Constable Evans 03: Evanly Choirs

by Rhys Bowen

  “Maybe we’ll know more by the time you get back with your son,” Sergeant Watkins answered. “And please come straight back here. I expect my D.I. will want to talk to both of you.”

  “I’m not likely to leave until I can take my husband’s body for burial,” she said coldly.

  She stood, tapping her foot impatiently, while Sergeant Watkins disappeared into the house. He returned almost immediately and nodded. “They see no reason that you can’t take the car, but they’d like you to step inside first and take a look around the living room. It should only take you a moment.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn made a visible effort to compose herself. “Very well. If you insist,” she said. “my husband’s body is not there any longer, I understand. I expect I can handle bloodstains.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Llewellyn,” Evan said. He escorted her down the driveway and in through the front door.

  The smell of stale alcohol faintly lingered. The smell of death had gone, to be replaced with the chemical odors that accompanied the lab team. Mrs. Llewellyn stood in the front hall and waited for Sergeant Watkins to go ahead.

  “What we’d like you to do, Mrs. Llewellyn, is to look around the room and see if anything is missing, or anything has been moved from its usual place. It should only take you a moment and then you can be on your way.”

  “Very well.” She took a deep breath and was about to walk into the room when Evan pointed to the black shoe, still lying in the front hall. “By the way, Mrs. Llewellyn,” he said. “Any idea what this shoe’s doing here?”

  “It’s mine,” she said. “I hate wearing heels. I always kick them off the moment I get through the door. I expect you’ll find the other one somewhere around. Now, if you’ll lead on, Sergeant.”

  Evan stood in the hallway, watching her with interest. Was it really her shoe? She had admitted ownership so quickly but he didn’t think that littering the front hall with discarded shoes went along with her character. He thought of the spotless kitchen. Gladys wasn’t the sort of housekeeper who would leave shoes lying around for several days. He was pretty sure of that, too. He’d have to ask her when she came back.

  He followed Mrs. Llewellyn into the room, where two police technicians in white coats looked up and nodded a greeting. “Just take a look around, please,” one of them said. “Let us know if you notice anything that has been moved, or is missing or shouldn’t be here.”

  Mrs. Llewellyn cast a quick gaze over the surfaces. Evan thought she paused momentarily at the top of the heavy carved sideboard, decorated with a fruit bowl, two candlesticks, and several lesser ornaments, before she said, “No, everything looks the same as far as I can see.” Her gaze went down to the floor where the patch of brown stained the red carpet. “Is that … where he was?”

  “That’s right,” Sergeant Watkins said. “It appears that he hit his head on the fender.”

  “What a ridiculous object it is,” she said angrily. “Completely useless and ugly, too, like most things in this house. Ifor used to have to polish it when he was a child. Strange that it should have been the end of him.” Suddenly she shivered. “Is that all?” she asked.

  “For now, yes. We might need you to go through the rest of the house more thoroughly later, when these boys have finished,” Sergeant Watkins said. “But we won’t detain you any longer at the present.”

  Evan went over to the mantlepiece and picked up a silver-framed photo. It was the sort of snapshot that might be in any home—two parents, two children sitting together in a motorboat, hair blowing out in the wind, squinting in the fierce sunlight and hamming for the camera. “Your family?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Taken some years ago now, of course, but it reminds me of a very happy summer we spent together.”

  As she left the room Evan picked up the photo. “You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you?” he asked the nearest lab technician. “We might need to show her picture around.”

  “Go ahead,” the man said. “That certainly wasn’t what killed him.” Evan put the photo into his jacket pocket and hurried after Watkins.

  “You’ll be gone a couple of hours, I’d imagine,” Watkins said as he opened the car door for Mrs. Llewellyn. “You’ll probably find that they’re finished with your house by then, although I think we’d prefer that you stay another night at the inn.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said with a shudder. “Nothing would induce me to sleep in that house again. I never liked it from the start, creepy place. Why Ifor had fond memories of it, I’ll never know.”

  “Excuse me, Constable Evans.” Evan spun around at the tap on his back.

  “Oh Gladys. What can I do for you?” he asked as the diminutive person stood there, clutching her shopping basket. “Run out of tea, have you?”

  “No, the tea was very nice, thank you,” Gladys said, bobbing her head like a bird. Suddenly she noticed Mrs. Llewellyn. “Oh, good morning, madam. I didn’t see you there. I was very sorry to hear about your husband. God rest his soul, poor man. If there’s anything I can do for you…”

  “Thank you, Gladys. You’re very kind.”

  “I made you a lovely shepherd’s pie last night,” Gladys said with a hint of accusation. “I expect it’s all spoiled now, sitting there in the kitchen. Oh well. Can’t be helped. The thought was there.”

  “So what did you want, Gladys?” Evan asked again.

  “How much longer do you think I’ll be hanging around here, Constable Evans?” she asked. “Because my bus goes soon and I’d like to get my shopping done before the shops shut at one. If I don’t catch this bus, the next one gets me down to Caernarfon too late.”

  Evan looked at Watkins.

  “Why don’t you go on down and do your shopping, love,” Watkins said to her. “Constable Evans has got your address, hasn’t he? We’ll send a car to get you when we’re ready for you to take a look at the house.”

  “Send a car for me?” Gladys’s face flushed with pleased embarrassment. “That sounds very nice, thank you. Only I’ll have to explain to the neighbors first. I wouldn’t want them to think I was being carted off in a police car.”

  “I’m driving down,” Mrs. Llewellyn said. “Why don’t I give you a lift, Gladys?”

  “Thank you, madam. That’s most kind of you.” Gladys beamed. She was clearly imagining the neighbors’ faces when she arrived home in a big black Mercedes.

  “Well, come along. Let’s get going then,” Mrs. Llewellyn said. “I’d like to be there at the gate when his plane gets in.”

  Gladys hopped into the car and sat erect and haughty as Mrs. Llewellyn drove away.

  “Well at least that’s made somebody’s day,” Watkins said with a smile. Then the smile faded. “Don’t look now, but we’ve got company,” he said. The first of the press cars was pulling up outside. “Amazing how news travels, isn’t it?” he muttered to Evan. “Now just as long as we can keep them thinking it was only an accident, we’ll give ourselves breathing room. I need to have someone check out Mrs. Llewellyn’s London jaunt right away … and what was all that about the Mafia back there?”

  Evan related the shouting match he had overheard. Watkins nodded. “Interesting, but don’t think it’s going to be easy to track the bloke down. That’s one of the problems with the bloody EEC—everyone comes and goes as they please without having to show their passport. We’ve no way of knowing what bloody Italians are here, have we? Do they still keep records of car license plates on the cross-Channel ships?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Evan said.

  “I’ll put in a call to the Yard. They know that sort of stuff. Oh, and I should ask the D.I. to get in touch with the Italian police, too. They’d probably know if Ifor Llewellyn had been involved with the Mafia in Italy.” He looked up from his notebook and grinned. “This is going to make the D.I.’s day—talking to the media and chatting with the Italian police about possible Mafia connections—he’ll be giving himself ideas that he’s somebody important.”

  Chapter 13 />
  By midmorning, crowd control had become a necessity and even Jim Abbott was having to work hard. Several TV vans with crews trailed cables across the Powell-Jones driveway. Humbler journalists got out of cars almost as old as Mostyn’s, and the foreign media had arrived, talking noisily into mikes with a lot of arm waving.

  Evan stood in the street, directing traffic while the other two policemen fielded questions and kept inquisitive journalists away from the house. The inhabitants of Llanfair hung around, hoping to be interviewed for the telly or the front page of a London daily. Evan listened to several exaggerated accounts of how the speaker and Ifor had been best mates and shared pints in the pub.

  “I’ve called Austin Mostyn,” Evans-the-Meat announced as he wormed his way back into the crowd. “I’ve told him how we feel about honoring Ifor’s memory so he’s agreed that we should sing tonight. But he says please excuse him if he doesn’t come up to the village today. It’s too upsetting for him.”

  “I can understand that, seeing that he found the body and all,” Charlie Hopkins agreed.

  “Poor man. What a shock for him. His best friend, too,” Mair added.

  Reporters from the international press stood, perplexed and frowning, as the conversation went on around them in Welsh.

  “Could you translate for us, Constable?” an elegant young man from the Daily Express asked Evan. “We’re rather at a loss here, you know. It’s very inconsiderate of people to speak Welsh when they know we don’t understand it.”

  “Why shouldn’t we speak Welsh?” Evans-the-Meat demanded in English. “It’s our language, isn’t it—and the finest, oldest language in Europe, too. If I had my way every schoolchild in England would learn Welsh instead of French or Latin.”

  He frowned as he saw the smile on the Daily Express’s face. “If you care to ask us a question in English, we’ll be happy to answer it,” he said. “We are perfectly bilingual, you know, which is more than any of you so-called educated types are.”

  Evan noticed that Harry-the-Pub had now disappeared, obviously opening early today with the hope of doing a good trade. Journalists were known for putting away the beer. As he turned to look at the pub he saw Betsy come running out, her tiny lace apron flapping in the breeze, her arms waving distraughtly.

  “Tell me it’s not true!” she yelled as she ran up the street. Her face was tear stained. Her mascara was running. She was not looking her best.

  “They said he’s dead,” she gasped as she neared Evan. “I was sleeping in late because it’s Saturday. I’ve only just heard. Please tell me it’s not true!”

  “I’m afraid it is, love,” Evan said.

  “Oh, no. Not him. He was so alive, so sexy,” Betsy wailed and flung herself into Evan’s arms. “Hold me, Evan. Hold me tight,” she gasped. Evan stood there, feeling embarrassed and awkward, conscious of all those eyes on him and realizing that these outsiders hadn’t understood a word of Betsy’s outburst in Welsh.

  “I’m sorry, Betsy love.” Evan patted her hair. “It’s been a shock for all of us.”

  “And I could have gone to the opera with him,” she sobbed. Then she raised her head from his chest and gazed up hopefully. “Still, at least I’ve got you, haven’t I, Evan bach? You and I will have a grand old time on our date and who knows…”

  Evan had just been considering this ramification—with Ifor dead, would that let him out of his obligation of a date with Betsy? “I think we should put off talking about dates for a while, don’t you, Betsy,” he said. “Now that Ifor’s gone and—”

  She read his thoughts. “Hold on a minute, Evan Evans. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t want to go on a date with me anymore?” Her large blue eyes opened even wider. The resemblance to a Barbie doll was remarkable. “You don’t want to go on a date with me!” she cried. “You just asked me to stop me from going with Ifor. You don’t really like me after all!” Tears began to cascade down her cheeks. The journalists had moved closer. Some were even holding microphones in their direction, in case Betsy turned out to be one of Ifor’s bereaved girlfriends.

  “Betsy, this isn’t a good time to talk,” Evan said, putting his hands firmly on her shoulders. “You’re upset. Everyone’s upset. I’m supposed to be doing my job, controlling the crowd. Now please, be a good girl and let me get on. Traffic’s backing up, look you.”

  “You really don’t care, do you?”

  “Of course I care,” Evan said. “Why do you think I wanted to stop you from going down to Cardiff with Ifor if I didn’t care?”

  “You mean it?” A hopeful smile spread across her face. “Oh Evan. That’s wonderful just.” She flung herself into his arms again, reached up, and gave him a noisy kiss on his cheek before running back to the pub.

  Evan gave an embarrassed grin to the watching crowd. Then the smile froze on his face. Bronwen was standing only a few feet away, watching him.

  “I was comforting her,” he said, as Betsy disappeared into the Red Dragon.

  “So I see.”

  “She was upset about Ifor’s death, poor kid. I just happened to be the nearest person…”

  Bronwen nodded. “Of course.” She smoothed down her full skirt that was blowing out in the wind. “Well, I’m on my way down to Harlech to the eisteddfod. I promised the children and it’s a good idea to get them away from all this.” She started to walk away.

  “I might see you there,” Evan called after her.

  She looked back, surprised. “You’re not going to be singing, after what happened, are you?”

  “I thought we should bow out, personally, but some of the men think that Ifor would have wanted it. I don’t think Mostyn’s too keen either, but he said he’d meet us there if we wanted to go ahead. Not that we’ve any chance of getting a medal now.”

  “I might come and hear you,” Bronwen said, “if I haven’t anything better to do.” It was delivered like a slap in the face. Evan forced himself to go back to his traffic directing. Women, he thought. Life was complicated enough without having women to complicate it even further!

  Sergeant Watkins came out of the house again. “It looks as if they’re almost done in there,” he said to Evan, drawing him aside from the crowd.

  “Have they found anything interesting?”

  “Could be,” the sergeant muttered. “They’ve established one thing. He was definitely dragged to the position we found him. Traces of blood all across the carpet. But no sign of a murder weapon. Any idea where the Powell-Jones woman got to? It wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her have a look at the crime scene. She’d know if anything was missing.”

  “I could go and find her for you, but I’m stuck here directing traffic,” Evan said.

  “I’ve got reinforcements coming up any moment now,” Watkins said. “Then we can take their car. The D.I. is putting all his energy into tracking down our Mafia visitor. So that will keep him nicely out of our hair. He wants me to check out Mrs. L.’s London trip. Do you want to help?”

  “You’re driving up to London?”

  “No such luck,” Watkins said. “The Met police are going to be making calls for us to the solicitor and to the hotel where she said she stayed. I’ve just got to check on trains. See if anyone noticed her last night. Anyone can buy a ticket and not use it, can’t they?”

  A few minutes later Evan and Watkins successfully negotiated the crush of reporters and drove away in the newly arrived police car.

  “I rather wish we’d put a tail on the wife now,” Watkins said. “We’ve only got her word that she’s going to Manchester airport, haven’t we? I don’t know what I’d say to the D.I. if she did a bunk on us. Realizing that you can cross the Channel without showing a passport has made me nervous.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much, Sarge,” Evan said. “She’s driving a pretty distinctive car, isn’t she? And why would she need to run, if her alibi holds up?”

  Watkins drew out a clean white handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “I hope so,” he said. “Why d
idn’t I think? We could have sent a squad car to get the son. I suppose it’s because I’m not used to crimes this important. It’s not too often that world-famous opera singers are killed in Llanfair, is it?”

  “You could always get on the phone to HQ and have them alert the airlines at Manchester—just in case she changed her mind and decided to fly out.”

  “Good thinking,” Watkins said. “I don’t know why you don’t apply for transfer to detective training. You’re a natural for it—as well as born bloody lucky.”

  “I think about it sometimes,” Evan said, “but I had my fill of excitement and violence, when I was on the force down in Swansea.”

  “Saw too much, did you?” Watkins nodded with understanding. “I know. It gets to me like that sometimes. When a little kid turns up murdered or an old lady has her head bashed in for her pension book—then I ask myself why I’m doing it.”

  “I saw my dad gunned down,” Evan said.

  Watkins looked at him. “I heard something about that,” he said.

  Evan stared straight ahead. “I don’t think I’ll ever get that sight out of my mind. At least life makes sense in Llanfair—most of the time, anyway.”

  “So who do you think could have done it?” Watkins wisely changed the subject. “Coshed Ifor Llewellyn, I mean.”

  Evan frowned. “As Mrs. Llewellyn said, he must have had a lot of enemies. It doesn’t seem to me that it was a Mafia type of killing. From what I’ve read they’re always neater—bullet to the back of the head. Coshing is too risky. Sometimes the person lives.”

  “What about the wife?”

  “Why would she have needed to kill him, if she was going to divorce him?” Evan asked. “A divorce gets her free of him and a fat alimony check to go with it. Besides, do you really think she’d have had the strength to do that kind of damage?”

  “You’re right. It’s a tough one, isn’t it? I’ll be interested to hear what the son has to say. I get the feeling there was plenty of hostility between him and his father.”