by Rhys Bowen
He went into the main bar and returned with two new pints.
“Iechyd da, boyo. One of the few bits of Welsh I can say really well.”
“So, did anything turn up today during the search?” Evan asked.
“Only one thing of interest. A bloody great footprint, halfway down the path to the mine. It’s pretty recent and that path’s not used anymore. It’s not the caretaker’s. It’s not Grantley Smith’s, either. He was wearing fancy Italian shoes, size nines. This is a boot—a big boot.”
“Not that it means anything much,” Evan said. “Anyone could have been walking a dog, or gone courting along a disused path.”
“Except this path only leads to the mine and there is a big sign posted saying, ‘Keep Out, Trespassers will be … .’ and all that stuff.”
“So you’re going to try and get a match?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“And nothing turned up in his room?”
“Nothing I could see. It was such a bloody mess in there. He liked to live in a pigsty, didn’t he? I asked the maid if it might have been ransacked, but she said it had been like that since he moved in.” Watkins took a big gulp of beer. “It was hard to know where to start. Clothes all over the floor. Photos and papers all over the bed … .”
Evan paused in mid-swig. “Here, hang on, Sarge. Photos and papers all over the bed, you say?”
“And the floor, some of them.”
“Then someone had been in there. When Grantley was first missing, I went in that room with Edward Ferrers. The place was a pigsty all right, but the photos were in a folder, in his briefcase.”
“Now that is interesting. I can get the boys to go over the room for prints, but … .”
“But his colleagues have probably all been in there at one time or another.”
“Oh really?” Watkins’s smile hinted at funny business. “All of them?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. When you’re away at a hotel, you pop into each other’s rooms for a chat from time to time, don’t you? Grantley could have called them all in for a meeting.”
“But there was some funny business too, I get the feeling.”
“Grantley and Edward had been partners. Just broken up. Sandie was madly in love with Grantley—devastated to find out about Edward.”
“And Howard? It’s getting to be like a soap, isn’t it? It will take over in the ratings from Pobl y Cwm.”
“I don’t think Howard was involved … . but on the other hand, he could have been.”
“A bit on the poncy side, isn’t he? Silk shirts and all that?”
Evan grinned. “The D.I. wears silk shirts. Howard talks about ex-wives, but then Edward had an ex-wife, too.”
“Told you about her, did he?”
Evan had only just realized that Watkins didn’t know. He wanted to keep it that way, if at all possible. The last thing he wanted was Watkins’s sympathy.
“Yes, he mentioned it.”
“So we could have been dealing with a very knotty love-knot. Knotty and naughty!”
He glanced at Evan, expecting a smile. “What?”
“I was just wondering what someone might have been looking for in Grantley’s room.”
“Something incriminating? Drugs?”
“Why take out the photos? Maybe there was a particular photo that was incriminating to somebody.” He looked up. “Did you just leave them where they were?”
Watkins nodded. “I thought we might want the lab boys to go over the room, so I gave orders for it not to be touched.”
Evan drained his glass. “Could I take a look, do you think? I saw those photos when we were looking for a picture of Grantley to show around. I can’t say I remember them all, but maybe I took in enough to know if one of them is missing.”
As he was speaking, he remembered something that hadn’t seemed too important at the time—he had suspected Edward Ferrers of taking a photograph the last time they were in Grantley’s room. It might have been purely a matter of embarrassment or vanity. He wouldn’t mention it at the moment, but it could well turn out to be one more nail on Edward’s coffin.
Watkins drained his own glass and got up. “It’s a long shot, but worth trying. Come on, then.”
“Going so soon?” Betsy called as they passed the big oak bar.
“We might be back,” Evan said. “We’ve got a piece of evidence we have to check on.”
“How exciting.” Betsy’s eyes lit up. “I bet it’s great when you’re on a case like this. Not as exciting as being in a movie, of course.” So she hadn’t completely forgiven him.
They drove up to the Inn in Watkins’s police car and got the key to Grantley Smith’s room. It looked as if a tornado had recently been through it. The briefcase was open on the bed; the file was lying empty and its contents were scattered. Evan took out a handkerchief and lifted the photos, one at a time. It wasn’t as easy as he had thought to remember what had been there before—a lot of head shots of Grantley in various poses, of course, and various press photos, World War II shots of the plane. He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m quite in Sherlock Holmes’s league yet. Nothing struck me before as odd, and nothing does now. Sorry to have wasted your time. Let’s go and have another round—this one on me.”
“I should be getting home,” Watkins said. “I get it from the wife if she has to wait dinner for me. And our Tiffany will be starving after football practice. Did I tell you she got two goals on Saturday? Too bad she’s not a boy—she’d have Manchester United hammering on our door by now.”
They closed the door and started down the stairs. Various animal heads lined the stairway, looking down at them in a supercilious sort of way. An attempt to attract the huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’ crowd, no doubt, Evan thought. Then he stopped dead. “I know one photo that was missing, Sarge. There was a picture of Howard Bauer, surrounded by African tribesmen.”
Watkins laughed. “Who on earth would want that? You’re not trying to tell me that I’m to be on the lookout for Africans who came over to kill Grantley for stealing their sacred idol, are you?”
Evan laughed. “It’s probably nothing at all. The picture might have fluttered under a piece of furniture when they were all tipped out.”
Watkins headed to his car. “If you remember any other missing pictures—shots of scuba divers with dolphins, men scaling the Pyramids, Miss World beauty contests—don’t disturb my sleep with them, will you?” He waved and got into his car. Evan walked back down the hill.
Chapter 19
I couldn’t stop thinking about what Ginger had said. I took a look at those sheds. They weren’t too solidly built. Some of the blokes who helped build them were less skilled with the hammer than I was. There were a lot of crooked nails. It wouldn’t be impossible to ease off a board or two and get inside.
I started spying on the guards, too. There were two of them. They did an early shift and a late shift. When the mine was shut for the night, there was no guard at all. But they really didn’t pay too much attention when they were on duty. They seemed to enjoy a chat when miners on their break stopped to talk. One of them was very keen on comics. He was always sitting under a lamp, reading. I suppose he thought it was quite safe because anyone would have had to walk past him to get into the cavern.
That was true enough. He sat between the cavern and the staircase to the surface. The area where we were still working was down another level of steps. Nobody would have any reason to cross the cavern with the sheds in it and if anyone came up the staircase, he’d see them.
Which got me thinking—if someone could hide out in the old workings beyond the cavern before the guard came on duty, then that someone could get at the back of the nearest shed quite easily, as long as he was quiet about it. Of course, if that someone was me, I’d be missed at my job. There were few enough miners on duty now that someone would notice I wasn’t there.
And anyway, it all came back to the same thing—the painting would be missed. And
I—the only one there with any interest in art—I’d be the most likely suspect. I wasn’t going to jail, not even for Ginger.
During the night a front came in from the ocean, bringing freezing rain that peppered Evan’s window with such violence that he woke. He lay there, listening to the moaning of the wind in the chimney, and the rain hammering on the roof. Unable to sleep, he let his thoughts drift to the murder of Grantley Smith.
What were the facts, he asked himself. Undisputed facts were that Grantley and Edward drove together to Blenau Ffestiniog, where they quarreled in public. Grantley went down a mine and was killed. The more he thought about it, the more everything pointed to Edward—the strongest motive, the opportunity, his subsequent nervousness. Evan wondered how Bronwen would take it if Edward were found to be guilty. Grantley’s death had obviously upset her. Evan didn’t want to be the one who caused her more grief.
You know what you’ve got to do, don’t you, boyo, he said to himself. You have to get to the truth as soon as possible.
He stared at the pattern of bare branches dancing wildly in the streetlight and tried to put his thoughts in order. There had to be a pattern somewhere. Either it was a simple crime of passion, or it wasn’t. Either Grantley was killed because someone lost control—either Edward or Robert James—or this was a carefully planned attempt to lure Grantley down a mine alone and then get rid of him.
Another fact that should be considered: Grantley fell out of a train two days before he died. People didn’t fall out of trains every day, did they? It would be an amazing coincidence if a near-fatal accident and Grantley’s death two days later were in no way connected, and Evan didn’t believe in coincidences. And the train was going to Blenau Ffestiniog again. And Edward Ferrers was in the same compartment.
Wait a minute, he said, shaking his head as he took this thought further. If Edward had pushed Grantley out of the train, why wouldn’t Grantley have made a fuss about it, confronted him with it? And would Grantley have been so relaxed about riding in a vehicle with him again?
Evan supposed it might be possible that Edward could have reached across and opened the train door while Grantley was leaning out filming, but wouldn’t Grantley at least have suspected? There was obviously not going to be any filming going on as long as this weather lasted. It might be worth going down to Porthmadog and having a closer look at the train in which they traveled. It might also be worth taking a look at the spot where Grantley fell from the train.
The next time I saw her, it was just before Christmas 1940. After a long period of waiting, the war had started in earnest, although not much had changed in Wales. We heard that London had been bombed. We had celebrated the Battle of Britain and cried over Dunkirk. But it all seemed very far away, apart from the empty seats in chapel where my friends would have been sitting.
Everyone at home was excited because some of the boys in uniform would be home on leave. My mum was trying to make Christmas puddings without half the ingredients and getting in such a tizzy about it.
“How do they expect me to do anything with no butter and no eggs?” she demanded. “It won’t taste of anything.”
“Put in a good drop of rum and nobody will care,” my father muttered, looking up from his evening paper.
“And where are you going to find me a good drop of rum, that’s what I’d like to know? You’re always complaining there’s a shortage of beer. And I hear the navy has all the rum.”
That got me thinking about Ginger’s friend who drove the lorries. If only I could drive a lorry right now, maybe I’d have been able to come home with butter and rum in my pocket and be the family hero. But I was still too young to get a driver’s license, even if I knew anyone with a car who could teach me. I still had a year to go before I would be called up. Maybe there was something else I could do that wasn’t tapping away at bloody slate all day. Ginger was the one with the ideas. I’d have to ask her.
I didn’t see much of her these days, and I was looking forward to her having a whole week at home for Christmas.
The Sunday before Christmas there she was, standing on my doorstep, looking like a peacock in the middle of a henhouse. She was wearing a bright blue coat and a red knitted beret and gloves, and the way she stood there, against the backdrop of the gray cottages and gray slate, she was like the one splash of brightness in a gray world. When she came rushing into the room and threw her arms around my neck, all sensible thoughts went out of my head. All I could think was how lovely she was, and how proud I felt that she was kissing me.
“I’ve had the most wonderful idea and I’ve been dying to tell you about it,” she whispered, her arms still wrapped around my neck. She paused and looked at me, her eyes sparkling. “Tref. I want you to paint me a picture.”
I was flattered. She’d never shown that much interest in my art before.
“You do? You want me to paint you one for Christmas, is it?”
She laughed again. “No, silly. A lot more than Christmas.”
“What are you talking about?”
She glanced around, to see if any of my family was in hearing range. My mother was singing hymns to herself in the kitchen while she cleaned the brussels sprouts. My dad was outside with the hens he had started keeping for eggs. So far, it hadn’t been a huge success. We had had a total of three eggs between them. My dad reckoned the rats got the rest. My mum reckoned the hens were just plain useless and they cost a fortune in feed.
“The painting we’re going to take,” she whispered. “You were so worried about getting caught. I’ve found the perfect answer. Listen—how does this sound? You sneak it out of the hut. Then you take it out of its frame and hide it under your shirt. Then you bring it home and make a copy. Then we put the copy back in the frame, the picture back in the shed, and no one will know we’ve got the genuine one.”
I started to laugh.
“What? What’s so funny about that?”
“You are. Do you think the experts couldn’t tell the difference between one of my paintings and an old master?”
“You’re good, Tref. I’ve watched you. You can copy anything. I bet you could do it.”
“Some of the modern painters, maybe. But not the old masters.”
“You never know what you can do until you try. And this is the perfect time to put our plan into action. I’m home for a week. Everyone will be feeling festive. They’ll be drinking more than usual.” She sat down on the sofa and patted a place beside her for me to sit. “Tell you what. I’ll be waiting for you at the mine tomorrow. Show me the guard, so I’ll recognize him when I see him again. Then next morning you get to work very early and I’ll delay him, so that you have time to get the back of the shed opened up. If you still have time, sneak a painting out and hide it.”
I was trembling all over. My mother had stopped singing hymns. It seemed to me as if the whole world must have overheard what we were planning. I glanced at the door. “I can’t, Ginger. I can’t go through with it. Just think of the trouble if I’m caught. It will be all right for you. They won’t catch you. But I’d go to prison. Think of my family—I can’t do that to them.”
She tossed her head so that her blond curls danced. “Only stupid people get caught.” She grabbed my arm and squeezed it until it hurt. “You’ve got to learn to think on your feet, Trefor Thomas. If you’re caught, tell them that you’re looking for the cufflink you must have lost when you were building the sheds.”
“And what if they find me with the picture in my hands? How will I explain that then?”
She laughed again. “Easy. Say that you did it for a dare—to prove how easy it would be to pinch one. You were going to turn it in to the mine manager.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?”
“I told you. I’m willing to do what it takes. You just have to be willing to do anything for me, like you promised.”
The amazing thing was how easy it was! On Christmas Eve, I left the house while the rest of the family were still fini
shing breakfast.
“What’s your hurry, Trefor bach? Hold on, I’ve still got a slice of toast to go,” my father called as he saw me putting on my cap and scarf.
“I just want to get there early today,” said.
“Nice to see you keen as mustard for once,” my mother commented .
“Won’t do you any good,” my father said. “They won’t let you out of there any earlier this evening. It won’t make Christmas come any quicker, you know.” He laughed as if he’d made a joke.
“I just feel like walking on my own this morning, Tad,” I said. I could feel my face glowing with embarrassment.
“He wants to meet that no-good girl, that’s what he wants to do.” My mother smoothed down her apron, which was her way of showing disapproval. Everyone in Blenau knew of Ginger’s reputation for being too free and easy with her affections.
“Let the boy have a bit of fun,” my father said. “He’ll be seventeen soon enough. Lord knows how long he’s got.”
They exchanged a glance. I took my cue and ran out.
I was standing outside the mine when the whistle went off and they opened the grille for us to sign in. I had passed Ginger by the gate. She was wearing a short pleated skirt that kept blowing up in the wind, causing even the oldest miners to stop and gape at her. I reckoned she’d do her part pretty darned well.
I signed in and went down all those steps lickety-split. Some of the miners waited to take the lift down, so I found myself running down the steps alone. When I got to the big cavern level, I glanced around, then sprinted across to the nearest shed. After that it was easy to make my way to the very back shed. I took the chisel out from under my shirt, stuck it between the wood planks, and prised. It didn’t take much strength before the board popped open. I wrenched it free and stepped inside.
