by Rhys Bowen
Evan looked around the room. "Where is the dog now?" he asked.
"I shut him in the summerhouse. He's a highly strung animal. I thought he'd get terribly upset with what would be going on here."
"Good idea," DI Bragg said, glancing across at Evans. Evan couldn't tell from the glance whether the DI was annoyed that he had spoken up. "So your walk started when?"
"I always leave at eight o'clock, and I'm out for about an hour."
"When you went out this morning, did you notice anything suspicious? Something that caught your eye as not quite right?"
"You mean did I glimpse someone lurking in the bushes? I'm afraid I didn't. And Lucky would have growled if he'd sensed somebody was in the garden. He has a wonderful sense of smell."
"Do you always take the same route?"
"It depends on the weather. On nice days I like to walk as close to the water as possible and enjoy the view across the strait to Anglesey. When the weather is not so fine, I stick to the town route, past the park, so that Lucky can have a bit of a run. I take a tennis ball for him. He loves retrieving balls."
"This morning was fine, so you did the water route then?"
"Exactly."
"Did you pass anybody along the way?"
She frowned, as if digesting this request. "Cars passed me. A boy on a bike, on his way to school. I don't recall any people-" She broke off as the full implication of the question came to her. "You want to ascertain that I really was on a walk with my dog when Martin was shot? Surely you can't think that I had anything to do with his death?"
"This is all purely routine, Mrs. Rogers. We have to examine every option."
"Yes, I suppose you do," she said. "Very well, I did say good morning to a man as I passed his garden. He's out there most mornings, and he has a little white dog who has become Lucky's friend. They always exchange a sniff and a tail wag through the gate."
"Do you happen to know the name and address?"
"I'm afraid I don't. Isn't that terrible? You pass the time of day with somebody for years, and you never take it to that next level and find out their name. I can take you and show you the house. It's very easy to find. It's black and white, pseudo-Tudor, and there's a white, fluffy dog in the garden most of the time."
"Pseudo-Tudor. On which street?"
"Ffordd Telford," she said. "Or Telford Road if you prefer it in English-which it always used to be, of course."
Bragg glanced at Evans again. "Got that, Evans?"
"Yes sir."
"Right, let's get back to your account of the morning. So your walk lasted the usual hour, did it?"
"More or less. I never time it to the minute. I came back and got Lucky a drink in his bowl outside. Martin doesn't like him eating or drinking in the house. Then I hung my jacket in the hall cupboard. The radio was on in the kitchen, and it was playing a Beatles' song. 'She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.' It made me remember happier days. Then I went through to the kitchen, and it took me a minute to notice Martin lying there, sprawled across the table, and the pool of blood on the tablecloth . . ." She put her hand up to her mouth and fought to compose herself. "It was a terrible shock. I'm sorry," she said at last.
"Did you try to move him?"
"No. I didn't touch him. It was so obvious that he was dead, you see. I walked around him and his eyes were open, staring at me. It was horrible. I ran to the phone and dialed nine-nine-nine, and then I went and locked up Lucky and waited for the police to arrive. That's about it, really. I'm afraid none of it seems real, almost as if I was describing a film I'd seen last night."
"Do you have someone to go to for a few days, Mrs. Rogers?" the WPC asked. "Family close by?"
"I've no real family anymore." Missy Rogers shuddered as she said it. "My parents died some years ago. I've a sister, but she lives in the south of France now. We see each other once a year at the most."
"Close friends living nearby?" the WPC insisted.
"We have plenty of friends among the faculty, and there's the altar guild at church."
"Any of them you'd like me to call to come and fetch you?"
Missy Rogers shook her head emphatically. "No. I'd prefer to be alone at the moment, thank you. I don't think I could stand other people's pity. I-I don't like being fussed over, I'm afraid. You'll be taking Martin's body away soon, will you?"
"As soon as the forensic boys have done their job and gone over the crime scene. If I were you, I'd stay up here until they're done."
"Would you like me to bring your dog up to you, Mrs. Rogers?" Evan asked. "He can't be too happy, shut away by himself all this time, and animals can be very comforting."
Missy Rogers's face lit up. "Yes. Thank you. I would like that. Would you mind? Would it be all right, Inspector, if the dog was brought straight up here?"
"No problem at all, Mrs. Rogers. I'll have Evans bring it to you as soon as we've finished our little chat."
"What more can I possibly tell you?" she asked.
"Well, the obvious question is whether anybody would have a reason to kill your husband."
Missy Rogers stared up at Bragg. "My husband wasn't an easy man, Detective Inspector. You have to understand that. He liked things done his way. He had strong opinions, so naturally he clashed with people from time to time. This isn't to say that he annoyed anyone enough to want to kill him."
"So what's your take on this, Mrs. Rogers?" Bragg asked. "Who do you think might have killed your husband? Some sort of suspicion must have entered your mind when you saw him lying there."
"Absolutely not. I was flabbergasted. Completely in shock."
"And now you've had some time to think. Anyone we should be looking at? Anyone who had quarreled with your husband recently or bore him an ongoing grudge?"
For the first time Evan noticed a spark of reaction in her face. "I don't know about you, Inspector," she said, "but when I have a disagreement with somebody, I don't rush out and shoot them after ward. It needs much more than that to make you want to shoot somebody."
"Like what, Mrs. Rogers?"
"A deep-seated, primal emotion, I should think. Intense hatred or fear. There has to be no other way out."
"So if you had to make a guess, is there anyone who might possess such a deep-seated emotion in regard to your husband?"
"Nobody I can think of."
"Then who might have waited for you to leave and then shot him?"
"I wish I could tell you that, Inspector, but I can't. A burglar, maybe, who saw me go out and was sure the house would be empty? There have certainly been plenty of robberies in this neighborhood recently. Our neighbors have alarm systems. We never had one installed because of Lucky; he's a wonderful watchdog."
"Would you be kind enough to take a look around the house with me to see if anything has been taken or disturbed?"
"Certainly." She got to her feet, brushed down her tweed skirt, and nodded that she was ready to begin. At the doorway she hesitated. "I-uh-won't have to go into the kitchen again, will I? I don't think I could bear to see . . ."
"No, not unless you kept the family secrets hidden in a safe in the kitchen floor."
"No, there's no safe," she said. "I have some good jewelry at the bank; Martin has a rather valuable coin collection and some rare stamps, but they're at the bank too. What little silver we have is on display. It seems such a shame to have beautiful things and not enjoy them. Beautiful objects make life bearable, don't you think?"
They walked from room to room. The ground floor contained a dining room, drawing room, and a library, its walls lined floor to ceiling with books. There were two spare bedrooms on the same floor as the master, as well as a former bedroom now turned into a study, with walls of yet more books, filing cabinets, and a desk with papers stacked neatly on it. Then up a flight of stairs to what had once been servants' bedrooms. One of these was now a room used for sewing and ironing. The other was stacked with boxes. Nothing appeared to have been touched.
"Is it possible that your husban
d had any valuable papers in his study?" Bragg asked.
"Papers worth stealing?" She half smiled. "He was a well-respected man in his field, but I don't think his work was so unique or outstanding that anybody would want to steal his papers. It's not as if he was a scientist developing a new bomb, is it? He was a historian, specializing in the eighteenth century. I don't think any of his work was earth-shattering enough to steal-or to kill him for."
She swayed suddenly and grabbed onto the banister. "I'm afraid I really do need to sit down for a while. This has been all too much for me."
"Quite understandable," Inspector Bragg said. "I think I've got everything I need for now, Mrs. Rogers. Of course the forensic team will need to take your fingerprints when they get here, but for now I suggest that you go back to your room and lie down. We'll have Constable Evans fetch your dog for you."
"Thank you. You're most kind."
Evan took her arm and escorted her back to the bedroom.
"Just one last thing, Mrs. Rogers," DI Bragg called after her. "Did your husband own a gun?"
"He had several antique guns. He used to use them as visual aids for his lectures. I don't know if any of them actually work anymore."
"And where would we find them?"
"He kept them in one of the drawers of the bureau in the library. I don't think it's locked. I'll show you." She led them down the stairs again, into the library, and pulled open a drawer. Several ancient firearms lay on a velvet backing-what looked like a dueling pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle; a colt revolver, an ancient musket. And one gap, with the imprint of a gun that had lain there.
Chapter 6
"We'll show that gun imprint to the ballistic technician when he gets here," Bragg said, as Evan followed him out of the house and they stood together on the driveway. Bragg glanced out into the street. "They're taking their time, aren't they?"
"The traffic's terrible these days," Evan said. "It sometimes takes ages just to get out of Colwyn Bay."
"So what do you think, Evans?"
Evan was surprised at the question. "What do I think, sir? She certainly loves her dog, doesn't she? The only time we saw any emotion at all was when I brought that dog into the room."
"In the case of a tragedy, you cling to anything familiar, don't you? And dogs are supposed to be a wonderful comfort, aren't they, although I can't see it myself. Peeing and pooping all over the floor and shedding hair wherever they walk. Got a dog yourself?"
"No sir. It wouldn't be fair. My wife and I are out of the house all day. Besides, we're newly married."
"Wouldn't want half her attention going to a dog, eh?" Bragg chuckled.
"Are you married, sir?"
"I was. Nor ready to take that plunge again in a hurry. Let's go and see where Wingate and Pritchard have got to."
He set off ahead of Evan with determined strides.
They found the other two officers in the garden shed.
"I hope you haven't been putting your paws over stuff in here," Bragg said, as he stood in the doorway. "This might be important. A good place to hide out and watch what was going on in the house. There's a clear view from here of the front door."
"We touched a pair of gumboots," Wingate said. "We needed to match them up with a couple of footprints we found. They're lady's size, obviously Mrs. Rogers's."
"Any other prints that don't match these?"
"A couple, sir. Great big boot in some of the flower beds."
"That would probably be the gardener. When we interview him, we must remember to get a print of his boot sole."
Bragg stepped into the shed and sniffed. "Smells like someone's been using an engine of some kind in here. Hot oil smell."
"That's right, sir," Pritchard said. "The lawn mower has been used recently. It was still a little warm."
"Mrs. Rogers said she did a spot of gardening this morning, didn't she?" Evan said.
"So she did. Well, that explains that then. No luck with finding the weapon?"
"No sir. We searched the bushes pretty thoroughly. There's a garden pond. We fished about in it a little, but we didn't find anything. You might want to have it searched more thoroughly if you think that the perpetrator might have got rid of the weapon and not run off with it. If it had been me, I'd have taken it away with me."
"He probably did, but people don't always behave rationally when they've just killed somebody. Sometimes they panic and want to get rid of that weapon as quickly as possible. You'd be amazed where I've found weapons before now. Stashed in the most obvious of places, almost as if the killer wanted to be discovered."
They came back out into the fresh air.
"So what's next, sir?" Sergeant Wingate asked.
"We'll know more as soon as forensics get here," Bragg said, staring with annoyance in the direction of the road again. "And we'll need to do a detailed search of the house once forensics have taken fingerprints. We need to find out if that antique weapon is really missing or just moved somewhere else."
"And if it's been recently fired," Evan added.
Bragg gave him a withering look. "Obviously we'd like to know if it's been recently fired, Constable. That goes without saying."
"Oh, have you found the weapon, sir?" Constable Pritchard asked.
"Possibly. Rogers has an antique gun collection. One of them is missing."
"I see." Wingate nodded. "It would be good if we knew the type of weapon we were looking for. What sort of bullets do antique guns use?"
"They just used to melt lumps of lead and pour it into a mold, didn't they? I've no idea if any modern bullets would fit. Let's hope the ballistics bloke knows the answer to that one," Bragg said. "Right, let's get on with it. We're wasting precious time standing here chatting."
"I think we should interview the neighbors as soon as possible, while the whole thing is still fresh in their minds." Wingate stared at the tall Victorian house next door that could be seen above the high hedge.
Bragg looked around. "It's hardly likely the neighbors will have seen anything with all these bloody trees and bushes in the way. The houses are too far apart."
"But someone would have heard a shot, surely," Evan said. "And there always seems to be somebody who just happens to be looking out of a window and notices who comes and goes from neighboring houses."
"Thus speaks the expert detective," Bragg said. "How long have you been on the force, Evans? How many months is it?"
"Not many, sir." Evan laughed it off.
"But that's a valid observation," Wingate commented. "There usually is one nosy neighbor on every street. Even if they saw nothing this morning, they might be able to offer us some insight into the dynamics of the Rogers's household."
" 'Insight' and 'dynamics.' My, we are into big words this morning, aren't we, Wingate? Are you planning to ram your university education down our throats?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I'll choose my language more carefully in future."
Evan stifled a smile. As an insult, it could not have been better.
"Don't get me wrong," Bragg went on, as if nothing had happened. "I fully intend to interview the neighbors. And it will be worth asking for the public's help through the media too. Evans, this comes under Western Division, doesn't it? You'd be familiar with the local media. I'm leaving it to you to get it onto this evening's news and into tomorrow's paper. Can you do that?"
"Yes sir. I think I can manage it."
"Good lad."
Bragg really had no appreciation of sarcasm, Evan decided.
"Be careful how much you tell them. A suspicious death-don't call it a homicide until we're sure of our facts. You can tell them the street name and the approximate time of the incident. Anyone who was passing and noticed suspicious or unusual activity is requested to call the Bangor Police Station, got it?" He looked up as a white van turned into the drive and scrunched over the gravel. "Ah, finally forensics have got off their arses. It's important that I stick around while they're here, but I think I can send you off to
interview the neighbors, can't I, Wingate?"
"Yes. I think that may be within the realm of my capabilities, sir," Wingate answered.
This time the sarcasm was not lost. "There's no need to be smart, Wingate. We're a brand-new team, and I'm the fall guy if anything goes wrong. I have to make sure my officers know what they are doing."
"I assure you that I am quite capable of interviewing the neighbors, sir, as I suspect are Pritchard and Evans."
"Yes, well, I'll need Pritchard with me while Evans is away. You can bugger off now, Evans, and you too, Wingate."
The two men walked down the driveway together, passing the forensic crew as they opened up the back of their van.
"Hello, Evans. Having fun, are we?" the young police photographer asked in Welsh. "He's a right bugger, so they say, that Bragg." He saw Evan's face and grinned. "And his Welsh isn't too hot either."
Evan turned to Wingate. "How is your Welsh?"
"Not a native speaker like you. My family farms in border country, and we were raised to speak English."
"That's too bad."
"In the current circumstances, I'd have to agree with you," Wingate said. "I'm Jeremy, by the way, and you are?"
"Evan."
"No, your first name."
"That's it. Evan Evans. Parents lacking in imagination, I'm afraid."
Jeremy Wingate grinned. "We'll get through this somehow, although I don't know what we've done to deserve this form of cruel and unusual punishment."
"He may not be so bad when we get to know him," Evan said.
"On the other hand, he may be a bloody sight worse." Wingate leaned closer as Evan opened the squad car door. "I'll keep you posted on what I find out from the neighbors. I have a distinct feeling this chappy isn't too bright. We may need to do his work for him."
Evan drove away, catching glimpses of the bright waters of the strait on one side of him and the Snowdon range, bright crisp outlines in the clear air, on the other. The local Bangor Police Station would have been nearer to look up media contacts, but Evan headed for Caernarfon instead. At least he knew his way around there.