by David Barry
A squeal from the back seat jerked him out of his introspective mood.
‘OK, pack it in,’ he told them. ‘We’re here.’
Their mother stood at the door, seething with impatience. As he let them out, he gave her a wave; but she just glared, dragged the children indoors and slammed the door. He drove on for a hundred yards, parked and switched off the engine, then called Superintendent Phillips on his mobile. Trying to keep the gloating tone out of his voice, he told him about the boy’s description of the man they saw running away from the oak tree. Phillips, full of blustering self-confidence, denied the possibility that Evans might have slipped through the net, as Lambert guessed he would, and questioned the reliability of the boy’s eyewitness account, saying that it was probably just another of a long list of false sightings. Lambert stressed the importance of searching the area, especially as there was still some daylight left. He told Phillips the boy had given an accurate description of Evans, without being prompted. Reluctantly, the superintendent concurred, saying he would send some men down to have a look around. Lambert asked if he could be informed if they found anything, and Phillips, who had only agreed to the search to cover his own back, ended the conversation on a dubious, pessimistic note.
‘I still think it’s a waste of bloody time. And eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable.’
Irritated, Lambert clicked his mobile off and headed back towards Swansea.
Chapter 22
Two nights with hardly any sleep resulted in Lambert starting to feel the effects physically, in a way which was worrying. A pain shot through the left side of his body if he raised his arm or twisted it into a certain position, and he immediately began thinking the worst. He told himself he was just being neurotic; he had slept for a few hours last night scrunched up in the back of the car. No wonder he ached. He needed to relax; lie soaking in a nice hot bath. He decided to call it a day and head for home.
Home! Not by any stretch of the imagination, he told himself.
As he drove back to Swansea, the night descended without warning over the hills, as if a stage curtain had been lowered. Lambert couldn’t get Evans out of his mind. He knew the mercenary would be on his way now, secure in the cloak of night. But if Evans travelled at night, how come he’d been spotted by Trevor and his friend? And why was he now heading south-west, which was where he was heading earlier on, only this time he was further back and would have to cover more ground to get to where he wanted to go? None of it made sense, but it occupied Lambert’s mind until he arrived back at his flat. As soon as he was indoors, the first thing he did was to check his answerphone. But no one had rung. Not a single social call, friend or family. Feeling lonely and washed out, he ran a bath, then poured himself a large gin and tonic. But even the tonic had lost its sparkle. While he waited for his bath to run, he gave Ellis a quick call for an update. He was told that Wallace had caught a virus, a stomach bug which was doing the rounds, and had gone home hours ago. And Ellis had encountered so much red tape trying to get the information about the blood groups that Lambert told him to call it a day and make a fresh start the following morning. Before ringing off, Ellis asked if there was any news of Evans.
‘Looks like he was heading south-west according to the kid who spotted him. Same direction as before, only now he’s behind our men.’
‘Cunning bastard,’ Ellis said admiringly. ‘You’ve got to hand it to the man. So what happens now? They all turn round and head north-east?’
Seeing the comic potential of the situation, Lambert laughed. ‘Like a Buster Keaton film I saw. Backwards and forwards. It would drive Phillips mad. He still doesn’t like to admit Evans could have broken through his search party.’
‘What d’you reckon the chances are of catching him tonight?’
‘Who knows. But even if they do catch him tonight, I still want that information tomorrow, Tony.’
Lambert’s mobile rang.
‘I’ve got to go. And my bath’s overflowing. See you tomorrow.’
Grabbing his mobile, he dashed into the bathroom and turned the taps off before answering it. There was a short pause. Then Phillips, trying to sound as if humble-pie eating was never an option for people who had to get on with the job, told him they’d found a matching footprint confirming the boy’s story, and that Evans must somehow have managed to evade the police and was now heading south-west again. Lambert grinned mischievously at his steamy reflection over the wash basin and wished Phillips luck.
Chapter 23
Tuesday and still no sign of Evans. Lambert spent most of the day in the office, reading Evans’s letters to Gwyneth Chandler; but, in spite of going over them and sifting through each detail, making notes as he went along, he discovered nothing that seemed relevant or that he didn’t already know. And he couldn’t make up his mind whether the young mercenary really believed all the guff he wrote about Celtic mysticism or whether he was just stringing her along to get the information he needed. After reading through them three or four times, he eventually came to the conclusion that it could be a combination of both. Perhaps Evans truly believed in the arcane mysteries of the Celts but was also using this knowledge as a means to an end.
Late afternoon, Ellis bounded into the office. Lambert looked up expectantly, and he knew Ellis had got a result by the way he stood grinning, savouring the moment. This is what Lambert always did himself at such moments, but in others he found it irritating.
‘All right. Don’t overdo it. What have you got?’
Ellis flipped open his notebook and consulted it, though he knew it off by heart. ‘Evans’s mother was blood group A. Ted Wilson was AB. But Ben Evans was group O. And Gary Evans was born on April 4 1970. But his mother didn’t leave Tregaron until late November ’69. And she didn’t meet Ben Evans until December that year.’
They stared expressionlessly at each other. There was a hint of a smile in Ellis’s eyes as he saw the truth hit home.
‘Shit!’ Lambert exclaimed. ‘You realise who Evans probably killed, don’t you?’
Ellis, who had already worked it out, nodded. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about. Not with my chapel upbringing. Oh yes, and another thing. Evans’s mother was the Tregaron Carnival Queen in July 1969.’
***
Helen lay soaking in the bath. She had forgotten to pull the roller blind down and she could see the shadows of the trees through the frosted glass of the window, swaying and weaving a ghostly dance, and through the reflected images of the bathroom she thought she could see faces peering at her from the dark. She shut them out of her mind, ran some more hot water, then lay back again. She started to think of him. At first random images. The way he threw back his head and laughed; his face lit up and grinning proudly at her side while she breastfed Natasha; his breath on her shoulder as he massaged sun-tan lotion into her on the beach at Rhossili Bay. And while Natasha dozed she read passages of Dylan Thomas’s poetry to him. He seemed to listen attentively but she often wondered if he enjoyed moments like that or if he was merely pretending. Certainly his eyes reflected a deeper understanding and a compassion as she remembered how he gazed across the crystal waves towards Worms Head island, nodding as she spoke softly, reciting Thomas’s poetry. Moments like that had been magical. Welcome breaks in their hectic lives. And then over the years things began to change gradually. The images of those near-perfect times started to slip away and she began to wonder if he had been faithful to her all those years ago, even before Natasha was born. And what about when she was pregnant with Natasha? Had he been screwing some bit of stuff on the side then?
She shivered, chased the repugnant thought from her mind, sat up abruptly and reached for the towel. As she did, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Her face was flushed now from the steamy heat, but it glowed with a renewed energy. For so long, ever since his infidelities had come to light, she had thought of hers
elf as worthless and unattractive. But gradually she stopped blaming herself. She stopped caring about his infidelities, and realised it was nothing to do with her. It was just the way he was. It didn’t excuse anything. But at least she was able to look in the mirror again without feeling she had become old and ugly. And as the distance grew between them, her awareness of how much he still wanted her increased. She would never have him back, but it was comforting to know that he still loved her, only now she was the one who was in command of the situation.
She stepped out of the bath and began to dry herself. She was struck by a sudden irony. The pragmatic ex-husband, the doubter, the non-believer, turning to her for help in unravelling ley line mysteries. Perhaps it had little to do with the investigation. Maybe it was just his way of keeping in contact with her. An umbilical cord; a line of string winding through a dark labyrinth, bonding them together, like an invisible ley line.
She stared at her reflection and froze as sudden realisation sent messages screaming through her brain like electric currents. She knew what was wrong with those charts. She dried herself hurriedly, knowing she had the answer now. God! The hours she had spent poring over those charts. And it was so simple. A child could have seen it.
She threw on her bathrobe and dashed downstairs.
Chapter 24
Night descended rapidly. Gwyneth Chandler stood at the back door and tapped the side of the cat food tin with a fork.
‘Bran! Bran!’ she called. Her voice had a disappointed, slightly desperate edge to it. She felt lonely. She missed her daughters, and the company of the family pet in the evenings was a comfort. But the cat had slept all day in front of the fire and was now nowhere to be seen. She tried pursing her lips, making a high-pitched squishing sound which sometimes did the trick. There was a rustle of leaves from a bush nearby, but this turned out to be a large blackbird. She sighed disappointedly and watched the bird hopping about in search of food. From the living room came the budgie-like cheep from her telephone. She placed the cat food and fork on the work surface and dashed into the living room to answer it. She thought it might be Bethan and Gwen ringing her from Canada. They had rung at this time yesterday. Her spirits rose as she picked up the phone and gave the number. But her hopes were immediately dashed as there was a slight pause, followed by a mumbled apology. A wrong number. She sighed with frustration, hung up without speaking, and poured herself another red wine. She had drunk two glasses already. And she had drunk an entire bottle last night. Now it looked as if she would get through another bottle tonight. She frowned, feeling guilty, and wondered if she was becoming an alcoholic. Then she dismissed the idea, thinking it was only for this week until her daughters came home. She took her drink over to the fireplace and settled into the armchair, leaned forward and put another log on the fire. It crackled comfortingly. It was homely and cosy, but she was bored. She would have given anything to get out the house for tonight, go for a meal with someone in the town, instead of just sitting here....
‘Bugger it!’ she exclaimed loudly, immediately regretting having said it for the way it accentuated the silence. She picked up the ley line charts from where she had left them on the floor by the chair, and began to study them again. These were copies of the ones she had sent to Gary Evans when he was at that hospital. She thought about him now, as she had the previous night, trying to imagine him on the run, crashing through the countryside. She stared at one of the lines, following it up with her finger to where the small prehistoric circle of stones on the hill behind her cottage stood. She shivered involuntarily and her stomach fluttered and heaved. She felt vulnerable. Tense and straining for every sound from outside the cottage, she thought she heard a small squeaking noise that sounded like the scuff of a rubber soul on concrete. She rose hurriedly, turned the big iron key in the lock and leaned back against the door, consoled by the thought that although she was behaving ridiculously, she wasn’t taking any chances either. But when she felt the cold draught blowing through from the kitchen, she realised she had left the back door wide open. She hurried through to the kitchen, desperately wishing that Bran would come in. Through the open doorway she saw that it was dark outside now. She grabbed the door and swung it closed. As it slammed shut, from the corner of her eye she saw him. Her stomach lurched, discordant screams of terror pierced her brain, and as she gulped frantically for air, a hard, calloused hand clapped over her mouth, cutting off her breath. She was pulled roughly backwards against his body and she felt cold steel pressing against her throat. She wanted to cry. She wondered if this was how it was going to end. She felt his lips against her ear, whispering urgently,
‘Don’t scream. Don’t make a sound.’
Chapter 25
When Helen opened the door in her bathrobe, Lambert stood in the porch gazing at her like a lovesick adolescent. She pretended not to notice and stood aside, inviting him in. As he entered, she said,
‘You smell of beer.’
‘I’ve only had one pint.’
She saw him staring at the coat rack below the stairs.
‘There isn’t anyone else, you know.’ She thought she saw the beginnings of a self-satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, so added forcefully, ‘Not yet.’
Her words hit him like a hammer. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, the thought that the future would inevitably bring another man into her life. He would be jealous and he had no right to be. No right at all. Not any more.
‘What did you want to show me?’ he said.
‘In here.’
Helen led the way into the living room. She was about to show him the ley line charts but noticed he was rooted to the spot, staring at her. His face was blank. It was hard to tell what he was thinking.
‘What?’ she said.
Then he smiled slowly, giving her that eye twinkle that he seemed capable of turning on at will.
‘I hope you haven’t just showered and rubbed yourself in exotic oils for my benefit.’
Without thinking, she moved a little closer to him.
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
Her voice was husky. She felt she was losing control, sliding towards the inevitable. Pull yourself together, she thought. Don’t be a fool. His arms slipped around her waist. She knew she should have resisted but felt powerless, knowing that it was something she wanted to happen and it was of her own choosing.
‘You smell gorgeous,’ he said, his voice a degree softer, melodious.
She giggled. ‘Which is more than can be said for someone not a million miles from here.’
‘I’m sorry. I came straight from the pub.’
‘No! I’d never have guessed.’
‘If you like, I could pop upstairs and take a shower. Or I could run us a bath. Just like old times.’
‘I think I’m clean enough.’
‘Who said anything about washing?’
‘Fancy yourself, don’t you.’
He pressed himself closer to her. She could feel the bulge pressing through her bathrobe.
‘No, it’s you I fancy. Can’t you tell?’
‘You’d feel like this with any old scrubber you picked up.’
‘Not like this I wouldn’t.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Oh, Helen...’
‘Oh, Harry,’ she mimicked.
‘Stop teasing. You always were a bit of a PT.’
She tilted her face up towards his. ‘Ah, but I always delivered in the end.’
It flashed through his head that the opposite had been nearer the truth. But as he looked deep into her eyes, indulging in the briefest anticipation of the kiss, he brushed the past to one side, seeing only the possibility of a new beginning.
He kissed her gently on the lips and slowly her mouth opened to receive his tongue.
***
Gwyneth’s mouth tasted of dry fear. She could feel
the cold steel pressed hard against her throat. She wanted to swallow but was afraid to move a muscle.
‘I’m not going to hurt you. Understand?’
His voice was softer now, less desperate, trying to put her at ease.
‘But I don’t want you to scream. If I take my hand away, you won’t scream?’
She shook her head as much as she could in his smothering hold.
‘Right. I’m going to take my hand away.’
The strong smell of earth and grass on his fingers vanished as her mouth was released from his iron grip. He took the blade away from her throat and she saw that it was nothing more than a pen-knife. And he’d been holding the blunt side of it against her skin. Perhaps he meant what he said about not harming her. She eased her body away from his and turned round. She was panting now, as the sudden adrenaline rush left her feeling drained and shaky. She stared straight into his eyes. They were clear, pale blue. He held her gaze then folded the blade of the pen-knife shut without looking at it.
‘You OK?’ he asked. The knife vanished into his pocket.
Her throat was parched from fear. She licked her lips and swallowed saliva before answering hoarsely, ‘I think so.’