Evan Only Knows

by Rhys Bowen

  “On a Saturday? Can’t it wait?”

  “No, I don’t think it can.”

  There was a pause, then he answered, “All right. You can come out to the house, if you like. It’s in the new estate on the Llanelli Road.”

  “I get the feeling I’m being dumped again,” Bronwen said as Evan put down the phone.

  “It probably would be better if I went alone,” Evan admitted. “He’s not going to want to discuss his client with a third person present.”

  “So it’s back to the bookstore.” She looked crestfallen. “At least I’ll be an expert in cooking couscous by the end of the day.”

  He put an arm around her. “You can come along, only maybe you should wait in the car while I talk to him. Then we’d better go home because you know my mother will have lunch waiting, whether we want it or not.”

  “I have to admit,” Bronwen said, “that the prospect of facing your mother is overcome by the desire for a good meal. I am getting seriously hungry.”

  Richard Brooks’s house was in a small enclave of new detached homes at the outskirts of the city. There was a tricycle on the front path and a line of nappies flapped in the breeze behind the fence. Evan made a mental note that this man, who looked so much younger than him, was already established with a family. It was about time he moved on to the next stage of his own life.

  As Evan went up the front path, Brooks called to him and came through a side gate, still in his gardening clothes, the knees of his trousers plastered with soil.

  “Sorry. You caught me digging out the pea plants,” he said. “My, but they’ve been prolific this year. It’s wonderfully therapeutic having a vegetable garden, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to try it yet, but I hope to soon,” Evan answered. “And I’m really sorry to disturb you on a Saturday. I won’t keep you long.”

  “Do you mind if we sit on the patio? My wife won’t be at all pleased if I come into the house in muddy clothes.” He led the way through a side gate and pulled out two wrought-iron chairs. “Can I offer you a beer?”

  “Better not, thanks. I’ve got my girlfriend waiting in the car.” He realized as he said it that the word fiancée still didn’t come naturally to him. “Look, I’m here because I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Yes?”

  Evan took a deep breath. “I want you to take me on, officially, as your assistant. You don’t need to pay me, but I want to be put on the books.”

  “What on earth for?” Brooks couldn’t have looked more surprised.

  “Because the police have forbidden me to have anything to do with the Mancini case, and I don’t want to stop.”

  Richard Brooks laughed uneasily. “Why would you want to do this?”

  “That should be obvious. I don’t think he’s guilty.”

  “But, my dear chap,” Brooks exclaimed, “you, of all people. Why would you want to go out of your way to help a repulsive little twerp like Tony Mancini? I have to tell you that there’s a lot you probably don’t know about him. Drugs. Gangs. The works. Not a nice character, I can assure you. I got landed with him because I’m the junior in the firm and nobody else wanted anything to do with it. I’ll go through the motions. Hire him a competent barrister, make sure he gets a fair trial. But I won’t weep when they send him off to jail. It’s where he belongs.”

  “Maybe, but not for a crime he didn’t commit.” He stared past Brooks at the nappies, flapping noisily in the stiff breeze that had sprung up. “Do you know how hard this is for me? I’ve been struggling with my own conscience ever since I met him. And when I found out about the drugs, I was all set to hand him over to the police. But the Turnbull family and friends are going out of their way to have me taken off the case. So now I have to find out why, and who. If not Tony, then who did kill Alison?”

  “They won’t thank you for it if you do prove him innocent,” Brooks said. “Everyone in the South Wales Police would love to find him guilty.”

  “I know that. It’s something I’ve got to live with. Easier than knowing I let an innocent man be locked away for life. So will you do it? Will you let me tell you what I know so far?”

  Brooks sighed. “I wish I had never been a bloody Boy Scout,” he said. “All right. Tell me what you know.”

  Chapter 22

  A few minutes later Evan jumped back into the car. “Right, Bron. Home for lunch and then we’ve got work to do.”

  “What sort of work? He agreed to your crazy request then, did he?”

  “Reluctantly. But he did have to admit that I’d put forward a good case in Tony’s defense.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Check out Charles Peterson’s alibi, to start with.”

  “You’ll have his family phoning the DCI again if you pester them.”

  “I thought I might just slip into the builder’s yard and see if Charles has to log that van in and out. And I’ve a job for you too, if you feel up to it?”

  “After last night’s triumph and then this morning’s successful sessions, I think I’ve got the hang of this sleuthing business rather well. What do you want me to do?”

  “This probably has nothing to do with the case at all, but Turnbull lied about where he was that night. He said he came from a council meeting. I checked at the council offices and found the meeting had been cut short that night because too many members were out of town and there wasn’t a quorum. So I just wondered where Turnbull went on his way home. And I have an idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think there’s hanky-panky going on with Miss Jones, his secretary. I picked up vibes between then when I was in his office, and then some of his workers hinted at much the same thing.”

  “So you want me to check if he visited her that night?”

  Evan nodded. “It might fill in another piece of the puzzle.”

  “Although, as you say, I can’t see what it might have to do with Alison being killed. He still arrived home at the same time and found his daughter dead.”

  “But he lied. Always useful to check out a lie.”

  “Of course he lied.” Bronwen laughed. “You’d lie if you’d spent the evening with your bit of stuff. Although in your case,” she paused, “it wouldn’t do much good. You’d go bright red and look as guilty as hell. In fact I’ll have no problem keeping tabs on you, my sweet.”

  “Well, that’s nice to know, isn’t it.” He pulled out into the main stream of traffic heading into the town. “But Turnbull’s lying is important. It’s just another thing that proves this wasn’t the perfectly happy model family they want people to think they were. I wonder what else they might be trying to hide?”

  “Ma, we’re home,” Evan called as he opened the front door. There was no smell of cooking. That was a bad sign. He went through to the kitchen, ahead of Bronwen. “Weren’t you expecting us for lunch?” he asked. The table wasn’t laid. Mrs. Evans sat reading the newspaper.

  “I thought you’d be out, doing your detective work.” She didn’t look up. “I had Bill Howells on the phone awhile ago. Very upset, he was. He said the detective inspector was furious with you and that you might have spoiled their whole case with your interfering.” She raised her eyes to confront him. “What on earth’s got into you, Evan? You know better than that. I can understand how you feel about getting Tony Mancini convicted good and proper this time, but that doesn’t give you the right to interfere with what the police are doing. Your dad would never have done that. He wouldn’t want you to either.”

  “Sorry, Ma,” Evan muttered, feeling about five-years-old again. He half expected to be sent to his room.

  “You think you know better than senior officers, do you? You think they don’t know their job, is it?”

  “Of course not. Look, I said I’m sorry. Let’s drop it. Bronwen and I haven’t had any lunch yet, but we can get a bite to eat at a café.”

  “Sit down, the pair of you. I can make you some ham sandwiches, I suppose.” She
got up and was instantly bustling around the kitchen. “Put the kettle on then. I expect you could both do with a cup of tea.”

  Evan let out a sigh of relief as they left again after lunch. “That was tricky, wasn’t it?” he muttered as he opened the car door for Bronwen.

  She nodded. “Definite frost in the air.”

  “I don’t know what she’s going to say if she finds out I’ve been trying to prove Tony Mancini innocent. I have a feeling if I get him off, I won’t have a friend in the entire city of Swansea.”

  “You’ll have me,” Bronwen said. “I admire what you’re doing, Evan. I know how hard it must be for you. I think you’re completely crazy, by the way, but I still admire you.”

  They drove up to the Unico factory, where only a guard was on duty in the main building. Bronwen managed to convince him that she was the long-time friend of Miss Jones and she was visiting Swansea, trying to track her down. She came out triumphant with a home phone number and then set up an appointment to meet.

  “How did you persuade her to see you?” Evan asked in admiration.

  “I’m a schoolteacher, I can sound authoritative if I have to.” Bronwen looked smug.

  Evan dropped her off at the row of houses where Turnbull’s secretary lived, then drove to Peterson’s builder’s yard. He was annoyed to find the tall gates locked and the van parked in the yard beside a large flatbed lorry.

  Before going home Evan decided to pay another visit to Mrs. Hartley, the elderly neighbor who had first spotted Charles’s van parked outside the Turnbull’s house. Now that he had a description of Charles, she might remember seeing him in the Turnbull’s front garden. And a recollection of him might just jog her memory of other things she had seen and heard that night.

  There were cars parked in the Turnbulls’ driveway as he drove past their house. He was careful to park behind the hedge out of sight. He didn’t want Mrs. Turnbull on the phone to the DCI again. Dr. Hartley took awhile to open the door.

  “I’m sorry, but she’s had a bad day today,” he said, indicating up the stairs with a nod of his head. “She does, from time to time. She’s been crying and begging me to take her home. It’s—very hard to take. I gave her a sedative. She’s sleeping peacefully now.”

  “Right. Sorry to have troubled you then.” Evan turned to go.

  “Come back tomorrow, if you like.” Mr. Hartley managed a smile. “She may be right as rain then. You can never tell.”

  Evan wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything.

  Bronwen was already seated in his mother’s kitchen by the time Evan arrived home. The two women were having a cup of tea, and Evan thought he heard animated conversation and laughter as he opened the front door. At least that was one good sign. They broke off as he came into the room, and he had the impression they were annoyed at being disturbed.

  “Well, here you are, at last then.” Mrs. Evans got to her feet and lifted the tea cozy from the pot. “We wondered where you’d got to.”

  “Oh, just talking with a bloke who used to be a teacher at my school.” Evan looked across and caught Bronwen’s eye.

  “A teacher from your old school, is it? That’s nice.” She poured the tea and put a large slab of bara brith in front of Evan. “I expect you’ll be needing something to keep you going before your supper. I got some kippers for tonight, if that’s all right with you. Bronwen tells me she likes kippers just fine.” She smiled at Bronwen. Evan sensed that somehow during his absence, Bronwen had become the favored one. Maybe because his mother was still angry at him and hoped Bronwen would be able to make him see sense.

  “I thought Bronwen and I might go for a little walk before supper, if you don’t mind,” he said to his mother. “I’ve hardly seen her all day.”

  “So I’ve been hearing. And you just ran off and left her at her parents’ house with nothing to do and nowhere to go, so I’ve heard. That’s not the way to win a young girl’s affection, Evan. My Robert always devoted his spare time to me. If he wasn’t working, he was at my side.”

  Evan thought this was a slight rose-tinting of history. His father, he remembered, had been a keen lawn bowler, a keen supporter of the Swansea football club, and not against a swift half at the pub. Bronwen got to her feet. “A walk would be nice. It’s turned into a lovely evening, hasn’t it?”

  Once outside, she slipped her arm through his. “I was worried about you,” she said, “but I couldn’t let your mother know.”

  “What was there to worry about?”

  “Evan!” She looked shocked. “If you really believe that Tony Mancini is innocent, then obviously the person who killed Alison is still out there. You have to watch yourself.”

  “I’m fine, cariad. You don’t have to worry about me.” He squeezed her hand.

  “Of course I worry about you. If there is some kind of drug connection, we know how those people behave. One of them killed your father, remember?”

  Evan nodded. “I’m hardly likely to forget that, but I still think that the cover-up is more likely. I didn’t have much luck checking out Charles Peterson’s alibi, but I’ll try again in the morning.”

  “So you’re ruling out the drug connection, are you?” she asked.

  They paused at a railing, overlooking the downs. The wind blew Bronwen’s hair into her eyes. “Not entirely,” Evan said. “The one thing I don’t quite understand is leaving the body on the doorstep. That doesn’t fit Charles Peterson’s character at all. If he’d killed Alison in a fit of rage and jealousy, his entire instinct would be to hide the body where it wouldn’t be found for a long while. He’d probably have stuffed her into the van and dumped her into the ocean.”

  “It does smack of revenge killing, I agree. Whoever left her there wanted to send a message—”

  “Or to punish her parents somehow. What about your interview with Turnbull’s secretary?”

  She grinned. “Oh, I’m turning into a supersleuth. You’d be so proud of me. We chatted away. I told her I’d worked for Turnbull long before her time, and he had made a pass at me and I wondered if he’d been like that with all the girls.

  “She was worried for a moment. She thought I might be planning to bring a sexual harassment suit. I told her no, just curiosity. I had handled him just fine. Bit of a pussy cat really. And she’d agreed. He was very sweet when you got to know him. All he wanted was affection really. That cold wife of his had shut him out of her bedroom long ago. Was it any wonder that he turned to someone young and warm and pretty?”

  “She told you all that, did she?”

  “And more. She’d have gone into vivid bedroom details, if I’d let her. Actually I think she’s rather proud of being Turnbull’s mistress. She sees it as a status symbol.”

  “So was he with her that evening?”

  “Of course he was. That and most nights when he was supposed to be working late, or playing golf, or going for drinks at the country club. He left her place about nine-fifteen, she thinks.”

  Evan digested this. “That’s about right. He would have driven home slowly so that he’d arrive at the usual time a council meeting would be over.”

  “So we know a little more about Mr. Turnbull, but it doesn’t help us much, does it? It doesn’t give us anyone else with a motive.” She turned her head so that the wind came full into her face, sweeping her hair back like a ship’s figurehead. “Look, do you want me to go back to the club tonight? I told my new friends I’d see them again. I might be able to get some more information out of them. Now I know what two of Alison’s girlfriends look like, I can ask if they might have been seen at the club. One of them might even show up.”

  “And you could ask about Charles Peterson too, although I can’t see him as the clubbing type. I’m sure he’d be an even worse dancer than me. Unfortunately, I don’t know what Simon Richards looks like, but you could drop his name and see if you get any reaction.”

  “Right oh, then. It’s back undercover. I must say it is rather fun. And ther
e’s something about the blue spiked hair too. Blokes don’t mess with girls with blue spiked hair.”

  They walked back in companionable silence.

  Chapter 23

  Evan’s mother clearly disapproved of their going out again after supper that night.

  “It’s like Paddington Station around here with all the coming and going,” she said. “Why on earth do you need to be out at this time of night?”

  “It’s only nine o’clock, Ma, and we are on holiday. How often do Bronwen and I have the chance to go out in the evenings? There’s nothing to do up in Llanfair.” Evan patted her shoulder. “Don’t wait up. We may be late.”

  Mrs. Evans sniffed and folded her arms. Evan thought he caught the muttered word “gallivanting.”

  Bronwen changed clothes and put on the wig in the ladies’ room at the bus station. “Off to work then,” she said, as he pulled up across from the Monkey’s Uncle. “Don’t wait for me outside this time. I don’t want to blow my cover.” She grinned. “How about that—I’m even learning the jargon. Why don’t you park up that side street so that nobody sees me getting into your car, just in case.”

  “All right.”

  She climbed out, adjusted her wig, and then ran across the road. Suddenly Evan got the feeling that she had taken over. This was a new, confident Bronwen he hadn’t seen before. He gave her one last look as he drove off. She had joined the line of young people making their way into the club. He parked where she suggested and then went to a nearby pub. There was a loud American gangster film on the telly and he didn’t enjoy drinking alone, so he walked around a bit; then it started to rain and he went to sit in the car. He must have dozed off, because he was suddenly conscious of the sound. He sat up and saw the crowd of young people spilling out onto the street. A couple of uniformed police stood at the end of the side street where he was parked, watching the crowd. They were certainly loud enough. Shouts, snatches of song, wild laughter, echoed back from the tall buildings along Kingsway. Evan watched and waited. At last the crowd thinned, then dwindled to stragglers. The policeman officers moved on, leaving an empty Kingsway before him. Still he waited, but Bronwen didn’t come. She had told him where to park, so she couldn’t have forgotten.