by Rhys Bowen
“What sheds?” I whispered back.
She dug me in the side. “You know, the ones for the pictures.”
“You know I did. I told you.”
Someone behind leaned forward and made shushing noises. Ginger grinned at me. She leaned against me, nestling her lips against my cheek, as if to give me a kiss.
“You know what I was thinking,” she whispered. “I was thinking that someone who put them together would know how to take them apart again.”
“It was a good picture, wasn’t it?” I said as I walked her back to the hostel where she was living.
“I suppose so. I was thinking of other good pictures. Pictures that are lying there down a mine.”
“Would you shut up about them,” I snapped. “I’ve told you the sheds have alarms on them and there’s a guard. So I couldn’t get at them, even if I wanted to—which I’m not at all sure that I do.”
“Not even for me?” She moved closer to me, rubbing her hip and thigh against mine. “I thought you said you’d do anything for me once. And this isn’t for me. It’s for us. It’s our ticket out of here, Tref. You and me. Our ticket to Hollywood.”
“You’re crazy. You’re always dreaming about impossible things.”
We were walking along the promenade. In peacetime that promenade used to be very glamorous—all the posh hotels and strings of fairy lights and bands playing. Now, of course, it was all dark. We carried a little torch with us, just to find our way, but it had to have a paper shield over it and it was the only light for miles around. To our left we could hear the crash and hiss of the waves, breaking on the sandy beach. You could taste the salt in the air.
Ginger paused and leaned on the railings, looking out over the sea. “I don’t see why it’s so impossible,” she said. “There are ways around everything, if you look for them. Like I said in the cinema, you put the sheds together. You must know how they come apart again. You could take off a back panel and get in that way, and the alarm would never go off, right?”
“And the guard? You don’t think he’d notice me with a bloody great crowbar?”
“What happens at night? Is there a guard then?”
“No. They lock up the place at night. There’s a nightwatchman on duty for the whole mine.”
“There you are then. Simple as pie.” She snuggled against me, rubbing her face against my collar like a cat. “You just stay down there one night. You hide out and don’t come up with the rest of the quarrymen.”
“Stay down there alone all night?” I could feel my heart starting to race at the thought of it—alone, in all that blackness, all those hours. “I don’t know if I could do that.” Then I remembered and let out a sigh of relief. “And anyway, I have to sign out. They’d know I was missing.”
“You couldn’t get one of your mates to sign for you?”
“I haven’t got any mates now. It’s just old blokes and me down there. All the young ones have been called up. I couldn’t ask any of them. They’re all my father’s friends. They’d tell him.”
“Yeah. I suppose you’re right. Too bad. That would have been so easy. All right. Let’s think again. Just one guard, is it?”
“One at a time.”
“Then he must need to pee occasionally. Or he could be a few minutes late on duty one morning, if he got delayed. I mean, if someone delayed him … .”
“How?”
“If a really gorgeous girl stopped him and asked him for help.” She grabbed my arm. “‘Mister, I’m in terrible trouble. The heel just came off my shoe and now I’ve dropped my purse and all my money’s spilled out and my mum’s going to kill me for being late. Please … .’ You don’t think he’d stop and help me?”
She was very convincing. I knew then that she’d be a great movie star if she ever got there.
“See?” She laughed, breaking the spell. “Then you just pop in and get one of the back panels loose. After that, you can take your time. Watch him. See when he’s paying attention and when he’s not. It’s my betting that it’s bloody boring down there. He might even doze off. Then you can just slip in, pinch a painting, and hide it until we’re ready. There are plenty of places to hide something down a mine, aren’t there?”
“No problem about that. Little caves, and piles of slate cuttings all over the place.”
“There you are then. Piece of cake. No one will ever know.”
“When they come to take the paintings back to London, they will. They’ll notice one is missing, won’t they?”
“We’ll be long gone to Hollywood by then. I’ll probably be a famous movie star.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’d still get us. We’d still go to jail.”
She laughed. “I don’t think so. I’ll be rich and famous. We’ll just pay them off. You can bribe people really easily in America, you know.”
I laughed nervously. “This is stupid. It’s bloody daft.”
“Don’t swear. It’s not nice.” She slapped my arm.
“It’s playing with fire. We’re just asking to get burned.”
“I like fire.” She looked up at me. I could see her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “And I like getting burned.”
The village was already nestling in its smoky haze as Evan came from the Everest Inn. There had been no sign of a police presence when he dropped off Howard, Edward, and Sandie. He wondered how their investigation was going, whether the crime scene boys had turned up any clues in the slate mine. It was so frustrating not to know what was going on. The village street was deserted, even though it wasn’t much past five o’clock. The temperature was dipping rapidly and his footsteps clattered on the frosty pavement.
He hurried past the chapels, before he could be assaulted again by Mrs. Powell-Jones, and kept up his quick pace as he passed the school. He was almost past when he heard his name called. Bronwen must have been watching for him from her kitchen window. She came running across the schoolyard, a red wool shawl wrapped around her and her braid over one shoulder, looking like a heroine from a fairy tale.
He waited, patiently, not knowing how to react to her. Maybe last night had been a bad dream. Maybe he had overreacted at finding her ex-husband in her home—in her arms, he reminded himself.
“Any news?” she called as soon as she was within hailing range. “Have they found out who might have killed Grantley?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not on the case, am I?”
She looked confused at his bluntness. “I know you’re never officially on any case, but Sergeant Watkins relies on you; even that pompous little inspector … .”
“Not this time,” he said. “Sergeant Watkins has been assigned his own detective constable. The D.I. told me to go home and be a good boy.”
“Oh Evan, that’s so stupid.” There was sympathy in her face, or so he thought. But then she went on, “Poor Edward—he has to be the most obvious suspect. I don’t know what it will do to him if they put him in jail.”
“The British police don’t make a habit of throwing the wrong man into prison,” Evan said stiffly.
She came closer and touched his sleeve. “But you could still do something unofficially, couldn’t you? Remember that time when those climbers fell to their deaths. You were sure it wasn’t an accident, even though everyone else wanted to call it one. You stuck your neck out, did your own investigating, and found the killer.”
“Yes, and it nearly cost me my job.”
“But it didn’t. You’re still here. And you know that they were impressed, even though they wouldn’t admit it.”
“That doesn’t mean I can keep on poking my nose in where it’s not wanted. I’m sure Sergeant Watkins and his new D.C. will do a good job.”
“They won’t get at the truth, I know it.” She was gripping his arm now. “Please help, Evan. I can’t let him down.” She let go and turned away, as if aware that she might have gone too far. “Of course I realize you can’t go bursting into the crime lab or anything like that, but you’re the one with th
e instincts. You’re fantastic at making connections other people can’t see. You’re a better detective than any of them, and you know it.”
He had to smile. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“It’s the truth. Look, I know Edward is a bit of a pompous prig, but he’s very vulnerable underneath.”
“And what if he did it, Bron?” Evan asked. “Have you thought of that?”
She shook her head. “I just can’t picture Edward killing anyone. He’s the sort who faints at the sight of blood.” Then she pulled the shawl around her more tightly and took a deep breath. “But either way, I’d rather know the truth.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.”
As he went on his way down through the village, Evan had the horrible feeling that he had already lost her.
There were no messages on the answering machine at his police station. He locked the door and went home.
As he came in the door, he met Mrs. Williams adjusting her hat in front of the hall mirror.
“Oh there you are, Mr. Evans. Sorry to be dashing out, but I’ve got a meeting at chapel for the Christmas bazaar. There’s a shepherd’s pie in the oven and some mashed turnip to go with it. I’ve no doubt you can fend for yourself this once, is it?”
“Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “I’ll be just fine.”
“Oh, that’s good.” She gave him a relieved smile. “I’ll be going then. Mrs. Powell-Jones doesn’t like us to be late.”
The door slammed and he was alone in the house, conscious of the silence. He went through to the kitchen and took the shepherd’s pie from the oven, looked at it, and put it back. He had no appetite tonight. He didn’t even feel like going to the Dragon for a pint. He poured a cup of tea from the pot Mrs. Williams always kept going under a cozy and sat at the kitchen table. It’s not the end of the world, he told himself. But it felt like it.
He was just telling himself not to be so bloody stupid and to get on with his dinner when there was a knock at the front door.
“I’m not disturbing some culinary masterpiece, am I?” Sergeant Watkins was standing there, his coat collar turned up against the cold.
“I was about to eat some shepherd’s pie and turnip. Not my favorite.”
Watkins indicated with his head. “Come on, get your coat. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Is Glynis with you?”
“Last seen being shepherded out by the D.I. to ‘a little place he knows where they can produce quite a decent Chardonnay,’” he imitated the inspector’s Anglicized tones. “He’s going to catch it when Mrs. Hughes finds out.” Watkins gave him a knowing grin.
“Look, sorry about today,” he said to Evan as they walked together to the Red Dragon. “It was sprung on me, too. D.I. just shows up with her and says, ‘Watkins, meet your new partner.’ She’s a nice enough girl, but … .”
“I expect she’ll make a brilliant detective,” Evan said. “Go right to the top. She’s got the brains.”
“And the legs. And the connections, too.”
They exchanged a grin.
“She’s already driving me barmy, she’s so dead keen,” Watkins said. “She’s told me about ten times how excited she is to be on her first murder case. Lucky the D.I. is so keen on giving her his Hercule Poirot imitation that he’s kept her with him for most of the day.”
They pushed open the pub door and were met with a blast of warmth, smoke, and Frank Sinatra on the jukebox.
Betsy’s eyes lit up when she saw Evan come in—something that had been lacking in his last couple of appearances.
“Here he is himself then,” she said loudly. “You can tell us all about it.”
“About what?”
“Why, the murder, of course. It was murder, wasn’t it? That’s what we heard, anyway. That poor man found down in the slate mine. No wonder you looked so terrible last night. I thought you were going to pass out on us. All right now, are you?”
Evan was conscious of Sergeant Watkins’s amused gaze. “I’m fine thanks, Betsy. Now if we could just have … .”
“So you’ve got yourself another murder to solve, is it?” She was leaning over the counter, smiling at him. “You’ll like that, won’t you? Liven things up a bit.”
“Betsy, I’m not solving any … .”
“Pity it had to be the handsome one, though. I thought he was ever so good-looking. All dark and brooding, like. Of course, I never got the chance to really meet him, because someone spoiled it for me every time … .”
“Betsy, I’ve got things to discuss with Sergeant Watkins, so if we could just have a couple of pints?”
Betsy’s smile faded. “Oh well, if you’re too busy. Still, I suppose you’re not meant to be chatting when you’re on duty. What will it be, then?”
Watkins stepped forward. “I’m buying. Guinness, is it? Let’s go through into the lounge. We can’t hear ourselves speak in here.”
They seated themselves at a table against the far wall. The lounge was deserted except for a couple of older women, who looked up and nodded at Evan.
“So how’s it going so far?” Evan asked. “Any promising leads?”
“Nothing really,” Watkins said. “The D.I.’s been in touch with the Met and we’ve notified the next of kin. A Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Smith, of very’umble origins, I might add. It seems our boy was christened plain old Arthur Smith after his dad, who works on the railways. The Grantley bit appeared when he got a scholarship to Cambridge. Started signing his name A. Grantley-Smith, hyphenated. That was also when he stopped visiting the old folks, or even admitting to their existence.”
“Interesting,” Evan said. “So are they going to be looking into his background further?”
“What, and see if anyone might have had a big enough grudge to come up here and bump him off?”
Evan smiled. “It does sound rather stupid when you put it like that.”
“Who knows? I gather he’s being thoroughly checked out, but I tend to agree with the D.I. for once. It had to be someone up here who did it. Someone close to him.”
“One of his colleagues, you mean. The D.I. was about to work on them when I left,” Evan said.
Watkins grinned. “That’s right. But apparently he didn’t manage to make any of them break down weeping and confess. Must be losing his touch.” He took a long drink of his bitter, then put his glass down again. “So, tell me—what do you think? You’ve been working with them. You must have ideas.”
“I’d say that any one of them could have done it,” Evan said. “Edward Ferrers had a violent row with him and they parted hurling insults, but he swears he took a taxi back and didn’t kill Grantley.”
Watkins made a note. “Should be easy enough to find the taxi and get the exact time. We’ve got a time for their very public fight, so we can easily see if he had long enough to strangle someone and drop the body into the water. So what about Howard the Yank?”
“He’s a strange one,” Evan said. “I haven’t quite made him out. He’s a famous director, he claims Grantley offered to act as his unpaid intern and he was only directing this as a favor to his pupil, but—”
“But what?”
“But to hear them talking, you never got the impression that Howard was the mentor and Grantley his adoring pupil. It was definitely Grantley who called the shots.”
“Maybe the power was going to his head.”
“Then why did Howard stay? He didn’t have to. He hadn’t even been paid.”
“Did they like each other?”
“I can’t say I ever got that impression,” Evan said. “In fact, I’d say that Howard definitely disliked Grantley. Grantley enjoyed needling Howard, but then he enjoyed needling everyone. That’s probably what got him killed. He pushed one person too far. That person overreacted and lost his temper. They happened to be down a mine with nobody else around.”
“That woul
d point to Edward Ferrers,” Watkins said. “Who else would he take down a mine with him since we know it wasn’t Howard?”
“It might have been Howard claimed he didn’t feel well and stayed in his room all day. But Betsy at the bar saw him hurrying down the village street. So he was out and about that day. It wouldn’t have been hard to get a taxi up to Blenau Ffestiniog. Maybe he showed up saying he’d changed his mind and wanted to see the mine after all.”
“But that would be premeditated murder. That’s a different kettle of fish altogether, isn’t it?”
Evan shrugged. “I’m only giving you possibilities.”
“And what about the girl?”
“Sandie? She’d make a good suspect—unrequited love, had a big shock.”
“Fatal Attraction all over again, you mean?”
“But I don’t think she’d have had the strength. She’s so thin and frail, she looks like the wind would blow her away. It’s not easy to strangle someone.”
“Had some experience, have you?” Watkins chuckled.
“No, but I can think of a few people I’d like to try it on.”
Watkins drained his glass and leaned toward Evan. “So you think it has to be one of them, do you?”
“Not necessarily,” Evan said, and told Watkins about Robert James.
“And you say he always goes to Blenau Ffestiniog on Saturday mornings?” Watkins scribbled notes. “Now that’s very interesting. And you actually caught him a few days earlier with his hands around Grantley’s throat?”
“Yes, but … .” Evan began. “I think he’s one of those people who is all bluster when he’s het up and then quickly calms down again.”
“Like your friend the butcher in there.” Watkins indicated Evans-the-Meat’s broad back. “Come on, drink up. How about another?”
“Let me get them this time.”
“Nonsense. You’ve already earned it, giving me that information on Robert James. I like to be one up on the D.I. when I come in to work in the morning. And now I’ve got young D.C. Davies to impress too, haven’t I?”
