Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery (9 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery
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“London—why would he want to go there?” Evan asked.
“Oh, another of his whims. He phoned the National Gallery about those paintings. He seems to think they’ll make a good story … .” Edward quickened his pace, leaving Evan behind.
Evan had just turned off the TV set after the nightly news and was going up the stairs to bed when the phone rang. He rushed to answer it so that it didn’t wake Mrs. Williams, who was always in bed no later than ten.
It was Edward Ferrers. “Constable Evans, sorry to disturb you, but frankly I’m worried. We’ve had no word from Grantley yet.”
“You said you thought he might have gone to London?”
“Yes, but he would have left a message by now. And I don’t think that even he would be callous enough to run off with our only means of transportation.”
“Do you happen to know the Land Rover license number, Mr. Ferrers?” Evan grabbed the message pad beside the phone. “I’ll call HQ and ask the patrols to keep an eye out for it. And I’ll give the police at Blenau a call as well—just in case he’s still up there.”
“What if he’s met with an accident on the way to London?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Evan said.
“What about filing a missing person report?” Edward demanded.
“A little too early for that. I’m sure you’ll have heard from him by morning.”
“I hope so,” Edward said. “God, I hope so.”
Evan called headquarters to report the missing Land Rover’s number, then went back upstairs. Just what was Grantley Smith up to now? Evan wondered as he climbed into bed, pulling the wool-stuffed Welsh quilt over him. Grantley’s life seemed to be one ongoing drama. Was this latest disappearing act another example of his taste for the dramatic? If he’d gone to London, Evan only hoped he’d stay there!
The phone rang again at seven o‘clock on Sunday morning. Evan groped for his dressing gown and peered at his watch. Seven o’clock. Bloody hell. Why did emergencies always seem to happen at weekends? He stumbled down the stairs, meeting Mrs. Williams just emerging from her room in her old chenille dressing gown and slippers.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Williams. I’ll get it,” he said.
“Now who can that be, disturbing your sleep on a Sunday morning? It ought not to be allowed,” she called down the stairs after him.
It was Edward Ferrers again. “No news yet? I haven’t slept a wink all night. Where can he be, Constable Evans? He can’t just have vanished.” Edward sounded close to panic.
“Just keep calm.” Evan resorted to his best professional manner. “If an accident had happened, we’d have heard, wouldn’t we? I’ll call headquarters for you and see if the latest patrols have turned up something.”
“And then I want to file my missing person report. It’s been almost twenty-four hours now.”
“I’ll come up to the Inn as soon as I get dressed,” Evan said, “but don’t worry too much. He strikes me as the sort of person who goes in for drama—isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but … .”
“So he’ll probably come breezing in as if nothing’s wrong today and act surprised that you were all so worried about him.”
“That’s just the sort of thing he would do. I pray to God you’re right,” Edward said.
Evan put down the phone. The distant ringing of church bells floated up on the breeze. Sunday morning. Supposed to be a day of rest, not a day of stress. Now it didn’t even look as though he’d be getting his Sunday off. Damn that Grantley Smith, he thought. He dressed hurriedly, then put in a call to headquarters.
W.P.C. Jones was manning the switchboard. “Oh, Constable Evans, we were just about to call you. We’ve found your Land Rover for you.”
“You have—where?”
“At Porthmadog. Down by the harbor.”
“Porthmadog. What could it have been doing there?” Evan demanded. “Nobody in it, I suppose?”
“Not that I know of. Constable Roberts from Porthmadog just called it in.”
“Who’s on duty this morning from the plainclothes division?”
“Sergeant Watkins is supposed to be on duty today. I don’t know whether he’s here yet—oh, hold on a second, he just walked in. Constable Evans at Llanfair for you, sir.”
“So they’ve got you working bloody weekends as well, boyo, have they?” Watkins sounded cheerful in spite of the early Sunday morning hour. “I’ve had to miss my DIY program on the telly and they were going to be doing shelves today—which the missus has been nagging me to put up for months. What’s the problem?”
“Maybe it’s nothing, Sarge, but I thought I’d better report it right away. One of my film crew is missing.”
Watkins chuckled. “Ooh dear. How embarrassing for you, boyo. You’re assigned to look after them and you bloody well go and lose one. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, explaining that to the chief.”
“It’s not funny, Sarge. The stupid man’s missing and his colleagues are very worried.”
“Missing in the mountains, you mean? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that. You’re the mountain rescue whiz, aren’t you?”
“It wasn’t in the mountains, Sarge,” Evan interrupted tersely. Being roused by the phone on a Sunday morning hadn’t done much for his temper. “He was last seen up in Blenau Ffestiniog early yesterday morning. He didn’t check in all of yesterday. He didn’t get in touch all last night and this morning his Land Rover was found parked by the docks in Porthmadog.”
“It was Saturday last night. What’s the betting he had one too many in a pub and is quietly sleeping it off somewhere?”
“He doesn’t seem like that sort of bloke and the expedition leader is very worried.”
“So you don’t know what would have brought him down to Porthmadog?”
“No idea. I know he was interested in the narrow-gauge railway and the depot’s down there. And there’s a main-line station as well.”
“And you think he might have gone somewhere by train?”
“His colleague thinks he might have gone to London.”
“Well then, there you are. He’s a grown man, after all. He can go to London if he wants, can’t he?”
“But they can’t imagine why he hasn’t called them. They’re in the middle of shooting up here—they’ve got the crew standing by idle. They want me to file a missing person report.”
“You can’t file a missing person report just because some bloke takes it into his head to go wandering off,” Watkins said. “It isn’t as if he’s mentally incompetent or a runaway, is it?”
“No, but … .”
“He’s a grown man, Evan, for God’s sake. He might have met a bird and spent the night with her, and calling his colleagues might have been the last thing on his mind.” He paused. Evan said nothing. Watkins cleared his throat and continued. “Okay. I can’t do anything officially yet. They’re not even next of kin, but if he hasn’t shown up by tomorrow … .” He left the words hanging. “And if I was in your shoes, boyo,” he added, “if I was the one who’d lost him, I’d show willing and start looking right now. Check out the area where that car was found
and where he was last seen. Ask at the railway station to see if anyone remembers selling him a ticket—well, I don’t have to tell you how to go about it, do I? You know how to solve a case as well as I do; better, in fact.”
“Yes.” Evan wasn’t in the mood to be magnanimous. “I’ll start looking, then. I hope that Roberts in Porthmadog doesn’t think I’m treading on his turf. He doesn’t like me much.”
“Tell him you’re there with my blessing,” Watkins said. “Call me if you get any flack. And let me know when the bugger turns up.”
“Right. I will.”
Evan hung up and stood frowning at the phone. “Damn Grantley Smith,” he muttered and dialed Porthmadog.
“So what great case are you solving now, Evans?” Constable Roberts asked. He was an ambitious young man and seemed to have resented Evan’s brief moments in the limelight. “Land Rover stolen, was it?”
“No, it belongs to a bloke who’s missing—one of the film people I was assigned to. Last seen early yesterday in Blenau Ffestiniog, I understand, and hasn’t checked in with his colleagues since. I suppose the Land Rover was empty?”
“Absolutely. Parked on the street in a two-hour parking zone. Lucky he didn’t get a ticket, but we’re short-staffed at the moment.”
“So it’s still there?”
“That’s right. And it bloody will get a ticket if it’s not moved today.”
“Mind if I come down and take a look?” Evan asked. “And then maybe we’d better have it towed to a garage, just in case.”
“You suspect funny business, then? This bloke hasn’t just wandered off and not told anyone?” Roberts now sounded interested.
“We don’t know yet.”
“You’re right,” Roberts agreed. “Better safe than sorry, eh? And I’ll spread the word about your bloke down here. What did he look like?”
“Young, arty type, black curly hair, speaks with a posh English accent,” Evan said. “I think anyone would remember him.”
“Right, then. We’ll do what we can.”
“Thanks, mate.
Diolch yn fawr
.” Evan hung up. Roberts wasn’t so bad after all.
He got dressed in a hurry and made his way up to the Inn.
Howard and Edward were sitting in the window, a coffeepot and undrunk coffee on the table between them. Evan was also surprised to see Sandie at the table with them. She looked disheveled and white-faced, as if she hadn’t been to bed all night. She jumped up as he came in. “Any news yet?”
“They’ve found his car,” Evan said. “Down at the docks in Porthmadog.”
“What on earth was it doing down there?” Edward demanded.
“You have no idea yourself? He didn’t mention anything he wanted to check out in Porthmadog?”
“Never mentioned a thing,” Edward said.
“Not that he wanted to redo his train trip, without falling out of a window this time?” Evan regretted saying this as soon as the words slipped out.
“Oh my God,” Sandie wailed. “You don’t suppose he’s fallen out of another train, do you?”
“I don’t think he makes a habit of it, Sandie dear,” Edward said, “and he didn’t mention anything about trains.”
Howard also looked ashen faced and not at all well. “So what the hell do we do now, Constable? We’re more or less prisoners here—no transportation, no nothing.”
“At least the Land Rover’s been found,” Edward said. “Maybe the constable here would be kind enough to drive one of us down to Porthmadog to pick it up.”
“I don’t think I’d better do that at the moment,” Evan said cautiously. “Our Forensics boys might want to go over it, if … .”
“Oh my God, something’s happened to him, hasn’t it?” Sandie wailed. “It’s all my fault.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Evan asked.
“I mean”—she paused, collected herself, and went on—“if only I’d been here, it wouldn’t have happened. Grantley’s always doing stupid things. You have to look after him.” She saw Evan looking at her with interest and she blushed. “I shouldn’t have let my personal feelings get the better of me. I was hired to be his production assistant. I shouldn’t have left, even if he did behave like a creep.”
“When did you come back?” Evan asked.
She bit her lip. “I never really left. I went down to the station at Bangor, but then I couldn’t make myself get on that train. I kept on thinking that I’d got it all wrong. There had to be some mistake … .”
“Mistake about what?”
She shook her head. “A personal matter. So I checked into a hotel and sent him a note to say where I was. He called and apologized and told me how much he needed me. So I came back yesterday but … . but he didn’t show up.” She dissolved into tears, fumbling in her jeans pocket for a packet of tissues. Then she grabbed Evan’s sleeve. “You’ve got to help us find him. If anything has happened to him, I’ll kill myself?”
“I’m sure we can do without the hysterics, Sandie sweetie,” Howard said calmly. “And I’m sure we’ll find him. There’s a main-line station in Porthmadog, isn’t there?”
Evan nodded.
“There you are then. He decided he had to go to London on the spur of the moment, just as you suspected, Edward. We’ll get a call from him any moment now saying he’s at the Dorchester and he’s just had a scrumptious breakfast and sorry he forgot to call last night, but he was invited out to dinner by someone very important.”

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