by Rhys Bowen
“No, you can’t run away,” Bronwen agreed. “I suppose humans are pretty much the same wherever you find them.” She broke off a tall blade of grass and chewed on it. “So do you have any suspects at all so far?”
Evan shook his head. “Not really. Stewart Potts had a wife who was actually seen in Llanberis and wasn’t too happily married to him. She says she came up here to check on him, because she thought he was meeting another woman. I suppose she could have shoved him off a cliff, but why kill anyone else? And it looks like she’s a damn sight worse off without him.
“And then there’s the fourth friend, the one who didn’t come to the reunion. He wasn’t where he claimed to be last Sunday, but his excuse made sense to me, and he has a cast-iron alibi for the other murder on Friday.”
“You still think the same person was responsible for all three killings?”
“I don’t know,” Evans said. “On the face of it, I’d say no. Two were sneaky murders. Creeping up behind someone and pushing them off a cliff is a cowardly thing to do, isn’t it. Cutting a throat is a violent, desperate act, or even an act of retaliation. It could be that we’re looking for two separate murderers, Bron.”
“What about Daft Dai?” Bronwen asked. “Might he be telling the truth that he committed the first two murders?”
“He might,” Evan said.
“And what if the other killer is the same man who killed that little girl?”
Evan shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not an expert in psychology. They say that child molesters are usually meek and mild people most of the time, but if he was hiding out in the mountains and someone recognized him, he might be desperate enough to wait around and sneak up behind …” He paused, his mouth open. “Wait a second, Bron. We never looked into that angle, did we? We never checked whether this Lou Walters, the child molester, was in the army with the others. I’ll look into that tomorrow.”
Bronwen got to her feet. “This grass is damp,” she said, brushing off her skirt, “and I should be getting back down. I’ve got papers to correct before class tomorrow. At least you’ve got another angle to look into now, haven’t you?”
“Right,” Evan said, standing up too and trying not to lose his train of thought as she shook out that luxuriant hair. “Who knows, maybe I’ve been going in the wrong direction all the time up to now. I felt all along that this must have something to do with the army but the other poor kid, Simon Herries, has no army connections at all. And I even had my suspicions about the major. You know, Major Anderson from the inn? I thought he might have been one of the officers who got demoted as a result of the inquiry into Danny’s death.”
“But you’ve proved he wasn’t?”
Evan grinned. “It turns out he wasn’t even in the army; he’s one of those types who just goes around calling himself major.”
“How about that,” Bronwen said, smiling too.
“Pity really,” Evan said. “He was in the right place at the right time to be a suspect too. Sergeant Watkins is checking into his background, but I can’t see what possible motive he could have. He moves in very different circles from those two former army privates. I wouldn’t have minded finding him guilty.”
Bronwen wagged a finger. “You mustn’t let personal animosities enter into a professional investigation,” she said.
“I know,” Evan said. “I don’t even know why I’m getting involved in this. Detective Inspector Hughes has taken over the case himself, and I’m not even a part of his criminal investigation department. I’m supposed to confine my activities to finding lost cats and missing tourists.” He glanced down at the bulky Victorian silhouette of the Powell-Jones house. At least Mrs. Powell-Jones was now satisfied.
Bronwen touched his arm lightly. “I think you’re doing very well, Evan,” she said. “I think you make a great policeman.”
As she stood there on a rock the breeze sprang up and swept her hair and skirts out behind her, so that again she looked like a maiden from distant legend. Evan stood staring at her. He hadn’t fully realized before how lovely she was.
“What are you looking at?” she asked sharply.
“You,” Evan said. “You look really beautiful today, Bronwen, so sort of … magical and … unspoiled,” he finished, searching for words that wouldn’t come. He couldn’t find the right word in Welsh either.
“There’s something you should know about me,” she said. “I came to Llanfair straight from a failed marriage. I’ve needed time to heal, just like you.”
With that she started down the track ahead of him, her hair flying out behind her like spun gold.
Chapter 20
It was cold on the mountain that night. The wind moaned through the rocks and it was impossible to keep warm. Were they ever going to lift that damned police cordon? He couldn’t risk coming down until he knew that the police weren’t watching. Surely they’d found everything they were going to find. They’d been over the place with their absurd tweezers and plastic bags and metal detectors and they had been completely blind to what must have been staring them in the face. But it was okay. He could afford to wait, like a spider patiently beside its web. Sooner or later a fly would come.
On Monday morning Evan drove down to police HQ in Caernarfon and sought out Sergeant Watkins.
“Listen, sarge,” he blurted out before Watkins could say anything. “I’ve got another idea worth checking on. Did anyone ever check whether Lou Walters was in the army?”
“What’s this about the army?” a sharp voice asked behind them. D.I. Hughes was standing there, a dapperly dressed little man with perfectly styled graying hair and just a hint of a moustache.
“He was wondering if Lou Walters had been in the army,” Sergeant Watkins said.
“What for?” D.I. Hughes was looking at Evan with cold blue eyes.
“If he had been, then the murders might be somehow tied together,” Evan said.
D.I. Hughes seemed to focus on Evan for the first time. “Who are you exactly?” he asked. “I don’t recall seeing you.”
“Let me introduce P.C. Evans, sir,” Sergeant Watkins said for him. “From Llanfair. He was the one who discovered the bodies and alerted us to possible foul play in the first deaths. He’s an expert on mountain climbing.”
“Is he now?” D.I. Hughes couldn’t have sounded less interested. “And on the army?”
“It was just a thought, sir,” Evan said. “Seeing that we’ve now found out the two men who fell to their deaths were in the army together and they came here for a memorial to another soldier who had died.”
“What’s this?” D.I. Hughes asked. Evan noticed too late Watkins shaking his head behind the D.I.’s back.
“We’ve been looking into various possible connections between the men and the death of a soldier on the mountain six years ago,” Sergeant Watkins said. “We wanted to wait until all the facts were in before we presented them to you.”
“We?” D.I. Hughes asked. “Have you been assigned to this department, Evans?”
“No, sir. I just wanted to help out,” Evan said.
“I’m sure we’re very grateful for all your help,” D.I. Hughes said. “But I suggest you get back to your assigned duties and leave the criminal investigation to those trained to do it. And that’s an order.”
“Yes sir,” Evan said. He glanced at Watkins but Watkins was busy studying a list on his desk and their eyes didn’t meet.
As Evan went out he heard D.I. Hughes’ crisp, clear voice. “Why didn’t you tell him to get lost, Watkins? An untrained amateur is the last thing we need around here. Who knows how many potential witnesses he’s scared off with his bumbling interrogations?”
“Oh, no. Evans is a good man, sir,” Watkins replied. “We only discovered the army connection because of him.”
“In future, Watkins, you will follow my line of investigation, not go rushing off in all directions on your own, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Watkins mumbled.
Evan
didn’t wait around any longer. He headed back down the hallway. He had now been officially ordered to stay off the case, but they couldn’t stop him from satisfying his own curiosity, could they? He decided to take a peek at those old newspapers again. Maybe there was something he had overlooked in the reports on Danny Bartholemew’s death—a name, perhaps, that had meant nothing then, or even a photo of someone he might now recognize.
He brought the relevant issue of the newspaper up onto the screen. The banner headline flashed out at him. MAIL TRAIN ROBBERY, and beneath it was a map. Evan’s eyes took in the details of the map before he moved on to the next page. Then, on impulse, he went back again. He remembered the train thundering past when he was at the roadside cafe with Watkins. It was not too far from there that the robbery had taken place, and the trucks carrying the soldiers from Yorkshire would have driven along that very road … was it just coincidence that the robbery and the exercises took place on the same day? He couldn’t see what possible connection a train robbery and Danny Bartholemew’s death could have had, but it was worth looking into.
This time he read the lead article in detail, then followed the story through subsequent days. In the end he was not much wiser, but he had picked up the name of the detective from Scotland Yard who was in charge of the case. It might be worth calling him when he got home.
Sitting alone in the tiny Llanfair police station, Evan had second thoughts about what he was going to do. Going behind a D.I.’s back and calling direct to Scotland Yard, especially when the D.I. had told him to mind his own business, could result in pretty serious punishment. Could he be dismissed for it, he wondered? It all depended how much clout D.I. Hughes had and how much his own chief was prepared to take his side. Of course, if he managed to solve the cases … Nobody could be fired for bringing a murderer to justice, could they?
He picked up the phone and dialed. He had a little speech thought out and was ready to argue his way through the minions to D.C.I. Harmon at Scotland Yard. He was surprised when the phone was picked up and a voice at the other end barked, “Harmon.”
“Sir, this is Evans from North Wales police,” Evan stammered, caught off guard. “We’re looking into a couple of murders up here that could possibly have something to do with the mail train robbery of six years ago. I understand you were the lead detective on that case. If you have a moment, I’d appreciate it if you could fill me in on some details.”
“I never have a moment,” Harmon said dryly. “I’m always supposed to be somewhere ten minutes ago, but I’ll answer a couple of questions if I can. Not that we like being reminded of that case, here at the Yard. It was one of our more spectacular failures.” He paused for a second. “What do you need to know?”
Evan cleared his throat. “I’m not even sure of that myself, sir,” he said. “I was just wondering if it was complete coincidence that a truckload of soldiers must have passed close to the site of the mail train robbery and that one of those soldiers died that same night.” He stopped talking, aware that even to him it sounded ridiculous. He expected the chief inspector to bark at him for wasting his time.
“So what exactly are you asking me?” Harmon demanded.
“Is it possible that there was any sort of army connection?” Evan asked.
“Army connection? In what way?”
“That any of the robbers had something to do with the army?”
“Hardly,” Harmon said with a dry laugh. “These boys hadn’t done a day’s work in their lives.”
“Do you know who they all were?”
“Oh, yes. We know who they were all right. Not that we can do much about it. They called themselves the Bank Street Gang after some train robbery they’d seen in an old American movie, I think. Actually they were a conglomeration of several big-time thieves who usually worked the greater London area. They had it all planned down to the last detail, I’ll give them that. The moment the money was off that train, they all split up into different directions, presumably each with some of the loot. They had small planes waiting at God knows how many private airfields, and they were in France or Ireland before we could warn anyone. The ones we caught were only small fry. They had no money on them and they weren’t talking either. It was hard to pin the robbery on them, especially since we knew their bosses got away without a scratch.” He paused for breath. “Does this help at all?”
“Not really,” Evan said.
“Look—we’ve got a whole bloody filing cabinet fill of stuff relating to this case. You’re welcome to come down and take a look at it, if you think there might be something. But army connection? No, I can’t see that. In fact, I think I can safely say that they’d be very antiarmy. McMahon and Connor, two of the leaders, were both Irish—and strongly anti-English in their sympathies. We even suspect some of the money went to the IRA.”
“And they’re both in South America now?”
“As far as we know,” Harmon said. “Of course they’re on fake passports, so it’s hard to prove, but we’ve had eyewitness sightings. Nothing we can do about it, of course. It almost makes me feel bad that the poor sods we caught are doing ten to fifteen behind bars and got nothing out of it. Still, petty criminals were never known for their great brains, were they?”
“How many did you actually manage to catch?” Evan asked, more for a reason to keep the conversation going than because he wanted to know.
“Let’s see. Four, I think. Five if you count Bartholemew.”
“Bartholemew?” Evan almost shouted. “Danny Bartholemew was involved in this?”
“No, the name wasn’t Danny,” Harmon said. “Doug. That’s right. Douglas Bartholemew. He was stopped for speeding on the outskirts of Birmingham and luckily his nervous behavior made them check on his record. He had a string of outstanding warrants as long as my arm. So luckily we didn’t need the train robbery to put him away, although we know he’d worked with Connor and McMahon in the past—just as a hanger-on, mark you. Small fry. Not one of the big boys.”
Evan’s heart was racing. “Did this Doug Bartholemew come from Wales, do you know?”
“Possibly. Yes, now I come to think of it, he spoke with some kind of funny accent—no offence meant, of course.”
“And where is he now?” Evan asked excitedly.
“I told you. He had enough outstanding warrants to put him away without having to try and implicate him in the mail train business. He’s doing ten to fifteen in Pentonville.”
“Oh,” Evan said, his face falling again. It had all seemed so hopeful. Mrs. Bartholemew had complained that the English had taken both her sons from her and Evan had assumed that meant they were both dead. But she had meant that one was in jail. Unfortunately a jail cell was about the most perfect alibi anyone could have—which was a pity, because Doug Bartholemew could well have been eaten up with thoughts of revenge.
“Well, thanks for your help, sir,” Evan said.
“Was I any help?” Harmon asked.
“You’ve cleared one thing up,” Evan said, “but it doesn’t leave us any further along, unfortunately.”
“As I say, come on down if you want to go through the files,” Harmon said. “There might be something else that may help.”
“Thanks, sir,” Evan said. “Thanks for your time.”
“Not at all. We coppers have to help each other, don’t we?”
Evan nodded to himself as he put down the phone. A nice chap. No wonder he’d gone to the top. He was the sort that his men would willingly put in overtime for. Not like that cold fish Hughes.
He got up and paced around the room. At least he was right in one thing. He had sensed there was a connection between Danny and the mail train robbery and there was. But he didn’t see how it could have helped. Doug was picked up in Birmingham right after the robbery. That was going fast in the wrong direction for Wales. And he was in custody when Danny reached Wales and subsequently froze to death on the mountain. And he was still in custody, doing ten to fifteen.
Evan rea
ched for his jacket and went out. It was one of those too bright days that can’t be trusted in Wales. The wind was rustling through the oak trees behind the police station and whipping at the grass. With that strength of westerly, the weather could change in a hurry. But right now it was good walking weather. Evan strode out up the village street. He nodded to Evans-the-Post who was just coming out of the post office with his laden bag over his shoulder.
“Any juicy ones today?” Evan called out to him.
“I haven’t had a chance to see yet,” Evans-the-post called back. “She won’t let me look at them.” He indicated the post office where Miss Roberts treated him, and her customers, like naughty schoolchildren.
Evan walked on, past the pub. The Red Dragon sign squeaked in the wind. It was about time somebody oiled that hinge, he thought and found himself picturing Betsy climbing up there in her too short skirt. Keep your mind on the job, he told himself severely. Somehow all this patchwork of events had to be linked together, had to make sense. He remembered Betsy saying in surprise,” Funny old place to hold a reunion.” She hadn’t been wrong. It was a funny old place. Someone wanted those men up on the mountain for a reason. Was that reason to kill them? And if someone wanted them dead, why not make it simpler? There were many ways to kill a person in London or in Liverpool, without bringing them all the way to Wales.
Evan continued up the street. It was recess at the school and the children were making a racket as they ran around, squealing and yelling. Evan paused to watch. Young children always amazed and impressed him. They lived every moment to the full with their unself-conscious noise and uninhibited actions. They didn’t stop to worry whether they looked foolish or what anyone would think. That didn’t come until they got older—like poor Dilys, who hated to be teased and kept all her thoughts in a very secret diary and got punished because she lost her temper when her sister snooped.
He could hear Dilys’ clear young voice saying, “She poked her nose where it had no business to be.”
