he left her, didn’t he? Anyway, I plan on speaking to him today.”

  “I can’t see him kidnapping her,” Bronwen’s father said. “Not Edward. Not the type.”

  “This is someone to whom music is important,” Evan said. “All the letters were written in code, using musical notes. Was Bronwen ever involved with anyone who was obsessed with music?”

  “Of course she didn’t exactly confide in us about what she was doing at Cambridge,” her father said. “She could have had any number of unsuitable young men there and we wouldn’t have heard about it.”

  “We haven’t always been close.” Mrs. Price stared at him with wide, hopeless eyes. “Not as close as I would have wished. Our fault partly, I suppose. We left her with her grandmother while Alan was working in the Middle East and then we sent her to boarding school. But she always was independent—didn’t take kindly to our trying to run her life.”

  Bronwen’s father cleared his throat. “So do they have any idea—any idea at all—what this chap might have done with her?”

  His question was loaded with unspoken fear. Is she likely to be alive or dead? Has he taken her for sexual reasons? That’s what he was asking.

  “We discovered a fully equipped bunker on the lower slopes of Mount Snowdon,” Evan said slowly. “It was unoccupied and apparently had never been used. He may have prepared more than one.”

  “Oh God.” Mrs. Price gasped again.

  The barman had placed three brandy snifters on the counter.

  “Here, drink this, old girl. Do you good.” Mr. Price handed the glass to his wife. She took it mechanically, sipped, and then coughed. Evan received the glass that was handed to him but couldn’t force the fiery liquid down his throat. In fact, every second that he stood there, doing nothing, was pure torture to him. He had to be out, rushing around, trying to find her.

  He put the glass back on the counter. “Thank you, sir, but I’d better not on duty. And if you’ll excuse me, I shouldn’t be wasting any more time.”

  “No, of course not,” Mr. Price said gruffly. “If there’s anything we could do to help?”

  “I don’t think so at the moment,” Evan said.

  “You will call us as soon as you know anything—anything at all?” Mrs. Price’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “Of course I will.”

  He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He started to walk out of the bar. At the doorway he turned back. “I will find her,” he said.

  Chapter 24

  It took Evan a while to locate Bronwen’s ex-husband, Edward Ferrers. He had moved away from his former London address, for obvious reasons, Evan decided. Too many bad memories. It was lucky that Edward was of the old school brigade. Evan seemed to remember Bronwen mentioning something about Harrow, and the old boys’ association was able to furnish a current address and place of business. Public schools never let their alumni slip through their clutches.

  “Ferrers here,” Edward’s slightly breathy voice came on the phone line.

  Evan was able to keep his voice calm and even as he explained the situation. Edward had shown himself once to be emotionally unstable and now he almost yelled into the phone, “Bronwen? You’re saying that some bastard has kidnapped Bronwen? How could you let that happen?”

  At least this outburst verified that Edward himself had nothing to do with it.

  “Yelling won’t solve anything, Edward,” Evan said. “I need your help. We’re trying to come up with a motive. We have a profile of the person who is likely to have abducted her. Loner, outdoorsman, passionately fond of music, probably slightly older than we are. So I’m asking you to rack your brains and try to remember if there was anyone at Cambridge, or anyone who Bronwen ever mentioned, who annoyed her, or followed her around, or even stalked her. Someone with a musical connection.”

  Edward was silent for a long while, then he said, “There was one bloke at Cambridge who was in a history class with Bron. Odd sort of chap. I suppose you’d call him the typical nerd, horn-rimmed glasses and always had his nose in a book—socially inept. And I seem to remember that he played some instrument—cello, maybe? Well, he did follow Bronwen around for a while, but then he attempted to assault another girl who was in Bronwen’s dorm. I think he was arrested for it.”

  “Her name wasn’t Debbie, by any chance?”

  “No.” Edward sounded puzzled. “I think it was Alexandra. Why?”

  “Because the name Deb, or Debbie or Deborah, is apparently important in a clue he left for us.”

  Another long pause. “I’m afraid I can’t think of anyone called Deborah at the moment. Certainly not in our crowd at Cambridge.”

  “But the man’s name—you can remember that?”

  “Let me see. I think it was something strange, that suited him. Erwin—that was it. Erwin Gouge.”

  “Thank you, Edward. That’s really helpful.” Evan scribbled it down. “If he was arrested, that will give us something to go on, and he’ll have been fingerprinted. I’ll get onto the Cambridge police straightaway.”

  “If there’s anything more I can do—” Edward let the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Evan said. “And if you do happen to remember a Deborah, or anything else that might be important, I’ll give you my mobile number.”

  “Yes, right.” Edward attempted to match Evan’s brisk detachment. “It will—I mean—you do have some chance of finding her, don’t you? You’ll do your best. You and she were … close, at one stage.”

  “Close?” Evan’s calm snapped. “I’m bloody well getting married to her next Saturday.”

  After he hung up, Evan went outside and stood in the fresh breeze, taking deep breaths. He had never liked Edward Ferrers, despised him actually. Ferrers seemed to bring out the worst in him at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. When he had calmed himself sufficiently, he put a call in to the switchboard and was given the number for East Anglia Police. It didn’t take long to locate Erwin Gouge on their records.

  “That’s right. Arrested for attempted assault on a young woman.”

  “What happened to him?” Evan asked. “Is he in prison?”

  “No, he’s not—”

  Evan’s heart lurched. “Then you don’t know where he is?”

  “Oh yes, I know that.” The voice sounded weary. “He hung himself in a holding cell before his trial.”

  Evan snapped shut his phone in bitter disappointment. So hopeful and now back to square one. He had no alternative but to drive down to HQ and see what Watkins and Hughes wanted him to do next. He got in the car and winced in pain as he adjusted the strapping around his shoulder to allow him to grip the wheel. Then he drove down the pass faster than he should. His brain was whirring in overdrive as the adrenaline continued to flood through his body. Every second counted and they were getting nowhere. They didn’t even know where to start. Glynis had been right. What they needed was the link, the one thing that bound all these strange elements together. The key must be somewhere—in one of those messages he
had been sent. Someone hated him, or hated Bronwen, or hated the idea of their being together. The clues were pitifully few. A dead father. Someone called Deb also dead. Classical music. A bunker. A girl missing from a mountain path.

  Then it was almost as if he heard Bronwen’s voice. “I went to school with a couple of girls like that.” Debs! A tenuous link at best, but the only one that connected Bronwen to any of the clues. He stopped the car and pulled out his phone again, trying to force his brain to remember everything Bronwen had told him about her school. He didn’t know one posh girls’ school from another. It was on the Welsh border, he remembered, in the Malvern Hills, and the name had been similar—something to do with monks. Malvern Priory. That was it. He called Directory Inquiries and was given the number for the school. After a couple of rings, a plummy female voice came on the line. “You have reached Malvern Priory School for Girls. The school office is currently closed for the summer holidays. Michaelmas Term begins on September 15. Please leave your name, number, and nature of your inquiry and …”

  Evan threw down the phone in disgust. Someone had to be at the school. The premises had to be kept running, even in the summer holidays. He had no alternative but to drive there. The thought of driving that distance made him grimace with pain, but he wasn’t going to waste time talking it over with Watkins and Hughes, getting permission or not. He put his foot down and at the roundabout he turned onto the A55 in the direction of Chester instead of Caernarfon.

  After a weary hour and a half’s drive southward through the border hills that have long separated Wales from England, he found himself passing between impressive brick gateposts and then along a driveway lined with rhododendron bushes. At the end of the drive an elegant yellow stone house could be seen, surrounded by manicured lawns. The only indication that this was a school and no longer a stately home was the lacrosse goal posts on the field to one side and the discreet sign stating. PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY AND WATCH OUT FOR SCHOOLGIRLS. VISITORS MUST REPORT TO THE SCHOOL OFFICE. An arrow directed Evan round the main building to what was obviously a former stable block. The office, however, was locked.