Evan Only Knows

by Rhys Bowen

  Tony looked around the courtroom again. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “They’re trying to pin it on me because they want to get even, but I didn’t do it. Why would I want to kill Alison?”

  “Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” the magistrate insisted over Tony’s outburst.

  “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.” A man rose from the front row of seats. If he was Tony’s solicitor he looked almost as young and skinny as his client.

  “Which brings us to the question of bail.” The magistrate turned to his two colleagues. “Do I understand that there is an objection to bail being granted?”

  Tony’s solicitor rose from his seat again quickly. “Your Honors, we suggest that there is no reason not to grant bail. My client has behaved in an exemplary manner since his release from a young offenders institute. He has not presented any danger to the community or risk of flight.”

  The woman magistrate on the left leaned toward Tony. “Does he have a permanent address in the community, and is he gainfully employed?”

  The solicitor glanced at Tony, then back at the bench. “He lives with his mother. He is currently unemployed but actively seeking gainful employment. As you know, the unemployment rate in Swansea is particularly high.”

  “Has he been employed since leaving the juvenile facility?” the woman insisted.

  “Yes, Your Honors. He was employed at the Unico factory.”

  “And Unico is?” the magistrate persisted.

  “The factory owned by Mr. Turnbull, Alison’s father,” one of the policemen interjected before the young solicitor could say anything.

  The three magistrates turned toward him. “You will please wait to be asked to address the court,” the horsy woman said. “Your name is?”

  A plainclothes policeman had risen to his feet. “Detective Chief Inspector Vaughan, Major Crimes Division, South Wales Police.” The words came out as a belligerent challenge. He was a square, sturdily built individual with the strong jaw so prevalent in South Wales. A former rugby player, Evan assessed immediately. “I am leading the team investigating this case. Tony Mancini was employed by Unico until he was dismissed a few months ago for stealing.”

  The woman magistrate leaned forward again toward the solicitor. “I understood you to say that this young man had a clean record since his release.”

  “He does, Your Honor. No charges were ever brought, and my client feels that he was unjustly dismissed.”

  “If I may address the court.” The DCI spoke again. “It seems to me that this young man has had more than his fair share of luck and leniency. He is now twenty-one-years-old, and this is his second murder trial. In the courtroom today are Mrs. Robert Evans and her son, Evan, next of kin to Sergeant Robert Evans of the South Wales Police. Tony Mancini spent four years in a juvenile institution for the murder of Sergeant Evans. I would like to ask permission for Mrs. Evans and her son to address the court.”

  The magistrates exchanged eye contact then nodded. “Very well. Mrs. Evans, and Mr. Evans, would you approach the bench?”

  Evan’s mother grasped at his arm like a drowning woman as they left their seats and made their way forward. “Your Honors,” she said. “My husband, Sergeant Robert Evans, was a good man, a good provider …”

  “Yes, Mrs. Evans. We are not here to dispute your husband’s character. Do you have anything relevant to tell us that might help us weigh up whether bail should be denied in this case?”

  Evan felt his mother nudging him. “Your Honors, my father was shot by Tony Mancini during a drug bust.” He looked across to see Tony staring at him. For a moment he held that intense stare, then he turned back to the bench. “He was part of a local gang that dealt drugs and was already known to the police at age fifteen. I think I am right in saying that he was out on bail for a drug possession offense when he shot my father.”

  The center magistrate consulted his colleagues. “Is that so?” “It’s in his records, sir,” the DCI said before Evan could answer.

  “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Evans.” The woman magistrate smiled at them. “You may return to your seats.” A muttered conversation followed. Evan’s mother was still clutching at him. Then the center magistrate got to his feet. “The court will adjourn while my colleagues and I discuss this matter. We will reconvene in half an hour.”

  When the magistrates returned to announce that bail had been denied, some of the spectators broke into applause. Evan’s mother and the Turnbulls didn’t flinch. After the hearing had concluded, Evan and his mother came out into the bright sunlight on the Oystermouth Road. Seagulls screeched overhead, and the air was tangy with the smell of ocean. He watched the Turnbulls come out of court and drive away in a black Mercedes.

  “Well, that went about as well as we could hope,” Bill Howells said, coming up to them. “Thank you both for coming along. I know your testimony made all the difference”

  “I’m so glad Evan was here with me,” Mrs. Evans said. “I was all of a jelly. I didn’t trust myself to say any more because I wanted to tell that—that monster what I thought of him. But if I’m needed to speak at the trial, I’ll do my bit, you can be sure of it. Anything to make sure he’s sent away good and proper this time, eh, Evan bach?”

  Evan nodded. He was still feeling sick and shaken. There was something about the courtroom that he had found profoundly disturbing. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it at the moment, but something had not been right.

  DCI Vaughan came out in the middle of a group of plainclothes officers. He came up to Evan and his mother and shook their hands. “Thank you both for coming. I know it can’t have been easy for you. Don’t worry, we’re going to make sure he gets more than four years of holiday camp this time.”

  As he walked away Evan heard him say to a fellow officer, “I just hope to God we can make it stick.”

  Bronwen returned soon after they got home. She had been on her own pilgrimage. “I walked across to Cwmdonkin Park and sat where Dylan used to sit, looking out at the ‘pretty, shitty city.’”

  “Miss Price. Such language!” Mrs. Evans said disapprovingly.

  “Dylan Thomas’s words, not mine,” Bronwen answered with a smile.

  “Dylan Thomas—a drunken reprobate, if you ask me, and no credit to the city of Swansea.”

  “Speaking of drunken reprobates,” Evan said, “I have a serious need for a pint at the local. Can I treat you ladies?”

  “You want me to come to a pub?” Evan’s mother sounded as if he was suggesting a strip club.

  “Yes, and maybe we could get some food there too, or go on to a nice restaurant?”

  “So my food’s no longer good enough for you, is it?” Mrs. Evans sounded hurt.

  “Of course it is, Ma. I just thought you might like to eat out for a change.”

  “I prefer my own cooking at home, if you really want to know. All that foreign muck and everything disguised under sauces. My Robert felt the same way. ‘Nothing can equal your cooking, Ellen,’ he always said.”

  “Then I hope you don’t mind if I take Bronwen out to the pub for a while. I’d like to show her my old local. We’ll pick up a pasty or something so that you don’t have to cook for us tonight.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Mrs. Evans’s voice was tight. “I’ll be seeing you later then.”

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid we’ve offended her,” Bronwen exclaimed as they shut the front door behind them.

  “Don’t worry, that’s how she always is—always was. She’s got her routine and she won’t budge from it. And she’s good at laying on the old guilt. Never mind, you and I will go and have a good time.”

  Bronwen slipped her arm through his as they made for the car. “I’m looking forward to seeing your old local, and the drink will definitely do you good. You looked as white as a sheet when I first got home. Was it a big ordeal?”

  Evan nodded. “I hadn’t realized how big. I suppose I should be glad because it all went well—he was denied bail for at least thi
rty days. So he’s off the streets. But I found the whole thing very unsettling.”

  “Of course you would. It’s a horrid thing to have to go through, when you’re supposed to be on holiday too.”

  Evan leaned down to kiss her. “Nothing a good pint at the pub and good company won’t cure.”

  The town was bathed in rosy evening light as they parked outside a pub called the Prince of Wales Feathers. It was a typical corner pub, a tall, uninspiring redbrick building with frosted-glass windows displaying the well-known Prince of Wales’s crest and motto, on an uninspiring street of shops and faceless terraced houses. Nothing like the cozy feeling of the half-timbered Red Dragon at home in Llanfair, and on first glance, Bronwen stood there, disappointed.

  “Why was this your local?” she asked. “It isn’t within walking distance.”

  “It’s where the rugby crowd used to meet,” Evan said. “I don’t know if that’s still true. Let’s go and see, shall we?” He pushed open a pair of swing doors, each with a small frosted-glass window in them, and held one open for Bronwen to pass through. Inside was dark, with a couple of slot machines in the entrance hall. A notice on a stand recommended signing up early for this year’s Christmas party, now only five months away. Bronwen let Evan go ahead into the bar on the right and recoiled at the heavy fug of cigarette smoke that enveloped the crowd around the bar.

  “What will you have?” Evan asked her.

  Bronwen glanced around. “I better not say Perrier in a place like this or I’ll be lynched, won’t I?”

  Evan smiled. “Probably.”

  “In that case, half a pint of shandy. Ginger beer shandy if they’ve got it.”

  “Right you are. Why don’t you find a seat while I force my way up to the bar?”

  He eased his way through the crowd. He ordered the shandy and a pint of Guinness and was just making his way back when a voice said, “It’s not Evans, is it? Stodge Evans? Well, I’ll be blowed.”

  “Hello, Harry. Good to see you.” Evan’s face lit up in recognition.

  Immediately he was surrounded. “What are you doing here, boyo? We heard you were working up in foreign parts, up in the primitive North.”

  “That’s right. Up near Snowdon.”

  “Rather you than me, boyo. Bunch of crazies up there, aren’t they? Inbred as hell.”

  “Been playing any rugby up there? Or don’t they know how to play it?”

  “They probably think it’s played with sheep!”

  A great roar of laughter. Hands clapped Evan on the back.

  “Well, drink up then, boy. There’s plenty more where that came from. Are you back for good? The scrum could use a good back row man. Davies is bloody useless.”

  “I’m only here for a few days,” Evan said. “I’ve brought my … girlfriend”—somehow he couldn’t get out the word fiancée—“to show her Swansea.”

  “You haven’t got yourself involved with one of those wild girls from the North, have you?”

  “Oh absolutely.” Evan laughed. “Very wild. She’s sitting over there. Come and meet her.”

  Several rugby players followed Evan to the corner table where Bronwen was sitting. Evan put the glass in front of her and started introductions. The first round of drinks went down quickly, and Harry offered to buy another round.

  “I’ll come and help you carry them,” Evan volunteered and followed Harry through the crowd. He had almost reached the bar when someone grabbed his arm.

  “Evan! It is you!” A dark-haired young woman in tight jeans and a tank top blocked his path. She was smiling up at him delightedly. “Your mum said you were coming for a visit. About bloody time, that’s what I say. I thought you’d forgotten us.”

  “Hello, Maggie,” Evan said quietly. “No, I hadn’t forgotten.”

  “So did you bring Blodwin, or whatever her name is?”

  “It’s Bronwen and she’s sitting over there. You must come and meet her.”

  “I met her once before, if it’s the same one,” Maggie said, “at that eisteddfod. She looked positively virginal and medieval, if I remember correctly.”

  “She was wearing a cloak when you met her, if that’s what you mean,” Evan said.

  “My dear, I thought she was one of the competitors at the eisteddfod, the way she was dressed.” Maggie laughed. “Still, I don’t suppose there’s much selection up in the wilds where you live.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I could have done much better, even in the biggest city,” Evan managed to say evenly. “And I must help Harry carry the drinks if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  She grabbed at his arm again. “There’s something I wanted to say to you,” she whispered.

  “I think you and I have already said pretty much all there is to say.”

  “Not about us. About rugby. Are you playing at all?”

  Evan shook his head. “No time really.”

  “And no clubs worth playing for up there.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say …”

  “I would. Which is why Stew is doing something about it. You remember Stew Jenkins, do you? Used to play for Llanelli? Played for Wales a couple of times?”

  “Of course I remember him. Good fullback.”

  “Well, he’s involved in professional rugby now. You know, we’ve got several premier league teams down here. Not bad money either. Steve’s thinking of starting a team up in your neck of the woods, in Bangor—if he can lure enough quality players up there. He thinks there’s enough interest to get good crowds and make it pay.”

  Evan nodded. “Maybe, although they are more football fans than rugby in North Wales. Liverpool or Manchester United supporters.”

  Maggie had sidled even closer to him, so that he was conscious of the smell of her hair and the fact that her tank top revealed a good amount of cleavage. “I was telling Stevie about you. He thinks he may be able to use you, if you were interested?”

  “Me?” To his great annoyance, Evan found himself blushing. “But I’ve been out of the rugby world for five years now.”

  “It’s like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget.”

  “Come on, Evans. What’s happened to that beer?” a voice demanded from the tight clique around Bronwen.

  “Call me if you’re interested,” Maggie said as she let him pass. “You know the number.”

  Evan shouldered his way through to the table and deposited the tray.

  “So there you are, Stodge.” Bronwen gave him a wicked grin. “You never told me you had a nickname.”

  “It came from school,” one of the other men said before Evan could answer. “He was the only one who actually liked the food. He always used to want second helpings of spotted dick and treacle pud. Hence the name Stodge.”

  “And of course it did describe his girth too, didn’t it?”

  “He always was a hefty lad.”

  “You look like you’ve lost a little weight, old man.” Another of them prodded him in the middle.

  “I’ve been cooking for myself. Best diet I know,” Evan said.

  “And I’m trying to make sure he eats healthily,” Bronwen added.

  “So you’re not playing any rugby at the moment?”

  “Not at the moment. No.”

  “You want to come and warm up with us on Saturday? We’re doing preseason conditioning.”

  “Thanks, but I won’t be here on Saturday. Bronwen and I are going to visit her parents tomorrow.”

  “Visit the parents? Oooh, that sounds serious.”

  Evan could feel Bronwen looking at him, waiting for him to say something.

  “We’re planning to get married some time soon,” he said and saw the appreciation in her eyes.

  “Oh dear. Stodge is taking the plunge. Well, drink up, boys. That calls for another round.”

  It was late when they finally came out into the darkened street and stood in the halo of a street lamp while Evan located his keys.

  “I hope that wasn’t too much of an ordeal for you,” he s
aid, opening the door for her.

  Bronwen gave him a dazzling smile as she climbed in. “Not at all. I found it very educational—Stodge.”

  He decided to say nothing about his talk with Maggie. There was no point.

  When they got home they found Mrs. Evans sitting in the living room, watching TV.

  “Had a nice evening, did you? That’s good,” she said mechanically. She got up. “Well, I think I’ll go to bed now, then, if you don’t mind. Help yourselves to cocoa.”

  “We shouldn’t have gone out and left her, Evan,” Bronwen whispered as they heard footsteps going up the stairs. “Did you notice she had been crying?”

  Evan nodded. “You’re right. I feel terrible. I thought taking her out might cheer her up, but I don’t think she’s ever going to get over my dad. I don’t know what to do, Bronwen.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Bronwen said. “Unless you want to bring her to live with us when we have a house.”

  “It’s noble of you to volunteer, but I don’t think she’d come. As I said, she’s very set in her ways—always was and it’s worse now. Her routine is all she’s got to hang on to.” He glanced up the stairs. “I think I’ll make her a cup of cocoa and take it up to her. It’s no good trying to get her to talk, because she keeps very much to herself, but I should let her know that I’m there if she needs me.”

  A few minutes later, Evan knocked and pushed open his mother’s bedroom door.

  “I thought you might like a cup of hot milk to help you sleep,” he said. “I’ve put a little brandy in it.”

  Mrs. Evans was still sitting, fully dressed, on the edge of her bed, staring out of the window. “Thank you. You’re a good boy, Evan,” she said. As he went to leave the room she turned to him. “They will get him this time, won’t they? You will make sure they put him away this time.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning dawned amazingly warm and balmy. They had planned to drive to Bronwen’s house that evening but had a whole day ahead of them. Evan wanted to do something for his mother and suggested taking a picnic to the seashore. Mrs. Evans didn’t show the enthusiasm he had hoped for.