Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (26 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery
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“You’ve found her then,” said a voice in the darkness behind Evan.
Evan reached for the torch, but he wasn’t quick enough. The other man grabbed it first and shone it into Evan’s face. “I knew it would only be a matter of time,” he said. “When you came back this morning, I knew you were onto me.”
Evan was trying to place the voice and put a face to the shadow beyond the light. In his shock it had taken him a moment to realize that the man was speaking Welsh, not English.
“Robert?” he asked.
“What are you talking about? Who’s Robert?”
The light was shining directly into Evan’s eyes, blinding him. The figure beyond the light was part of the blackness, no recognizable shape.
“He knew, didn’t he?” the voice went on excitedly. “That Englishman. I could see it right away. He knew. That’s why he came to see me.”
Tudur Thomas then. It had to be. But how?
“But you were down in Porthmadog, at the post office,” Evan heard himself say. “They remembered you.”
There was a cackling laugh that echoed from the rock walls.
“Not as bright as I thought you were. Still, it doesn’t matter now. You’ve found her. That’s all that matters.”
Evan blinked in the blinding torchlight. Not Tudur Thomas. Trefor. It had never occurred to him until now that it could be the old man. Now he saw how stupid he had been to have ignored Trefor Thomas as a suspect. Just because his son treated him as an invalid didn’t mean that he was physically incapacitated. His own son had said it was his mind that was going. And his body was strong from fifty years down a mine. Evan stared down at the shoe, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Your girlfriend—Ginger, wasn’t it? She didn’t run off with an American, did she?”
“She was going to,” Trefor Thomas said. “She’d been seeing him behind my back. She was going to run off with him and leave me. I couldn’t let her do that.”
“So you brought her down here and killed her,” Evan said.
It all came back to the most basic of reasons again. He had told Bronwen that ordinary people only killed from the most primitive of human emotions. He should have known all along. The National Gallery didn’t seem to think they had mislaid any paintings. It had nothing to do with stolen pictures or clever schemes—just a boy and a girl and the despair of losing someone he loved.
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Trefor Thomas said in a broken voice. “I didn’t know how to stop her from going. I was just so angry and upset, I didn’t know what I was doing. Before I knew it, she was lying there, dead, at my feet. So I buried her. I knew I’d be found out one day. That young English chap, he was onto me, wasn’t he? Why else would he have come back?”
“You saw Grantley Smith on Saturday morning? But I thought … .”
“It was his bad luck that I didn’t feel like going with Tudur to Porthmadog on Saturday. Usually I go with him, you know. I like the outing. But that morning I just didn’t feel up to it. So I stayed behind. And that young chap came to the door and
started asking me a lot of questions. I saw then that he knew. So I told him about the back entrance to the mine. He was quite excited. I followed him down, just to see where he went and what he did. When it looked like he was getting too close to her, I killed him.”
He paused. Water dripped into the pool with a clear plop and the sound echoed unnaturally loud.
Trefor Thomas sighed and the sigh echoed, too. “It wasn’t hard at all, really. He didn’t even put up much of a struggle. Neither did she … . my Ginger.” His voice cracked with emotion. “It’s easier to kill after the first time. And by the third time, it’s no trouble at all.”
He waved the torch tantalizingly in Evan’s face.
“You wouldn’t find me easy to kill,” Evan said. “You managed to take Grantley Smith by surprise. I’m a big bloke, and I’m trained, too. I don’t think you’d manage to get your hands around my throat. No, you missed your chance, Trefor. You should have hit me over the head on the way down.”
“I don’t need to fight with you, Constable,” Trefor Thomas said easily. “I reckon I know these passages like the back of my hand. I worked down here long enough, didn’t I? I’ll just switch out the light and go back to the surface. You’d never find your way back in a million years. And they’ll probably never think of looking for you down here.”
“Don’t talk daft, Trefor,” Evan said, although he had started to sweat at the thought of being abandoned in darkness. “You think I can’t keep up with you? You think I can’t take the torch from you if I want to?”
“You can try if you like.”
“Come on, Trefor.” Evan softened his voice. “Haven’t you been suffering long enough? Own up and get it off your chest. They won’t put you in prison now. Your son will tell them that you’re old and sick. They’ll put you somewhere where you’re safe.”
“The mental home, you mean? I heard him talking on the
phone. That’s what he plans to do, you know—put me in some kind of home. But they’d put me in prison, all right, when they found out what I’d done. And I’m not leaving my home.”
Without warning, the light went out. Evan had been dazzled by the light in his eyes. Now he was left with phantom lights flashing in front of him and the sound of feet scrunching in the passage ahead. He ran after the sound, trying desperately to catch up with the old man. It could be a trap, he knew. All the old man had to do was get far enough ahead, wait until Evan came past, and then jump him or strike him from behind.
He must be moving fast and quietly. Evan’s own footsteps masked any sound. He stopped for a second, his heart pounding. Silence, except for the eerie drip of water, somewhere to his left. Surely the old man couldn’t have got away so quickly? Was he waiting for Evan to come past? Step by step he moved forward, imagining a figure poised with a large rock in his hands around every next bend in the tunnel. Surely it hadn’t been as long as this, had it? Had he taken a wrong turn already? Sweat was running down his face, stinging at his eyes.
Then he heard it—a faint crunching of gravel ahead. He moved toward it, holding his breath, willing each footstep to make no sound. He could hear the old man’s breathing now, almost sense the warmth of his presence. Evan took a chance and hurled himself forward. His large frame cannoned into the old man and they went crashing to the floor together. Trefor grunted as he hit the rock, then lay still. Evan felt for a pulse. The man was still breathing. The next step was to find the torch. He groped around, but the passage had already widened into the cavern. It could have rolled anywhere and he was reluctant to leave the old man. He started working out in a methodical circle, keeping one foot against the old man’s body. If he couldn’t find the torch, then there was no hope for either of them.
Suddenly, he stiffened. He was sure that he’d heard something—the scrunch of a footstep, maybe? Yes. Someone was coming.
Help was on the way. Constable Morgan must have seen his car and realized where he had gone.
“Over here,” he called. “In the big cavern.”
A faint glow of light appeared, getting brighter and brighter. Someone came out into the cavern and torchlight strafed the walls.
“Over here,” Evan called again. “I’ve got Trefor Thomas. I need help with him.”
“Is that right?” a voice demanded, and Tudur Thomas stood over Evan, his torch shining down on him. “You’ve got my dad there, is it? What happened to him?”
“He fell and hit his head,” Evan said. He changed position so that he could get up quickly if needed. He wasn’t sure if he was facing an ally or adversary. Just how much did Tudur Thomas know? Surely old Trefor couldn’t have thrown Grantley Smith’s body into that pool alone. And Mrs. Williams had said he would do anything for his father. Did that include killing?
“What’s he doing down here?” Tudur asked, shining the light onto Trefor’s face.
“He followed me.”
“Did he try to kill you?”
“You know about Grantley Smith then?” Evan braced himself. Tudur Thomas was a big chap, about his own size, and he was holding a large torch in his hand.
“Yes, I know,” Tudur said. “I got home and found he wasn’t there, so I came looking for him. He’d come down here before, you know. There was something down here he must have been searching for … .”
“His girlfriend,” Evan said. “The one who was supposed to have gone to America. He buried her down here. I found her just now.”
“So that’s it, is it?” Tudur sighed. “He’s been rambling on a lot lately—since that bloody English bloke showed up. He kept talking about Ginger. So that was her, was it? I half guessed.
Then I followed him down here and found he’d killed Smith. That’s when I knew I had to get him put away quickly.”
“But you helped him?”
“I helped him with the body, yes. I didn’t want him to go to prison, did I? He’s my dad. And I took the keys and drove that bloke’s Land Rover away so that nobody would think of looking here for him. But you did look here. You’re too bloody smart, you know that?”
Evan could almost sense Tudur weighing up what he was going to do next. He was already an accessory to one murder … .
“Your dad needs help,” Evan said. “If you want him to live, we should get him to a hospital as quickly as possible.”
“Maybe it would be better if he died now. Maybe it would be better if I left you both down here.”
“You don’t really believe that,” Evan said. “You’d never leave him to die slowly in a mine.”
Tudur sighed again. “No, you’re right. I couldn’t. I’ve already got enough on my conscience. I don’t want anything more. I’ll stay with him while you go and call the ambulance.”
When Evan returned with the ambulance crew, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find that Trefor Thomas had died.
“You have the luck of the devil,” Sergeant Watkins greeted Evan later that afternoon as he finished making his report to D.I. Hughes. “Or else you’re psychic.”
“Just lucky, Sarge,” Evan said. “I was in Blenau, following up on Robert James, when I thought I saw someone going down the mine. I followed him.”
“Bloody silly thing to do, considering.”
“Yes, it was. I realized that right away.”
“And it turned out to be nothing to do with an art theft, did it? Just another little human drama, like most murders. I’m only surprised that none of this came out before. How did he manage to keep it secret for so long?”
“She left letters, apparently. He must have forged her handwriting and sent letters to her folks. It was wartime—not that easy to trace people. She’d talked about running away to America so much that nobody was surprised.”
“Poor old sod,” Watkins said. “What a life, eh? All those years of waiting to be found out.”
Evan nodded. “He was so sure that Grantley Smith was onto him—but of course he wasn’t.”
Watkins clapped him on the back. “Coming to the cafeteria for a cup of tea then?”
“I’m supposed to be driving Edward Ferrers back to Llanfair,” Evan said.
“A few more minutes won’t hurt him. He owes you a favor, anyway. If you hadn’t stumbled on the real killer, I don’t reckon he’d have got off in a hurry.” He glanced around then moved closer to Evan. “I’ve got some interesting news for you as well.”
They walked together down the hallway.
“About Howard Bauer?” Evan asked.
Watkins grinned. “Yeah. We had a little talk this morning and he confessed to everything.”
“Confessed?” Evan pushed open the swing doors and was met by the aroma of meat pie and greens, lingering from lunchtime.
“Yeah. It appears that Grantley Smith had been blackmailing him. He’d paid out quite a bit and then Grantley suggested that he lend his name to this film he wanted to shoot. Thought it would help him take that step to the big time. So of course Howard agreed in the hopes of getting Grantley Smith off his back.”
“Lucky you didn’t find that out earlier, or he’d have been our prime suspect and I’d never have gone up to Blenau,” Evan said. “No wonder he seized his chance when he thought he could get rid of Grantley.”
“Seized his chance?”
“The train,” Evan said. “I thought you said he confessed to everything.”
Watkins’s eyes opened wider. “Howard pushed him out of the train?”
“Nothing so crass. He just made sure the lock didn’t close properly. Grantley did the rest by leaning out.” He took a cup of tea, paid, and moved to an empty table. Watkins followed.
“You didn’t mention that to us.”
“I was going to. It wasn’t really relevant to this case, though. I pretty much decided that Howard wasn’t strong enough to kill with his bare hands. So why had Grantley Smith been blackmailing him—love connection?”
Watkins smiled again, then took a long slurp of tea. “That
Oscar-winning documentary—you know, about war in Africa? It was a fake.”
Evan looked up from his own teacup. “Bauer faked the documentary?”
Watkins nodded. “He went to Africa, but he never went near a war zone. He got tribesmen to reenact dramatic scenes. They loved playing at war, of course. Then he cut in real shots taken from newscasts.”
“How about that!” Evan laughed. “But how did Grantley Smith find out?”
“Grantley Smith was his intern, remember? It was Howard’s bad luck that Grantley Smith had studied anthropology at Cambridge. He had specialized in Africa. So he looked at photos and recognized that they weren’t the tribe they were supposed to be. After that he did more snooping and he realized that the whole thing had been staged. Well, Howard’s reputation would have been ruined if the truth had come out, so he paid Grantley to keep quiet.”
“Is the truth going to come out now, do you think?”
“It’s none of our business, is it? It’s nothing to do with this murder case.”
“Howard stole the photo of himself with the Africans,” Evan said. “And Edward stole a photo of himself with Grantley.”
“Grantley Smith obviously liked having a hold over other people,” Watkins said. “He liked to live dangerously. Like you, boyo. Just make sure you don’t end up like him.”
“I don’t intend to. Just do my job, go out climbing at weekends. That’s about it.”
“Sounds like a boring life to me. It’s about time you settled down and learned the real meaning of life.”
“Raising a family, you mean?”
“No, I mean mending leaking washing machines, putting up wallpaper, mowing the lawn.”
Evan chuckled. “I expect I’ll get around to it eventually, if I find the right girl, that is.”
As he was speaking, the doors opened again and Glynis came in. Her eyes lit up when she saw Evan. “I’ve heard all about it—you were the one who tracked down the real killer. Brilliant! You must tell me how you do it. I’ve got so much to learn if I’m ever going to be any good at this job.”
“What do you mean, he tracked down the killer?” Watkins demanded. “It was pure luck that he stumbled on him. He said so himself. The man’s just born lucky, that’s all.”
“That’s not such a bad thing, is it?” Glynis gave Evan a winning smile. “And I think you’re being too modest again. You must tell me all about it.”
Watkins got to his feet. “I think I’ll leave you to it.”
Evan got up as well. “No, it’s all right, Sarge. I have to be going, too. I promised to drive Edward Ferrers back to his hotel. Boy, was he relieved to hear he was off the hook. He almost cried.” He looked down at Glynis. “Sorry, I have to be dashing off.”
“Some other time then.” She gave him her dazzling smile again.
“Oh, absolutely. Cheerio then.”
He walked to the door with Watkins. When they were outside, Watkins nudged him in the ribs. “See, I told you she fancies you. Like I said, luck of the devil.”
Half an hour later Evan drove a very subdued Edward Ferrers back up the pass to Llanfair. Neither man spoke. Evan really didn’t want to talk to Edward and Edward was still too stunned by his release to talk much. So even Sergeant Watkins thought that he had solved the case purely by luck this time. Oh well, he wasn’t so far wrong, was he? Evan had sensed he was getting close. He had been heading in the right direction, but it had been pure luck that Trefor Thomas had been left unattended long enough to have followed him. And luck that he had stumbled on Ginger’s remains. That would never have crossed his mind in a million years. He was so caught up in his stolen picture.
So he supposed it had been luck, after all. It didn’t matter much. He wouldn’t be likely to get any credit for it. In fact, D.I. Hughes would probably be annoyed that he’d poked his nose in again. So, no nearer to a promotion.
They drove through the village and Evan dropped off a very grateful Edward Ferrers at the Inn.
“I can’t thank you enough, Constable,” he said. “You’ve literally saved my life. If there’s anything I can do in return …”
Stay away from Bronwen, Evan wanted to say, but didn’t.
“Just doing my job.” Funny how the old standbys always came out so easily. “So, what’s going to happen with the plane now?”
“Oh, I intend to finish what I started,” Edward said. “We’re very close now. Another good day should do it. I’ll get the crew up there tomorrow if it’s fine. See you in the morning then.”
He waved and walked into the Inn, not looking at all like a man who has just stepped out of the condemned cell. Evan went back to the police station and wrote up a full account of the day. Suddenly he felt very tired. All the time he had been down the mine, the adrenaline had been flowing. Now the shock was setting in. A large brandy at the Dragon was one option, but then he’d have to deal with nosy villagers who had heard rumors of what happened and wanted all the juicy details. And he didn’t feel like talking. He felt like being alone.
He locked up and took the path up onto the hill, not even aware where he was going, just enjoying the wind in his face and the strength returning to his leg muscles. Suddenly, he found himself approaching the burned cottage—the one he had dreamed of restoring. He stood there, staring at it. He didn’t know why he had thought it might be possible to rebuild it. It was a hopeless, blackened shell. Rebuilding would mean starting from scratch. And was there any point if there was no Bronwen to share it with? He understood what Trefor Thomas had been through. He knew how angry and powerless it felt to realize that the one you loved was slipping away and you couldn’t do anything about it.
“So, do you reckon it’s doable?” The soft voice spoke beside him, making his heart almost leap out of his chest. Bronwen’s cheeks were very pink from the climb and her usually neat hair was blowing across her face.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She was panting from the climb. “Edward came and told me. You’re incredible, Evan. I can’t thank you enough.”
The platitudes about just doing his job had somehow deserted him. There were so many things he wanted to say but couldn’t.
“So what happens now?” he asked.
“He says he’s determined to finish raising his plane and then they’ll go, I suppose.”
“And you?”
“Me?” She looked surprised. “Life will go back to normal, I suppose.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. You didn’t think … ?”
“You told me you still loved him.”
“Well, I do—like a mother hen loves its chicks. But you didn’t ever think that I might go back to him, did you?”
“I didn’t know what to think.”
“Evan, he told me he was gay and walked out on me. Hardly a promising basis for wanting to continue a relationship. And if you really want to know”—she looked down and dug her toe into the nearest clod of earth—“it wasn’t too hot before that. This was a man who spent his evenings making model planes. There were fourteen different World War Two fighter planes in my bedroom, Evan. Hardly an atmosphere that breeds passion—that breeds anything, for that matter. I do want to have children someday, you know.” She looked up abruptly, her gaze challenging.
“You seemed so at ease with those people,” he said accusingly. “I felt as if I didn’t know you. You were all speaking the same language and I wasn’t even on the same planet.”
“Cambridge was fun, but I’m quite content here now, thank
you very much. People grow up, don’t they? Except people like Grantley. They don’t.” She shivered. “So, what do you think about the cottage? Do you really think you can build it up again?”
“It would take a lot of work,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s worth it. It’s inconvenient and a long way out of the village.”
“But a wonderful view, isn’t it? The whole world spread out at your feet. Think of waking up in the mornings and looking out at that.”
Evan nodded. Llanfair lay slumbering in a wintry haze below them. The road wound down the pass to a distant hint of ocean. Across the valley the mountains rose to the snow-crested peak of Snowdon.
“And too far for anyone to come looking for you on your days off,” Bronwen continued, “or for my parents to come pestering me, for that matter.”
“Bronwen, are you suggesting—”
“It had crossed my mind. I don’t know why. You’ve never even told me you love me yet.”
“I do love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
He took her into his arms and went to kiss her.
“Evan,” she protested. “We’re in full view of the whole village up here.”
“As if they don’t know everything already.” His eyes were laughing into hers. “They know what time I go to your house and what time I leave, and probably what goes on in between.”
“You’re right.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “In which case I’m already a loose woman and it doesn’t matter if you kiss me in public, does it?”
“Not at all,” he said, and proceeded to do so.
“So you’d seriously consider coming to live up here—if I get it fixed up?” he asked as they walked down the mountain together.

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