Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs

by Rhys Bowen

  “One of the things we need to do is to establish what time he died,” Evan said. “You said you heard him singing when you left Llanfair last night, Gareth?”

  “That’s right. Warming up his voice, the way he always did.”

  “You could hardly miss it, could you?” Harry-the-Pub added. “Not the way he belted it out.”

  “And what time was that?” Evan asked.

  The men looked at each other. “The six o’clock news had already started, I know that much,” Harry said. “But we were down in Harlech and parked just before seven, and that trip has to take forty-five minutes, so I’d have to say about six-ten, wouldn’t you, boys?”

  The other men who had ridden with Harry nodded. “Must have been six-ten, six-fifteen,” Evans-the-Meat concurred. “And we were the last to leave, I think. Your van had already gone, Charlie.”

  “Yes, we left around six, but it took me longer to find a parking space,” Charlie said.

  “Did you hear him singing, too, Charlie?” Evan asked.

  “I can’t say I did, but maybe I’m so used to all the noise by now that I didn’t even notice,” Charlie said. “It’s not easy living next door to it, you know, Evan bach. Morning, noon, and night, singing and fighting, fighting and singing.”

  “You didn’t hear any fighting the last couple of days, did you?” Evan asked.

  “The last time was when the missus called you,” Charlie said. “After that it’s been real peacefullike, apart from the singing.”

  “Oh yes, I’d almost forgotten about that incident the other night,” Evan said. “Did you happen to overhear what was going on when your missus called me?”

  “I can’t say I was that interested,” Charlie said. “I just turned up the sound on the telly. She was the one who always got upset.” He looked across at a tight knot of women standing at the Hopkins’s cottage door. “Mair, remember that night when you called the constable?” he asked. “Did you happen to hear what they were fighting about?”

  “Which night was that then?” Mair Hopkins asked as the group of women parted for her. “There have been so many, haven’t there.”

  Evan went across to join the women. “You called me one evening last week, Mrs. Hopkins. Ifor was yelling at a strange man.”

  “Ooh yes, that’s right. I remember now. Very sinister it was, too. I pulled back the curtain and got a look at him—ooh, and he looked like a very shady character.” She hugged her arms to her and gave a dramatic shudder. “All dressed in black and dark flashing eyes and hadn’t shaved. I said to Charlie, what’s the betting he’s one of those Mafia who’s tracked Mr. Llewellyn down here? Charlie told me I was talking nonsense but he looked like a gangster to me right enough. And he spoke foreign, too. Not English, I mean, but real foreign.”

  “And you didn’t happen to hear anything that was said?”

  “Only Mr. Llewellyn yelling that he wasn’t scared. The whole street heard that, I’d imagine.”

  Several women nodded.

  “And he drove a foreign-looking car, too,” one of the women said. “I heard the yelling as well, when I was putting our Gwen to bed.”

  “What about last night,” Evan said. “Did any of you see or hear anything going on at the Llewellyns’ house? Any visitors? Anything unusual?”

  There was silence, then Mair Hopkins shook her head. “I can’t say I noticed anything at all out of the ordinary, like. I saw him outside putting things in his car about five-thirty, it would have been. I heard him doing his singing exercises when I was in the kitchen peeling potatoes for dinner. That would have been after six.”

  “How much after six?”

  “Let’s see. I went in the kitchen right after Charlie left with the lads from the choir. It could have been as late as six-thirty before I went back into the living room to see the weather forecast on the telly. I don’t know why I bothered. They’re never right, are they? I always say to Charlie, I wish I could get paid for a job where I was wrong most of the time—”

  “So Ifor was alive and singing at six-thirty,” Evan interrupted her discourse on the weather-forecasting profession. He looked around the crowd. “Did anyone happen to see or hear him at any time after that?”

  Another silence. Several people shook their heads.

  “Anyone seen leaving his house after that or any strange cars driving down the street?”

  More silence then Harry-the-Pub said, “Here, that are you getting at then? There’s something more to this death than just a man falling and hitting his head, isn’t there?”

  “See, what did I tell you, I knew it,” Evans-the-Meat said triumphantly. “I said they wouldn’t make all this fuss over an accident. Someone bashed him on the head.”

  “It was that Mafia man, of course. What did I tell you?” Mair Hopkins yelled back.

  Evan could feel the whole situation slipping away from him.

  “Hold on a minute, everyone,” he said in a voice to rival Ifor’s. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. When the lab technicians have given the place a thorough going-over, maybe we’ll know a little more. Right now we’re just trying to work out exactly when he died and who was the last person to see him alive.”

  “That would have to be Gladys, wouldn’t it?” Mair Hopkins said. “I saw her coming out of the house when I was doing the potatoes. She almost missed her bus.”

  “What was Gladys doing there that late?” one of the other women asked.

  Mair Hopkins shrugged. “I’ve no idea. She’s usually gone by four, but it was after six last night.”

  Sergeant Watkins appeared from the house. “They’re still working away in there. I don’t imagine they’ll be done for a while. Why don’t we go up and talk to Mrs. Llewellyn?”

  Evan accompanied him up the street, away from the chattering group of villagers. The last of the houses were left behind and only the giant gingerbread shape of the Everest Inn blocked the clear view of the pass and Mount Snowdon’s peak beyond.

  “Any conclusive evidence turned up yet?” Evan asked.

  Watkins glanced back to make sure they were far enough away from eavesdropping ears. “One thing’s interesting. There are no prints at all on the fender knob. It was wiped clean, then the killer smeared traces of blood and hair on it with something like a handkerchief.”

  “Either it was well planned out or we’ve got a killer who thinks on his feet,” Evan said.

  “Or her feet.”

  “You reckon a woman could have been strong enough to kill Ifor?” Evan asked. “He was a big bloke. He told me once that when his wife hit him, it was like a fly landing on him.”

  “His wife hit him, did she?” Watkins looked interested.

  “And threw plates at him, I understand. But he treated the whole thing as a joke.”

  “Not much of a joke now,” Watkins said. “I’m looking forward to talking to Mrs. Llewellyn. Her weak and helpless act last night doesn’t seem to me like a woman who throws plates and hits her husband. Did he hit her, too, do you reckon?”

  “I didn’t see any evidence of it, but she kept herself to herself while she was here. We hardly ever saw her and Gladys said she often stayed in bed. I must remember to ask Gladys if she ever saw signs of Mrs. L. being knocked around.”

  “That would give us a good motive, wouldn’t it?” Watkins said thoughtfully. “Abused spouse snaps and kills him. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Another thing you should know first, Sarge,” Evan said. “She told me that the reason for her trip to London was to see her lawyer about a possible divorce.”

  Watkins’s eyebrows shot up. “She was divorcing him?” Then he shook his head. “But that wouldn’t help us at all. If she was getting rid of him legally, she wouldn’t have needed to kill him. It would have made more sense if he’d killed her.”

  “She told me Ifor was shocked and took it very hard. That’s why she suspected he might have taken his own life. She said he’d probably end up by talking her out of it. He usually got his
own way in the end. Maybe she was scared she wouldn’t be strong enough to go through with it.”

  “Fascinating,” Watkins said. “At least we’ve got someone with a motive. Let’s hear what she has to say now.”

  Chapter 12

  “It’s like a posh mausoleum, isn’t it?” Sergeant Watkins murmured to Evan as they stepped into the foyer of the Everest Inn. Leather sofas and armchairs were dotted around on a floor made of polished slate. A floor-to-ceiling river-rock fireplace took up most of one wall. There was no fire in the fireplace at this time of year and the whole area was deserted apart from the girl at the reception desk. Their feet clattered, unnaturally loud, on the slate floor, causing the girl to look in their direction.

  “Welcome to the Everest Inn. May I help you?” she asked in an attempt at an upper-class English accent with definite Welsh undertones.

  “Watkins held up a warrant card. “Sergeant Watkins. North Wales Police here to see Mrs. Llewellyn,” he said.

  The girl looked flustered and reverted to Welsh. “Police? Oh dear. Maybe I should get Major Anderson?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Evan said. “We only want a little chat with Mrs. Llewellyn. What’s her room number, please?”

  “I think she just left,” the girl stammered. “Yes, see, here’s her key hanging up.”

  “Left? How long ago?” Watkins gave Evan an anxious glance. They were both imagining what D.I. Hughes might say if they’d lost an important witness, if not a prime suspect.

  “Only a few minutes,” she said. “I’m surprised you didn’t pass her.”

  Watkins was one pace behind Evan as they fought their way through the revolving door again.

  “Where can she have got to?” Watkins demanded. “She can’t have gone on up the road to the top of the pass. There’s nothing there.”

  Evan was scanning the scene. “She could have taken the back way,” he said. “There’s a footpath that goes behind the Powell-Joneses’ property.” He broke into a run. Watkins followed, breathing heavily after a few steps.

  There was a gap in the drystone wall around the parking lot and as they approached it, they could see a figure moving between the larch trees that had been planted to shelter the inn. Evan quickened his pace, taking the rocky path in sure strides. Watkins followed, running more cautiously.

  “Bloody ’ell,” he muttered. “You need to be a mountain goat up here.”

  “Mrs. Llewellyn!” Evan called. “Hold on a minute.”

  The hurrying figure stopped, looked around and hesitated—almost as if she was trying to assess whether to make a run for it, Evan thought.

  “Oh, it’s you, Constable,” she said. Her face was composed and she was smiling graciously as he reached her. “I thought for a moment it was those horrible people again.”

  “Horrible people?”

  “That minister and his awful wife. There is nothing I wanted less this morning than spiritual comfort from them, especially her. She more or less told me that my husband’s death was judgment from heaven for his sinful ways. I had the greatest desire to hit her.”

  Evan nodded. “That reaction is not uncommon with Mrs. Powell-Jones,” he said and got an answering smile. “So where were you off to?”

  “I was just on my way to get my car and go to pick up my son. He called first thing this morning. He’s managed to get a flight into Manchester. I said I’d pick him up so that he didn’t have to go to the trouble of renting a car.”

  Sergeant Watkins caught up, red faced and breathing heavily.

  “Mrs. Llewellyn was going to meet her son, Sergeant,” Evan said. “He’s flying into Manchester.”

  “If you could just spare us a few minutes first,” Sergeant Watkins managed to say. “We’ve got a few routine questions to ask you.”

  “Couldn’t they wait until I get back?” She barely masked her annoyance.

  “I’d prefer to get them over with,” Watkins said. “We need to check on all the facts in this case, including your trip to London.”

  “My trip to London—what on earth does that have to do with Ifor falling?”

  Either she was in the clear or she was a good actress, Evan thought. The surprise sounded genuine enough.

  “Mrs. Llewellyn, you know what the press will be like when they get hold of this story, don’t you?” Evan said before Watkins could come up with an answer. “They’re bound to want to know where you were when it happened.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. They do love digging up scandal where Ifor’s concerned.”

  “Shall we go back to the hotel to talk?” Watkins asked.

  “Can’t we talk as we walk?” she asked. “I’d imagine this footpath is about as private as you can get and I don’t want to keep Justin waiting at the airport.”

  “Alright. You went to London. For how long?”

  “Let’s see. I left on Tuesday, came back on Friday night.”

  “Train or car?”

  “Train. I won’t drive in London. It’s a madhouse.”

  “So you’ve still got the ticket stubs?”

  “Of course. I caught the nine-twenty down on Tuesday and I arrived in Bangor last night on the seven-thirty train that left Paddington at two.”

  “And the purpose of your visit was what?” Watkins asked genially.

  She shot a quick glance at Evan. “I explained it to the constable last night. I went down to consult my solicitor. I was thinking of getting a divorce.”

  Watkins had opened his notebook and was scribbling away. “Solicitor’s name and address please?”

  “Oh really, this is too much,” she snapped. “Why am I being treated as a criminal? Can I help it if my husband falls down in an alcoholic stupor when I’m away?”

  “Solicitor’s name, please?” Watkins said passively.

  “Dutton, Faber and Dutton. Queen Anne Street.”

  “And what did Messrs. Dutton, Faber and Dutton advise?”

  “They talked me through the steps I’d need to take to file for divorce. It’s rather more complicated because our principal residence is in Milan.”

  “At least you won’t have to go through that anymore.” Evan was intending to say something kind. He realized as he said it that it sounded all wrong and she gave him an annoyed glance.

  “My husband might have made me very angry at times and driven me crazy often, Constable, but believe me, I would never have wished him dead.”

  “Did he ever hit you, Mrs. Llewellyn?” Watkins asked.

  Another look of genuine surprise. “Who on earth told you that? Ifor was a big old softy. He used to cry at Bambi and Dumbo. The only person I ever remember him hitting was a paparazzi photographer who was following our daughter too closely. Ifor was very protective of our daughter, even though she can take care of herself quite nicely.”

  “Your daughter’s not coming over with your son, then?” Watkins asked.

  “She’ll be over for the funeral, which we can’t arrange until you people release Ifor’s body to us. Naturally she is very upset by all this, poor child. And this is a bad time for her—she has a lot of pressure at work right now. She’s in the fashion industry, you know. Her father didn’t approve at all. There was only one career as far as he was concerned and that was music. He wanted her to be the world’s greatest soprano. He fantasized about them singing duets someday. But that was Ifor—always the dreamer.” She sighed heavily.

  “And your son—does he have a musical career?” Watkins asked.

  “Hardly.” She looked amused. “Justin is completely unmusical,” she said. “He claims to be tone-deaf, but I think he just pretends to annoy his father.”

  “So he and his father didn’t get along?” Evan asked.

  “They—didn’t see eye to eye about a lot of things. Justin was a very sensitive child and Ifor has—had—a way of devouring those weaker than him. Take poor Mostyn Phillips—he always loved to tease Mostyn. Mostyn took everything so seriously and Ifor hardly took a thing s
eriously in his life.”

  “We were talking about your son, Mrs. Llewellyn,” Evan reminded her. “Had he and his father quarreled?”

  She stopped walking and eyed the two policemen steadily. “Just what are you getting at, Constable? Is there something you haven’t told me about my husband’s death?”

  “We won’t know that until the lab work’s complete, madam,” Sergeant Watkins answered for Evan. “For the present we are piecing together the details of an accident.”

  “In answer to your question, Constable,” Mrs. Llewellyn said, starting to walk on again ahead of them, “my husband and son agreed to disagree. They led separate lives. My son has his own life. His own circle of friends, in Italy.”

  “I see.” Sergeant Watkins nodded. “Well, we’ll be able to ask him ourselves when you bring him back from the airport, won’t we?”

  “I’ll be free to take my car then?”

  They had reached the back of the Powell-Jones house. There was a gap in the tall yew hedge that led to the back lawn. Mrs. Llewellyn stepped through ahead of the two men.

  “I’ll have to check with Forensic,” Watkins said, “but I can’t imagine they’d have any interest in the car, seeing that it wasn’t used last night.”

  “Mrs. Llewellyn.” Evan hurried to catch up with her. “Had your husband ever had any dealings with the Mafia?”

  This time she laughed out loud. “You’ve been reading too many tabloids, Constable. Ifor and the Mafia? What on earth for?”

  “Someone came here last week and threatened him. I overheard part of it. The man had a foreign accent. He drove a foreign car and your husband yelled after him, ‘I’m not afraid of your threats.’ Any idea what that might have meant?”

  She stopped in her tracks, on the middle of the Powell-Joneses’ back lawn. “Last week, you say?” Then she shook her head. “I’ve no idea. It certainly wasn’t when I was in the house.”

  “So you can’t think of anybody who has threatened your husband or wanted him dead?”

  She laughed again, a short brittle laugh. “Hundreds of people, Constable. Ifor had a great talent for making enemies. I should imagine that half the husbands and boyfriends of Europe wanted him dead.” Then the smile faded. “You do think it wasn’t an accident, don’t you?” she said in a low voice.