Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (24 page)
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Authors: Rhys Bowen
BOOK: Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery
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“And did she make it—in Hollywood, I mean?”
“Not that I ever heard, and I never saw her in a film, but then nobody heard from her again. She sent her family a note when she sent one to Trefor, then she never wrote to them again. Of course, she and her mother had never really seen eye to eye, but it fair broke her mother’s heart.”
“What was her name again?” Evan asked.
“Mwfanwy Davies. But she used to insist on calling herself Ginger, after Ginger Rogers. Always gave herself airs, Mwfanwy did. A thoroughly bad lot, if you ask me.”
“Is any of her family still around?”
Mrs. Williams sucked on her lip for moment. “Her parents are long gone, of course. And her brother was killed in the war, God rest his poor soul. But she has cousins. Her mother’s family farmed down the valley in Dolwyddelan. It would be her cousin who’s got the farm now. You know her. She’s the one who married Robert James.”
Sergeant Watkins answered his mobile right away. “You again, Evans? What now?”“Is it a bad time to talk, Sarge? You’re not in with the D.I., are you?”
“It’s a rotten time to talk, but only because I’m about to attack a plate of egg, beans, and chips. I haven’t had time to eat all day. What are you onto?”
“It might be nothing, but I wondered if you’d found out anything about Howard Bauer or Robert James yet?”
“What do you think I am, bloody Superman?” Watkins demanded. “I’ve only just managed to get away for a minute and now my egg yoke’s running into my chips while I’m talking to you. Look, we’ve got someone onto Bauer’s background, just in case there’s anything fishy. And you can go up to Blenau Ffestiniog tomorrow and ask about Robert James, if you’ve a mind to. He was involved in a little spat on your turf, wasn’t he, so you won’t be out of line.”
“All right, I will.”
“Look, boyo,” Watkins said, more kindly now. “If you were anyone else, I’d tell you to lay off the hunches and leave us to get on with our work. My only advice is to be careful. Don’t stick your neck out, okay? If you find anything, call us. I don’t
want to fish you from the bottom of a pool with rocks in your pockets.”
want to fish you from the bottom of a pool with rocks in your pockets.”
“Don’t worry about me, Sarge. As I say, it might not be anything at all. I’ll keep you posted.”
“You do that.” Watkins hung up.
Evan glanced at his watch. There was nothing more he could do that night. All government offices would be closed. But he made a list of places to call first thing in the morning. Then he set off for a brisk walk before dinner. The wind blew in his face as he strode up the side of the mountain. Sheep scattered as he passed them. He was onto something, he could feel it. But he had no idea what it was. It was like groping about in a dark room, knowing that something you want and need is lying somewhere and not being about to put your hand on it. But it was definitely somewhere in that room and by tomorrow he’d be able to grab it.
Light faded fast. He reached the snowline and paused to scoop up a handful of freshly fallen snow. Then he threw it at a stunted bush and ran down the hill again to supper.
In the morning, he was at his desk, ready to go with pen and paper at nine o’clock. The American Embassy was first on his list.
“North Wales Police here,” he said. “I wanted to know if you had a list of war brides from World War Two. Presumably they were given some sort of visa before they could enter the United States?”
“Yes, we do have records,” the clerk said. “A lot depended on whether they got married in the U.K. before they left for the States. If the young woman married a serviceman during the war, then she’d have come to the States on one of the special bride ships.”
Evan must have made a surprised noise because she went on, “That’s right. They had whole shiploads of girls they transported to the U.S. But if she’d waited until the war was over and then gone under her own steam to marry, she’d have needed a visa
and a British passport. You could check with the British Passport Office as well. What was the name you were looking for?”
and a British passport. You could check with the British Passport Office as well. What was the name you were looking for?”
“I’m checking on a Miss Mwfanwy Davies from North Wales,” Evan said and spelled the name out slowly. “I understand that she married a U.S. airman, but we don’t know his name or what part of America she went to.”
“I’ll see what we’ve got and get back to you,” the clerk said.
“Could you check on the name Bauer?” Evan added. “She might have married an airman called Bauer.”
“Okay. I’m not sure how long this will take. Is it very urgent?”
“It’s part of a murder inquiry,” Evan said. “If you find out anything, would you leave a message on my machine? I’ll check in during the day.”
“Sure. We’ll get someone onto it right away.”
Evan hung up. At last he might be getting somewhere. He was tempted to call Watkins and see if anything had turned up on Bauer, but he didn’t like to keep annoying him. So the next thing to do was to follow up on Robert James. He drove to Blenau Ffestiniog. More snow had fallen here on the high exposed hillside, and the bleak gashes of slate quarries were blanketed with a soft white coating, making them rather pretty. Evan’s first stop was the police station. It wasn’t smart to tread on someone else’s turf without his knowledge or permission.
Another constable was sitting at the desk. “Meirion’s out, I’m afraid,” he said. “In court in Colwyn Bay. I’m Bob Pugh. Can I help?”
Evan explained.
Constable Pugh grinned. “Robert James? What’s he been up to now?”
“Know him then, do you?”
“Everyone does around here. I’ve had to step in and calm things down a few times at the Wynnes Arms.”
“So he’s a real hothead, is he?”
“You could say that. He gets riled up easily, when he’s been drinking.”
“I understand he comes into town every Saturday morning.”
“Yes, and ends up at the pub to watch the football game. He’s a big Liverpool supporter, which doesn’t always go down well. Most of the lads are Manchester United fans around here.”
“You didn’t happen to see him last Saturday, did you?”
“Last Saturday? I don’t think I did. I popped in to the Wynnes Arms myself, Saturday. There was a rugby match on—Wales against the All Blacks. Did you watch it? We got clobbered.”
“No, I was working,” Evan said. “Pity. I’m a rugby man myself.”
“Me too. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Robert James wasn’t in there.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, two? Two-thirty?”
“I’m more concerned with Saturday morning. His wife said he went into town to do some shopping. I just wondered if anyone had seen him earlier.”
“Not me, but I was off duty. I had a bit of a lie-in and a big breakfast. Meirion was on. He’d know.”
“I’ll come back later then,” Evan said. “But in the meantime you don’t mind if I look into whether anyone saw Robert that morning, do you?”
“You’re welcome,” Constable Pugh said. “Why, what’s Robert done now? Broken another nose? Or another window?”
“Probably he hasn’t done anything,” Evan said. “I’m just trying to eliminate him from my list.”
“Nothing to do with that body down the slate mine, was it?” Constable Pugh asked as Evan was about to leave. “Funny business that. Still, I hear they’ve got the bloke. The one he was fighting with, wasn’t it? My, but they were going at it. You should have heard the language. I reckon our children learned ten new English words that morning—all words you wouldn’t want them to know!” He chuckled.
Evan took the cue to leave without having to go into details. He realized that he had been looking for reasons to prove Robert
James’s innocence, but he had come away feeling disquieted. Anyone who had got into a fight because Manchester United beat Liverpool could easily have strangled someone, especially a man he blamed for his father’s untimely death. And it could have been more complicated than that. If Robert had recently had cause to suspect that a famous painting was hidden down the mine, he would have been doubly enraged if Grantley Smith was the one to have found it.
James’s innocence, but he had come away feeling disquieted. Anyone who had got into a fight because Manchester United beat Liverpool could easily have strangled someone, especially a man he blamed for his father’s untimely death. And it could have been more complicated than that. If Robert had recently had cause to suspect that a famous painting was hidden down the mine, he would have been doubly enraged if Grantley Smith was the one to have found it.
He walked up the High Street, stopping to ask at all the shops. Several people had seen Robert on Saturday morning. He had ordered a ham from the butcher and several cases of booze from the off license for his father’s funeral. He had seemed quieter than usual, upset about his father’s death. The last place he had stopped was the garage, to ask about a part for his tractor. That was after eleven, when Grantley Smith must have already been dead. Would a man who had just killed, particularly a highly spirited man like Robert James, have been able to discuss tractor parts? Would he have stayed near the scene of the crime? If he had burst into the Wynnes Arms and demanded a large drink, Evan would have found it more plausible, but the barman at the pub thought that he hadn’t even shown his face that morning. “I thought it was quiet like,” he said. “Must have been because Robert didn’t show up.”
Nobody could place Robert nearer the mine than the garage. Close enough, but not the same as seeing him sneaking down the pathway itself. Evan stood looking at the path to the mine, not quite sure what to do next. Then he decided that he ought to pay another visit to the Thomases. Would it be too crass to try and find out the name of the American that his girlfriend had married?
Evan wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say when Tudur Thomas opened the door. He had forgotten what a strapping chap Tudur Thomas was. And Mrs. Williams had said how well he looked after his father. Did old Trefor have a secret and was his son trying to protect him?
“Yes, what do you want?” Tudur was eyeing him uneasily.
“Just routine, Mr. Thomas,” he said. “I wondered if I could have a word with your father—about the war. Oh, and I could take back the tape recorder, since it won’t be needed now.”
“Oh, right.” He glanced into the house. “Look, now’s not a good time to talk to the old man. I’ve just got him off to sleep. He’s been very difficult lately, but the Social Services have managed to find a place for him in a home.” He lowered his voice. “That’s good news, isn’t it? I’m driving him there on Friday. He doesn’t know yet. He’s not going to like it, but it’s for the best. He’s got beyond my care, I’m afraid.”
Evan nodded. “It’s very hard, I’m sure. But everyone says how wonderfully you’ve looked after him.”
Tudur Thomas actually blushed. “Well, he’s my father, isn’t he? I’m all he’s got in the world.” He glanced around again, as if listening, but all was quiet in the house. “I’ll go and get you that tape machine.” He disappeared into the house, then reappeared a few minutes later holding the recorder. “Here it is, but I couldn’t find the tape. I don’t suppose it matters. He must have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere daft. He’s always doing things like that these days. I found his shoes in the refrigerator.” He handed Evan the tape recorder. “So what exactly did you want to talk to him about?”
“Oh, just routine stuff. Maybe you can answer some questions for me. I’m checking on where everyone was last Saturday. I think you said you were in Porthmadog?”
“That’s right.” Tudur Thomas’s gaze was challenging. “We did what we always do Saturday mornings. I drive the old man down to get his pension. He collects it from the post office in Porthmadog. Always has. Then we do our shopping at the big Tesco’s. He likes that. Makes a bit of a change. And he likes to stop for a cup of tea and a bun in the cafeteria there.”
“So you got home when?”
“Around lunchtime, as usual. I didn’t look at the clock.”
“I see. Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Thomas. Good luck with your father.”
“Thanks.” Tudur Thomas had visibly relaxed.
“So your dad didn’t have anything more to say about the old days then?” Evan said. “He didn’t mention an old girlfriend who ran off to America?”
“A girlfriend who ran off to America? No, I can’t say I ever heard that one.” A smile twitched at his lips. “You saw my dad, Constable. His mind has gone. When he talks, it’s just a lot of rambling. I can’t make head nor tail of it, but I tell you one thing—I don’t want you asking him any more questions and upsetting him. He’s a sick old man. There’s nothing he can help you with.”
No, Evan thought as he walked back to his car. Maybe not. But he was certainly going to double-check Tudur’s alibi. Although he couldn’t see how either of them could be involved with any painting heist. If old Trefor had helped steal a painting, he wouldn’t be living in such sad poverty now. And he wouldn’t have kept working down the same mine for forty more years. And if his girlfriend had jilted him and run off with a painting, wouldn’t he have blown the whistle on her?
This is stupid, he said to himself as he slammed the car door behind him. There was no painting heist. The National Gallery said so. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. More likely to be Robert James’s hot temper. Even more likely to be Edward Ferrers. Evan sighed.
Right. No time to waste. On with the job. He’d drive down to Porthmadog and check out Tudur Thomas’s alibi. At least that was something positive to do. He eased the car down the steep hill, out of the village. The sky was heavy and gray with the threat of more snow. It matched the desolation he felt.
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