by Rhys Bowen
“I see.” Evan frowned. “Tough order. She could be anywhere. I presume there are other police looking into this too?”
Glynis nodded. “The police in Oxford, obviously, and the Met as well. She stayed at a friend’s flat in London over the Christmas holidays.”
“I’ll be happy to put up flyers for you at the youth hostels,” Evan said. “She was an outdoorsy type of girl, was she? Might have come here to hike or climb?”
“No, she wasn’t. That’s the strange thing,” Glynis said. “Very quiet, studious, socially conscious, played the violin. But a good sense of humor. The last postcard she wrote to her parents said, ‘Gone to Wales. Got a date with a Druid.’”
“And that’s all you’ve got to go on?”
Glynis nodded. “Not much, is it?”
“And if she’s been wandering around since Christmas, she could be long gone by now. We’d be lucky to find anyone at a youth hostel who remembered her. These kids wander around for a month at the most then disappear again.”
“That’s exactly what Rebecca’s done—disappeared,” Glynis said. “She never showed up at her friend’s flat to collect the rest of her stuff.”
“Doesn’t sound too good, does it?” Evan said. “The flyers have a picture of her on them, do they?”
“Yes, but not a very good one. I’m hoping for a better one when we meet the parents. They’re due up here in a few days, working their way from the North of Wales to the South, leaving no stone unturned.”
“Poor people,” Evan said. “I’ve always thought that must be the very worst thing—not knowing. People can take bad news as long as they know the truth.”
Glynis nodded. “You’re right. I’ll bring Mr. and Mrs. Riesen up to meet you when they get here. You always know the right things to say.”
“All right.” Evan smiled. She was a nice girl. If she wasn’t dating the chief constable’s nephew and he didn’t have Bronwen in his life, he might well … he stopped short as they got to the police station door. “I’ve just remembered,” he said. “I don’t think I’d better stop for tea with you. I’m moving house today. I’ve got a ton of things still to do and I wanted to go round the charity shops before they shut. I’ve got to furnish the place somehow.”
“So you finally did it?” Watkins grinned. “You cut the cord and moved away from your landlady. Well, good for you, boyo. Now you’ll find out what life is really like. It will be beans on toast and washing your own shirts like the rest of us.”
“I’ll have you know that I plan to become a gourmet chef,” Evan said. He tried not to smile when Watkins nudged Glynis. “No, seriously. I’ve got a fancy cookbook that Bronwen gave me and I’m going to teach myself to cook properly.”
“We’ll expect a dinner invitation, won’t we, Glynis?” Watkins said.
“Absolutely.” Glynis Davies’s large brown eyes held his.
It was with some regret that he watched them go through to the cafeteria. In spite of everything he had to admit that he still found her fascinating.
Chapter 5
A few days later Evan headed out of Caernarfon on the new bike. He had passed the course, ridden around cones without knocking them down, and knew how to start and stop. He was ready to become a motorcycle cop. He grinned to himself at the term, imagining himself involved in the kind of high-speed chases that always seemed to happen in places like Los Angeles. The only high-speed chase around Llanfair would be with a sheep that had wandered onto the road.
He left the last of the urban sprawl behind him and let out the throttle as the bike began to climb the pass. The engine gave a satisfying roar. The first of the zigzag bends approached. He was supposed to lean into it, but it seemed such an improbable thing to do. He felt gravity pulling at him, leaned, and smiled to himself as the bike hugged the curve. Very satisfying. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He couldn’t wait to try it off road, but after several days of steady rain, he’d better let the hillsides dry out a little first.
Llanfair appeared ahead of him, nestled between green slopes. It was late afternoon and the village was bathed in sharp, slanting sunlight, making the gray stone of the cottages glow pink. The stream that flowed from the mountains was almost spilling over its banks, passing under the stone bridge with a thunderous roar and sending up droplets of spray to dance in the sunlight. Everything always looked its best after rain. All fresh and new. Just the sort of evening for a brisk hike. Instead, he had to finish painting the living room. Evan sighed. He had found a bright and cheerful rug for the living room, but it wasn’t enough to lift the gloomy, damp feeling, which even a roaring fire couldn’t drive away. The brown wallpaper on the walls hadn’t helped, so in a fit of enthusiasm that first night, he had started to tear it down. It had peeled off in satisfying strips and now he was left with bare walls. So he had started to paint the whole thing sparkling white. Only after he’d done a couple of walls did he realize that the whole cottage hadn’t been painted in half a century. Everything looked dirty and dingy in comparison. The ceiling needed painting too, and after the living room the front hall, the kitchen, the stairs … he had let himself in for a major project. For the first time he appreciated Sergeant Watkins’s constant complaints of weekends being filled with do-it-yourself projects.
He felt daunted by the whole prospect as he pulled into the police station yard. He was about to dismount when there was a shriek and someone sprinted across the street, arms waving.
“Constable Evans!”
It was young Terry Jenkins, the local tearaway who had been mixed up in one of Evan’s former cases. His face was lit up with excitement. “Is that your bike? Did you just get it?” He stroked the chrome handlebars lovingly as if the bike were a living thing. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Will it do a ton?”
Evan laughed. “Nothing like a ton, Terry. It’s not meant to go fast. It’s just so that I can get around my beat more easily.”
“I bet it can go pretty fast if you really try. And with those tires, you could do motor cross—you know how they come flying over the hill—whee—airborne!”
“It’s a police bike, Terry,” Evan said, grateful he wasn’t going to have to show off his nonexistent motor cross talents. “I won’t be doing any stunts.”
“Pity.” Terry’s face fell. “Still, you’ll have to go fast if you’re chasing a crook, won’t you? Like that guy in the red sports car that time.”
“I don’t think anything like that is going to happen around here for a while.” Evan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, help me wheel the bike under cover in case it rains.”
After a disappointed Terry had gone home, Evan let himself into number 28. It still felt cold and inhospitable and he thought longingly of the smell of cooking that had greeted him when he opened Mrs. Williams’s front door. Now if there was going to be any cooking smell, he’d have to produce it. And after last night’s effort he wasn’t so sure the result would be edible. He had tried making a steak-and-kidney pie. He had followed the recipe faithfully, but the steak and kidney had ended up as unidentifiable shriveled morsels and the pastry crust needed a chisel to puncture it. Maybe he was being too ambitious, he decided. Maybe he should stick to egg and chips until he knew his way around a kitchen.
He took out a couple of eggs and started to peel a mound of potatoes. It took a while to cut them up, so he started heating a block of lard in a saucepan. Then he realized he should have lit the fire in the living room first if he wanted it to be habitable by mealtime. He went through and coaxed newspapers and kindling to life. They started smoking merrily, instantly filling the room with the smell of burning. He’d let them get going well before he put on coal. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw where the smell of burning was coming from. Smoke was billowing from the saucepan and as he approached, it sent up a great sheet of flame with a whoosh. Evan grabbed a saucepan lid and managed to drop it over the pan.
“Pfew, that was close,” he muttered, pushing back his hair
from his face with a sooty hand. “Smoke alarm,” he wrote on the growing list on the fridge.
He had renewed admiration for Mrs. Williams, who could turn out a whole meal without apparent effort. It seemed pointless to start over with new fat and he had gone off the idea of chips anyhow. Scrambled eggs then. They were edible, if a little rubbery, but he was still ravenous. None of the cans in the pantry looked appetizing. There was nothing for it but to admit defeat and go over to the pub for bangers or a meat pie. Besides, he needed to get away from the smell.
Having checked that the fire now glowing anemically in the fireplace wasn’t about to burn the house down, he put on his raincoat and crossed the street to the Red Dragon. Inside, it was as warm and welcoming as ever, the big fire glowing in the grate and the air heavy with smoke and conversation. Evan pushed his way to the bar. Instead of Betsy’s welcoming smile, Harry-the-Pub’s bald head poked up over the counter.
“What do you want then?” he demanded.
“And good evening to you too, Harry bach.” Evan looked at the men standing around the bar for some explanation of what was wrong. “I’d like the usual Guinness and something to eat if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is too much trouble,” Harry said. “Guinness you can have. Food’s not on tonight.”
“Why, what happened? Where’s Betsy?”
“You tell me,” Harry snapped as he drew Evan’s pint of Guinness. “She was due to work at five, wasn’t she? Where the devil is she?”
“It’s not like her to be late,” Evan said. “Have you phoned her place?”
“Yes, and there’s no answer. Her dad says she went off with some woman this morning.”
“Some woman?”
“I know who that would be.” Evans-the-Meat put down his empty glass and indicated that he’d like it refilled. “That foreigner who was in here the other day.”
“English person, you mean?” Harry asked.
“No, American, Betsy said she was. Over here studying.”
Evan’s ears pricked up. “American girl, studying over here? Her name wasn’t Rebecca, was it?”
“How would I know?” Evans-the-Meat demanded. “And I don’t think I’d call her a girl either. Mutton dressed up as lamb, if you ask me.”
“So what was Betsy doing with her?” Harry asked, smoothly refilling the pint and putting it down in front of the butcher.
“I’m not really sure. I only came in at the end of it. A lot of nonsense about Betsy having special powers and second sight, from what she said.”
“Always was daft in the head, that girl,” Harry commented. “She’d believe anything you told her.”
“Still, I hope she hasn’t come to any harm.” Evan looked around uneasily. “Where was this American supposed to be studying? At Bangor?”
Evans-the-Meat shrugged. “Ask Barry-the-Bucket. He was there. He might know.”
Heads turned to where Barry was chatting with his friends in the corner by the fire. “Hey, Barry, boyo,” Evans-the-Meat called. “You were there, weren’t you? When that American woman came into the pub and talked to Betsy.”
Barry left his corner and came across to the bar. “I was,” he said. “Real brainy type with all kinds of degrees. Not a bad looker either—bit on the scrawny side but she’d be okay with some fattening up. I bet she’s the kind that eats nothing but nuts and rice.”
“So where do you think Betsy might have gone with her?”
“That place she was going to be studying. You know, that estate down on the coast built by the crazy lord Tiggy. What do they call it now? That’s right. The Sacred Grove. That’s what she called it. From what she said the lot that own it now are even crazier than that old lord—she was going to find out if Betsy had the second sight.”
“Like reading tea leaves, you mean?” Harry asked.
“I’d imagine so. Seeing into the future, anyway. This woman told Betsy that Celts used to have the ability and she thought Betsy might still have it, seeing that her old nain used to see the Derin Corff.”
Harry let out a chuckle. “Well, if that isn’t one of the daftest things I’ve ever heard. And Betsy believed her, did she? She would. But she’s got no more knowledge of the future than the chickens in my back garden, and they’re the daftest creatures on God’s earth. If she could see into the future, she’d have helped me pick the right horse in the Grand National, wouldn’t she? And I wouldn’t have lost my ten quid.”
And she’d have foreseen that old Colonel Arbuthnot was going to be murdered that night he left the pub, Evan thought. If ever there was a moment for second sight, that would have had to be it. Betsy was so anxious to be noticed that she’d say and do anything.
“I can tell you haven’t got the second sight of the Celt, Harry,” Barry-the-Bucket said, banging his glass down on the counter, “or you’d have seen that I was dying of thirst, waiting for a refill.”
Harry opened his mouth to answer this when the door opened and Betsy stepped in, her blond curls windswept but her eyes sparkling with triumph.
“Sorry I’m late, Harry,” she said, pushing through the crowd of men to reach the bar, “but I want you to know that you’re talking to someone who may be a real live psychic.”
“So your psychic ability didn’t tell you that you were late then? You didn’t pick up the negative vibrations in the air from me being ticked off at you?”
Betsy gave him a dazzling smile as she opened the swing section of the bar and came through, taking off her coat as she walked. “I thought you’d understand, just this once. This is a special day in my life, Harry. You won’t believe the things that I’ve seen today. It’s like another world down there.”
“You were abducted by aliens, were you?” Barry leaned on the bar, grinning at her.
“You have no idea, Barry-the-Bucket,” Betsy said. “If you saw what I’ve seen today, your eyes would pop right out of your head. It’s like another world.”
“Well, go on then, tell me what I’m thinking if you’re a real psychic,” Barry teased.
“If your aura is anything to go by, it’s the sort of thoughts a gentleman shouldn’t have, as usual,” Betsy said.
“My aura? What aura?”
“Emmy says we all have an aura around us,” Betsy said. “And we psychics can learn to see it. Everyone is surrounded by lovely colored light. Some people have gold auras, some have pink, some have mauve—and you, Barry-the-Bucket, have a dirty brown aura.”
“I never heard such a load of rubbish,” Harry said. “Where on earth have you been that they’ve filled your head with ideas like that?”
“It’s not rubbish. You wouldn’t understand, not being psychic like me,” Betsy said. “The Sacred Grove is full of people who can see auras and heal with crystals, and who worship the trees—all kinds of wonderful stuff. It’s the most amazing place. It’s like this beautiful village you’d see on television, not like somewhere in Wales at all. Pools and fountains and spas, and the guests each have their own little houses. Like another world.”
“You’ve said that about ten times already. So stop talking and start pulling. These gentlemen are dying of thirst and poor Constable Evans is going to go hungry because you weren’t here to put pies in the oven.”
Betsy turned her blue Barbie-doll eyes on him in horror. “You haven’t had any dinner? You poor thing. I knew it was a bad idea moving in on your own without a woman to look after you.”
“Betsy, I’m perfectly capable …” Evan began, conscious of all the eyes on him. “It’s just that I haven’t had time to get my kitchen properly stocked yet.”
“He can’t do a thing without his soufflé dishes!” Evans-the-Meat nudged Charlie Hopkins, who had just come in. “We all expect to be invited to dinner when you’ve become a gourmet cook, you know.”
“I don’t know why everyone thinks my living on my own is doomed to failure,” Evan said. “I can handle myself in most situations, you know.”
“Betsy is dying for you to h
andle her in a few situations, aren’t you, Betsy fach?” Charlie Hopkins asked, his body shaking with a silent laugh.
“I’d know how to handle him, that’s for sure,” Betsy responded. “And I’d start off by feeding him right.” She gave Evan her most encouraging smile. “Hold on a second and I’ll pop a meat pie in the microwave. Will that do, do you think?”
“Lovely. Thanks.”
“I give him a week,” Charlie Hopkins said to Evans-the-Milk, who had just come up to the bar. “Then he’ll be back with Mrs. Williams again.”
“Oh, but he can’t do that!” Betsy exclaimed.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s already let his room.”
There was an instant hush. It wasn’t often that something happened in Llanfair without the news being spread within seconds.
“Let his room?” Evans-the-Milk said. “There are no tourists at this time of year, surely.”
“It’s not a tourist,” Betsy said. “It’s my friend Emmy. You know, the American lady from the university who I told you about. She needed a cheap place to stay because she’ll be here for a while doing her research. She wants to find out how many Celtic people still have ESP. That’s extrasensory perspication, in case you didn’t know, Barry-the-Bucket.” She added triumphantly, “And I’m her first subject and what do you know? She gave me one test and I scored right off the chart.”
“Off the wall, if you ask me,” Harry muttered.
“So I’ve got to go back for further testing. I met the owner of the place today and he’s going to test me himself.”
“Bland-Tiggy or what he’s called? I thought the old lord died long ago and it was his daughter who owns it now.”
“It’s pronounce Bland-Tie, not Tiggy. You lot are so ignorant,” Betsy said crushingly. “And Lady Annabel Bland-Tyghe does still own the place, but she’s married to an American man called Randy and he’s a very famous psychic over there and he’s going to make this place just as famous. I met him today. Ooh, he was lovely, just. Like a film star—long blond hair right over his shoulders … .”
