Evan and Elle

by Rhys Bowen

  “Good morning, Madame,” Evan said. “I’ve brought Detective Inspector Hughes to have a word with you.”

  She looked up with hope in her eyes. “You have caught zee man who did zis terrible crime?’

  “Not yet, Madame. What makes you sure it’s a man?”

  “What woman would do such a terrible thing? I sink it must be zee same man who write zee notes? You ’ave not caught him either?”

  “We’re still working on it,” Inspector Hughes said. Evan noted his voice was even tighter and more clipped than usual. He obviously hadn’t expected to be attacked. “And we’re not at all sure that the notes were written by the same person. Our handwriting expert isn’t convinced. And Forensics says it wasn’t the same pen that was used.”

  “Zat ees interesting.” Madame Yvette nodded, then took a sip of coffee and made a face. “Zay ’ave no idea how to make coffee.” She put the cup down. “And you must excuse my appearance. Zay are very kind and lend me clothes, but . . .” She motioned helplessly at her Fair Isle arm. “I ’ave nozzing,” she said simply. “All is gone, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Have you been to take a look for yourself?” Hughes asked.

  “I ’ave not yet been outside. Zay give me a pill to make me sleep. It ees very powerful, I sink. But I watch the fire from zee window ’ere last night. I sink not much is left after zat blaze.”

  “No, there’s not much left, I’m afraid,” Evan said.

  “Now if we can just ask you a few questions,” Hughes began. “You say the restaurant was closed and you locked up for the night.”

  “Zat is correct.”

  “Did you check the whole place? The men’s toilet, for example?”

  Dismay showed on her face. “I sink so. Now I am not sure. You are saying zat maybe someone—zee person who burn down my restaurant—was hiding in there?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Hughes said. “He had to have got in somehow and if you’d already locked the doors . . .”

  “Maybe he didn’t come in,” she said. “When zee cottage ees burned down, zay tell me zat zee fire ees started through zee letter box, no?”

  “But your letter box was at the front door. That part of the building was least badly burned.” Hughes paused. “You say you woke to smell smoke?”

  She nodded. “I have my usual nightcap in front of zee TV. I must ’ave fallen asleep. Suddenly I am coughing. I hear zee crackling from downstairs. I look—mon dieu, zee kitchen ees on fire. Flames going up to zee ceiling. Zere ees no way I can put it out. I grab my coat, I put it over my ’ead and I rush down zee stairs. Luckily zee back door ees beside zee stairs, ozzerwise I would not have escaped.”

  “Excuse me, Madame,” Evan interrupted. “Why didn’t the smoke alarm wake you? I know this is a new business so you must have had a fire inspection?”

  She looked flustered and embarrassed. “Ah, you see . . . I turn off zee smoke alarm.” She looked from Evan to Hughes. “I know, it ees very foolish of me. But zay put it in zee wrong place. Every time I try and cook, zee smoke alarm go off. It drive me crazy so I turn it off. I call zee man to come and put it where it will not drive me crazy.” She gave a very French shrug of resignation.

  “So you smelled smoke and got out just in time,” Hughes repeated. “And, as far as you know, you were the only person in the building at the time?”

  “Mais oui.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Her eyes darted suspiciously. “Of course. I tell you. Why do you ask zis?”

  “No real reason.” D.I. Hughes paused, drumming his fingers on the oak table for a moment. Then he looked up suddenly. “There was a man who came to your restaurant last night, Madame. He sat alone, according to Constable Evans. Was he someone you knew?”

  She shrugged. “Zee customer? I never see ’im before in my life.”

  “But he said something to upset you?”

  Her eyes darted to Evan for a second. Then she smiled and shrugged again. “It was nozzing really. ’E asked for lobster and I ’ad none. ’E said ’e was disappointed. ’E had heard how well I prepared lobster. So naturally I was upset. I am still trying to build up my reputation, Inspector. I have to give zee customers what zay want.”

  D.I. Hughes nodded and stared down at the table again. It was an old surface, much scratched, and decorated with graffiti like a school desk.

  “Was he a Frenchman?”

  Again the briefest wary look and another shrug. “We speak to each ozzer in English. It ees possible ’e ’ave an accent. I really can’t remember everysing zat happen wiz every customer who come ’ere.”

  “Have you notified your insurance company yet?” Hughes asked.

  “I will do it today, I suppose,” she said. She gave a long sigh. “I do not look forward to zee days ahead. It ees not easy to begin again when you are a woman alone in zee world.”

  “You don’t have a husband or family?”

  “Neither, monsieur. My husband died five years ago. I ran our restaurant alone and zen I was very sick in zee hospital and zen I was recovering for about a year.”

  “Where was this restaurant?”

  “On zee South Coast, near Eastbourne. Do you know it?”

  “I might have been there once. Sort of genteel place like Bournemouth where old rich people go to retire?”

  She nodded. “Old rich people. You are right. My ’usband sink zat people ’ave time and money to eat at good restaurants.”

  “And did they?”

  “Not enough of zem. And we were outside of town. Old people do not drive at night.”

  “So why come here?” Hughes asked.

  She gave a tired smile. “I come where I can afford to buy property. And where zay do not yet ’ave too many French restaurants. After zis—I ’ave no idea where I go next.”

  Hughes got up. “I think that will be all for now, Madame. But please don’t go anywhere for the time being. We’ll need to talk to you again and I’m sure you want this whole thing cleared up as quickly as we do.”

  “But of course. Please do your very best for me, Inspector. I am counting on you.” She held out her hand to him. For a second Evan thought that Hughes was going to kiss it, but he changed his mind and gave it a brief shake.

  “You didn’t tell her about the body, sir,” Evan mentioned as they came out into the bright sunshine.

  “No.” Hughes smiled. “I thought I’d wait awhile after all. If she knows nothing about it, then no harm’s done. If she does, then it might do her good to stew for a while.” He squinted as he stared up at the green slopes. “She’s a cool customer, Evans. She had an answer for everything, didn’t she?”

  “Either that, or she was telling the truth, sir.”

  “As you say. Oh well, time will tell, I’d imagine.” He strode out briskly toward Watkins’s police car.

  Chapter 11

  Llanfair was still quiet and deserted when Evan returned. No sign of Evans-the-Milk delivering or Evans-the-Post reading postcards or children running to school. He looked about him in bewilderment, wondering what could have happened, until he realized that it was Sunday morning. As he opened the car door he heard the sound of a distant church bell, mingling with the bleating of sheep on the hillside. Smells of Sunday morning fry-ups wafted from windows. Harry-the-Pub came out with a bucket and started washing down picnic tables and putting up umbrellas in the hope of catching late-season tourists.

  It always surprised Evan that life could go on its normal peaceful way right next door to tragedy and violence.

  Evan glanced at his watch—only nine o’clock. He felt as if he’d already done a day’s work and by his reckoning it should be lunchtime. Then he remembered that he’d gone out without breakfast. No wonder his stomach was complaining. He expected he might be needed again on duty later in the day, so he’d better nip home while he could. With any luck Mrs. Williams would have his normal Sunday breakfast waiting . . .

  “Oh there you are, Mr. Evans,” his landlady greeted him
as he put his key in the front door. “Treadful just, isn’t it?”

  “What is, Mrs. Williams?” Evan asked. Dreadful was one of the few English words Mrs. Williams often used, only she pronounced it with a t.

  “They say there was a body in that chapel!” She spoke in a hushed whisper, even though they were alone.

  Again Evan had to admire the efficiency of the Llanfair grapevine.

  Evan saw no point in denying it. “How did you hear about it, then?”

  “I saw Mair Hopkins when I went to get the newspaper.” Mrs. Williams leaned closer. “And she said that Charlie had been driving past to make an early delivery and saw the van and Dr. Owens. He knew what that usually meant so he pulled up and watched and sure enough, they carried something out on a stretcher. Poor devil. Do they know who it was?”

  “Not yet,” Evan said. “They’re still checking out missing persons, vehicles left parked overnight, hotel guests who didn’t show up last night . . .”

  Mrs. Williams put her hand to her mouth. “Oh esgob annwyl! Deary me!”

  “What is it?”

  “Mair told me that Elen Prys was worried because her husband, Glyndaff, hadn’t come home last night.”

  “Glyndaff Prys?”

  “You know Prys-the-Farm down beside Llyn Gwynant on the way to Beddgelert? You know the white building you can see from the road?”

  “Oh, right.” Evan paused, thinking. “Maybe I should go down and talk to her. This Glyndaff Prys—is he the sort of bloke who often stays out all night?”

  “Oh no. I don’t think so. He’s a good family man by all accounts. They’ve got five grown children, all fine young people. And they go to chapel . . .”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Williams,” Evan said. “I’ll go down right away.” He looked longingly in the direction of the kitchen.

  “But you never had your breakfast.” Evan could have hugged her. “Can’t you stop for a bite to eat first? I’ve got the kettle on the boil and Evans-the-Meat made some lovely sausages this week . . .”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea,” Evan said.

  “And have your breakfast, too,” Mrs. Williams insisted. “Ten minutes won’t matter, will it? And it is supposed to be your day off.”

  Evan succumbed. “I suppose you’re right. Ten minutes won’t make much difference.”

  Fifteen minutes later Evan was on the road, feeling full and content. Amazing what some rashers of good bacon and sausages could do for the soul!

  Ty’r Craig was a square, solid farmhouse, well maintained with newly whitewashed walls and a good slate roof. It was nestled on a narrow strip of land at the bottom of a narrow valley. Rocky cliffs rose sheer on both sides, blocking the sunlight this early in the day. Two black-and-white border collies rushed out barking as Evan got out to open the gate.

  “Meg, Gel, come here at once,” a shrill voice called and the dogs obeyed, throwing suspicious looks at Evan as they slunk back to the farmhouse.

  Mrs. Prys was a round, middle-aged woman with the brown, leathered face of a farmer’s wife. She wiped her hands on her apron as she greeted Evan.

  “I know you. You’re the policeman from up in Llanfair,” she said. “You’ve come about my husband, have you? It’s not bad news, is it?”

  She went on wiping her hands, twisting the apron nervously as she spoke.

  “No, it’s not bad news. Have you reported him missing yet, Mrs. Prys?”

  “Not officially like. I’ve told a few friends and the word gets around, doesn’t it? But I didn’t like to call up the police and maybe make a fool of myself.”

  “Has he ever done this sort of thing before—stay out all night?”

  “When he was younger, once or twice like when Wales beat England in the rugby at Cardiff Arms Park. But he’s not the type. And he was only going to his club meeting.”

  “Club? What kind of club?”

  “He belongs to a men’s social club in Porthmadog. They meet once a month to play darts, dominoes, that kind of thing. They’re mostly older farmers like Glyn.”

  “Have you called any other members of the club?”

  She looked down at her feet. “I don’t rightly know any names. Glyn never talked much about what he did and I didn’t like to ask him. He’s a very private person, Constable Evans.”

  “Do you know where this club meets?”

  “Oh yes, I know that right enough. They meet at a pub called the Old Ship right by the harbor.”

  “I know it,” Evan said. “I’ll get on the phone to HQ and they’ll send someone out right away, Mrs. Prys. Don’t worry. He’ll turn up.”

  “I hope so.” She choked back tears and started fiddling with her apron again. “I’m sorry. I’m that upset, I didn’t even offer you a cup of tea. Why don’t you come inside—the kettle’s on.”

  “Thanks, but I just had my breakfast, and I’d like to get on this as soon as possible. We’ll find him for you.”

  The dogs escorted him back to the gate and sat there, tongues lolling in silent laughter as he drove away. He was tempted to drive straight down to Porthmadog and take a look for himself, but he reminded himself sternly that he had no right to go poking his nose into other officers’ territory.

  When he got back to Llanfair, the village had more or less come to life. Men and women in their Sunday best were walking up the street to the two chapels. Evan spotted Evans-the-Meat, hair slicked down and wearing his dark Sunday suit, escorting his wife to Chapel Beulah.

  “Hold on a second, Gareth,” he called, running to catch up with him. “I need to ask you something.”

  The butcher looked annoyed, then gave his wife a gentle push. “You go on, Sian fach. Save me a seat. Constable Evans needs to have a word with me.”

  His wife opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “Or gore. All right,” she said and hurried to join a group of women ahead.

  The butcher turned to Evan. “You had another fire last night, so I hear,” he said. “Haven’t you found out who’s starting all these fires yet”

  “Not yet. But we will.” Evan moved closer to the butcher. “Gareth, what do you know about a man called Glyndaff Prys?”

  “The farmer, you mean?” The butcher looked surprised.

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “I’ve met him a couple of times. I can’t say I know him well. I’ve bought lambs from him. Why? You don’t think he’s anything to do with this?”

  “You don’t think he’d be a likely candidate to go around burning down foreigners’ property?”

  Evans-the-Meat laughed again. “Old Glyndaff? I don’t think he’d hurt a fly.”

  “So he’s not known for his nationalist sentiments then?”

  The butcher stared up at the distant peak of Mount Snowdon. “Well, he’s proud of being Welsh all right. But then so are a lot of us. That doesn’t mean that we go around burning buildings.”

  “And what about a men’s social club that meets at the Old Ship pub down in Porthmadog?”

  “What about it?” Evans-the-Meat’s voice was suddenly sharp.

  “I’m just wondering if more might go on there than the occassional darts game?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not a member personally.” He started to walk on. “Sorry I can’t help more.”

  Evan crossed the street with the feeling that possibly he was onto something. Evans-the-Meat was prone to ranting and raving and waving his cleaver around. This sullen dismissal might mean that he knew more than he was letting on.

  Was it possible that a farmer from Nant Gwynant—a man with a round, red-faced wife and two laughing sheepdogs—was also a terrorist who had somehow been caught in his own conflagration? It didn’t make sense. Evan had been a policeman long enough to know that people who committed crimes didn’t necessarily look like criminals. Anyway, it was out of his hands now. He’d pass on the information to Sergeant Watkins, who could act on it if he wanted to.

  He was about to let himself into the police station w
hen a large gray van roared past, belching smoke. Evan watched with interest as it came to a halt outside Chapel Bethel. Rev. Parry Davies leaped out of the driver’s seat then opened the side door, assisting several large and elderly ladies out of the van and escorting them proudly into chapel.

  Evan went into the station and pressed the HQ autodial button.

  “Sorry, Sergeant Watkins isn’t here,” the young dispatcher said in an indifferent voice. “Can one of the detective constables help you?”

  Evan hesitated. He wasn’t exactly on the best of terms with the detective constables, who felt that he had no right to go poking his nose into murder cases. Then he reminded himself that Mrs. Prys was down at Ty’r Craig farm, wiping her hands on her apron while she waited for news of her man. The sooner he was found, the better.

  “All right, put one of the constables on, then,” he said. “I need to speak to someone.”

  He had a frustrating conversation with D.C. Perkins, who couldn’t have sounded less interested. It finished with a “Thanks Evans. We’ll look into it and get back to you then.”

  Evan waited around at the station, reading the Sunday paper, then went home to a late lunch and still the phone didn’t ring. He hoped it wasn’t Sergeant Watkins’s day off. He was sure the detective constables wouldn’t call him.

  By midafternoon he was feeling restless and unable to concentrate. A whole Sunday wasted when he could have been out hiking with Bronwen or even climbing again. Time for a stroll around the village to blow away the cobwebs. The clear morning had turned into a blustery afternoon with large woolly clouds racing in from the west. The wind was chilly, too, more seasonal for this time of year. It might even rain later and then things really would be back to normal.

  Evan strode up the village street, past the row of shops and cottages. He gazed at the overgrown-chalet shape of the Everest Inn and wondered whether they’d come any closer to solving the fire there. It could easily have been a disgruntled employee, he thought. Major Anderson was a former royal marine. Evan didn’t imagine he’d be too soft on his employees.