Evan's Gate

by Rhys Bowen

  “Only because you won’t come to Clapham, and it’s hard for me to get away.”

  “Of course I won’t come to Clapham. I don’t know what possessed you to move to such a racially mixed area. I feared for my life the moment I left the tube station.”

  “I have to live where I can afford the rent, Mother.”

  “I’m surprised old whatshisname hasn’t set you up with a nice flat by Regent’s Park,” Henry said.

  Suzanne shot him a look of pure venom. “My private life has nothing to do with you. And be careful, or I’ll swing the conversation around to the lovely Camilla.”

  “Children, please—and with your sister lying on that table, too.” Mrs. Bosley-Thomas stepped between them.

  Evan stood unnoticed, studying them. If ever there was a dysfunctional family, then this was it. Hate and blame were flying in all directions. And then there was Val, leaning lazily on the landing rail—Val who was an artist who drove a BMW and stayed at the Everest Inn.

  Evan managed to make a graceful retreat from the lab at the same time as the Thomases, rather than risk finding himself alone again with Dr. Telesky.

  Nick Thomas fell into step beside him. “The little girl that’s missing—any luck yet?”

  “Not so far. We’re going to London to try and find out more about the father tomorrow.”

  “Another child is missing?” Mrs. Bosley-Thomas turned around, almost stumbling down the stairs.

  “Yes, and they say she looked like Sarah,” Nick told her.

  “Oh, my God. You don’t think”—she looked appealingly at Evan—“you don’t think there’s any connection, do you? But that’s absurd. How can there be? Twenty-five years ago? It can’t be the same person. It absolutely can’t.”

  She reached out blindly to grab Henry’s arm and let him lead her like a blind woman across the car park and into his car. Evan wondered if he’d persuade her to go to the farm with them after all. And by tomorrow most of them would be gone. He felt frustration boiling up inside him at his limitations as a detective. A good detective would know how to have questioned them subtly, to have observed their body language, and thus to have deduced if any of them was guilty.

  He ran through them in his mind as he got into his own car. Henry, who had been Sarah’s main protector; Val, who managed to live very well and looked at life through cynic’s eyes; affable, easygoing Nick; and sharp-tongued, highly strung Suzanne. Did any of them really believe that one of the others was responsible? If not, then why did those sideways glances dart between them? Why were they so much on edge?

  Chapter 21

  Glynis Davies was sitting at the computer as Evan came into the Caernarfon police station.

  “Any news?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve been following up on the last sightings and so far nothing. Oh, we’ve located the Germans, by the way, but it seems they’re in the clear. Nothing but clothes and camping equipment in their car. And their brush with the law was during an anti-immigrant rally.”

  “Neo-Nazis?”

  “Could be, but they were only arrested for blocking a public street, not for violence or antiracial attacks.”

  “Then why did they make such a hurried escape when they heard about the missing child?”

  Glynis shrugged. “They weren’t asked that. But we’ll keep tabs on them until they leave the country.”

  “So we’re still getting nowhere.” Evan pulled out a chair and sat beside her.

  “So it would seem.”

  Evan glanced around before he said, “Look, Glynis, would you do me a favor? Could you run a background check on the Thomases? I don’t really see how one of them can be involved, but they are really nervous and I just get the feeling that they are keeping things from me.”

  “Shouldn’t you clear this with the D.I. first?” Glynis smiled.

  “You know what he’ll say—that we don’t do anything until we’ve located Sholokhov. But the Thomases leave the area tomorrow, and I’d just like to be one jump ahead.”

  “One jump ahead got you in trouble this morning.”

  Evan grinned. “I know. Am I imagining things or is D.I. Watkins going through a personality change and transforming into another Hughes?”

  “He’s under a lot of strain, Evan. Don’t forget, he’s got a daughter of his own. He’s personalizing this whole thing more than we suspect.”

  Evan nodded. “Right. Yes, I suppose he would. I didn’t think of that.”

  “So what came out of the autopsy? Did they identify her?”

  “Not positively, but they’re doing a DNA match, and everything pointed to its being Sarah—clothing scraps, shoes, blonde hairs.”

  “Poor little kid. Poor family. How horrible for them. No wonder they’re jumpy. It’s making them go through the whole thing again, isn’t it?”

  “I’d just like to be sure it’s nothing more than that,” Evan said. “I couldn’t tell whether they were dropping hints when they spoke to me. It was almost as if they suspected each other.”

  Glynis looked up with a sigh. “All right. Tell you what. Give me their names and addresses, and I’ll see what turns up when the D.I.’s not around.”

  Exactly on cue the door opened and D.I. Watkins came in. “What are you conspirators muttering about now?” he asked, looking at their guilty faces.

  “Nothing, sir. Just talking,” Glynis said quickly. “I’ve gone through the last of the sightings and turned up nothing so far. The one in Cardiff that looked hopeful—they’ve located him. A Norwegian man and his daughter. They live nearby.”

  “Blast.” Watkins slapped his fist into his palm. “Let’s hope we find out something useful finally when we go down to London tomorrow. What about you, Evans? How did the anthropologist go?”

  “They weren’t able to make an absolute identification. No dental records, you see. They’ve taken DNA samples from the mother and siblings, but it seems pretty certain that it is her—plenty of clues.”

  “Did you pick up any clues of your own?” Watkins asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. A couple of times it seemed as if someone was dropping me a hint and there was some accusing going on, but that might just have been because it was stressful for them.”

  “So do you think we should still keep them in mind and do any additional follow-up on them?”

  “It might be worth running a background check on them, just in case.” Evan looked away so that he didn’t meet Glynis’s eyes. “Just to see if anything strange comes up.”

  “By all means. What have we got to lose at this stage?” Watkins said.

  “And I’d also like to talk to the old shepherd who used to own the cottage when Sarah was buried there. He may be quite gaga by now, but I think we should at least speak to him.”

  “He’s still alive, is he?”

  “He was quite recently. Lives with his daughter in Bangor.”

  “Then we should definitely talk to him right away. It better be you because I’m sure he’s Welsh speaking, and you know my Welsh isn’t too wonderful. Oh, and Evans, I think you might have another word with Mrs. Sholokhov before we go tomorrow. Find out all you can about where they lived, who they knew, where the husband hung out—anything to put us on the right track.”

  “Right-o, sir. I’ll start right away, if you don’t need me here.”

  “Bloody useless here, aren’t you?” Watkins said with a grin.

  He decided to get Mrs. Sholokhov over first so that he could devote enough time to interviewing Rhodri. He also put a call in to HQ to see if Rhodri had any kind of police record. Then he took the A487 cutting across the fields and farmland of the lower Lleyn Peninsula to the seaside town of Criccieth, past the ruins of the old castle and on down the coast toward the caravan park. A shower had just passed through, leaving behind a dazzlingly bright afternoon. The sky seemed to be a dome of blue glass over mountains so clear that Evan felt he could pick out every tree and rock on them. One lone cloud clung to the summit of
Cader Idris to the south, sitting on top like a jaunty white beret. A stiff wind blew from the sea, making holidaymakers along the esplanade at Criccieth walk with anorak hoods up and backs to the wind. Just the sort of day he liked to spend outdoors.

  The caravan park still had a deserted air about it. Evan suspected that all the publicity about the missing child wouldn’t have done much for future bookings either. He parked outside and went in through a gap in the hedge. When he reached the small caravan, he was surprised to find nobody there. He peeked in through the window. The interior was completely neat and clean as if it was unoccupied. It seemed as if Shirley Sholokhov had also vanished. He was alarmed at this train of thought and broke into a run as he crossed the meadow, almost bumping into the large, muscular form of Richard Gwynne, who was coming toward him carrying a box full of rusty auto parts.

  “Watch out!” he yelled, as Evan swerved to avoid him. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Oh, hello,” Evan said. “I’ve just been to Mrs. Sholokhov’s caravan, and she’s gone. Any idea what happened to her?”

  “Don’t ask me. I mind my own business, mate. Ask the old bat at the office. She likes to know everything about everybody.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  Evan was about to move on when Gwynne called after him, “So they didn’t find the little girl yet?”

  “No, not yet. We’re still looking.”

  “I don’t expect they’ll find her. They never know where to look, do they?”

  “We think she’s with her father. We’ll locate him soon.”

  “Good luck.” Gwynne nodded and stomped on his way.

  Evan stared after him for a moment, then went to Mrs. Paul’s bungalow. In response to the bell, she came to the office window, a startling apparition in a voluminous purple muumuu that contrasted violently with her orange hair.

  “Hello, love,” she said, her face breaking into a smile as she recognized Evan. “Is there any news yet?”

  Evan shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We’re going to London tomorrow to see if we can find out any more about the child’s father.”

  “You won’t find him there, love.” Mrs. Paul gave him a pitying smile. “He’s gone back to Russia, sure as eggs are eggs and bacon’s bacon.”

  “We’ve had an alert out at all the ports of exit, and there’s been no sign of him.”

  Again the pitying smile. “He won’t have used his own name, love, Shirley said. You can buy passports, two a penny, if you know where to look. He knew all the fiddles, Shirley said. He and his foreign mates. Crooked as bent pins they were.”

  “And where is Shirley?” Evan asked.

  The woman’s face clouded. “She’s gone, love. Gone home.”

  “When was this?”

  “This morning. You just missed her.”

  “She went home without telling the police?”

  “Oh no, she said she was going to stop in at the police station on her way past. She said it was giving her the willies staying there alone in that little van, and I don’t blame her. Hardly room to breathe in there, so I invited her to stay in my spare room, but I could understand that she’d rather be at home, in familiar surroundings, at a time like this.”

  “You mean back to Leeds? Is that her home?”

  “I’m not sure that she actually comes from there.”

  “Does she have relatives living nearby, do you know?”

  “She has an auntie somewhere in Yorkshire, and she shares her place with a good friend, she said.”

  “Ah.” Evan digested these facts. “You don’t think anything happened to make her decide to leave suddenly, do you?”

  “Just depression, I expect, love. She couldn’t take all the waiting and not knowing—and it’s not the same when you’re in strange surroundings, is it? You need your own things around you at times like this. I remember how comforting it was to come home to my own armchair after I’d been to visit my husband at the hospital. How about a nice cup of tea? I was just going to put the kettle on.”

  “No thanks, this time,” Evan said. “I’ve got a lot to do today.”

  His mind was racing as he left the bungalow and squeezed through the gap in the hedge to his car. What had made Shirley Sholokhov up and leave without telling anyone? If it had been his child, he wouldn’t have wanted to leave the place where she vanished, not until he knew 100 percent that she wasn’t there. The word “Russian” played over in his mind. Sholokhov had fled to England because he had upset the Russian Mafia. Evan had heard enough about the Russian Mafia to know that they made the Cosa Nostra look like pussycats. Had they somehow caught up with Sholokhov and taken his daughter in punishment or as a hostage to make sure he came back to Russia? Were they somehow threatening Shirley Sholokhov so that she feared to tell the truth?

  He picked up his mobile and dialed Inspector Watkins.

  “I thought you’d want to know, sir. Mrs. Sholokhov has hopped it—gone home to Leeds, so the caravan park owner says.”

  “Bloody hell. Did she say why?”

  “Got fed up with being stuck in a little caravan, so the woman says.”

  “So she ups and goes without telling us?”

  “That’s what I thought. I’m just wondering if there’s more to it than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m wondering whether Shirley Sholokhov knows more than she’s willing to tell us. Her husband fled from Russia to get away from the Mafia, supposedly. Is it possible they’ve caught up with him, and they’re using his daughter as bait?”

  “Possible, I suppose. Well, that does put a new angle on things, doesn’t it? I suppose we ought to pay our Shirley a visit at home in Leeds after we’ve checked out her husband’s haunts in London. Have you talked to your shepherd yet?”

  “I’m on my way there right now.”

  He pushed the end call button and found himself entering the outskirts of Porthmadog. As he passed the police station on the high street, he decided to stop, just in case Mrs. Sholokhov had told the officers there that she was going home and nobody had bothered to report this fact to the plainclothes branch.

  His nemesis, Constable Roberts, was sitting at the duty desk. “Hello, Evans. Been caught raiding any more dustbins lately?” he asked, with a broad grin on his face.

  “No, the other officers seem to be able to tell a copper from a crook.” He had longed to say something like this to Roberts for ages. Now he realized that he was a detective constable and Roberts wasn’t. He didn’t have to take any more rubbish from him.

  Roberts laughed at the reply, then quickly became serious again. “No news on the little girl yet, I take it?”

  “No good news. She’s been sighted all over the country, of course, but none of the sightings has panned out so far. The only surprise is that her mother has upped and left without telling us. I just wondered whether she told anybody here.”

  “She did stop in a couple of days ago as a matter of fact.”

  “To say she was leaving?”

  “To ask us if we thought she should stick around. She said she couldn’t stand being in that caravan any longer. We said that we could contact her just as easily from her home.”

  “And you didn’t think of mentioning it to D.I. Watkins?” Evan’s voice rose.

  Roberts looked surprised. “Of course we assumed she’d tell you blokes. Listen, mate. She asked our opinion and we gave it. Nothing more.”

  “Right. Sorry. It was just a shock to find that she’d gone. Makes you wonder if there’s more to it that she hasn’t told us.”

  “That’s what you blokes are paid to find out,” Roberts said. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a buzz if she comes back.”

  The message was only one step away from insolence, but Evan ignored it. No sense in widening the lack of communication between the branches or fueling Roberts’s jealousy.

  “Keep in touch,” Evan said with a smile. “Drop us a postcard if she comes back.”

  Chapter 22

&nb
sp; Evan got back in his car and was about to drive to interview Rhodri the shepherd in Bangor when he realized he was in Porthmadog, where Suzanne Bosley-Thomas was staying at a bed-and-breakfast. He swung the car off the high street and down to the waterfront, which was lined with a row of small, unprepossessing hotels, most of them dismal in the extreme. He realized it was unlikely that she’d be there, alone, in the late afternoon, but it was worth a shot. To his surprise the landlady at the grandly named Seaview Hotel nodded up the flight of narrow stairs.

  “Yes, she’s up there. Got in a few minutes ago. Who wants her?”

  “Police,” Evan said.

  “I never did like the look of her. Shifty eyes,” the landlady said. “What has she done?”

  “Nothing, except identify the body of her sister, who disappeared years ago,” Evan replied, watching with satisfaction the embarrassment spread over her face.

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry. How dreadful for her, poor thing.” She nodded up the stairs again. “She’s in room twelve. Third floor.”

  Evan went up two flights and tapped on the door. It opened an inch or two.

  “Yes?” Suzanne asked.

  “It’s Constable Evans, Suzanne. Do you have a moment?”

  “Just a second. I was in the middle of changing. Val’s treating us to dinner at his hotel tonight, so I thought I’d better look respectable.”

  He waited, studying the pattern of grapes and garlands on the wallpaper until the door opened again. “Sorry about that. Come on in. Excuse the mess. There’s no room to put anything.”

  The room was scarcely bigger than Shirley Sholokhov’s caravan had been and every surface was piled with clothes, makeup, toiletries. Suzanne moved her discarded garments from the bed and cleared a space for him to sit on the coverlet. “Sorry, but they don’t provide a chair. Not exactly the Ritz, is it?”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Where are you going to sit?’