Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (15 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery
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“So the D.I. is taking over the case himself?” Evan asked.
Watkins nodded. “For the moment. We’ve just been down that bloody slate mine and shown him where the body was found. He’s got the crime scene boys there, going over the place, although what he expects to find in a slate mine, I’m not sure. Now he wants to talk to this lot.”
“So what’s the plan then, Sarge? Do we have to wait for him to finish up here?” Evan asked. “I’ve got a couple of leads we should … .”
He broke off. The D.I. was coming through the revolving door with someone else following him. Watkins shuffled his feet uneasily again. “Look, Evan, I meant to tell you before this, but I’ve been assigned a partner for this case, so I’m afraid … .”
“Ah, there you are.” D.I. Hughes’s crisp, high voice echoed through the foyer. He paused to brush raindrops from the shoulders of his well-tailored trench coat and ran a hand over his graying hair, although every strand was already in place. Then he came to join Watkins and Evan. “Everyone assembled? Good man, Evans. I don’t know if you’ve met our latest addition, have you? This is Detective Constable Davies. I’ve assigned her to Watkins for this case.”
Glynis Davies was crossing the foyer, looking stunning as ever in tailored navy pants and a dark blue raincoat that accentuated her sleek copper hair. She smiled at Evan. “Hello again. I gather you’re the one who found the body for us. Brilliant.” She went and stood beside Sergeant Watkins. “My first murder case,” she said, beaming at everyone. “I’m so excited.”
“Right, let’s not waste any time then.” D.I. Hughes clapped his hands together. “I’m going to have a little chat with these good people and I’d like Watkins to take a look at the victim’s room. Make an inventory of anything that might be important, Watkins—correspondence, addresses, notes, bills.”
“Right you are, sir.” Watkins started for the reception desk.
“Should I go with him, sir?” Glynis had already produced a notebook from her bag.
The D.I. turned to her with his most charming smile. “I think you should stay and observe when I interview the victim’s associates. A good interviewing technique is something that takes time and practice to acquire. It is that fine line of getting the information we need without putting the suspect on his guard, or making him feel he is being interrogated.”
“He or she,” Glynis corrected.
“Quite.” D.I. Hughes nodded tersely.
Evan glanced at Watkins, but the latter was already getting the key from the girl at reception.
“So let’s get started, shall we? I take it that the people at the table are Mr. Smith’s associates, Evans?”
“Yes, sir,” Evan said.
“Splendid.” He smiled benignly at Evan. “Well, we won’t detain you any longer, Constable. I expect you have work to do.”
“I was assigned to assist these people with their project, sir.”
“Well, I don’t foresee them being free to get back to work before this afternoon, so I’ll let them know that they can get in touch with you at the police station when they need you. Come along, my dear.” He put a hand on Glynis’s back and shepherded her over to the waiting filmmakers.
Evan came out of the Inn into the fine morning rain. He had been dismissed; not wanted. Not needed. Watkins had a new partner. Now Glynis would be doing all the things he had expected to do. She’d probably solve the case single-handed in a couple of hours and be promoted to sergeant by the end of the day, he thought angrily, then grinned at his own childishness.
As he drew level with the two chapels, he heard his name called and Mrs. Powell-Jones came running down her driveway, apron flapping and hairpins flying. “Ah, there you are, Constable Evans. I wondered if you’d gone on holiday or something.”
“No such luck, I’m afraid, Mrs. Powell-Jones.” He stood with resignation, waiting for her to reach him. “Why did you think I’d gone on holiday?”
“Because you are never at the police station when I phone and you haven’t answered any of the important messages I’ve left in the past few days.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been assigned elsewhere.”
“I know. To that very rude young man who never turned up for tea when he was invited. Well, you can tell him from me that he’s lost his chance to find out the true details of Llanfair in the war now. Invitations to tea at my home with homemade scones do not come lightly.”
“So was there a problem, Mrs. Powell-Jones?” Evan asked, anxious to get to the station and shut the door behind him.
“More than one. Several problems, in fact. Major problems. It’s all thoughtlessness, of course, and a very warped view of Christianity.”
“What is?”
She pointed dramatically at the other chapel. “That star. I’m lodging an official complaint.”
“Star?” As so often when talking to Mrs. Powell-Jones, Evan found himself floundering.
“On the roof, man. They’ve had the gall to put up an electric star on their roof. To announce Christmas to the world, so Mrs. Parry Jones says. It’s not that at all. It is purely an act of jealousy.” She leaned closer to Evan as she glanced across at the other minister’s house. “She has always been very put out that I do such a wonderful Christmas pageant. So obviously she has come up with this ridiculous flashing star in an attempt to draw attention to herself.”
“But surely a star is a nice Christmas symbol for the whole village to enjoy, isn’t it?” Evan suggested.
“A Papist symbol, Constable Evans. Not the sort of thing you’d expect to find on a good Nonconformist chapel, and a traffic hazard to boot.”
“A traffic hazard?” Evan glanced up at the star on the chapel roof. It didn’t look as if it might fall off at any moment.
“I understand that the lights are going to flash on and off. Approaching motorists will be distracted. They might think it is some kind of traffic signal, slow down, and run into each other. It can’t be allowed, Constable Evans. It has to go. If it doesn’t, I will personally complain to the Public Safety commissioner—an old friend, I might add.”
“I’ll register your complaint and pass it on to my superior,” Evan said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“And ask her about the holly,” Mrs. Powell-Jones called after him. “I had some particularly fine holly berries in my back garden.
Now they have all mysteriously disappeared and that Parry Jones woman has a holly wreath on her front door. Very strange, since she has no garden of her own to speak of and certainly no holly bushes. Ask her about it, Constable Evans. Get her to confess.”
Evan sighed as he continued down the street. Was this why he had become a policeman, to mediate disputes between feuding ministers’ wives?
So what are you going to do about it, boyo? he asked himself as he shut the station door behind him and put on the kettle for a cup of tea. Are you going to sit there and let them all walk over you? Or are you going to show them that you’re as good as any of them? The problem was he had no idea how he was going to show them anything at all … . unless he used his initiative and started doing a little snooping on his own. Anyway, he wasn’t going to sit there all day, waiting to be summoned to play nursemaid. He unplugged the kettle again and strode out to his car. It wouldn’t do any harm if he had a talk with Mr. Robert James, and maybe asked if an old German had turned up in Blenau Ffestiniog recently.
Robert Jameses’ farm looked prosperous, with lush green water meadows beside a rushing stream and a large two-story farmhouse set among larch trees. Smoke was curling up from the chimney and a big bonfire of leaves added a delicious smell as Evan drove between dry stone walls to the house. A pretty woman came to the door, slim and fine boned, with blond hair and blue eyes. Although she wore jeans and an old sweatshirt, she managed to look elegant, and much younger than she really was, Evan suspected. A toddler emerged from behind her legs and was promptly grabbed before it could escape.
“Sorry about that,” she said, smiling at Evan. “My daughter’s off helping my husband with the funeral arrangements and I’m stuck here with the grandkids.”
“I’m Constable Evans, Mrs. James. I’m sorry to trouble you at this difficult time, but … .”
A flash of fear crossed her face. “Nothing’s wrong, is it?”
“No, I just came to see your husband, actually. My condolences about his father. I didn’t know him personally but he was obviously well respected.”
“He was indeed—a lovely man. Robert says he used to be quite stern when they were kids, but turned into a big old softie. You should have seen him with the grandchildren, giving them rides on his back.” She paused, fished for a tissue, and wiped her eyes. “Robert’s really taking it hard. His father was doing so well after the heart surgery, look you.” She smoothed down her apron. “But I mustn’t keep you here, chattering on. I don’t think Robert will be back for a while. There’s so much paperwork to be done and his mother’s not really up to it—well, she wouldn’t be, would she?”
Evan wondered when she might stop for breath. When the grandchild tugged at her skirt and said, “Nain, I’m hungry,” she looked up at Evan and smiled apologetically.
“I’d better go and feed the multitudes. Always hungry at this age, aren’t they? So what was it you wanted to ask Robert? Maybe I can help you?”
“It’s about a man called Grantley Smith.”
“Grantley Smith—don’t mention that name around here,” she snapped. “Robert told me all about that Englishman and what he did. He blames him for his father’s death. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? And I have to agree with him—bringing that terrible woman to visit him. I mean, you don’t shock somebody who’s had heart surgery, do you?”
“Would you happen to know if Robert went to see Grantley Smith after his father died?”
“He talked about it,” she said. “But he always talks big, does Robert, when he gets riled. He was going to give that Grantley Smith the whipping of his life. Teach him to come interfering
where he wasn’t wanted. That kind of thing, you know. But it’s all talk, isn’t it?”
Evan thought it prudent not to tell her that Robert’s hands had been around Grantley Smith’s throat at least once.
“On Saturday morning, did either of you go out?”
“On Saturday? Why yes. I always do my week’s shopping on Saturdays. I dropped Robert off in Blenau and I went on down to Porthmadog.”
“What was your husband doing in Blenau?”
“He usually pops down on a Saturday morning and ends up at the Wynnes Arms, of course with all his cronies.” She paused and then asked cautiously, “What’s this about then? Nothing’s happened to Robert, has it?”
“Just routine inquiries,” Evan said. “I wondered if your husband might have bumped into Grantley Smith on Saturday morning, that’s all.”
“He didn’t say anything about it,” Mrs. James said, sweeping the toddler up into her arms, “and I’m sure he would have, knowing how he feels.”
Evan gave her a friendly smile. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer then.”
He’d have to report this to D.I. Hughes and his merry men, Evan decided as he drove away from the Jameses’ farm. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t have much choice. The fact that Robert James was in Blenau when Grantley Smith met his death was something they couldn’t overlook—although Evan couldn’t really picture Robert James as Grantley’s killer. Robert reminded him of Evans-the-Meat, all bluff and bluster, but he cooled down just as quickly as he heated up. He could imagine Robert strangling Grantley in the heat of the moment, but sneaking down a mine after him, strangling him in a dark passage, and then weighting down his body before dumping it in a pool of water—that took a different kind of temperament. It was an opportunistic, clever sort of murder.
But he would have to pass on the facts to the D.I. And he’d have to tell them about the old German as well. Not that he thought the German was a likely suspect. He had been angry enough. He had vowed to stop Grantley at any cost, but stopping someone at any cost didn’t usually mean killing them. Evan couldn’t picture that old man following Grantley down a mine and sneaking up behind him. Besides, the project to raise the plane would go on without Grantley. No—Evan suspected that the answer lay closer to home, among Grantley’s colleagues. He had felt the undercurrent of tension when he first met them. So many little remarks he didn’t understand. So many sneaked glances. The best thing he could do right now was to stay at his assigned post and observe.
That afternoon he was summoned up to the lake, where work on raising the plane was going to resume. The D.I. had apparently finished interviewing all of the filmmakers without leaping to conclusions and arresting anyone—which was a distinct improvement on his usual modus operandi, Evan decided. When he arrived at the lake site, the generators were humming, the winch was turning, and so were the film cameras. It was as if Grantley Smith had never existed.
Evan sat on a rock and watched them. Sergeant Watkins had been right—they were all jittery. Howard kept glancing up at him as he scribbled furiously on his yellow pad, then leaped to peek into the camera. Sandie must have dropped her pen at least ten times, each time looking across at Evan. And Edward was a bundle of nerves, pacing up and down, bringing out his handkerchief to mop his forehead, snapping at the crew when they didn’t follow instructions immediately. Evan supposed it was understandable that they would all be on edge. After all, they had just lost someone who had been close to them. But was their behavior showing their guilt, or was it possible that they suspected each other? Evan watched even more closely. Sandie was
doing a lot of glancing at Edward, but then Edward was glancing at Howard, and Howard was taking care to avoid eye contact with either of them. Interesting.
Evan waited until Sandie sat down to write up some notes. He went over and sat beside her. She started nervously as he perched on the rock. “So you had to face D.I. Hughes grilling you this morning, did you?” he asked, giving her a friendly smile.
She nodded.
“I can’t imagine that was too pleasant. Our D.I. isn’t known for his subtlety or tact.”
Sandie shuddered. “It was the way he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. And once he leaned across to that woman detective and muttered something and she looked directly at me. But when it came to my turn, he didn’t really ask me anything at all.” She picked at the hem of her sweater, twisting it into a knot. “Maybe they know more than they’re letting on.”
“About what?”
“About who killed Grantley, of course.”
“Do you have any ideas yourself?.”
She jumped again. “Me? No, why should I?”
“You’ve been working very closely with these people. When I first met them, I sensed things going on that I didn’t understand. An awful lot of tension, wasn’t there?”
“I suppose so. Grantley was the sort of person who thrived on tension. He wasn’t always easy to get on with.”
“Had you been with him for long—as his production assistant, I mean?” Evan asked tactfully.
“As his production assistant? This is the first thing he ever produced.” She glanced at him shyly. “I’d known Grantley for about a year. We were taking classes at the film institute together. When he told me about this, I jumped at the chance to be part of it—even if it meant being his maid of all work. Grantley had hardly paid me any attention before, but when I said my family came from North Wales, he was suddenly very attentive and asked me to join his team.

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