Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs (22 page)

Watkins’s car drew up in the parking space beside him.

“That smells bloody good, doesn’t it?” he asked as he got out. “Reminds me of the days before the wife went on a health kick. They don’t seem to mind about cholesterol up here do they?”

“A lot of people up here work on the farms. I don’t think it matters so much if you’re out in the fields at five every day, come rain or shine,” Evan said. He glanced up into the sky, which was heavy with cloud. The peaks were hidden and cloud fingers came down deep into the valley. The air was moist—what some of the older villagers called “a soft morning.” If he wasn’t wrong there would be rain later.

“I’m feeling a bit peckish myself,” Watkins said. “There’s no cafe up here, is there?”

Evan shook his head. “They serve food up at the Everest Inn, but not at prices you or I would want to pay.”

“Pity. Oh well, let’s have a quick look around the house and then I’ll stop off at that roadhouse beside the roundabout in Bangor. They do a good fry-up.”

“I might come down and join you,” Evan said.

“You’re alright. You’ve got a tame landlady.”

“Not since our local minister moved in. It’s all low-fat and natural now.” His face lit up. “Now that’s the one good thing about this murder. The Llewellyns will move out and the Powell-Joneses can move back to their own house … and I can go back to my old room and my old breakfasts.”

“Now I come to think of it, you look a mere shadow of your former self,” Watkins chuckled.

Evan chose not to reply.

“Looks as if the press have finally given up,” Watkins commented as they stepped over the police tape and walked up the driveway to the Powell-Joneses’ house.

“They’re camping outside the Everest Inn now,” Evan said. “Let’s hope they aren’t watching this place or they’ll all come swarming back. What a life for that poor woman. You could understand it if she cracked, couldn’t you?”

Watkins nodded. He put the key in the door. The house smelled cold and damp, with a lingering overtone of the chemicals used to collect the blood samples.

“Dreary place,” Watkins muttered. “I can see why they turned the heat on. It feels like a bloody tomb in here.” He looked around. “Let’s start upstairs in the bedrooms, just in case the lawyer arrives.”

“We’ve got a search warrant, haven’t we?”

“Yes, but you know what lawyers can be like. Talk the hind leg off a donkey. Alright, you take the rooms on the left, I’ll take the right.”

There were four bedrooms on the main floor upstairs. Two were untouched. One had clearly been the domain of Ifor Llewellyn. It was decorated liberally with framed photos of Ifor in various operatic roles as well as with heads of state, film stars, and other public figures. Tapes and CDs were littered over the tables and dressers. Evan scanned the titles: Ifor Llewellyn sings Wagner … or Verdi … Llewellyn and Pavarotti, The Paris Concert. There were also piles of personal tapes with bold scrawled headings: “Rehearsal, May 28th, including good version of Aria-Rigoletto. May 30th, rehearsal before Pagliacci.” He certainly liked listening to himself, Evan decided.

The desk in the room was a jumble of papers. Evan started to go through them methodically; fan letters, theater programs, bills from tailors and a shirtmaker, letters from an accountant—all unincriminating. Ifor didn’t seem to owe anyone a large sum of money. There were no letters from women, in fact the only feminine touch was a framed child’s drawing of a house, family, and rainbow with the words “I love you, Daddy,” printed on it in black crayon.

Then Evan noticed the envelope with an Italian stamp. He opened it and a smile spread slowly across his face. “In here, Sarge,” he called. “I think we’ve got something.”

Watkins appeared at his side and Evan handed him the letter. Watkins nodded as he read it.

It was from a law firm in Rome.

Esteemed sir, It has come to the attention of our client, La Signorina Carla Di Martini, that you intend to write your memoirs. La Signorina wishes me to convey to you in the strongest terms that her name is not to be mentioned in this proposed work. I am sure you understand that any reference to my client would be potentially damaging to her career and her international reputation. It is hoped that you will behave as a gentleman should and not attempt to embarrass the lady in question.

Should you decide to proceed with the mention of our client in these memoirs, please be assured that we will take all legal steps to block publication and seek damages against you for defaming her good name. I need not remind you that such a legal process would be both detrimental to your career and financially devastating to you.

This is to advise you that our partner, Signor Angelo Rossi, will be coming in person to obtain your personal assurance that you will respect our client’s wishes.

“You think this could explained the Mafia type who threatened him?” Watkins asked.

Evan nodded. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? That was obviously the representative they sent over.”

Watkins folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. “I can’t wait to show this to the D.I. He’s got half the police in Europe running around trying to locate a possible Mafia hit man and all the time the explanation was lying under his nose.”

“It doesn’t seem that this has anything to do with Ifor’s death,” Evan said. “They could get what they wanted out of Ifor legally—and make money doing it.”

“Unless the signorina got desperate when he sent her bloke packing,” Watkins said thoughtfully. “You said yourself that Ifor wasn’t scared of any threats. Maybe she decided to take stronger measures and the next messenger she sent was a hit man.”

“It’s possible,” Evan said, “but a hit man wouldn’t kill so messily, would he?”

“Unless something went wrong. Ifor was a big bloke.”

Evan paused then shook his head. “No, I still think the answer lies with the family. They’re covering up for each other somehow. Did you find anything in Mrs. Llewellyn’s room?”

“Not a thing,” Watkins said. “Come and look. It’s like a hotel room—nothing personal about it. No photos, no letters, nothing.”

“Maybe she took the important stuff up to the Everest Inn with her,” Evan suggested. “She went upstairs alone to phone her children, didn’t she? And then she packed a bag.”

“So anything incriminating might be in her room at the Everest Inn?” Watkins asked. He gave Evan a meaningful glance. “You know the manager there pretty well, don’t you? Major something or other?”

“You want me to ask him to let us into Mrs. L.’s hotel room?” Evan asked dubiously.

“We have a search warrant for her personal possessions, don’t we?” Watkins demanded.

“For this house,” Evan said.

“Hotel staff come in and out of rooms all the time,” Watkins said. “I agree that we probably can’t use what we find in a court of law, but it would be nice to know if our hunches are going in the right direction, wouldn’t it? After all, something made her come forward and confess.”

“I don’t think we’re going to find a letter saying, ‘I’m about to kill Daddy,’” Evan said dryly, “and we both agree that she’s a clever woman. If she had incriminating evidence, she’d have destroyed it before she turned herself in.”

Watkins nodded. “Probably true. All the same, it’s amazing what women keep—old love letters from her boyfriend, letters from her kids. We might just turn up something.”

“Alright. We can give it a try,” Evan said, “but let’s finish off here first.”

Mrs. Llewellyn’s room was neat and colorless, with no hint of the person who was currently inhabiting it. The artwork on the walls was definitely Powell-Jones’s choice—a large stag standing over a Scottish glen, a framed picture of the slate quarry workers dated 1921, and a cloying portrayal of Jesus, surrounded by adorable children. Evan glanced around the room.

“I can tell you one thing,” he said. “That shoe in the front hall never belonged to her. She has nothing with heels that high.”

“Then why admit to it?” Watkins asked.

“Because she suspected that it might have belonged to someone else?”

“The daughter, you mean?”

“The lab techs did find a black hair, didn’t they? And the little girl in the family picture has black hair.”

“But the daughter adored her father. Her mother said so over and over again.”

“She made a point of doing so,” Evan agreed. “Oh well, no use speculating, is it? Let’s give the rest of the house a quick search while we’ve got time.”

Another half hour turned up nothing extraordinary, and nothing that looked like a possible murder weapon. They came out of the house into a blustery day. The early mist had now turned to a sharp driving rain.

Watkins turned up his coat collar. “I love summer, don’t you?” he said.

“It’s a pity it will spoil the last day of the
eisteddfod,
” Evan said.

“You’re not going to be singing today, are you?”

“No, thank God. Although I didn’t think we sounded too bad without Ifor. Austin Mostyn had quite a nice voice. Not very big, but not bad at all. We might have been back for the finals today if he hadn’t stopped singing.”

“Understandable enough,” Watkins said. “He’d just lost his friend, hadn’t he?” Suddenly he froze. “What on earth is that?” he demanded.

Evan was also listening to the great burst of sound. Then he realized that it was Sunday morning and the windows of Chapel Bethel across the street were wide open, in spite of the rain. A smile spread across his face. “Oh, that must be the Reverend Parry Davies, giving his sermon. He’s obviously getting his voice ready for the
eisteddfod
this evening. He’s entering the bard’s competition, you know.”

“And so I say unto you—you cannot love the Lord until you know the Lord. Which of you here can truthfully say that he knows the Lord?”

Without warning another voice rang out. “And it says in the Bible the wages of sin is death! I am like John the Baptist—a voice crying in the wilderness saying Repent! Repent!”

This voice was booming from Chapel Beulah, which also, unaccountably, had all its windows open today in spite of the rain. The Reverend Powell-Jones was also getting his voice ready for the bard’s competition. The whole street echoed. The voices drowned out the patter of falling rain, the hiss and sigh of the wind. The sound bounced back from unseen hillsides above and made startled sheep look up from their grazing.

“Bloody ’ell,” Watkins said, turning up his coat collar even more. “Do you have to go through this every Sunday up here?”

“Only when both pastors want to win the same competition,” Evan said. Even as he spoke windows were slammed shut on both sides of the street. The first round of the current battle was declared a draw.

*   *   *

“I wonder what the son’s doing while his mother’s being held for questioning?” Watkins asked as they approached the looming shape of the Everest Inn. “He made a big fuss about our bullying her yesterday but he didn’t show up to protect her at the station, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” Evan said. “There was no sign of him this morning.”

“He’s an arrogant bastard, isn’t he?”

“Or just young and scared,” Evan said thoughtfully. “He’s obviously got something to hide. We know he wasn’t quite honest with us before. I saw him here a month ago. I’d swear it was him and yet he denied ever being here before.”

“Now all we need is someone who saw him here a couple of days ago,” Watkins said. “I’d like to have a little talk with Justin Llewellyn, while we’re in the neighborhood … but I think the D.I. and the mother’s solicitor would probably both want to be there.”

“If we had a good reason, we could drop in for a friendly chat,” Evan said.

“So come up with a good reason,” Watkins said.

“Don’t look at me. I’m already in big trouble if the D.I. finds I helped search Mrs. L.’s room!”

“Pity. I’d just love to hear how Master Justin explains away his last visit here.”

“Me, too,” Evan agreed.

A doorman opened the heavy oak-and-glass doors of the inn. Again the vast foyer was almost deserted. Everest Inn guests didn’t hang around much during the day.

“We can try just asking for the key,” Watkins said. “If the girl at the desk won’t give it to us, then you go and find your friendly major.”

As they approached the reservation desk the girl looked up and recognized them.

“Excuse me,” she began before they could say anything. “Could I have a word with you?”

She beckoned them closer to the desk, even though the foyer was deserted. “Aren’t you the policeman from the village?” She gave Evan a shy half smile. “I thought so. I recognized you when you came to get Mrs. Llewellyn this morning.”

“This is Detective Sergeant Watkins,” Evan said. “We’d like to get some things from Mrs. Llewellyn’s room.”

The girl glanced around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you something first. I said I’d do it for Olwen. She’s the room maid up on the third floor. She told me about it the other day and then when she heard that Mr. Llewellyn had been killed—well, she said that proved it, didn’t it? And somebody better do something about it, as long as it wasn’t her.”

“I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, love,” Evan said.

She leaned closer. “It’s about the man in number three twenty-one. He’s been there all week and Olwen says he never leaves his room—just looks out of his window all day. Olwen says he’s really creepy, and she thinks he’s got a telescopic rifle—you know, one of those things that can shoot awful long distances. Olwen was wondering whether we should tell the major, but we didn’t want to get in trouble.”

Watkins glanced at Evan, then turned back to the girl. “What name is he registered under?”

She glanced down. “Forrester. Robert Forester.”

“Three twenty-one, did you say?”

The girl nodded. Watkins and Evan ran to the lift, then turned impatiently and took the stairs two at a time. Watkins knocked briskly on the room door and was answered with a curt, “If that’s the girl come to clean the room, go away, I’m busy.”

“North Wales Police, sir,” Watkins called through the door. “Open up right away.”

The door was opened by a serious-looking young man with round owlish glasses and prominent teeth.