by Roy Lewis
‘We know your name is Stark,’ he said abruptly.
Martin Evans seemed in no way surprised. He stared at Crow levelly, as though summing him up, and then in a voice remarkably controlled in view of his earlier state of shock he said, ‘Perhaps it would be sensible to tell me what else you know’’
He had not been surprised; Crow was. The reaction was not what he had expected and he was puzzled.
‘That’s not the way to proceed,’ he suggested. ‘We’re here to ask questions so it would be better if you told us all about what happened up there.’
Martin Evans smiled thinly. He seemed to be growing in confidence suddenly, as though he had reached a decision.
‘That’s an old trick,’ he said. ‘Remember, I was a lawyer. An old trick, get me to make admissions, suggest to me you know lots of things whereas you really know nothing. It won’t do. You ask questions, I’ll try answers in so far as I wish to answer. You’re right so far, I’ll admit that. My real name, the one I was baptised with, was Martin Stark. I changed it when I came to live here in the Rhondda.’
‘Why?’
‘A man can change his surname if he wishes; his Christian name, no, for it’s the name he has given to God—’
‘Are you a religious man, Mr Stark?’ Crow asked.
Martin paused for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I would rather you didn’t use my previous surname. Now, I’m Martin Evans. As for religion . . . I believed. I no longer do so. I cannot accept that God would allow . . . what he allows to happen. As for using the name Evans. It’s the name I adopted out of choice. Stark. . . that’s something I’ve put behind me.’
‘Because of the trouble you got into under that name?’ Dewi Jones asked quickly.
Martin Evans turned to look at him in the same level, calculating way he had stared at Crow, as though measuring his enemies, seeking out their strengths and weaknesses.
‘What trouble?’ he asked, and his voice was calm and controlled.
Jones was annoyed at the response; perhaps he had expected Martin Evans to give way more easily in view of his attitude when they had entered, and an edge crept into his tone. Crow was on the point of interrupting him, cooling him so that he did not give too much away, but then he checked himself for he was still curious about Martin Evans. He allowed Dewi Jones to continue, and Jones showed his inexperience immediately.
‘Come off it, Evans, we know all about what went on! We’ve been making enquiries in the north-east, and in Cardiff, and we’ve managed to paint the picture ourselves without reference to you. We know exactly what happened, and why.’
‘If you already know it all, how can I help you?’ Evans asked coldly.
‘By telling us why you killed your wife!’ Jones replied snappishly. Suddenly aware he was losing his temper he looked guiltily at Crow, but Crow was staring at the floor.
‘My wife,’ Evans repeated.
‘Donna Stark. The woman we found in the shaft. The shaft you can see from this office, the shaft where you dumped her when she came here blackmailing you!’
Evans moved involuntarily, his fingers suddenly tensing on the table top. There was a harder line to his mouth.
‘You’re making wild statements. Not questions. I don’t have to listen to this,’ he said in a harsh voice.
‘You bloody well do,’ Jones replied, reacting to Evans with a further spasm of anger. ‘Stop pussyfooting around for God’s sake and let’s get this over with. We’ve got plenty of facts, enough to piece the whole thing together. You were employed in the north-east by a firm of solicitors and you got married to a woman who was looking out for the main chance. She was working as a clerk in the same office, she hooked you, and it was only after you were married that you realised what she was really like — far from virginal and a bitch as well. All right, things didn’t work out, but that might have been bearable, but it wasn’t bearable when she landed you in the cart with your employers, was it?’
‘You’re behaving in an unprofessional manner,’ Martin Evans said bitterly. ‘Accusations such as these require no answer from me!’
‘You don’t have to admit anything! We’ve got enough damned witnesses to fit it all together! Your firm was involved in a fraud case — you were acting for Northeast Credit. Some papers came into your possession relating to James Klein; your marriage was going on the rocks, and Donna, your wife, was already thinking of leaving, even if you weren’t. But she needed cash, so she extracted those papers and sold them to Klein — which got him off the hook — and then she left you and went to live with a man called Scales. A big, handsome lad, but when the money ran out she turned back to Klein. We think she tried to blackmail him, that we’ll find out, but the fact is she ended up living with him. It suited them both. But you. . . you were no longer around. You pushed off — or were given the push, and you started a new life here in the Rhondda. You buried yourself, for good, you hoped.’
Jones paused, uncertain suddenly. He looked at Crow, and the Chief Inspector nodded. His eyes were fixed on Evans.
‘You built up this business,’ Jones continued, ‘and things were going well. A quiet life. But things weren’t quiet for Donna Stark. Klein had found another woman, one he wanted to marry. So he gave Donna the push. She went to Scales, but he was just a seaman. What about Martin? She asked herself the question, decided to look you up, get some money out of you. She came to Cardiff with Scales, engaged an enquiry agent called Skene, and he traced you. Then . . .’
Martin Evans was drifting again, his eyes clouded with unpleasant memories. He fought them off, held them at bay and glared at Jones, concentrating.
‘Then what?’
‘You tell us.’
Evans grimaced, drummed his fingers on the table. His uncertainty had returned completely now, he was nervous and unsettled.
‘You say you know it all. Why stop there? What other facts do you have? It’s just supposition. . .Why should I tell you anything at all?’
‘We can make a guess,’ Jones said. ‘We know she was after money. Maybe she came here and told you she’d expose you in the Rhondda, make it known you’d been thrown out of the legal profession for suspicion of fraud and theft. And in anger you attacked her, killed her, by accident maybe, dragged her up to the pit head, hid her body in the shaft. . .’
Evans twisted in his chair, staring at his hands, quiescent again on the table top.
‘Hardly a motive for murder, fear of being exposed in that way.’
Jones grunted.
‘The valley being what it is, gossip rife, everyone living in everybody’s pocket, the fingers would have pointed, your business would have gone down the drain, for the second time your life would have been destroyed.’
His voice died away, for Evans had lapsed into the same state he had been in when they first came to the office. His glance was vacant, his mouth loose, his whole personality had backed away like a cat from a snarling dog, and it was as though he were no longer with them. He was lost in the contemplation of his own past and the strain in his face told them the memories were far from happy ones. The silence grew around them, deepened, became almost tangible as a light sheen of sweat gathered on Martin Evans’s brow and Crow and Jones waited.
The silence began to affect Dewi Jones; he shuffled in his seat and looked to Crow for some sort of guidance, but Crow shook his head without speaking. Something was happening to Martin Evans, decisions were being reached inside his head and the repercussions were marking his face with pain. Crow was puzzled, curious and in an odd way alarmed.
It was like watching a man prepare himself for a watershed in his life, knowingly, understanding that he had much to lose and nothing to gain but loneliness and death. It was beyond Crow’s experience, this long, agonized silence, and it was something he could not measure or evaluate. He was too close to it, and too close to Evans, physically and emotionally. To recall it later, away from the man and the time, this might bring answers to him, but now none were possible.
> But at last Martin Evans moved. He sighed lightly and his mouth tightened, hardened into a determined line. Crow stood away from the window. Dewi Jones was startled, caught Crow’s nod, failed to comprehend it for a moment and then understood.
‘Martin Evans,’ he said quickly. ‘I want you to understand that you may make a statement if you wish but you are under no obligation to do so. If you do make a statement it is voluntary, and given under no threat or promise from us. But any statement you make, it may later be used in evidence if you wish to speak at this time.’
Martin Evans raised his head. His craggy features expressed the confidence of a man who knows he is doing right.
‘As a matter of procedure, it would have been more satisfactory had you said that earlier. No matter. It’s as you said it was. I admit it. Donna Stark was my wife. It was she who took those papers relating to Klein though I couldn’t prove it. I was suspected of collusion, and was asked to leave the partnership. Rather than face an enquiry at the Law Society I came down here to the Rhondda, started this estate agency and put it on its feet. Then she turned up again . . .’
‘When?’ Crow asked quickly.
‘June. The date . . .’
He hesitated and Jones said, ‘The sixth?’
Crow subdued the feeling of annoyance at the foolish interruption from Dewi Jones as Martin Evans nodded.
‘Yes. That would be it, She phoned me, said she wanted to see me. I could guess that she would be wanting money, would interfere with my life, would threaten me. I didn’t want our meeting to be public, so we arranged to meet on the track behind the office. From there we walked up to the old pit, stood arguing. She told me she wanted money. I got angry. She threatened me. We were standing near the wheelhouse. I lost my temper. I hit her, shouted at her, hit her again when she flailed at me. She fell into the wheelhouse.’
He seemed very calm, almost detached as he spoke.
* * *
‘And what would your advice be, Chief Inspector Crow? We have all the facts. We have witnesses who will testify as to what happened before the sixth of June, it all ties in, and to cap it all we have Martin Evans’s confession.’
Crow faced the Chief Constable and the Chief Superintendent coolly.
‘The case looks a reasonably strong one, but I would advise caution, sir. The confession is crucial, for we have no witnesses as to the act itself, or as to the meeting between husband and wife. So if the defence should attack the confession—’
‘It looks pretty watertight to me,’ the Chief Superintendent said.
‘I’d counsel caution, sir,’ Crow said doggedly. ‘Further investigation . . .’
‘Is unnecessary, in my view.’ The Chief Constable heaved a sigh. ‘We’ve appreciated your co-operation and your assistance, Chief Inspector Crow. I’m sure the Murder Squad has plenty on its plate not to want you to spend more time with us in Wales. I feel now we can offer thanks and allow you to return to your usual duties.’
‘There are still a few points, sir,’ Crow insisted, ‘a few points that need clearing up. Times and dates—’
‘We can see to that.’
‘And the letter. . .or rather the envelope without a letter in his desk—’
‘You suggest its presence demands explanation and Evans will give none. A red herring, Crow, the suggestion of blackmail will hardly stand up. I mean, after all, an envelope with crudely printed block capitals, the fact Evans denies knowing anything about it, I don’t see it has any bearing on the case. We can safely disregard it.’
‘There are other matters, sir. His demeanour when he was questioned by Inspector Jones, the motive behind the killing of the woman, these are matters I’m not very satisfied about. All I’m saying now is, not that I believe Evans is not telling the truth, but he’s not telling us all the truth. There’s the possibility that if you take this case to court now it will not be adequately prepared.’
Crow hesitated as he saw the thunderclouds gather on the Chief Constable’s brow. Quickly, he added, ‘There’s the chance we might be prosecuting before we have all the facts, and if there are any loopholes, if the confession obtained is subjected to a fierce attack by defence counsel, if—’
‘What is your advice, Chief Inspector? Succinctly, please.’
Crow’s voice became quieter, a sign of his own anger at the cutting edge in the Chief Constable’s tone.
‘I advise caution, sir. I advise against immediate prosecution. I advise further investigation. I suggest a request that Martin Evans be held pending such further enquiries—’
‘No magistrate would accept it,’ the Chief Constable snapped. ‘Either we have a case or we don’t. We’ve arrested him, we have a case. Further delay is pointless. We thank you, Chief Inspector. You’ve given us much valuable assistance. But your position was, by prior agreement, an advisory and consultative one. You have advised us; we have consulted you.’
He gathered up the papers in front of him.
‘The decision whether to proceed must be ours, after due consultation with the Director of Public Prosecutions.’
CHAPTER 5
Commander Gray was displeased by the suggestion but John Crow pressed his arguments with force. In the first instance, if it became absolutely necessary, Crow would simply take a backlog of leave due to him and spend it in Cardiff. But secondly, there were other considerations to take into account: the fact that the Murder Squad was not overstretched at this particular time. Crow himself had recently undertaken two investigations that had been rapidly concluded, and it was necessary to send a representative to the forensic science conference at the University of Wales. The third argument was perhaps the most cogent, however, and most likely to appeal to Commander Gray: a chief inspector of the Murder Squad had been attached to the investigation into the murder of Donna Stark, his duties had been advisory and consultative, he had counselled caution and his advice had been disregarded. There were two possibilities therefore — the case against Martin Evans might stagger to an unsuccessful conclusion, and the involvement of the Murder Squad might be seen to be utterly ineffective.
It was the last possibility Commander Gray was not happy about. He was a political animal in his bones, he obeyed his masters. So when Crow suggested the solution he finally agreed: John Crow should be the representative selected to attend the conference at the University of Wales, but should at the same time hold a watching brief on the preliminary hearing before the magistrates in the matter of the prosecution of Martin Evans.
‘I suppose you have doubts about his guilt,’ Gray said sourly.
‘Not exactly. I just think we don’t know the whole story. And you know as well as I do that if the ends aren’t all completely tied up it might get thrown out as no case to answer, or worse, it might get to the Crown Court and fail badly there. Reputations can be lost . . .’
It was enough for Gray.
* * *
John Crow attended the sherry party at the conference, though he did not care for such forced occasions, then took dinner with the rest of the members. He sat in on the first lecture, in which an eminent pathologist spoke of the use of body temperature in estimating the time of death, and the limitations to be recognized in the evidential value of the pathologist’s deductions. In his room later that night John Crow found himself staring at and not understanding the exponential terms he had written in his notebook ‘where O : the temperature excess of the rectum over the environment at the time t and B, C, Z, p= constants for the corpse under observation. . .’
He found great difficulty in going to sleep that night, the words constants for the corpse under observation spinning around in his mind until they somehow became utterly confused with Martin Evans and Donna Stark and a deep black shaft. The shaft became his room at four in the morning, the distant wail of an ambulance siren was Donna Stark’s death cry, and Martin Evans was the enigma, the dark shadow in the darkness.
Constants.
What had been the constants in Martin Evans
’s case? The interview with Evans, the man’s vagueness and then resolution, his firmness in confession . . .
The lecture for the morning concerned inaccuracy and under-reporting in certification of death. Crow decided to give it a miss, go back up to the Rhondda and attend the magistrates court for the preliminary hearing. He still puzzled over the thought that there were no ‘constants’ in Martin Evans. It was the thing that had bothered John Crow from the beginning, but only now was it becoming obvious. When Crow and Dewi Jones had spoken to Evans he had reacted, but his reactions had changed: he had wanted information, he had given little, he had accepted facts and built a confession around those. But what if the basis of those facts could be challenged?
What was the constant factor in the conduct of Martin Evans? Crow was beginning to hazard a guess.
The courtroom was crowded, as he might have supposed, but when he identified himself a place was made available for him. He soon had reason to be thankful for the Chief Constable’s decision not to use Crow as a witness but to rely instead upon his own men. The prosecuting counsel was a man unknown to Crow: his name was Weir, he was a dark-faced Welshman with eloquent hands and he had already outlined the case for the prosecution the day before.
Some witnesses had already been examined, and evidence of the marriage between Martin Evans and Donna had already been adduced. During the session James Klein was called to the witness-box, and Crow paid little attention to his evidence as he was taken through his story relating to Donna Stark living with him, then leaving to join Jack Scales. Instead of listening, Crow kept his eyes on Martin Evans, watching him carefully.
He was cool. He was dressed in a dark grey suit and his face was expressionless. He barely moved as Klein went through his evidence and he stared straight ahead of him. Crow watched and wondered. Constant factors . . . constancy . . .