Evan can Wait: A Constable Evans Mystery

by Rhys Bowen

  “I’ll see what we’ve got and get back to you,” the clerk said.

  “Could you check on the name Bauer?” Evan added. “She might have married an airman called Bauer.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure how long this will take. Is it very urgent?”

  “It’s part of a murder inquiry,” Evan said. “If you find out anything, would you leave a message on my machine? I’ll check in during the day.”

  “Sure. We’ll get someone onto it right away.”

  Evan hung up. At last he might be getting somewhere. He was tempted to call Watkins and see if anything had turned up on Bauer, but he didn’t like to keep annoying him. So the next thing to do was to follow up on Robert James. He drove to Blenau Ffestiniog. More snow had fallen here on the high exposed hillside, and the bleak gashes of slate quarries were blanketed with a soft white coating, making them rather pretty. Evan’s first stop was the police station. It wasn’t smart to tread on someone else’s turf without his knowledge or permission.

  Another constable was sitting at the desk. “Meirion’s out, I’m afraid,” he said. “In court in Colwyn Bay. I’m Bob Pugh. Can I help?”

  Evan explained.

  Constable Pugh grinned. “Robert James? What’s he been up to now?”

  “Know him then, do you?”

  “Everyone does around here. I’ve had to step in and calm things down a few times at the Wynnes Arms.”

  “So he’s a real hothead, is he?”

  “You could say that. He gets riled up easily, when he’s been drinking.”

  “I understand he comes into town every Saturday morning.”

  “Yes, and ends up at the pub to watch the football game. He’s a big Liverpool supporter, which doesn’t always go down well. Most of the lads are Manchester United fans around here.”

  “You didn’t happen to see him last Saturday, did you?”

  “Last Saturday? I don’t think I did. I popped in to the Wynnes Arms myself, Saturday. There was a rugby match on—Wales against the All Blacks. Did you watch it? We got clobbered.”

  “No, I was working,” Evan said. “Pity. I’m a rugby man myself.”

  “Me too. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Robert James wasn’t in there.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, two? Two-thirty?”

  “I’m more concerned with Saturday morning. His wife said he went into town to do some shopping. I just wondered if anyone had seen him earlier.”

  “Not me, but I was off duty. I had a bit of a lie-in and a big breakfast. Meirion was on. He’d know.”

  “I’ll come back later then,” Evan said. “But in the meantime you don’t mind if I look into whether anyone saw Robert that morning, do you?”

  “You’re welcome,” Constable Pugh said. “Why, what’s Robert done now? Broken another nose? Or another window?”

  “Probably he hasn’t done anything,” Evan said. “I’m just trying to eliminate him from my list.”

  “Nothing to do with that body down the slate mine, was it?” Constable Pugh asked as Evan was about to leave. “Funny business that. Still, I hear they’ve got the bloke. The one he was fighting with, wasn’t it? My, but they were going at it. You should have heard the language. I reckon our children learned ten new English words that morning—all words you wouldn’t want them to know!” He chuckled.

  Evan took the cue to leave without having to go into details. He realized that he had been looking for reasons to prove Robert James’s innocence, but he had come away feeling disquieted. Anyone who had got into a fight because Manchester United beat Liverpool could easily have strangled someone, especially a man he blamed for his father’s untimely death. And it could have been more complicated than that. If Robert had recently had cause to suspect that a famous painting was hidden down the mine, he would have been doubly enraged if Grantley Smith was the one to have found it.

  He walked up the High Street, stopping to ask at all the shops. Several people had seen Robert on Saturday morning. He had ordered a ham from the butcher and several cases of booze from the off license for his father’s funeral. He had seemed quieter than usual, upset about his father’s death. The last place he had stopped was the garage, to ask about a part for his tractor. That was after eleven, when Grantley Smith must have already been dead. Would a man who had just killed, particularly a highly spirited man like Robert James, have been able to discuss tractor parts? Would he have stayed near the scene of the crime? If he had burst into the Wynnes Arms and demanded a large drink, Evan would have found it more plausible, but the barman at the pub thought that he hadn’t even shown his face that morning. “I thought it was quiet like,” he said. “Must have been because Robert didn’t show up.”

  Nobody could place Robert nearer the mine than the garage. Close enough, but not the same as seeing him sneaking down the pathway itself. Evan stood looking at the path to the mine, not quite sure what to do next. Then he decided that he ought to pay another visit to the Thomases. Would it be too crass to try and find out the name of the American that his girlfriend had married?

  Evan wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say when Tudur Thomas opened the door. He had forgotten what a strapping chap Tudur Thomas was. And Mrs. Williams had said how well he looked after his father. Did old Trefor have a secret and was his son trying to protect him?

  “Yes, what do you want?” Tudur was eyeing him uneasily.

  “Just routine, Mr. Thomas,” he said. “I wondered if I could have a word with your father—about the war. Oh, and I could take back the tape recorder, since it won’t be needed now.”

  “Oh, right.” He glanced into the house. “Look, now’s not a good time to talk to the old man. I’ve just got him off to sleep. He’s been very difficult lately, but the Social Services have managed to find a place for him in a home.” He lowered his voice. “That’s good news, isn’t it? I’m driving him there on Friday. He doesn’t know yet. He’s not going to like it, but it’s for the best. He’s got beyond my care, I’m afraid.”

  Evan nodded. “It’s very hard, I’m sure. But everyone says how wonderfully you’ve looked after him.”

  Tudur Thomas actually blushed. “Well, he’s my father, isn’t he? I’m all he’s got in the world.” He glanced around again, as if listening, but all was quiet in the house. “I’ll go and get you that tape machine.” He disappeared into the house, then reappeared a few minutes later holding the recorder. “Here it is, but I couldn’t find the tape. I don’t suppose it matters. He must have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere daft. He’s always doing things like that these days. I found his shoes in the refrigerator.” He handed Evan the tape recorder. “So what exactly did you want to talk to him about?”

  “Oh, just routine stuff. Maybe you can answer some questions for me. I’m checking on where everyone was last Saturday. I think you said you were in Porthmadog?”

  “That’s right.” Tudur Thomas’s gaze was challenging. “We did what we always do Saturday mornings. I drive the old man down to get his pension. He collects it from the post office in Porthmadog. Always has. Then we do our shopping at the big Tesco’s. He likes that. Makes a bit of a change. And he likes to stop for a cup of tea and a bun in the cafeteria there.”

  “So you got home when?”

  “Around lunchtime, as usual. I didn’t look at the clock.”

  “I see. Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Thomas. Good luck with your father.”

  “Thanks.” Tudur Thomas had visibly relaxed.

  “So your dad didn’t have anything more to say about the old days then?” Evan said. “He didn’t mention an old girlfriend who ran off to America?”

  “A girlfriend who ran off to America? No, I can’t say I ever heard that one.” A smile twitched at his lips. “You saw my dad, Constable. His mind has gone. When he talks, it’s just a lot of rambling. I can’t make head nor tail of it, but I tell you one thing—I don’t want you asking him any more questions and upsetting him. He’s a sick old man. There’s noth
ing he can help you with.”

  No, Evan thought as he walked back to his car. Maybe not. But he was certainly going to double-check Tudur’s alibi. Although he couldn’t see how either of them could be involved with any painting heist. If old Trefor had helped steal a painting, he wouldn’t be living in such sad poverty now. And he wouldn’t have kept working down the same mine for forty more years. And if his girlfriend had jilted him and run off with a painting, wouldn’t he have blown the whistle on her?

  This is stupid, he said to himself as he slammed the car door behind him. There was no painting heist. The National Gallery said so. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. More likely to be Robert James’s hot temper. Even more likely to be Edward Ferrers. Evan sighed.

  Right. No time to waste. On with the job. He’d drive down to Porthmadog and check out Tudur Thomas’s alibi. At least that was something positive to do. He eased the car down the steep hill, out of the village. The sky was heavy and gray with the threat of more snow. It matched the desolation he felt.

  The postal clerk in Porthmadog nodded brightly when Tudur Thomas’s name was mentioned. “He was in here, like he always is, same time, regular as clockwork, to get the old man’s pension for him.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, nine-thirty? Quarter to ten, maybe. We’re awfully busy around that time.”

  “Thanks,” Evan said. It was a half hour’s drive between Porthmadog and Blenau Ffestiniog. So it looked as if the Thomases were safely out of the way as Grantley was entering the mine. And if they had been to the supermarket as they said, then they wouldn’t have returned home until long after Grantley was dead.

  Evan went to a pay phone and checked his messages. The American Embassy had come up with a Sandra Davies from Merthyr Tydfil. Also two U.S. airmen called Bauer who had married English girls, neither of whom were called Davies. None of these was promising. Even if Mwfanwy was using an alias, she’d never have claimed to come from South Wales. No North Walesian would.

  There was the predicted message from Mrs. Powell-Jones, who had just noticed the bigger, better star on the other chapel’s roof. Then one from Mrs. Parry Davies, saying she had heard that the Powell-Jones woman was planning to use live animals in her Christmas pageant and she suspected it was against health regulations as well as very sacrilegious to bring animals into a chapel. Evan sighed. More trouble brewing. Then Watkins’s brusque voice. “Listen, boyo. Thought you’d like to hear this. Several large sums were paid from Howard Bauer’s account to Grantley Smith. And I mean large sums. Interesting, eh? I’m going to have a little chat with him later today if I get the time. Don’t think of getting there first.”

  The messages clicked off. Large sums paid to Grantley Smith. Grantley had been Howard’s intern, but interns didn’t get paid large sums. Which made it sound like some kind of hush money. Had Howard Bauer told Grantley what he planned to do and paid Grantley to keep quiet, or had Grantley found out and demanded hush money? Evan would have liked to question Howard Bauer right away, but Sergeant Watkins had made it very clear that he was to keep away. He certainly didn’t want to upset his one ally in the plainclothes division.

  Just as he was returning to his car, he saw Constable Roberts coming down the street. Evan eyed his car, wondering if he could sprint to it undetected. He didn’t feel like an encounter with Roberts right now. But Roberts saw him.

  “Hey, Evans,” he called. “I was going to call you. We came up with something.” Evan waited patiently for Roberts to catch up with him. “Not that it’s likely to be any use now. I heard they’ve got a man in custody for the murder of your missing bloke. But I finally came up with a woman who saw someone parking the Land Rover.”

  “You did? Fantastic.”

  Roberts looked pleased with himself. “Yes, and it wasn’t Grantley Smith.”

  “Was it a big fair chap?”

  Roberts shook his head. “The one who’s in custody, you mean? No, it wasn’t him. This woman says it was a local man, she’s sure she’s seen him around. Big chap, wearing a cap. Couldn’t describe his face. Just ordinary, but local. That’s how she put it. I don’t know if that’s of any help?”

  “It might be. Thanks, mate. If you can give me her name and phone number, I’ll pass it along.”

  “Not that they’ll give us any credit if it does help,” Roberts said as he wrote down the details on a sheet of notepad and handed them to Evan.

  “Still, it’s catching the perpetrator that counts, isn’t it?” Evan said tactfully.

  “What are you, the bloody police training manual?” Roberts grinned. “Good luck, anyway.”

  “That’s what I need right now. Luck.” Evan got back in the car. Big chap, wearing a cap. Robert James fitted that description pretty well. But why was he driving Grantley’s Land Rover—unless he wanted it to be thought that Grantley had gone away from the area? Whoever drove the Land Rover down here did not expect the body to be found.

  Evan drove to Tesco Supermarket just to be thorough, but didn’t get a positive response there. It was like a madhouse on Saturday mornings. If the gentleman had paid cash, they probably wouldn’t have remembered him. No matter, Evan thought. He had no reason to believe that the Thomases hadn’t carried out the rest of their Saturday morning routine, since they were at the post office when Grantley Smith was poking around at the mine.

  So what now? He drove back across the estuary in the direction of Blenau Ffestiniog. The next step was to see if his friend Constable Meirion Morgan had returned and to discuss his suspicions about Robert James. If Meirion had James’s fingerprints on file, they could be checked with Forensics against the prints in the Land Rover. Maybe he was getting somewhere at last.

  It had started to snow again as he drove into Blenau, soft flakes that drifted across his windscreen. The sky above was yellowish and heavy with the promise of more to come. Evan was disappointed to find the police station closed and a note on the door reading: “Gone to lunch. Back around 2.” So Meirion obviously hadn’t returned from court yet. Evan wasn’t sure how much longer he should hang around. He went to a phone box at the end of the High Street and left a message on the station’s answering machine, saying he was in the area and hoped to see Meirion.

  Evan wasn’t very good at answering machines. He could never seem to think of what he wanted to say in the time allotted. He was in the middle of stammering his way through the message when he glanced out of the call box and realized that he was looking directly at the entrance to the mine. “Hold on a minute,” he said to the answering machine. He was almost sure he had seen movement over there—a figure darting out of sight between slag heaps as if someone didn’t want to be seen heading toward the old back entrance.

  The message clicked itself off and he hung up hurriedly, running across the street to the place where the movement had been. He slowed and moved cautiously as he came to the first of the slag heaps. No sense in walking into what might be a deliberate ambush. But there was no sign of anybody. He must have imagined it, he decided. Maybe he had just caught the movement of blowing snow, or snow falling from a bramble branch. But he went on a few yards, down the path that led to the back entrance, stepping cautiously among snowy brambles. Every now and then he paused to listen, but there was only that heightened silence that comes with snow. He looked down at the path for footprints but the earlier rain had turned the path into a series of puddles.

  He had reached the entrance to the passageway. No clear footprints here either, but there were some small clods of snow that could possibly have come from a boot. He stood in the semidarkness, watching and listening. Nothing. Too much imagination, he told himself.

  He was about to turn back when a sudden wind sprang up, shaking snow from branches with a soft pattering. And from behind him came a sudden, horrible, creaking groaning sound. He spun around, his heart thumping. The rotten wooden doorpost had come away from the wall and the door swung free in the wind.

  Chapter 26

&n
bsp; Evan hesitated for a moment, then ran back to his car. Lucky he always kept a good torch in the glove compartment, and a spare battery, too. It had come in useful before, as a potential weapon as well as a light source. He might need both now. He grabbed it and ran back to the mine entrance. Cautiously, he pushed the door open, looked around, and stepped into the passageway. The door swung shut behind him, leaving him in darkness. He switched on the torch and started hesitantly down the steps, trying to move silently, pausing often to listen for sounds ahead of him.

  Down and down he went. The blood was singing in his head and his heart was pounding so violently that he felt its sound must be echoing from the rock walls around him. He could feel cold sweat running down between his shoulder blades. Only the torch felt solid and reassuring in his hand.

  How many steps had there been? It seemed like thousands, going down and down. His legs were like jelly. He felt as if he was part of a nightmare. He had almost given up and turned back when the floor flattened out and he stood, muscles quivering, on the floor of the first chamber. He put the torch into his jacket and waited, hoping to see a glimmer of light or hear the crunch of a foot on the loose slate to betray another presence down there. He waited what seemed an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than five minutes, before he decided to move on.

  He thought he could remember the way. The first part had been pretty straightforward, the passages wide and square. He passed into the second chamber, then at last he came into the great cavern where the pictures had been stored. He entered cautiously, shielding his light again, but nothing moved and there was no other light. He began to think that the other figure had been all in his imagination. So the door had finally broken free. It had been rotting for years and the police investigators could have finished off the process. Anyway, he decided, if someone had tried to lure him into the mine to kill him, they had had plenty of opportunity already.

  He felt himself relax slightly. Actually, he was rather proud of himself for having made it this far. He realized that his biggest fear had been of the mine itself, of all that rock over his head and the total darkness around him, not of a potential killer lurking in wait. Well, he had come down the steps and he had reached the biggest cavern, and even though it was bad, it was nothing he couldn’t handle. He started to breathe more easily.