by Rhys Bowen
This is to advise you that our partner, Signor Angelo Rossi, will be coming in person to obtain your personal assurance that you will respect our client’s wishes.
“You think this could explained the Mafia type who threatened him?” Watkins asked.
Evan nodded. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? That was obviously the representative they sent over.”
Watkins folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. “I can’t wait to show this to the D.I. He’s got half the police in Europe running around trying to locate a possible Mafia hit man and all the time the explanation was lying under his nose.”
“It doesn’t seem that this has anything to do with Ifor’s death,” Evan said. “They could get what they wanted out of Ifor legally—and make money doing it.”
“Unless the signorina got desperate when he sent her bloke packing,” Watkins said thoughtfully. “You said yourself that Ifor wasn’t scared of any threats. Maybe she decided to take stronger measures and the next messenger she sent was a hit man.”
“It’s possible,” Evan said, “but a hit man wouldn’t kill so messily, would he?”
“Unless something went wrong. Ifor was a big bloke.”
Evan paused then shook his head. “No, I still think the answer lies with the family. They’re covering up for each other somehow. Did you find anything in Mrs. Llewellyn’s room?”
“Not a thing,” Watkins said. “Come and look. It’s like a hotel room—nothing personal about it. No photos, no letters, nothing.”
“Maybe she took the important stuff up to the Everest Inn with her,” Evan suggested. “She went upstairs alone to phone her children, didn’t she? And then she packed a bag.”
“So anything incriminating might be in her room at the Everest Inn?” Watkins asked. He gave Evan a meaningful glance. “You know the manager there pretty well, don’t you? Major something or other?”
“You want me to ask him to let us into Mrs. L.’s hotel room?” Evan asked dubiously.
“We have a search warrant for her personal possessions, don’t we?” Watkins demanded.
“For this house,” Evan said.
“Hotel staff come in and out of rooms all the time,” Watkins said. “I agree that we probably can’t use what we find in a court of law, but it would be nice to know if our hunches are going in the right direction, wouldn’t it? After all, something made her come forward and confess.”
“I don’t think we’re going to find a letter saying, ‘I’m about to kill Daddy,’” Evan said dryly, “and we both agree that she’s a clever woman. If she had incriminating evidence, she’d have destroyed it before she turned herself in.”
Watkins nodded. “Probably true. All the same, it’s amazing what women keep—old love letters from her boyfriend, letters from her kids. We might just turn up something.”
“Alright. We can give it a try,” Evan said, “but let’s finish off here first.”
Mrs. Llewellyn’s room was neat and colorless, with no hint of the person who was currently inhabiting it. The artwork on the walls was definitely Powell-Jones’s choice—a large stag standing over a Scottish glen, a framed picture of the slate quarry workers dated 1921, and a cloying portrayal of Jesus, surrounded by adorable children. Evan glanced around the room.
“I can tell you one thing,” he said. “That shoe in the front hall never belonged to her. She has nothing with heels that high.”
“Then why admit to it?” Watkins asked.
“Because she suspected that it might have belonged to someone else?”
“The daughter, you mean?”
“The lab techs did find a black hair, didn’t they? And the little girl in the family picture has black hair.”
“But the daughter adored her father. Her mother said so over and over again.”
“She made a point of doing so,” Evan agreed. “Oh well, no use speculating, is it? Let’s give the rest of the house a quick search while we’ve got time.”
Another half hour turned up nothing extraordinary, and nothing that looked like a possible murder weapon. They came out of the house into a blustery day. The early mist had now turned to a sharp driving rain.
Watkins turned up his coat collar. “I love summer, don’t you?” he said.
“It’s a pity it will spoil the last day of the eisteddfod,” Evan said.
“You’re not going to be singing today, are you?”
“No, thank God. Although I didn’t think we sounded too bad without Ifor. Austin Mostyn had quite a nice voice. Not very big, but not bad at all. We might have been back for the finals today if he hadn’t stopped singing.”
“Understandable enough,” Watkins said. “He’d just lost his friend, hadn’t he?” Suddenly he froze. “What on earth is that?” he demanded.
Evan was also listening to the great burst of sound. Then he realized that it was Sunday morning and the windows of Chapel Bethel across the street were wide open, in spite of the rain. A smile spread across his face. “Oh, that must be the Reverend Parry Davies, giving his sermon. He’s obviously getting his voice ready for the eisteddfod this evening. He’s entering the bard’s competition, you know.”
“And so I say unto you—you cannot love the Lord until you know the Lord. Which of you here can truthfully say that he knows the Lord?”
Without warning another voice rang out. “And it says in the Bible the wages of sin is death! I am like John the Baptist—a voice crying in the wilderness saying Repent! Repent!”
This voice was booming from Chapel Beulah, which also, unaccountably, had all its windows open today in spite of the rain. The Reverend Powell-Jones was also getting his voice ready for the bard’s competition. The whole street echoed. The voices drowned out the patter of falling rain, the hiss and sigh of the wind. The sound bounced back from unseen hillsides above and made startled sheep look up from their grazing.
“Bloody ’ell,” Watkins said, turning up his coat collar even more. “Do you have to go through this every Sunday up here?”
“Only when both pastors want to win the same competition,” Evan said. Even as he spoke windows were slammed shut on both sides of the street. The first round of the current battle was declared a draw.
* * *
“I wonder what the son’s doing while his mother’s being held for questioning?” Watkins asked as they approached the looming shape of the Everest Inn. “He made a big fuss about our bullying her yesterday but he didn’t show up to protect her at the station, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Evan said. “There was no sign of him this morning.”
“He’s an arrogant bastard, isn’t he?”
“Or just young and scared,” Evan said thoughtfully. “He’s obviously got something to hide. We know he wasn’t quite honest with us before. I saw him here a month ago. I’d swear it was him and yet he denied ever being here before.”
“Now all we need is someone who saw him here a couple of days ago,” Watkins said. “I’d like to have a little talk with Justin Llewellyn, while we’re in the neighborhood … but I think the D.I. and the mother’s solicitor would probably both want to be there.”
“If we had a good reason, we could drop in for a friendly chat,” Evan said.
“So come up with a good reason,” Watkins said.
“Don’t look at me. I’m already in big trouble if the D.I. finds I helped search Mrs. L.’s room!”
“Pity. I’d just love to hear how Master Justin explains away his last visit here.”
“Me, too,” Evan agreed.
A doorman opened the heavy oak-and-glass doors of the inn. Again the vast foyer was almost deserted. Everest Inn guests didn’t hang around much during the day.
“We can try just asking for the key,” Watkins said. “If the girl at the desk won’t give it to us, then you go and find your friendly major.”
As they approached the reservation desk the girl looked up and recognized them.
“Excuse me,” she began before they could sa
y anything. “Could I have a word with you?”
She beckoned them closer to the desk, even though the foyer was deserted. “Aren’t you the policeman from the village?” She gave Evan a shy half smile. “I thought so. I recognized you when you came to get Mrs. Llewellyn this morning.”
“This is Detective Sergeant Watkins,” Evan said. “We’d like to get some things from Mrs. Llewellyn’s room.”
The girl glanced around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you something first. I said I’d do it for Olwen. She’s the room maid up on the third floor. She told me about it the other day and then when she heard that Mr. Llewellyn had been killed—well, she said that proved it, didn’t it? And somebody better do something about it, as long as it wasn’t her.”
“I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, love,” Evan said.
She leaned closer. “It’s about the man in number three twenty-one. He’s been there all week and Olwen says he never leaves his room—just looks out of his window all day. Olwen says he’s really creepy, and she thinks he’s got a telescopic rifle—you know, one of those things that can shoot awful long distances. Olwen was wondering whether we should tell the major, but we didn’t want to get in trouble.”
Watkins glanced at Evan, then turned back to the girl. “What name is he registered under?”
She glanced down. “Forrester. Robert Forester.”
“Three twenty-one, did you say?”
The girl nodded. Watkins and Evan ran to the lift, then turned impatiently and took the stairs two at a time. Watkins knocked briskly on the room door and was answered with a curt, “If that’s the girl come to clean the room, go away, I’m busy.”
“North Wales Police, sir,” Watkins called through the door. “Open up right away.”
The door was opened by a serious-looking young man with round owlish glasses and prominent teeth.
“Yes? What do you want?” he demanded in a flat Midlands accent.
“Detective Sergeant Watkins and Constable Evans, sir. We’ve received a complaint about this room,” Watkins said.
“You mean because I won’t let the maid come in and clean when I’m working?”
“Exactly what kind of work are you doing, sir?” Watkins asked. Several aluminum boxes were piled on and around the table by the window. A tripod was set up at the window itself and on it was something with a long barrel.
“That’s pretty obvious,” the man said scornfully. “I’m a photographer. This is one of my cameras.”
“Your window doesn’t face the mountains,” Evan said. “Exactly what sort of pictures are you taking from here?”
The man was about to tell them to mind their own business, Evan could tell. “You’ve probably heard,” he cut in, “there has been a murder in the village. Anyone with a camera trained on the house in question would naturally be a suspect.”
The young man’s face flushed. “If you must know, I work for a French magazine. They sent me over here to keep an eye on Llewellyn’s house and see if anything interesting was gooing on—you know, Welsh love nest for famous tenor and his latest flame!” He reached into his pocket and handed them a card. “Robert C. Forester. Paris Match.”
“So you’ve been watching the house for a few days now, Mr. Forester?” Watkins could hardly control the excitement in his voice. “And have you seen anything worth reporting?”
“Not a thing. Dull as ditchwater.” The young man sighed. “I thought things might liven up when the wife went away on Tuesday, but nary a sexy chick in sight. I would have packed up and left if this new story hadn’t developed.”
“So you saw everyone who went in and out this week?” Evan asked.
“I don’t watch twenty-four hours of the day. I pop down to get a bite to eat or out to get some cigarettes from time to time. But most of the time I’m here, especially evenings.”
“What about Friday evening? Did you see anyone then?”
“I saw a little red Mini arriving—you were in it, weren’t you?” Forester turned to Evan.
“That’s right. About eight-fifteen, that would have been.”
James Forester nodded. “And then a whole lot of policemen. That’s when I got on the phone and got a full crew out here.”
“But before I arrived,” Evan said, “say around seven o’clock, seven-thirty?”
The photographer shook his head. “Nobody. Not a soul at that time. I popped out for a pack of ciggies around six…”
“No, that would have been too early. Mr. Llewellyn was still alive well after six.”
“I was back and watching by six forty-five at the latest,” James Forester said. “It was all quiet on the western front after that.”
“What about earlier this week?” Watkins asked. “Did you see anyone unusual going in or out?”
“I’ve got all the pictures, if you want to look,” Forester said. “I develop them right here in the bathroom. The maid doesn’t like it because I won’t let her in to clean.”
He opened a drawer and brought out several pages of contact sheets. “Here’s everyone who has visited the house since I started shooting last weekend.”
Watkins carried the sheets over to the window. Evan joined him. “There’s Gladys,” Evan said. “And that’s Evans-the-Post, and Evans-the-Milk, and there’s Evans-the-Meat.”
“They led a bloody exciting life, didn’t they?” Watkins commented. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Mostyn Phillips.” Evan peered closely at the picture of the little man, stalking up the front path with a worried, but determined, expression on his face. “He went to talk to Ifor a couple of times last week.”
“That’s right,” Forester said. “I got him here and again here. Poncey little bloke, wasn’t he? Always wore a bow tie!”
“Was there anyone unusual at all—anyone who didn’t go right up to the front door with groceries or milk?”
“There was one young chap, but it was back on Wednesday, I think, and quite early in the day, too. Yes, that’s the right sheet. That one there. See the one in the dark trousers?”
“I certainly do,” Evan said. “That’s Justin Llewellyn!”
Chapter 19
“I think this constitutes a good reason to bust in on Justin Llewellyn, don’t you, Sarge?” Evan asked excitedly.
“It bloody well does,” Watkins agreed. “Let’s hear how young Justin wriggles his way out of this one.”
He turned to James Forester. “I’m going to need these photos for a while, if you don’t mind. Maybe we should take the whole lot along, just in case.”
“Be my guest,” Forester said. “They’re worth bugger all to me, unless I happen to have snapped the murderer. Just give me an advance tip if you’re going to arrest somebody, will you? I have to earn my keep somehow.”
He escorted them to the door.
“Pick up the house phone and find which is Justin Llewellyn’s room,” Watkins said impatiently. “I’m going to enjoy this, lying supercilious little snot.”
“Take it easy, Sarge. We don’t want him to think that we suspect him. Just let him tell his version and then we’ll point out to him where he strayed from the truth.”
Watkins nodded.
Justin Llewellyn looked as if he had just woken up. His hair was still tousled and he was wearing silk pajama bottoms with a matching silk robe over them.
“What now?” he asked, rolling his eyes with exaggerated boredom.
“May we come in for a moment, sir?” Watkins asked. “We have a few questions we want to ask you.”
“If it will finally satisfy you that I had nothing to do with my father’s death, then I suppose so.” He opened the door wide for them.
“Have you seen your mother this morning, Mr. Llewellyn?” Evan asked as Justin indicated the two chairs, then flopped onto the bed.
“As you can see, Officer, I’ve just woken up. I was planning to join her for breakfast…” He faltered as he picked up something in Evan’s expression. “What? N
othing’s happened to her, has it?”
“She called headquarters very early this morning and said that she wanted to make a full confession before her lawyer could get here and stop her,” Watkins said, clearly enjoying Justin’s look of horror.
“The bloody fool,” Justin muttered. “What on earth made her do that?”
“We thought you might have some idea about that, sir.” Watkins’s tone was still pleasant.
Justin sat up impatiently. “Oh come on, Officer. You must know as well as I that she didn’t kill my father.”
“Why should we know that, sir?”
“For one thing she hated the sight of blood. If she was going to kill him she’d have done it neatly, not bashed his head in. And for another, she loved him. However much grief he gave her, she still loved the bastard.”
“But you didn’t?” Evan asked.
“I loathed him. I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. The feeling was mutual, of course. I was the world’s biggest disappointment as a son—totally unmusical, rotten businessman, shy, hated publicity—I wasn’t any of the things my father wanted me to be. So I kept well away.”
“Except you did pay a couple of visits to the house,” Evan said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You were seen here, on two occasions.”
“Absolute rubbish! People will say anything and they always get it wrong. Who claims to have seen me?”
“Me, for one,” Evan said. He paused to let this sink in. “But you were also photographed going into this house earlier this week.” He handed Justin the contact sheet. “This is you, isn’t it, Mr. Llewellyn? The photograph is quite clear.”
“Bloody paparazzi,” Justin muttered. “They always manage to get you, don’t they?” He looked up with a genial smile. “Alright. I can explain the visit very easily. I needed some money: I had some debts that needed to be paid right away. I knew my mother would give me the money if I saw her in person. She’s always a soft touch where I’m concerned. So I waited until the old man went out for a walk, then I sneaked into the house. But she wasn’t there! I looked at her appointment book and found that she’d gone up to London. So I got out again, pretty darned quick and went up to London to try and catch her.”
