Evan Only Knows (15 page)

Read Evan Only Knows Online

Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Evan Only Knows
4.22Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“I’m up in North Wales—we’re not quite as violent up there, you know. The sheep behave themselves most of the time.” He attempted to make a joke of it, but it was a valid point. All the more reason to play professional rugby if he was offered the chance. He was tempted to run down to the shed and pump some more iron before he set out, but he had a full day ahead of him. He had made a list of people to question. By the end of it he might have some idea if anyone else had a motive for killing Alison Turnbull.
There were no cars in the driveway when Evan stopped his car in the cul-de-sac outside the Turnbull’s house around nine-thirty that morning. As always the street was deserted and the only sounds, when he got out of the car, were sparrows twittering, a pair of wood pigeons cooing in a big pine tree, and far off, a cuckoo. Evan stood, in dappled shade, listening, enjoying the peace. Then he took a deep breath and followed the hedge around the property until he came to the gap Tony said he had used. He slipped through and stood among shrubs, his presence successfully blocked from all but the most prying of eyes. He moved from shrub to shrub until he was close to the front of the house. It would have been child’s play for anyone to have come and gone unseen, unless someone actually happened to be looking down from the upstairs windows at the time. His gaze moved across to the house to the left of the property where he had seen the movement yesterday. Yes, the area around the front porch might well be visible from that upstairs window. He’d pay a call after he’d talked to Mrs. Turnbull.
As he stood there, Evan noticed that the so-called ground floor of the Turnbull house was not actually at ground level. The windows were about head height, and partially blocked by the tall hydrangea bushes. A line of rhododendrons grew a few feet away,
creating a grassy walkway between rows of shrubs. So this was where Tony and Alison’s tryst had taken place. Not quite as risky as it had sounded. Unless the window was open and someone had looked down, they would have been invisible. He moved cautiously, trying to find the spot where the encounter might have taken place. There were no clues that he could see—no blossoms on the ground, indicating the bush might have been shaken, or someone might have brushed against it, but then the Turnbulls obviously had a gardener who would have tidied the area. And the police would have gone over it too. Too bad that the grass beneath his feet was well watered and springy. He bent down, hoping against hope to find something—a cigarette stub, a lost earring, but found nothing. As he stood up, he noticed that his hand was damp. Alison’s back might have also have been damp if she had lain here. He could ask about that when he next spoke to the police.
“Ow!” The word was out before he remembered to be quiet. He looked at his left hand and saw that it was bleeding. Not all the flowering bushes were rhododendrons—there were a couple of large rosebushes; with a goodly array of thorns, one of which had nicked his hand. So the couple obviously wouldn’t have chosen this spot. There, in the gap between the hydrangeas. They must have lain there. Evan squatted and searched, not knowing what he hoped to find. After a minute or so he straightened up again and continued his route along the front of the house.
When he was a few feet away from the front steps, the deep barking began. The dog must have some kind of sixth sense to pick up his presence when he was clearly not making any noise. He rang the bell and waited. A strange woman in a white overall opened the door.
“Sorry I took so long coming,” she said, sounding a little out of breath. “I had to shut the dog in the kitchen first. He’s such a nuisance with strangers.”
As if on cue, more barks echoed from the end of the passageway.
“He’d certainly make intruders think twice about entering,” Evan commented.
The housekeeper nodded. “Mr. Turnbull had him trained at the
guard dog school. Being on the council he gets all kinds of crackpots showing up at the house.”
“Pity the dog wasn’t let out that evening,” Evan said.
“That evening?”
“When Alison was killed.”
“Yes, well, Mrs. Turnbull had the bridge ladies, didn’t she? A couple of them are frightened of Brutus so Mrs. T. keeps him shut up. Now what was it you wanted?”
“Constable Evans again with a couple more questions for Mrs. Turnbull,” Evan said.
The housekeeper gave him a look of contempt. “What is it now? Can’t they leave the poor woman alone, always badgering her and questioning her? Isn’t it enough to lose her precious child, without having to go through all this?”
She spoke with the heavy Welsh singsong of South Wales. Evan took this to mean she was a Welsh speaker and switched to Welsh. She shook her head instantly. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak the language. I’m ashamed of myself, but there it is. Never got a chance to learn it when I was growing up. In fact when I was at school we were punished if they heard us speaking Welsh in the playground. That’s how it was in those days.”
But she looked at Evan more kindly. “Hold on a moment. I’ll see how she’s doing and whether she wants to speak to you. She wasn’t feeling too well this morning. Bad headaches, you know. She always was delicate. And if she has to put up with much more of this, she’ll crack, you mark my words.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t upset her, I promise. You know, maybe you could answer my questions so we don’t have to trouble her at all.”
“Me?”
“You probably know everything that happens in the family as well as they do.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but I’ve been with them for twenty years, before Alison was born, look you.” She gave a small, satisfied smile. “So what was it you wanted?”
“All I wanted to know were the names of some of Alison’s friends,” Evan said.
“Alison’s friends?”
“Yes. The young man in custody says he met Alison and was friendly with her. We need to prove whether he’s lying or not.”
“A no-good, common boy from Penlan know Alison? The cheek of it. I should think not.” The housekeeper smoothed down her apron in a gesture that reminded him of his mother. “They were very particular who she mixed with. Only the top drawer was good enough for Alison.”
“So who did she mix with?”
“Well, now. She didn’t have that many friends here anymore, on account of being sent away to boarding school when she was thirteen. Before that she used to go to Tawe House. Do you know it?”
Evan did. When he was at school it was where the snobby girls went. He remembered them, in their brown uniforms and panama hats, walking past the grammar-school boys, pretending not to notice them but talking a little too loudly in their upper-class accents about parties and riding lessons and country club dances.
“There’s a girl called Sarah Wheatley who still calls Alison,” she said. “And a Charlotte Williams. They still go to Tawe House. She might still be in touch with other friends from there, but I don’t know about her friends from her present school. None of them has been here to stay. All over the country, I expect they are.”
Evan lowered his voice. “What about boyfriends?”
“Oh, she wasn’t allowed boyfriends. Her parents didn’t approve of that kind of thing. Very strict with her, they were.”
“So no boys ever came to the house?”
“I didn’t say that. Young Simon Richards used to play tennis with her. Mr. and Mrs. Turnbull are very friendly with the Richards. And Charles, of course. He’d show up from time to time.”
“Charles?”
“Charles Peterson. You know, Peterson’s the builders? Their son. He was rather smitten with her, I think, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Well, of course he was no oil painting—a little too chubby for her taste, and red hair too. She didn’t like the red hair. Always had grand ideas, young Alison. Between you and me”—she leaned closer to Evan—“they brought her up to want only the best.
And that’s not always good for a child, especially an only child. She’d try to boss me around sometimes. Of course I didn’t let her get away with it. But I tell you, if she’d been my child, she’d have been over my knee with a good hiding. Her mum did try to keep her in line, but her dad was far too soft on her. She could wrap him around her little finger.”
“Do you live in?” Another thought had occurred to him.
“No, sir. I go home at five o’clock. I’ve got my own family to take care of, although sometimes I stay late if Mrs. T. is having guests to dinner.”
“But you didn’t stay late the night Alison was killed?”
“No, I didn’t. I made some little sandwiches for the bridge ladies, and some fairy cakes, and I left them on a tray ready for when she wanted refreshments.”
“On a tray?”
“Yes, so that she could carry it through to the drawing room. Sometimes they liked to snack when they were playing.”
“I see. And who were these ladies she was playing with?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly who was there that particular night, see. But usually it was Mrs. Richards I told you about, Mrs. Haveshans from next door, and the vicar’s wife, and …”
“Who are you gossiping with, Alice?” An imperious voice came down the stairs and Mrs. Turnbull appeared, holding on to the banister as if walking was an effort. She looked paler and frailer this morning, although it was hard to tell under the makeup. Again she was perfectly attired in a smart dress and high-heeled shoes. A large broach in the shape of a lizard adorned one shoulder. It looked as if the sparkles in it could be real diamonds.
The housekeeper flushed as she turned to see her mistress. “This young man is from the police, ma’am. He had a couple of questions, and I didn’t like to disturb you.”
Mrs. Turnbull’s gaze fastened on Evan. “You again?” she said. “What do you want this time?”
“I only wanted the names of some of Alison’s friends, and your housekeeper has been most helpful.”
“Alison’s friends? Why? What is this about?”
“Just double-checking Tony Mancini’s story.”
“That he knew Alison? I told you before that was utter nonsense. Now will you stop pestering us. I don’t want to see you here again, is that clear? Go away and leave us in peace.”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He nodded to the housekeeper. “Thanks for your help.”
As the door closed Evan heard Mrs. Turnbull’s sharp voice. “Exactly what were you telling him?”
Evan walked down the driveway and headed for his car. Then he changed his mind and pushed open the gate to the next-door house. It was a high, wrought-iron gate, and difficult to open. Not the kind of place that welcomed visitors. He hoped the garden didn’t contain a guard dog and made his way cautiously to the front door. This house was not as grand—just a simple white stucco, two-story building, with black trim around the windows and a red-tiled roof. He rang the bell and, after a long wait, the door was opened by an elderly man with wisps of white hair framing a worried face.
“Yes, may I help you?” The voice was frail and a little guarded.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m working with the police on the murder case. I noticed that one of your upstairs windows overlooks the Turnbull’s garden, so I just wondered whether the police have questioned anyone in the house yet about what they might have seen.”
“Yes, they did come here,” he said, “but I told them I couldn’t help them. My wife and I live here alone, you see. I have become very shortsighted, and my wife is an invalid.”
“She wouldn’t have that upstairs room, by any chance, would she?”
“As a matter of fact, she does.”
“Then could I possibly speak to her? She might just have seen something that could help us.”
“I think that’s very unlikely,” the old man said. “As I told you, she is an invalid.”
“But able to get to the window,” Evan countered. “I saw the curtains twitch when I was here last. Someone was keeping an eye on me.”
The old man sighed. “I don’t suppose it can do any harm to talk to her, but I warn you, you won’t get much out of her. Come on in then, young man.”
“I’m Constable Evan Evans.” Evan extended his hand.
“Justin Hartley.”
The name rang a bell in the recesses of Evan’s mind. “Dr. Hartley? Weren’t you the Latin teacher at the old grammar school?”
“That’s right. Did you go there?”
“Yes, but I think you retired soon after I arrived, and I never did take Latin.”
“Shame on you.” The old man smiled. “The most useful subject a young person can study. Know Latin and you know how languages work—the roots of English and most other languages we study are in Latin. And translating Latin prose is a little like unraveling a puzzle. It would have been good for your detective work. Come on, then, you’d better meet my wife while she’s awake.” He led the way up the stairs. “Her mind isn’t what it was,” he added, “but she has some days when she’s more alert than others.”
“So you didn’t hear anything that night?” Evan asked the man.
“Nothing before I saw the flashing lights and heard an ambulance outside. But I go to bed early and I sleep in that room at the front of the house.”
They reached the upstairs landing. “I’ve just had an idea,” the old man said. “I wonder if you might do me a small favor. Would you mind terribly if I nipped out to buy some supplies while you were talking to my wife? I hate to leave her alone, and it’s hard to find someone willing to stay with her while I pop out occasionally.”
“I’d be happy to, sir.” The men exchanged smiles.
Dr. Hartley turned a key and unlocked a door. “I’m afraid I have
to keep it locked in case she becomes confused and falls down the stairs,” he said. “She tends to wander at night.”
He opened the door and stepped inside. “Hello, my dear. I’ve a visitor for you.”
Evan followed him into a bright, sunny room with a bed in one corner, an armchair facing a TV set, and a chaise near the window. A sweet-faced old woman was sitting at the chaise, and her face lit up when she saw Evan. “I hoped you were coming to see us when I saw you get out of your car,” she said, “but you went next door instead.”
Evan’s hopes rose. “How do you do, Mrs. Hartley,” he said, taking her frail hand in his. It felt very cold. “I’m Evan Evans. Your husband invited me to have a chat with you.”
“How delightful.” She was still beaming at him. “Do take the armchair.”
Dr. Hartley nodded to Evan and closed the door on them. Evan sat. Mrs. Hartley’s face took on a guarded, cunning look. “Ah good. He’s gone. Now I can find out why you’re really here.” She leaned toward Evan. “Have you been sent to get me out?”
“To get you out?”
“I had hoped they’d send someone to rescue me,” she said. “To take me home. I’ve been kept a prisoner here for years, you know. They treat me well enough, I suppose, but it’s not like being at home, is it?”
Evan was confused. “No, I suppose it’s not. Where is your home then?”
“Far away. You have to go on a train.”
“You and your husband used to live somewhere else?”
“I don’t have a husband …”
“The man who showed me to your room?”
She leaned closer again. “Is that what he’s been telling you? They are very clever, aren’t they? He’s the jailer. He’s in charge of this institution.”
Evan got up and walked to the window. It did indeed overlook the front of the Turnbull’s house, as well as part of the street.
“You must see a lot going on from up here,” he said.
“Oh yes. I just wish there was more to see. Not the busiest of streets, is it?”
“What about the house next door?”
“Not at all what it was when we lived there. When I was a girl there were always parties and croquet—such gaiety.”
“You lived in the house next door?”
“Oh yes, but of course it was different then.”
“How different?”
“It was a ship, wasn’t it? We used to sail all over the place when I was young.”
Evan appreciated Dr. Hartley’s warning that it wasn’t going to be easy to get any facts out of his wife.
“What about the people who live there now? Do you see much of them?”
“I don’t see much of the little girl anymore. I think they’ve taken her away. Maybe it’s the same people who keep me locked up here. The mother is a very busy woman—always darting in and out and I don’t like
him
. Too much shouting.”
“Shouting? At whom?”
“Always shouting. Just like my father. My father shouted a lot too. We were four sisters. He expected us to come running as soon as he yelled. And he’d lecture us, too, if we did anything wrong. Once I said to him, ‘Daddy you can certainly talk!’ and he got very angry with me. I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t. He was a strict man, my father, but he never hit us. And he was nice sometimes. He’d take us for picnics in the motor car on Sundays. Do you like picnics? I always thought they were magical.” She leaned forward again. “The jail doesn’t allow picnics very often.”
“A couple of weeks ago there was a disturbance at the house next door,” Evan said quietly when she paused. “Something happened. Something not very nice. You didn’t see or hear anything, did you?”
Mrs. Hartley was still staring past him with a faraway expression on her face. “I was the next to oldest,” she said. “Catherine was the oldest, and Daddy got angry with her the most. ‘What kind of food is this?’ he yelled at her. ‘I’m hungry and this is nothing but a little tart.’ But then he gave us money for new clothes …”
“Mrs. Hartley,” Evan repeated patiently. “That night, when the girl next door was killed. Do you remember anything about it? Before the ambulance came? Your husband said that he saw the flashing lights of the ambulance. Do you remember that too?”
He thought he noticed a flicker of remembrance in her eyes. “There was another ambulance there earlier that evening.”
“Another ambulance? Are you sure.”
“Oh yes,” she said, nodding vehemently. “There are always ambulances outside that house—day and night, ambulances parked there. I don’t know what they do to each other, but they are always requiring ambulances.”
“Dear me,” Evan said, with sinking heart. “So you didn’t see anyone going up the front path that night?”
“Which night was that?”
“When the ambulance came.”
“There are always ambulances at that house. Day and night.” Evan was glad when Dr. Hartley appeared again. “I don’t suppose she could help you, could she?” he asked as he led Evan down the stairs.
“Not really, sir. She talked a lot about when she was a little girl. Said she used to live on a boat next door.”
Dr. Hartley laughed. “Did she really? I must say it’s amusing in a sad way. You never know what’s going to come out next. It all has a basis in reality, of course. Her father was in the navy, although stationed on shore for most of her life.”
“She talked a lot about her father.”
Dr. Hartley nodded. “He was a rather imposing man. I was terrified when I first met him. No wonder he’s still clear in her mind. Actually, she remembers the past quite well, but the present is another matter. She doesn’t know me most of the time. And she doesn’t recognize this house, which I find really distressing. We’ve lived here for forty years now. It breaks my heart when she begs me to take her home.”
“It must be very hard for you.”
Dr. Harley pressed his lips together for a moment, then said, “Very hard,” in a gruff voice. “She can’t really be left, you see. One
never knows.” He looked at Evan, appealing for understanding. Evan nodded. “I keep her door locked, but she can be surprisingly strong and cunning when she puts her mind to it. So I appreciated the chance to pop out for a few minutes.”
He came to a halt at the front door. “We had a daily woman, but she left. I think washing all those sheets was too much for her. And I haven’t managed to find another one yet.” He hesitated, looking at Evan. “Look, you wouldn’t like a cup of tea, would you? I’m about to make one for myself.”
Evan was impatient to be off, but he saw the old man’s face. “Thanks very much,” he said. “I’d love a cup.”
 
It was a good hour later when Evan finally got into his car. He sat for a while, staring at the words he had scribbled in his notebook during his talk with the Turnbull’s housekeeper. He should start with Mrs. Turnbull’s bridge ladies: Richards, Haversham, and the vicar’s wife. It should be easy enough to look up their addresses in the phone book, but the vicar’s wife would be the easiest to locate. It was just a question of which parish.
The closest church turned out to be in a less affluent neighborhood, so it would be highly unlikely that the Turnbulls would wish to be seen there. That meant Oystermouth was a better bet and Evan drove out beside the water. He glanced longingly at the sparkling blue of Swansea Bay with the green Gower Peninsula reaching a long finger out into the water on the west side. Hiking with Bronwen did seem infinitely more desirable than this wild goose chase he had set himself. With every interview he came away none the wiser. All he had to go on was Tony’s word, which didn’t count for much, a father who yelled and made enemies, and a mother who had asked, when she thought he was out of earshot, “Exactly what were you telling him?” Just enough to keep him suspicious and involved.
The woman who opened the front door of the vicarage had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and was dressed in shorts and a halter top.
“Sorry to trouble you,” Evan said, “but I wondered if I could speak to the vicar’s wife.”
“You’re speaking to her.” The woman looked amused. “What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you are a friend of the Turnbulls?”
“Oh dear,” she said, her smile fading. “Not another reporter, I hope. Those poor people have been through enough already.”
“Not a reporter. Police, actually. I wondered if anyone had asked you about the night Alison was killed. Were you one of the bridge ladies who was in the house at the time?”
“Yes, I was. It was most—distressing. That awful shriek of despair and then finding her lying there.”
“But you didn’t hear anything earlier?”
“That’s the strange thing. We didn’t. We were concentrating on the bridge game, of course. It could be that we were in the dining room, having stopped for refreshments when it happened. We were certainly there when Frank found her. Margaret wasn’t feeling too well, you know. She gets terrible migraines. She was dummy and she went upstairs to get herself one of her headache tablets. She told us to go ahead and help ourselves to food and wine when we’d finished the rubber. She was going to lie down for a few minutes. Then she was quite agitated when she came into the room. She said she couldn’t find her glasses and she’d be right back. Then we heard her awful scream, and we rushed to the front door and there was poor little Alison. Too horrible for words.”

Other books

Slightly Single by Wendy Markham
Eye Contact by Michael Craft
El ahorcado de la iglesia by Georges Simenon
Dark Ice by Connie Wood
Totally Toxic by Zoe Quinn
The Seven-Petaled Shield by Deborah J. Ross
The Balloonist by MacDonald Harris