by Rhys Bowen
“I can’t just sit here and twiddle my thumbs,” Watkins said. This could take weeks. We’ve told Madame Yvette not to go anywhere. If she really is innocent we shouldn’t put her life on hold like this. Of course, if she’d been a little more helpful . . . You know what I’ve decided? I’m driving down to the South Coast to check for myself. If she had a restaurant down there, someone will know something about her.”
“Good idea,” Evan said. “Watson, wait. It just struck me that her last restaurant was on the South Coast, in a very convenient position for the English Channel. And now this new restaurant is in a great location to receive drug shipments coming in from local ports. So maybe there is a drug connection after all.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Evan chuckled. “Your sense of direction isn’t too wonderful. Do you reckon you can find your way all the way down to the South Coast by yourself?”
“No. Do you want to come with me?”
“Oh, right. I’m sure the D.I. would approve of that!”
“No, seriously. He told me to do what I have to. I think I have to find out for myself what happened to her last restaurant and why she moved here . . . and everyone knows I have the world’s worst sense of direction. Which is why I need a driver.”
“I’d come along like a shot, but they wouldn’t let me leave this place unmanned for a couple of days.”
“I’ll talk to dispatch. They can cover for you if I think it’s really important. You were the one person to have seen the mystery man at the restaurant and you’ve had the most dealings with Madame Yvette. I’ll tell them I’ll wind up in Carlisle if I drive myself.”
“In that case,” Evan said, feeling a surge of excitement, “when do we leave?”
Chapter 14
After he had hung up the phone, Evan sat at his desk, trying to collect his thoughts while his mind raced ahead, planning the trip and wondering about what they might discover. Adrenaline raced through his body. He was being allowed to play detective and he found it exciting—which must indicate that he should seriously rethink his future. Maybe the village had served its purpose in getting him over a very bad time. Perhaps now he had outgrown Llanfair and it was time to move on. When this case was over he’d give serious thought to applying for training so that he could work officially with Sergeant Watkins, as a fellow detective.
He came out of the police station to find the sun setting and the valley bathed in warm, rosy light. Snowdon and its sister peaks were etched in black, and small clouds that clung around them were tinged pink, like escaped candy floss. From high on the mountainside came the bleating of sheep and the barking of dogs as they rounded up their charges. The smell of wood smoke hung in the air and mingled with the smell of dinners cooking. From the field behind the village hall came the shouts of boys playing football.
Evan smiled to himself. It was in moments like this that he knew why he had come here. Instead of heading to his landlady’s house, he turned left and walked up the village street. People coming home from work called out to him as he passed. Evans-the-Meat waved as he lowered the blind on his shop.
“See you in the Dragon, then?” Charlie Hopkins called as he drove past.
“You might,” Evan yelled back.
He continued his walk. A motorbike roared past. When the driver stopped and took off his helmet, Evan saw that it was young Bryn, Charlie’s grandson, who disappeared into his grandparents’ cottage. It was nice the way he visited the old folks, Evan decided. This led him to thoughts of his own future. He tried to picture himself with kids and grandchildren someday, but when it came to concrete pictures of the future, his brain somehow switched off.
When he reached the school playground, he saw smoke curling from Bronwen’s chimney. He decided he should pop in to tell Bronwen that he was making this trip. The news would soon be all around the village, and it wouldn’t be right for her to hear from someone else.
Evan tapped on Bronwen’s front door. Bronwen appeared wearing an apron and with flour on her hands. There was even a smudge of flour on her nose, which Evan found very appealing.
“Oh hello,” she said. “You’ve just caught me in the middle of trying my hand at Madame Yvette’s soufflé recipe. You wouldn’t like to be a guinea pig, would you? I should warn you I’ve never made a soufflé before.”
“All right.” He stepped inside, hesitantly, as if somehow Bronwen must know of his encounters with Glynis. “Although I don’t think I’m a soufflé kind of bloke.”
“Real men don’t eat quiche, eh?” She gave him a teasing glance. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it get around the village and ruin your reputation.”
“Everything gets around this village,” Evan said. He pulled out a stool at her pine kitchen table and sat.
“Oh, before I forget,” she said. “There’s a concert at the university in Bangor this Friday night. I’d like to go. I wondered if I could drag you along. It’s harp music, and I know you’re not madly keen on that kind of thing, but . . .” She looked at him, her blue eyes silently appealing.
“I’m sorry love, but I’m not sure if I’ll be here. I’ve got to go to Eastbourne with Sergeant Watkins.”
“Eastbourne? You mean the Eastbourne in Sussex?”
Evan nodded. “Madame Yvette’s last restaurant was in that area. We’re not getting anywhere with this investigation and she’s not being overhelpful, so Sergeant Watkins decided to look into her background. And he’s taking me along as his driver.”
Bronwen grinned. “His driver! He’s taking you along because you’re better at solving crimes than any of their bloody detectives and they all know it.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve had a couple of lucky breaks, that’s all. Watkins is a good man. He’s just a lousy navigator. He reckons he’d wind up in Carlisle if he went alone.”
“I see.” She was still smiling. “So what do you hope to turn up in Eastbourne, or is it all hush-hush?”
Evan shrugged. “We’ve no idea really. But you’ve heard that there was a body in the restaurant, I suppose?”
“My kids could talk about nothing else,” Bronwen said. “Young Terry was absolutely thrilled, as you can imagine. He was full of theories about crooks and mafia and shootings. He said he saw a foreign man with a gun that night and he just knew he was going to blow up the restaurant.” She shook her head as she scraped the last of the batter into a tall dish.
“A foreign man with a gun? He might have seen the same man we did, but I don’t know where he got the idea that he saw a gun.”
“His imagination, I suspect. That child lives for violence. I’ve recommended that his mother take him to a psychiatrist. It’s verging on the unhealthy.”
“I don’t think it’s too unhealthy,” Evan said. “He’s angry at his dad for walking out on them and this is his way of handling his feelings. But I agree he’s a handful. I caught him out on his bike after the fire—and that must have been close to midnight.”
“I know. He told me you drove him home. He was very proud of it. You’re one of his current heroes, by the way. You and Charlie’s grandson. When he grows up he’s going to be a fireman and a policeman, so he says.”
Evan smiled. Bronwen bustled around, clearing away cooking utensils and laying the table.
“Is there something I can do?” he asked.
She handed him the mixing bowl. “You can put that in the sink, and find us a bottle of wine.”
“White or red?” Evan asked. “I’m never sure of what’s proper.”
“White with a soufflé, I’d assume,” she said. “I think I’ve got an unopened Chardonnay in the fridge.”
“All right.” Evan found the bottle and set about uncorking it.
“So what do they know about the body? Have they identified it yet?” Bronwen asked.
“No. In fact it’s quite a little puzzle for us.”
“No identity, you mean?”
Evan nodded. “The only lead we have so far is an abandoned rental
car, rented by a Frenchman under a false name.”
He saw Bronwen react to this. “Evan, do you think it could have been that man who came into the restaurant while we were eating? He looked French, didn’t he?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Evan agreed. “But we’ve no way of proving it.”
“There were some strange vibes going on between him and Madame Yvette at one point, don’t you think? She nearly set fire to our crêpes suzette.” Then she paused and shook her head. “But he left before we did. We were the last ones there before she closed up, weren’t we?”
“We were. But there was something going on between her and that man at one point. At least, the man said something that upset her, but she claimed it was just that he wanted lobster and she didn’t have any.”
“I suppose it could have been something as simple as that,” Bronwen said. “What exactly do you know so far?”
Evan poured the wine and handed her a glass. “It’s hard to know where to begin,” he said. “The body was burned too badly for fingerprints. We’ve got a dental chart but you need to know where a person comes from before you can match up his teeth.”
“Poor Madame Yvette,” Bronwen said. “I’ve been thinking about her. It must be awful. She’s lost everything and now there’s a strange man dead in her restaurant. It must be like a nightmare.”
Evan said nothing. He didn’t think that he should let on that the body had been stabbed and that Madame Yvette had to be considered a prime suspect at this time. Nor did he want to suggest any kind of drug connection.
“So what will she do? Where will she stay?” Bronwen asked.
“She’s staying at the Vaynol Arms at the moment,” Evan said. “She can’t go anywhere until this business is sorted out.”
“But how miserable staying at a pub, with no clothes, no nothing,” Bronwen said. “I’ll look in my wardrobe and see if I’ve got anything that she could wear, and I’ll ask the village women, too. I’d have her to dinner here, only I wouldn’t dare cook anything for her . . .”
“You’re a kind person, Bronwen,” Evan said.
“Yes, I do have some good points, I suppose,” she said, making him wonder yet again if the Llanfair spies were so good that she had already heard about Glynis.
“I wish you were coming down to Eastbourne with me. It would be fun.”
“I don’t think the police would fund naughty weekends.” Bronwen tossed him a challenging look. “And three is definitely a crowd. You’ve got Sergeant Watkins to keep you company. Besides, I have to keep thirty kids in line and stop young Terry from blowing anything up—”
She stopped, open-mouthed. “Evan, you don’t think . . . ?” she asked.
He picked up her thought instantly. “That he started the fires?”
She nodded.
“He was at all of them,” Evan said thoughtfully. “It did cross my mind, especially since he seems so obsessed with violence at the moment.” Then he shook his head. “I just don’t see how it’s possible. A little kid like him—where would he get a can of petrol? How would he lug it up the hill without being seen? And someone would surely have noticed him at the Everest Inn . . .”
“But you have to admit it’s just possible,” Bronwen said.
“Yes, it is possible.” Evan took a meditative sip of wine.
“So what do we do?”
“I’m leaving with Sergeant Watkins in the morning,” Evan said. “I think I’ll have a little talk with Terry tonight before I go, just to be on the safe side—let him know what I’m thinking. That should act as a deterrent for a while. And when I get back, we’ll pursue it further. If you could get me one of his school papers we can check his fingerprints against the note that we found.”
He shook his head again. “I could believe he’d go around starting fires, but writing the note? That’s the kind of thing that adults do, not kids.”
Bronwen went over to the dresser. “I’ve got some papers I brought home to mark. Here—Terry’s geography test. Nearly all right. He’s a bright boy. He just needs direction right now—a good positive male influence.” She looked at Evan.
“You’re suggesting that I take him under my wing?”
“He could do worse,” Bronwen said.
“You’re always saying that I’m too ready to volunteer for things and we never have enough time together,” Evan pointed out.
Bronwen shrugged. “I’d do a lot to make sure my kids turn out well.”
Evan came around the table and slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. “Did I ever tell you you’re very sweet? Especially when you’ve got flour on your nose.”
He kissed her nose gently, then his lips moved down to her mouth, not so gently.
“Evan,” she protested after a long minute, “don’t distract me now. The soufflé will burn!”
She laughed as she bent to open the oven. “Not bad for a first attempt,” she said, bringing out a crusty brown mountain of soufflé. “Exactly like Madame Yvette’s looked, in fact.”
“I’m impressed,” Evan said.
“I’m rather impressed myself.” Bronwen’s face was pink. Then, before she could cut into it, the soufflé began to sink.
“Oh,” Bronwen said, her voice as flat as the soufflé had become. “I think I still have some practicing to do.”
Evan went over to her and wrapped her in his arms. “I’ll bet it still tastes good,” he said. “Let me pour you another glass of wine.”
She managed a weak smile. “All right. I might as well drown my failures.”
“You’re streets ahead of me,” he said. “I still can’t boil an egg.”
He picked up the bottle of wine, then stood with it poised in his hand, staring into space.
“Are you having a vision or something?” Bronwen asked.
“Something just struck me,” Evan said. “I’m no wine expert, but even I know that you don’t serve red wine with lobster. If that French bloke in the restaurant was planning to have lobster, he’d never have ordered a bottle of red wine.”
“Who knows, maybe he intended to drink the whole bottle before the main course came,” Bronwen suggested, then shook her head. “No, that would spoil his palette, wouldn’t it?”
“Which meant that we’ve caught Madame Yvette lying about one thing . . .”
“She might have been flustered and said the first stupid thing that came into her head,” Bronwen said. “I’m sure we’ve all done that in our lives.”
“You? You’ve never said a stupid thing in your life.”
Bronwen came over to him and snuggled against him. “You’re rather nice, too, did you know that? I wish I could come with you to Eastbourne tomorrow. Take care of yourself and don’t talk to any strange women, will you?”
Evan didn’t linger over his meal and went in searching of Terry Jenkins before it was completely dark. He made for the field where he had heard the boys playing earlier. The football game had ended and the boys were coming from the field, laughing and talking noisily. Evan looked for Terry among them, but he wasn’t there.
“Have you boys seen Terry Jenkins?” he asked.
“Off on his bike somewhere, poking his nose into something, I suppose,” one of the boys said.
“So he wasn’t playing football with you boys?”
“He didn’t want to be on our team,” a second boy agreed. “Off on his own, like Gwillum said.”
Evan came out to the street again and continued up the hill to the Jenkins cottage. He was about to go in, when he noticed a fleeting movement out of the corner of his eye. He sprinted across the street and found Terry crouching behind a garden wall.
“What are you doing, Terry?”
“Nothing, Constable Evans. I wasn’t doing nothin’,” Terry said, but his eyes darted nervously.
“You’re in someone else’s front garden, Terry. That’s called trespassing, so don’t tell me you weren’t doing anything. This is Mr. Hopkins’s cottage, Terry, isn’t it?”
> Terry nodded. “I didn’t mean any harm, honest, I didn’t. It’s just that . . . Bryn’s here right now. You know, Bryn the fireman? I was just taking a look at his motorbike.”
“Then why try to hide? There’s nothing wrong with looking at a motorbike. So what were you really doing?”
His eyes darted nervously. “I was . . . just trying it out . . . that’s all. I was sitting on the saddle, seeing what it felt like. I’m going to get a motorbike when I’m old enough.”
Evan put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Terry, you know you’re asking for trouble, don’t you? I know you, but if another policeman saw you getting on a motorbike, you know what he’d think, don’t you?”
Terry nodded. “He’d think I was trying to steal it.”
“Right.”
Terry glanced back at the Hopkinses’ cottage. “It’s just that Bryn—” He broke off, unable to find the words. “It’s pretty cool being a fireman, isn’t it, Mr. Evans?”
“Not very cool, I’d say,” Evan said. “Pretty hot most of the time.”
Terry grinned. “You know what I mean. Exciting—all those flames and walls crashing down and windows exploding . . .”
Evan steered the boy out of the Hopkinses’ garden and across the street. “Terry,” he said quietly. “I’m going to be away for a few days, working on a case. I want you to keep your eyes open for me, and make sure there are no fires while I’m away. You’re pretty observant, so I’m counting on you, okay?”
Terry nodded solemnly. “Okay, Mr. Evans. I’ll do what I can.” His face lit up. “Tell me about the body, eh, Mr. Evans. Did you see it? What was it like—all frizzled up and cooked and gross-looking?”
Evan had to smile. “Pretty gross-looking, Terry.”
“I bet I know who did it,” Terry said.
“Did what?”
Terry’s face was still alight. “Killed him and then set the place on fire to hide the body.”
Evan wondered whether this was just a clever guess or the result of watching too many gangster films. Surely even the Llanfair grapevine couldn’t have heard the pathologist’s findings?
